"No," said Asaph, "it ain't all. There is one more thing I want, and
that is a dictionary."
The other man rose to his feet. "Upon my word," he exclaimed, "I
never before saw a man that would sell his sister for a dictionary!
And what you want with a dictionary is past my conceivin'."
"Well, it ain't past mine," said Asaph. "For more than ten years I
have wanted a dictionary. If I had a dictionary I could make use of
my head in a way that I can't now. There is books in this house, but
amongst 'em there is no dictionary. If there had been one I'd been a
different man by this time from what I am now, and like as not
Marietta wouldn't have wanted any other man in the house but me."
Mr. Rooper stood looking upon the ground; and Asaph, who had also
arisen, waited for him to speak. "You are a graspin' man, Asaph,"
said Thomas. "But there is another thing I'd like to know: if I give
you them clothes, you don't want them before she's married?"
"Yes, I do," said Asaph. "If I come to the weddin', I can't wear
these things. I have got to have them first."
Mr. Rooper gave his head a little twist. "There's many a slip 'twixt
the cup and the lip," said he.
"Yes," said Asaph; "and there's different cups and different lips.
But what's more, if I was to be best man--which would be nateral,
considerin' I'm your friend and her brother--you wouldn't want me
standin' up in this rig. And that's puttin' it in your own point of
view, Thomas."
"It strikes me," said the other, "that I could get a best man that
would furnish his own clothes; but we will see about that. There's
another thing, Asaph," he said, abruptly; "what are Mrs. Himes's
views concernin' pipes?"
This question startled and frightened Asaph. He knew that his sister
could not abide the smell of tobacco and that Mr. Rooper was an
inveterate smoker.
"That depends," said he, "on the kind of tobacco. I don't mind
sayin' that Marietta isn't partial to the kind of tobacco I smoke.
But I ain't a moneyed man and I can't afford to buy nothin' but
cheap stuff. But when it comes to a meerschaum pipe and the very
finest Virginia or North Carolina smoking-tobacco, such as a moneyed
man would be likely to use--"
At this moment there came from the house the sound of a woman's
voice, not loud, but clear and distinct, and it said "Asaph."
This word sent through Mr. Rooper a gentle thrill such as he did not
remember ever having felt before. There seemed to be in it a
suggestion, a sort of prophecy, of what appeared to him as an
undefined and chaotic bliss. He was not a fanciful man, but he could
not help imagining himself standing alone under that chestnut-tree
and that voice calling "Thomas."
Upon Asaph the effect was different. The interruption was an
agreeable one in one way, because it cut short his attempted
explanation of the tobacco question; but in another way he knew that
it meant the swinging of an axe, and that was not pleasant.
Mr. Rooper walked back to the tavern in a cogitative state of mind.
"That Asaph Scantle," he said to himself, "has got a head-piece,
there's no denying it. If it had not been for him I do not believe I
should have thought of his sister; at least not until the McJimseys
had left my house, and then it might have been too late."
Marietta Himes was a woman with a gentle voice and an appearance and
demeanor indicative of a general softness of disposition; but
beneath this mild exterior there was a great deal of firmness of
purpose. Asaph had not seen very much of his sister since she had
grown up and married; and when he came to live with her he thought
that he was going to have things pretty much his own way. But it was
not long before he entirely changed his mind.
Mrs. Himes was of moderate height, pleasant countenance, and a
figure inclined to plumpness. Her dark hair, in which there was not
a line of gray, was brushed down smoothly on each side of her face,
and her dress, while plain, was extremely neat. In fact, everything
in the house and on the place was extremely neat, except Asaph.
She was in the bright little dining-room which looked out on the
flower-garden, preparing the table for supper, placing every plate,
dish, glass, and cup with as much care and exactness as if a civil
engineer had drawn a plan on the table-cloth with places marked for
the position of each article.
As she finished her work by placing a chair on each side of the
table, a quiet smile, the result of a train of thought in which she
had been indulging for the past half-hour, stole over her face. She
passed through the kitchen, with a glance at the stove to see if the
tea-kettle had begun to boil; and going out of the back door, she
walked over to the shed where her brother was splitting
kindling-wood.
"Asaph," said Mrs. Himes, "if I were to give you a good suit of
clothes, would you promise me that you would never smoke when
wearing them?"
Her brother looked at her in amazement. "Clothes!" he repeated.
"Mr. Himes was about your size," said his sister, "and he left a
good many clothes, which are most of them very good and carefully
packed away, so that I am sure there is not a moth-hole in any one
of them. I have several times thought, Asaph, that I might give you
some of his clothes; but it did seem to me a desecration to have the
clothes of such a man, who was so particular and nice, filled and
saturated with horrible tobacco-smoke, which he detested. But now
you are getting to be so awful shabby, I do not see how I can stand
it any longer. But one thing I will not do--I will not have Mr.
Himes's clothes smelling of tobacco as yours do; and not only your
own tobacco, but Mr. Rooper's."
"I think," said Asaph, "that you are not exactly right just there.
What you smell about me is my smoke. Thomas Rooper never uses
anything but the finest-scented and delicatest brands. I think that
if you come to get used to his tobacco-smoke you would like it. But
as to my takin' off my clothes and puttin' on a different suit every
time I want to light my pipe, that's pretty hard lines, it seems to
me."
"It would be a good deal easier to give up the pipe," said his
sister.
"I will do that," said Asaph, "when you give up tea. But you know as
well as I do that there's no use of either of us a-tryin' to change
our comfortable habits at our time of life."
"I kept on hoping," said Mrs. Himes, "that you would feel yourself
that you were not fit to be seen by decent people, and that you
would go to work and earn at least enough money to buy yourself some
clothes. But as you don't seem inclined to do that, I thought I
would make you this offer. But you must understand that I will not
have you smoke in Mr. Himes's clothes."
Asaph stood thinking, the head of his axe resting upon the ground, a
position which suited him. He was in a little perplexity. Marietta's
proposition seemed to interfere somewhat with the one he had made to
Thomas Rooper. Here was a state of affairs which required most
careful consideration. "I've been arrangin' about some clothes," he
said, presently; "for I know very well I need 'em; but I don't know
just yet how it will turn out."
"I hope, Asaph," said Marietta, quickly, "that you are not thinking
of going into debt for clothing, and I know that you haven't been
working to earn money. What arrangements have you been making?"
"That's my private affair," said Asaph, "but there's no debt in it.
It is all fair and square--cash down, so to speak; though, of
course, it's not cash, but work. But, as I said before, that isn't
settled."
"I am afraid, Asaph," said his sister, "that if you have to do the
work first you will never get the clothes, and so you might as well
come back to my offer."
Asaph came back to it and thought about it very earnestly. If by any
chance he could get two suits of clothes, he would then feel that he
had a head worth having. "What would you say," he said, presently,
"if when I wanted to smoke I was to put on a long duster--I guess
Mr. Himes had dusters--and a nightcap and rubbers? I'd agree to hang
the duster and the cap in the shed here and never smoke without
putting 'em on." There was a deep purpose in this proposition, for,
enveloped in the long duster, he might sit with Thomas Rooper under
the chestnut-tree and smoke and talk and plan as long as he pleased,
and his companion would not know that he did not need a new suit of
clothes.
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Himes; "you must make up your mind to act
perfectly fairly, Asaph, or else say you will not accept my offer.
But if you don't accept it, I can't see how you can keep on living
with me."
"What do you mean by clothes, Marietta?" he asked.
"Well, I mean a complete suit, of course," said she.
"Winter or summer?"
"I hadn't thought of that," Mrs. Himes replied; "but that can be as
you choose."
"Overcoat?" asked Asaph.
"Yes," said she, "and cane and umbrella, if you like, and
pocket-handkerchiefs, too. I will fit you out completely, and shall
be glad to have you looking like a decent man."
At the mention of the umbrella another line of perplexity showed
itself upon Asaph's brow. The idea came to him that if she would add
a dictionary he would strike a bargain. Thomas Rooper was certainly
a very undecided and uncertain sort of man. But then there came up
the thought of his pipe, and he was all at sea again. Giving up
smoking was almost the same as giving up eating. "Marietta," said
he, "I will think about this."
"Very well," she answered; "but it's my opinion, Asaph, that you
ought not to take more than one minute to think about it. However, I
will give you until to-morrow morning, and then if you decide that
you don't care to look like a respectable citizen, I must have some
further talk with you about our future arrangements."
"Make it to-morrow night," said Asaph. And his sister consented.
The next day Asaph was unusually brisk and active; and very soon
after breakfast he walked over to the village tavern to see Mr.
Rooper.
"Hello!" exclaimed that individual, surprised at his visitor's early
appearance at the business centre of the village. "What's started
you out? Have you come after them clothes?"
A happy thought struck Asaph. He had made this visit with the
intention of feeling his way toward some decision on the important
subject of his sister's proposition, and here a way seemed to be
opened to him. "Thomas," said he, taking his friend aside, "I am in
an awful fix. Marietta can't stand my clothes any longer. If she
can't stand them she can't stand me, and when it comes to that, you
can see for yourself that I can't help you."
A shade settled upon Mr. Rooper's face. During the past evening he
had been thinking and puffing, and puffing and thinking, until
everybody else in the tavern had gone to bed; and he had finally
made up his mind that, if he could do it, he would marry Marietta
Himes. He had never been very intimate with her or her husband, but
he had been to meals in the house, and he remembered the fragrant
coffee and the light, puffy, well-baked rolls made by Marietta's own
hands; and he thought of the many differences between living in that
very good house with that gentle, pleasant-voiced lady and his
present life in the village tavern.
And so, having determined that without delay he would, with the
advice and assistance of Asaph, begin his courtship, it was natural
that he should feel a shock of discouragement when he heard Asaph's
announcement that his sister could not endure him in the house any
longer. To attack that house and its owner without the friendly
offices upon which he depended was an undertaking for which he was
not at all prepared.
"I don't wonder at her," he said, sharply--"not a bit. But this puts
a mighty different face on the thing what we talked about
yesterday."
"It needn't," said Asaph, quietly. "The clothes you was goin' to
give me wouldn't cost a cent more to-day than they would in a couple
of months, say; and when I've got 'em on Marietta will be glad to
have me around. Everything can go on just as we bargained for."
Thomas shook his head. "That would be a mighty resky piece of
business," he said. "You would be all right, but that's not sayin'
that I would; for it strikes me that your sister is about as much a
bird in the bush as any flyin' critter."
Asaph smiled. "If the bush was in the middle of a field," said he,
"and there was only one boy after the bird, it would be a pretty tough
job. But if the bush is in the corner of two high walls, and there's
two boys, and one of 'em's got a fishnet what he can throw clean
over the bush, why, then the chances is a good deal better. But
droppin' figgers, Thomas, and speakin' plain and straightforward, as
I always do--"
"About things you want to git," interrupted Thomas.
"--about everything," resumed Asaph. "I'll just tell you this: if I
don't git decent clothes now to-day, or perhaps to-morrow, I have
got to travel out of Marietta's house. I can do it and she knows it.
I can go back to Drummondville and git my board for keepin' books in
the store, and nobody there cares what sort of clothes I wear. But
when that happens, your chance of gittin' Marietta goes up higher
than a kite."
To the mind of Mr. Rooper this was most conclusive reasoning; but he
would not admit it and he did not like it. "Why don't your sister
give you clothes?" he said. "Old Himes must have left some."
A thin chill like a needleful of frozen thread ran down Asaph's
back. "Mr. Himes's clothes!" he exclaimed. "What in the world are
you talkin' about, Thomas Rooper? 'Tain't likely he had many, 'cept
what he was buried in; and what's left, if there is any, Marietta
would no more think of givin' away than she would of hangin' up his
funeral wreath for the canary-bird to perch on. There's a room up in
the garret where she keeps his special things--for she's awful
particular--and if there is any of his clothes up there I expect
she's got 'em framed."
"If she thinks as much of him as that," muttered Mr. Rooper.
"Now don't git any sech ideas as them into your head, Thomas," said
Asaph, quickly. "Marietta ain't a woman to rake up the past, and you
never need be afraid of her rakin' up Mr. Himes. All of the premises
will be hern and yourn except that room in the garret, and it ain't
likely she'll ever ask you to go in there."
"The Lord knows I don't want to!" ejaculated Mr. Rooper.
The two men walked slowly to the end of a line of well-used, or,
rather, badly used, wooden arm-chairs which stood upon the tavern
piazza, and seated themselves. Mr. Rooper's mind was in a highly
perturbed condition. If he accepted Asaph's present proposition he
would have to make a considerable outlay with a very shadowy
prospect of return.
"If you haven't got the ready money for the clothes," said Asaph,
after having given his companion some minutes for silent
consideration, "there ain't a man in this village what they would
trust sooner at the store for clothes," and then after a pause he
added, "or books, which, of course, they can order from town."
At this Mr. Rooper simply shrugged his shoulders. The question of
ready money or credit did not trouble him.
At this moment a man in a low phaeton, drawn by a stout gray horse,
passed the tavern.
"Who's that?" asked Asaph, who knew everybody in the village.
"That's Doctor Wicker," said Thomas. "He lives over at Timberley. He
'tended John Himes in his last sickness."
"He don't practise here, does he?" said Asaph. "I never see him."
"No; but he was called in to consult." And then the speaker dropped
again into cogitation.
After a few minutes Asaph rose. He knew that Thomas Rooper had a
slow-working mind, and thought it would be well to leave him to
himself for a while. "I'll go home," said he, "and 'tend to my
chores, and by the time you feel like comin' up and takin' a smoke
with me under the chestnut-tree, I reckon you will have made up your
mind, and we'll settle this thing. Fer if I have got to go back to
Drummondville, I s'pose I'll have to pack up this afternoon."
"If you'd say pack off instead of pack up," remarked the other,
"you'd come nearer the facts, considerin' the amount of your
personal property. But I'll be up there in an hour or two."
When Asaph came within sight of his sister's house he was amazed to
see a phaeton and a gray horse standing in front of the gate. From
this it was easy to infer that the doctor was in the house. What on
earth could have happened? Was anything the matter with Marietta?
And if so, why did she send for a physician who lived at a distance,
instead of Doctor McIlvaine, the village doctor? In a very anxious
state of mind Asaph reached the gate, and irresolutely went into the
yard. His impulse was to go to the house and see what had happened;
but he hesitated. He felt that Marietta might object to having a
comparative stranger know that such an exceedingly shabby fellow was
her brother. And, besides, his sister could not have been overtaken
by any sudden illness. She had always appeared perfectly well, and
there would have been no time during his brief absence from the
house to send over to Timberley for a doctor.
So he sat down under the chestnut-tree to consider this strange
condition of affairs. "Whatever it is," he said to himself, "it's
nothin' suddint, and it's bound to be chronic, and that'll skeer
Thomas. I wish I hadn't asked him to come up here. The best thing
for me to do will be to pretend that I have been sent to git
somethin' at the store, and go straight back and keep him from
comin' up."
But Asaph was a good deal quicker to think than to move, and he
still sat with brows wrinkled and mind beset by doubts. For a moment
he thought that it might be well to accept Marietta's proposition
and let Thomas go; but then he remembered the conditions, and he
shut his mental eyes at the prospect.
At that moment the gate opened and in walked Thomas Rooper. He had
made up his mind and had come to say so; but the sight of the
phaeton and gray horse caused him to postpone his intended
announcement. "What's Doctor Wicker doin' here?" he asked, abruptly.
"Dunno," said Asaph, as carelessly as he could speak. "I don't
meddle with household matters of that kind. I expect it's somethin'
the matter with that gal Betsey, that Marietta hires to help her.
She's always wrong some way or other so that she can't do her own
proper work, which I know, havin' to do a good deal of it myself. I
expect it's rickets, like as not. Gals do have that sort of thing,
don't they?"
"Never had anything to do with sick gals," said Thomas, "or sick
people of any sort, and don't want to. But it must be somethin'
pretty deep-seated for your sister to send all the way to Timberley
for a doctor."
Asaph knew very well that Mrs. Himes was too economical a person to
think of doing such a thing as that, and he knew also that Betsey
was as good a specimen of rustic health as could be found in the
county. And therefore his companion's statement that he wanted to
have nothing to do with sick people had for him a saddening import.
"I settled that business of yourn," said Mr. Rooper, "pretty soon
after you left me. I thought I might as well come straight around
and tell you about it. I'll make you a fair and square offer. I'll
give you them clothes, though it strikes me that winter goods will
be pretty heavy for this time of year; but it will be on this
condition: if I don't get Marietta, you have got to give 'em back."
Asaph smiled.
"I know what you are grinnin' at," said Thomas; "but you needn't
think that you are goin' to have the wearin' of them clothes for two
or three months and then give 'em back. I don't go in for any long
courtships. What I do in that line will be short and sharp."
"How short?" asked Asaph.
"Well, this is Thursday," replied the other, "and I calculate to ask
her on Monday."
Asaph looked at his companion in amazement. "By George!" he
exclaimed, "that won't work. Why, it took Marietta more'n five days
to make up her mind whether she would have the chicken-house painted
green or red, and you can't expect her to be quicker than that in
takin' a new husband. She'd say No just as certain as she would now
if you was to go in and ask her right before the doctor and Betsey.
And I'll just tell you plain that it wouldn't pay me to do all the
hustlin' around and talkin' and argyin' and recommendin' that I'd
have to do just for the pleasure of wearin' a suit of warm clothes
for four July days. I tell you what it is, it won't do to spring
that sort of thing on a woman, especially when she's what you might
call a trained widder. You got to give 'em time to think over the
matter and to look up your references. There's no use talkin' about
it; you must give 'em time, especially when the offer comes from a
person that nobody but me has ever thought of as a marryin' man."
"Humph!" said Thomas. "That's all you know about it."
"Facts is facts, and you can't git around 'em. There isn't a woman
in this village what wouldn't take at least two weeks to git it into
her head that you was really courtin' her. She would be just as
likely to think that you was tryin' to git a tenant in place of the
McJimseys. But a month of your courtin' and a month of my workin'
would just about make the matter all right with Marietta, and then
you could sail in and settle it."
"Very good," said Mr. Rooper, rising suddenly. "I will court your
sister for one month; and if, on the 17th day of August, she takes
me, you can go up to the store and git them clothes; but you can't
do it one minute afore. Good-mornin'."
Asaph, left alone, heaved a sigh. He did not despair; but truly,
fate was heaping a great many obstacles in his path. He thought it
was a very hard thing for a man to get his rights in this world.
Mrs. Himes sat on one end of a black hair-covered sofa in the
parlor, and Doctor Wicker sat on a black hair-covered chair opposite
to her and not far away. The blinds of the window opening upon the
garden were drawn up; but those on the front window, which commanded
a view of the chestnut-tree, were down. Doctor Wicker had just made
a proposal of marriage to Mrs. Himes, and at that moment they were
both sitting in silence.
The doctor, a bluff, hearty-looking man of about forty-five, had
been very favorably impressed by Mrs. Himes when he first made her
acquaintance, during her husband's sickness, and since that time he
had seen her occasionally and had thought about her a great deal.
Latterly letters had passed between them, and now he had come to
make his declaration in person.
It was true, as her brother had said, that Marietta was not quick in
making up her mind. But in this case she was able to act more
promptly than usual, because she had in a great measure settled this
matter before the arrival of the doctor. She knew he was going to
propose, and she was very much inclined to accept him. This it was
which had made her smile when she was setting the table the
afternoon before, and this it was which had prompted her to make her
proposition to her brother in regard to his better personal
appearance.
But now she was in a condition of nervous trepidation, and made no
answer. The doctor thought this was natural enough under the
circumstances, but he had no idea of the cause of it. The cause of
it was sitting under the chestnut-tree, the bright sunlight,
streaming through a break in the branches above, illuminating and
emphasizing and exaggerating his extreme shabbiness. The doctor had
never seen Asaph, and it would have been a great shock to Marietta's
self-respect to have him see her brother in his present aspect.
Through a crack in the blind of the front window she had seen Asaph
come in and sit down, and she had seen Mr. Rooper arrive and had
noticed his departure. And now, with an anxiety which made her chin
tremble, she sat and hoped that Asaph would get up and go away. For
she knew that if she should say to the doctor what she was perfectly
willing to say then and there, he would very soon depart, being a
man of practical mind and pressing business; and that, going to the
front door with him, she would be obliged to introduce him to a
prospective brother-in-law whose appearance, she truly believed,
would make him sick. For the doctor was a man, she well knew, who
was quite as nice and particular about dress and personal appearance
as the late Mr. Himes had been.
Doctor Wicker, aware that the lady's perturbation was increasing
instead of diminishing, thought it wise not to press the matter at
this moment. He felt that he had been, perhaps, a little over-prompt
in making his proposition. "Madam," said he, rising, "I will not ask
you to give me an answer now. I will go away and let you think about
it, and will come again to-morrow."
Through the crack in the window-blind Marietta saw that Asaph was
still under the tree. What could she do to delay the doctor? She did
not offer to take leave of him, but stood looking upon the floor. It
seemed a shame to make so good a man go all the way back to
Timberley and come again next day, just because that ragged, dirty
Asaph was sitting under the chestnut-tree.
The doctor moved toward the door, and as she followed him she
glanced once more through the crack in the window-blind, and, to her
intense delight, she saw Asaph jump up from the bench and run around
to the side of the house. He had heard the doctor's footsteps in the
hallway and had not wished to meet him. The unsatisfactory condition
of his outward appearance had been so strongly impressed upon him of
late that he had become a little sensitive in regard to it when
strangers were concerned. But if he had only known that his
exceedingly unattractive garments had prevented his sister from
making a compact which would have totally ruined his plans in regard
to her matrimonial disposition and his own advantage, he would have
felt for those old clothes the respect and gratitude with which a
Roman soldier regarded the shield and sword which had won him a
battle.
Down the middle of the garden, at the back of the house, there ran a
path, and along this path Asaph walked meditatively, with his hands
in his trousers pockets. It was a discouraging place for him to
walk, for the beds on each side of him were full of weeds, which he
had intended to pull out as soon as he should find time for the
work, but which had now grown so tall and strong that they could not
be rooted up without injuring the plants, which were the legitimate
occupants of the garden.
Asaph did not know it, but at this moment there was not one person
in the whole world who thought kindly of him. His sister was so
mortified by him that she was in tears in the house. His crony,
Thomas, had gone away almost angry with him, and even Betsey, whom
he had falsely accused of rickets, and who had often shown a pity
for him simply because he looked so forlorn, had steeled her heart
against him that morning when she found he had gone away without
providing her with any fuel for the kitchen fire.
But he had not made a dozen turns up and down the path before he
became aware of the feeling of Marietta. She looked out of the back
door and then walked rapidly toward him. "Asaph," said she, "I hope
you are considering what I said to you yesterday, for I mean to
stick to my word. If you don't choose to accept my offer, I want you
to go back to Drummondville early to-morrow morning. And I don't
feel in the least as if I were turning you out of the house, for I
have given you a chance to stay here, and have only asked you to act
like a decent Christian. I will not have you here disgracing my
home. When Doctor Wicker came to-day, and I looked out and saw you
with that miserable little coat with the sleeves half-way up to the
elbows and great holes in it which you will not let anybody patch
because you are too proud to wear patches, and those wretched faded
trousers, out at the knees, and which have been turned up and hemmed
at the bottom so often that they are six inches above your shoes,
and your whole scarecrow appearance, I was so ashamed of you that I
could not keep the tears out of my eyes. To tell a respectable
gentleman like Doctor Wicker that you were my brother was more than
I could bear; and I was glad when I saw you get up and sneak out of
the way. I hate to talk to you in this way, Asaph, but you have
brought it on yourself."
Her brother looked at her a moment. "Do you want me to go away
before breakfast?" he said.
"No," answered Marietta, "but immediately afterward." And in her
mind she resolved that breakfast should be very early the next
morning.
If Asaph had any idea of yielding, he did not intend to show it
until the last moment, and so he changed the subject. "What's the
matter with Betsey?" said he. "If she's out of health you'd better
get rid of her."
"There's nothing the matter with Betsey," answered his sister.
"Doctor Wicker came to see me."
"Came to see you!" exclaimed her brother. "What in the world did he
do that for? You never told me that you were ailin'. Is it that
sprain in your ankle?"
"Nonsense," said Marietta. "I had almost recovered from that sprain
when you came here. There's nothing the matter with my ankle; the
trouble is probably with my heart."
The moment she said this she regretted it, for Asaph had so good a
head, and could catch meanings so quickly.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Marietta," said Asaph. "That's a good deal
more serious."
"Yes," said she. And she turned and went back to the house.
Asaph continued to walk up and down the path. He had not done a
stroke of work that morning, but he did not think of that. His
sister's communication saddened him. He liked Marietta, and it
grieved him to hear that she had anything the matter with her heart.
He knew that that often happened to people who looked perfectly
well, and there was no reason why he should have suspected any
disorder in her. Of course, in this case, there was good reason for
her sending for the very best doctor to be had. It was all plain
enough to him now.
But as he walked and walked and walked, and looked at the garden,
and looked at the little orchard, and looked at the house and the
top of the big chestnut-tree, which showed itself above the roof, a
thought came into his mind which had never been there before--he was
Marietta's heir. It was a dreadful thing to think of his sister's
possible early departure from this world; but, after all, life is
life, reality is reality, and business is business. He was
Marietta's only legal heir.
Of course he had known this before, but it had never seemed to be of
any importance. He was a good deal older than she was, and he had
always looked upon her as a marrying woman. When he made his
proposition to Mr. Rooper the thought of his own heirship never came
into his mind. In fact, if any one had offered him ten dollars for
said heirship, he would have asked fifteen, and would have afterward
agreed to split the difference and take twelve and a half.
But now everything had changed. If Marietta had anything the matter
with her heart there was no knowing when all that he saw might be
his own. No sooner had he walked and thought long enough for his
mind to fully appreciate the altered aspects of his future than he
determined to instantly thrust out Mr. Rooper from all connection
with that future. He would go and tell him so at once.
To the dismay of Betsey, who had been watching him, expecting that
he would soon stop walking about and go and saw some wood with which
to cook the dinner, he went out of the front gate and strode rapidly
into the village. He had some trouble in finding Mr. Rooper, who had
gone off to take a walk and arrange a conversation with which to
begin his courtship of Mrs. Himes; but he overtook him under a tree
by the side of the creek. "Thomas," said he, "I have changed my mind
about that business between us. You have been very hard on me, and
I'm not goin' to stand it. I can get the clothes and things I need
without makin' myself your slave and workin' myself to death, and,
perhaps, settin' my sister agin me for life by tryin' to make her
believe that black's white, that you are the kind of husband she
ought to have, and that you hate pipes and never touch spirits. It
would be a mean thing for me to do, and I won't do it. I did think
you were a generous-minded man, with the right sort of feeling for
them as wanted to be your friends; but I have found out that I was
mistook, and I'm not goin' to sacrifice my sister to any such
person. Now that's my state of mind plain and square."
Thomas Rooper shrunk two inches in height. "Asaph Scantle," he said,
in a voice which seemed also to have shrunk, "I don't understand
you. I wasn't hard on you. I only wanted to make a fair bargain. If
I'd got her, I'd paid up cash on delivery. You couldn't expect a man
to do more than that. But I tell you, Asaph, that I am mighty
serious about this. The more I have thought about your sister the
more I want her. And when I tell you that I've been a-thinkin' about
her pretty much all night, you may know that I want her a good deal.
And I was intendin' to go to-morrow and begin to court her."
"Well, you needn't," said Asaph. "It won't do no good. If you don't
have me to back you up you might as well try to twist that tree as
to move her. You can't do it."
"But you don't mean to go agin me, do you, Asaph?" asked Thomas,
ruefully.
"'Tain't necessary," replied the other. "You will go agin yourself."
For a few moments Mr. Rooper remained silent. He was greatly
discouraged and dismayed by what had been said to him, but he could
not yet give up what had become the great object of his life.
"Asaph," said he, presently, "it cuts me to the in'ards to think
that you have gone back on me; but I tell you what I'll do: if you
will promise not to say anything agin me to Mrs. Himes, and not to
set yourself in any way between me and her, I'll go along with you
to the store now, and you can git that suit of clothes and the
umbrella, and I'll tell 'em to order the dictionary and hand it over
to you as soon as it comes. I'd like you to help me, but if you will
only promise to stand out of the way and not hinder, I'll do the
fair thing by you and pay in advance."
"Humph!" said Asaph. "I do believe you think you are the only man
that wants Marietta."
A pang passed through the heart of Mr. Rooper. He had been thinking
a great deal of Mrs. Himes and everything connected with her, and he
had even thought of that visit of Doctor Wicker's. That gentleman
was a widower and a well-to-do and well-appearing man; and it would
have been a long way for him to come just for some trifling rickets
in a servant-girl. Being really in love, his imagination was in a
very capering mood, and he began to fear that the doctor had come to
court Mrs. Himes. "Asaph," he said, quickly, "that's a good offer I
make you. If you take it, in less than an hour you can walk home
looking like a gentleman."
Asaph had taken his reed pipe from his coat pocket and was filling
it. As he pushed the coarse tobacco into the bowl, he considered.
"Thomas," said he, "that ain't enough. Things have changed, and it
wouldn't pay me. But I won't be hard on you. I'm a good friend of
yourn, and I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will give me now all
the things we spoke of between us--and I forgot to mention a cane
and pocket-handkerchiefs--and give me, besides, that meerschaum pipe
of yourn, I'll promise not to hinder you, but let you go ahead and
git Marietta if you kin. I must say it's a good deal for me to do,
knowin' how much you'll git and how little you'll give, and knowin',
too, the other chances she's got if she wanted 'em; but I'll do it
for the sake of friendship."
"My meerschaum pipe!" groaned Mr. Rooper. "My Centennial Exhibition
pipe!" His tones were so plaintive that for a moment Asaph felt a
little touch of remorse. But then he reflected that if Thomas really
did get Marietta the pipe would be of no use to him, for she would
not allow him to smoke it. And, besides, realities were realities
and business was business. "That pipe may be very dear to you," he
said, "Thomas, but I want you to remember that Marietta's very dear
to me."
This touched Mr. Rooper, whose heart was sensitive as it had never
been before. "Come along, Asaph," he said. "You shall have
everything, meerschaum pipe included. If anybody but me is goin' to
smoke that pipe, I'd like it to be my brother-in-law." Thus, with
amber-tipped guile, Mr. Rooper hoped to win over his friend to not
only not hinder, but to help him.
As the two men walked away, Asaph thought that he was not acting an
unfraternal part toward Marietta, for it would not be necessary for
him to say or do anything to induce her to refuse so unsuitable a
suitor as Thomas Rooper.
About fifteen minutes before dinner--which had been cooked with bits
of wood which Betsey had picked up here and there--was ready, Asaph
walked into the front yard of his sister's house attired in a
complete suit of new clothes, thick and substantial in texture,
pepper-and-salt in color, and as long in the legs and arms as the
most fastidious could desire. He had on a new shirt and a clean
collar, with a handsome black silk cravat tied in a great bow; and a
new felt hat was on his head. On his left arm he carried an
overcoat, carefully folded, with the lining outside, and in his
right hand an umbrella and a cane. In his pockets were half a dozen
new handkerchiefs and the case containing Mr. Rooper's Centennial
meerschaum.
Marietta, who was in the hallway when he opened the front door,
scarcely knew him as he approached.
"Asaph!" she exclaimed. "What has happened to you? Why, you actually
look like a gentleman!"
Asaph grinned. "Do you want me to go to Drummondville right after
breakfast to-morrow?" he asked.
"My dear brother," said Marietta, "don't crush me by talking about
that. But if you could have seen yourself as I saw you, and could
have felt as I felt, you would not wonder at me. You must forget all
that. I should be proud now to introduce you as my brother to any
doctor or king or president. But tell me how you got those beautiful
clothes."
Asaph was sometimes beset by an absurd regard for truth, which much
annoyed him. He could not say that he had worked for the clothes,
and he did not wish his sister to think that he had run in debt for
them. "They're paid for, every thread of 'em," he said. "I got 'em
in trade. These things is mine, and I don't owe no man a cent for
'em; and it seems to me that dinner must be ready."
"And proud I am," said Marietta, who never before had shown such
enthusiastic affection for her brother, "to sit down to the table
with such a nice-looking fellow as you are."
The next morning Mr. Rooper came into Mrs. Himes's yard, and there
beheld Asaph, in all the glory of his new clothes, sitting under the
chestnut-tree smoking the Centennial meerschaum pipe. Mr. Rooper
himself was dressed in his very best clothes, but he carried with
him no pipe.
"Sit down," said Asaph, "and have a smoke."
"No," replied the other; "I am goin' in the house. I have come to
see your sister."
"Goin' to begin already?" said Asaph.
"Yes," said the other; "I told you I was goin' to begin to-day."
"Very good," said his friend, crossing his pepper-and-salt legs;
"and you will finish the 17th of August. That's a good, reasonable
time."
But Mr. Rooper had no intention of courting Mrs. Himes for a month.
He intended to propose to her that very morning. He had been turning
over the matter in his mind, and for several reasons had come to
this conclusion. In the first place, he did not believe that he
could trust Asaph, even for a single day, not to oppose him.
Furthermore, his mind was in such a turmoil from the combined effect
of the constantly present thought that Asaph was wearing his
clothes, his hat, and his shoes, and smoking his beloved pipe, and
of the perplexities and agitations consequent upon his sentiments
toward Mrs. Himes, that he did not believe he could bear the mental
strain during another night.
Five minutes later Marietta Himes was sitting on the horsehair sofa
in the parlor, with Mr. Rooper on the horsehair chair opposite to
her, and not very far away, and he was delivering the address which
he had prepared.
"Madam," said he, "I am a man that takes things in this world as
they comes, and is content to wait until the time comes for them to
come. I was well acquainted with John Himes. I knowed him in life,
and I helped lay him out. As long as there was reason to suppose
that the late Mr. Himes--I mean that the grass over the grave of Mr.
Himes had remained unwithered, I am not the man to take one step in
the direction of his shoes, nor even to consider the size of 'em in
connection with the measure of my own feet. But time will pass on in
nater as well as in real life; and while I know very well, Mrs.
Himes, that certain feelin's toward them that was is like the leaves
of the oak-tree and can't be blowed off even by the fiercest
tempests of affliction, still them leaves will wither in the fall
and turn brown and curl up at the edges, though they don't depart,
but stick on tight as wax all winter until in the springtime they is
pushed off gently without knowin' it by the green leaves which come
out in real life as well as nater."
When he had finished this opening Mr. Rooper breathed a little sigh
of relief. He had not forgotten any of it, and it pleased him.
Marietta sat and looked at him. She had a good sense of humor, and,
while she was naturally surprised at what had been said to her, she
was greatly amused by it, and really wished to hear what else Thomas
Rooper had to say to her.
"Now, madam," he continued, "I am not the man to thrash a tree with
a pole to knock the leaves off before their time. But when the young
leaves is pushin' and the old leaves is droppin' (not to make any
allusion, of course, to any shrivellin' of proper respect), then I
come forward, madam, not to take the place of anybody else, but jest
as the nateral consequence of the seasons, which everybody ought to
expect; even such as you, madam, which I may liken to a
hemlock-spruce which keeps straight on in the same general line of
appearance without no reference to the fall of the year, nor winter
nor summer. And so, Mrs. Himes, I come here to-day to offer to lead
you agin to the altar. I have never been there myself, and there
ain't no woman in the world that I'd go with but you. I'm a
straightforward person, and when I've got a thing to say I say it,
and now I have said it. And so I set here awaitin' your answer."
At this moment the shutters of the front window, which had been
closed, were opened, and Asaph put in his head. "Look here, Thomas
Rooper," he said, "these shoes is pegged. I didn't bargain for no
pegged shoes; I wanted 'em sewed; everything was to be first-class."
Mr. Rooper, who had been leaning forward in his chair, his hands
upon his knees, and his face glistening with his expressed feelings
as brightly as the old-fashioned but shining silk hat which stood on
the floor by his side, turned his head, grew red to the ears, and
then sprang to his feet. "Asaph Scantle," he cried, with extended
fist, "you have broke your word; you hindered."
"No, I didn't," said Asaph, sulkily; "but pegged shoes is too much
for any man to stand." And he withdrew from the window, closing the
shutters again.
"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Himes, who had also risen.
"It means," said Thomas, speaking with difficulty, his indignation
was so great, "that your brother is a person of tricks and meanders
beyond the reach of common human calculation. I don't like to say
this of a man who is more or less likely to be my brother-in-law,
but I can't help sayin' it, so entirely upset am I at his goin' back
on me at such a minute."
"Going back on you?" asked Mrs. Himes. "What do you mean? What has
he promised?"
Thomas hesitated. He did not wish to interrupt his courtship by the
discussion of any new question, especially this question. "If we
could settle what we have been talkin' about, Mrs. Himes," he said,
"and if you would give me my answer, then I could git my mind down
to commoner things. But swingin' on a hook as I am, I don't know
whether my head or my heels is uppermost, or what's revolvin' around
me."
"Oh, I can give you your answer quickly enough," she said. "It is
impossible for me to marry you, so that's all settled."
"Impossible is a big word," said Mr. Rooper. "Has anybody else got
afore me?"
"I am not bound to answer that question," said Marietta, slightly
coloring; "but I cannot accept you, Mr. Rooper."
"Then there's somebody else, of course," said Thomas, gazing darkly
upon the floor. "And what's more, Asaph knew it; that's just as
clear as daylight. That's what made him come to me yesterday and go
back on his first bargain."
"Now then," said Mrs. Himes, speaking very decidedly, "I want to
know what you mean by this talk about bargains."
Mr. Rooper knit his brows. "This is mighty different talk," he said,
"from the kind I expected when I come here. But you have answered my
question, now I'll answer yours. Asaph Scantle, no longer ago than
day before yesterday, after hearin' that things wasn't goin' very
well with me, recommended me to marry you, and agreed that he would
do his level best, by day and by night, to help me git you, if I
would give him a suit of clothes, an umbrella, and a dictionary."
At this Mrs. Himes gave a little gasp and sat down.
"Now, I hadn't no thoughts of tradin' for a wife," continued Thomas,
"especially in woollen goods and books; but when I considered and
turned the matter over in my mind, and thought what a woman you was,
and what a life there was afore me if I got you, I agreed to do it.
Then he wanted pay aforehand, and that I wouldn't agree to, not
because I thought you wasn't wuth it, but because I couldn't trust
him if anybody offered him more before I got you. But that ain't the
wust of it; yesterday he come down to see me and went back on his
bargain, and that after I had spent the whole night thinkin' of you
and what I was goin' to say. And he put on such high-cockalorum airs
that I, bein' as soft as mush around the heart, jest wilted and
agreed to give him everything he bargained for if he would promise
not to hinder. But he wasn't satisfied with that and wouldn't come
to no terms until I'd give him my Centennial pipe, what's been like
a child to me this many a year. And when he saw how disgruntled I
was at sich a loss, he said that my pipe might be very dear to me,
but his sister was jest as dear to him. And then, on top of the
whole thing, he pokes his head through the shutters and hinders jest
at the most ticklish moment."
"A dictionary and a pipe!" ejaculated poor Marietta, her eyes fixed
upon the floor.
"But I'm goin' to make him give 'em all back," exclaimed Thomas.
"They was the price of not hinderin', and he hindered."
"He shall give them back," said Marietta, rising, "but you must
understand, Mr. Rooper, that in no way did Asaph interfere with your
marrying me. That was a matter with which he did have and could have
nothing to do. And now I wish you could get away without speaking to
him. I do not want any quarrelling or high words here, and I will
see him and arrange the matter better than you can do it."
"Oh, I can git away without speakin' to him," said Mr. Rooper, with
reddened face. And so saying, he strode out of the house, through
the front yard, and out of the gate, without turning his head toward
Asaph, still sitting under the tree.
"Oh, ho!" said the latter to himself; "she's bounced him short and
sharp; and it serves him right, too, after playin' that trick on me.
Pegged shoes, indeed!"
At this moment the word "Asaph" came from the house in tones
shriller and sharper and higher than any in which he had ever heard
it pronounced before. He sprang to his feet and went to the house.
His sister took him into the parlor and shut the door. Her eyes were
red and her face was pale. "Asaph," said she, "Mr. Rooper has told
me the whole of your infamous conduct. Now I know what you meant
when you said that you were making arrangements to get clothes. You
were going to sell me for them. And when you found out that I was
likely to marry Doctor Wicker, you put up your price and wanted a
dictionary and a pipe."
"No, Marietta," said Asaph, "the dictionary belonged to the first
bargain. If you knew how I need a dictionary--"
"Be still!" she cried. "I do not want you to say a word. You have
acted most shamefully toward me, and I want you to go away this very
day. And before you go you must give back to Mr. Rooper everything
that you got from him. I will fit you out with some of Mr. Himes's
clothes and make no conditions at all, only that you shall go away.
Come upstairs with me, and I will get the clothes."
The room in the garret was opened, and various garments which had
belonged to the late Mr. Himes were brought out.
"This is pretty hard on me, Marietta," said Asaph, as he held up a
coat, "to give up new all-wool goods for things what has been worn
and is part cotton, if I am a judge."
Marietta said very little. She gave him what clothes he needed, and
insisted on his putting them on, making a package of the things he
had received from Mr. Rooper, and returning them to that gentleman.
Asaph at first grumbled, but he finally obeyed with a willingness
which might have excited the suspicions of Marietta had she not been
so angry.
With an enormous package wrapped in brown paper in one hand, and a
cane, an umbrella, and a very small hand-bag in the other, Asaph
approached the tavern. Mr. Rooper was sitting on the piazza alone.
He was smoking a very common-looking clay pipe and gazing intently
into the air in front of him. When his old crony came and stood
before the piazza he did not turn his head nor his eyes.
"Thomas Rooper," said Asaph, "you have got me into a very bad
scrape. I have been turned out of doors on account of what you said
about me. And where I am goin' I don't know, for I can't walk to
Drummondville. And what's more, I kept my word and you didn't. I
didn't hinder you; for how could I suppose that you was goin' to pop
the question the very minute you got inside the door? And that
dictionary you promised I've not got."
Thomas Rooper answered not a word, but looked steadily in front of
him. "And there's another thing," said Asaph. "What are you goin' to
allow me for that suit of clothes what I've been wearin', what I
took off in your room and left there?"
At this Mr. Rooper sprang to his feet with such violence that the
fire danced out of the bowl of his pipe. "What is the fare to
Drummondville?" he cried.
Asaph reflected a moment. "Three dollars and fifty cents, includin'
supper."
"I'll give you that for them clothes," said the other, and counted
out the money.
Asaph took it and sighed. "You've been hard on me, Thomas," said he,
"but I bear you no grudge. Good-by."
As he walked slowly toward the station Mr. Scantle stopped at the
store. "Has that dictionary come that was ordered for me?" he said;
and when told that it could not be expected for several days he did
not despair, for it was possible that Thomas Rooper might be so
angry that he would forget to countermand the order; in that case he
might yet hope to obtain the coveted book.
The package containing the Rooper winter suit was heavy, and Asaph
walked slowly. He did not want to go to Drummondville, for he hated
bookkeeping, and his year of leisure and good living had spoiled him
for work and poor fare. In this moody state he was very glad to stop
and have a little chat with Mrs. McJimsey, who was sitting at her
front window.
This good lady was the principal dressmaker of the village; and by
hard work and attention to business she made a very comfortable
living. She was a widow, small of stature, thin of feature, very
neatly dressed and pleasant to look at. Asaph entered the little
front yard, put his package on the door-step, and stood under the
window to talk to her. Dressed in the clothes of the late Mr. Himes,
her visitor presented such a respectable appearance that Mrs.
McJimsey was not in the least ashamed to have people see him
standing there, which she would have been a few days ago. Indeed,
she felt complimented that he should want to stop. The conversation
soon turned upon her removal from her present abode.
"I'm awfully sorry to have to go," she said; "for my time is up just
in the middle of my busy season, and that's goin' to throw me back
dreadfully. He hasn't done right by me, that Mr. Rooper, in lettin'
things go to rack and ruin in this way, and me payin' his rent so
regular."
"That's true," said Asaph. "Thomas Rooper is a hard man--a hard man,
Mrs. McJimsey. I can see how he would be overbearin' with a lone
woman like you, neither your son nor your daughter bein' of age yet
to take your part."
"Yes, Mr. Scantle, it's very hard."
Asaph stood for a moment looking at a little bed of zinnias by the
side of the door-step. "What you want, Mrs. McJimsey," said he, "is
a man in the house."
In an instant Mrs. McJimsey flushed pink. It was such a strange
thing for a gentleman to say to her.
Asaph saw the flush. He had not expected that result from his
remark, but he was quick to take advantage of it. "Mrs. McJimsey,"
said he, "you are a widow, and you are imposed upon, and you need
somebody to take care of you. If you will put that job into my hands
I will do it. I am a man what works with his head, and if you will
let me I'll work for you. To put it square, I ask you to marry me.
My sister's goin' to be married, and I'm on the pint of goin' away;
for I could not abear to stay in her house when strangers come into
it. But if you say the word, I'll stay here and be yours for ever
and ever more."
Mrs. McJimsey said not a word, but her head drooped and wild
thoughts ran through her brain. Thoughts not wild, but well trained
and broken, ran through Asaph's brain. The idea of going to
Drummondville and spending for the journey thither a dollar and
seventy-five cents of the money he had received from Mr. Rooper now
became absolutely repulsive to him.
"Mrs. McJimsey," said he, "I will say more. Not only do I ask you to
marry me, but I ask you to do it now. The evenin' sun is settin',
the evenin' birds is singin', and it seems to me, Mrs. McJimsey,
that all nater pints to this softenin' hour as a marryin' moment.
You say your son won't be home from his work until supper-time, and
your daughter has gone out for a walk. Come with me to Mr. Parker's,
the Methodist minister, and let us join hands at the altar there.
The gardener and his wife is always ready to stand up as witnesses.
And when your son and your daughter comes home to supper, they can
find their mother here afore 'em married and settled."
"But, Mr. Scantle," exclaimed Mrs. McJimsey, "it's so suddint. What
will the neighbors say?"
"As for bein' suddint, Mrs. McJimsey, I've knowed you for nearly a
year, and now, bein' on the way to leave what's been my happy home,
I couldn't keep the truth from you no longer. And as for the
neighbors, they needn't know that we hain't been engaged for
months."
"It's so queer, so very queer," said the little dressmaker. And her
face flushed again, and there were tears, not at all sorrowful ones,
in her eyes; and her somewhat needle-pricked left hand accidentally
laid itself upon the window-sill in easy reach of any one outside.
The next morning Mr. Rooper, being of a practical way of thinking,
turned his thoughts from love and resentment to the subject of his
income. And he soon became convinced that it would be better to keep
the McJimseys in his house, if it could be done without too great an
outlay for repairs. So he walked over to his property. When he
reached the house he was almost stupefied to see Asaph in a chair in
the front yard, dressed in the new suit of clothes which he, Thomas
Rooper, had paid for, and smoking the Centennial pipe.
"Good-morning, Mr. Rooper," said Asaph, in a loud and cheery voice.
"I suppose you've come to talk to Mrs. McJimsey about the work
you've got to do here to make this house fit to live in. But there
ain't no Mrs. McJimsey. She's Mrs. Scantle now, and I'm your tenant.
You can talk to me."
Doctor Wicker came to see Mrs. Himes in the afternoon of the day he
had promised to come, and early in the autumn they were married.
Since Asaph Scantle had married and settled he had not seen his
sister nor spoken to her; but he determined that on so joyful an
occasion as this he would show no resentment. So he attended the
wedding in the village church dressed in the suit of clothes which
had belonged to the late Mr. Himes.
"HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER"
It is now five years since an event occurred which so colored my
life, or rather so changed some of its original colors, that I have
thought it well to write an account of it, deeming that its lessons
may be of advantage to persons whose situations in life are similar
to my own.
When I was quite a young man I adopted literature as a profession;
and having passed through the necessary preparatory grades, I found
myself, after a good many years of hard and often unremunerative
work, in possession of what might be called a fair literary
practice. My articles, grave, gay, practical, or fanciful, had come
to be considered with a favor by the editors of the various
periodicals for which I wrote, on which I found in time I could rely
with a very comfortable certainty. My productions created no
enthusiasm in the reading public; they gave me no great reputation
or very valuable pecuniary return; but they were always accepted,
and my receipts from them, at the time to which I have referred,
were as regular and reliable as a salary, and quite sufficient to
give me more than a comfortable support.
It was at this time I married. I had been engaged for more than a
year, but had not been willing to assume the support of a wife until
I felt that my pecuniary position was so assured that I could do so
with full satisfaction to my own conscience. There was now no doubt
in regard to this position, either in my mind or in that of my wife.
I worked with great steadiness and regularity; I knew exactly where
to place the productions of my pen, and could calculate, with a fair
degree of accuracy, the sums I should receive for them. We were by
no means rich; but we had enough, and were thoroughly satisfied and
content.
Those of my readers who are married will have no difficulty in
remembering the peculiar ecstasy of the first weeks of their wedded
life. It is then that the flowers of this world bloom brightest;
that its sun is the most genial; that its clouds are the scarcest;
that its fruit is the most delicious; that the air is the most
balmy; that its cigars are of the highest flavor; that the warmth
and radiance of early matrimonial felicity so rarefies the
intellectual atmosphere that the soul mounts higher, and enjoys a
wider prospect, than ever before.
These experiences were mine. The plain claret of my mind was changed
to sparkling champagne, and at the very height of its effervescence
I wrote a story. The happy thought that then struck me for a tale
was of a very peculiar character; and it interested me so much that
I went to work at it with great delight and enthusiasm, and finished
it in a comparatively short time. The title of the story was "His
Wife's Deceased Sister"; and when I read it to Hypatia she was
delighted with it, and at times was so affected by its pathos that
her uncontrollable emotion caused a sympathetic dimness in my eyes,
which prevented my seeing the words I had written. When the reading
was ended, and my wife had dried her eyes, she turned to me and
said, "This story will make your fortune. There has been nothing so
pathetic since Lamartine's 'History of a Servant-girl.'"
As soon as possible the next day I sent my story to the editor of
the periodical for which I wrote most frequently, and in which my
best productions generally appeared. In a few days I had a letter
from the editor, in which he praised my story as he had never before
praised anything from my pen. It had interested and charmed, he
said, not only himself, but all his associates in the office. Even
old Gibson, who never cared to read anything until it was in proof,
and who never praised anything which had not a joke in it, was
induced by the example of the others to read this manuscript, and
shed, as he asserted, the first tears that had come from his eyes
since his final paternal castigation some forty years before. The
story would appear, the editor assured me, as soon as he could
possibly find room for it.
If anything could make our skies more genial, our flowers brighter,
and the flavor of our fruit and cigars more delicious, it was a
letter like this. And when, in a very short time, the story was
published, we found that the reading public was inclined to receive
it with as much sympathetic interest and favor as had been shown to
it by the editors. My personal friends soon began to express
enthusiastic opinions upon it. It was highly praised in many of the
leading newspapers; and, altogether, it was a great literary
success. I am not inclined to be vain of my writings, and, in
general, my wife tells me, think too little of them; but I did feel
a good deal of pride and satisfaction in the success of "His Wife's
Deceased Sister." If it did not make my fortune, as my wife asserted
that it would, it certainly would help me very much in my literary
career.
In less than a month from the writing of this story, something very
unusual and unexpected happened to me. A manuscript was returned by
the editor of the periodical in which "His Wife's Deceased Sister"
had appeared. "It is a good story," he wrote, "but not equal to what
you have just done. You have made a great hit; and it would not do
to interfere with the reputation you have gained by publishing
anything inferior to 'His Wife's Deceased Sister,' which has had
such a deserved success."
I was so unaccustomed to having my work thrown back on my hands that
I think I must have turned a little pale when I read the letter. I
said nothing of the matter to my wife, for it would be foolish to
drop such grains of sand as this into the smoothly oiled machinery
of our domestic felicity; but I immediately sent the story to
another editor. I am not able to express the astonishment I felt
when, in the course of a week, it was sent back to me. The tone of
the note accompanying it indicated a somewhat injured feeling on the
part of the editor. "I am reluctant," he said, "to decline a
manuscript from you; but you know very well that if you sent me
anything like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister' it would be most promptly
accepted."
I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife, who was quite
as much surprised, though, perhaps, not quite as much shocked, as I
had been.
"Let us read the story again," she said, "and see what is the matter
with it." When we had finished its perusal, Hypatia remarked, "It is
quite as good as many of the stories you have had printed, and I
think it very interesting; although, of course, it is not equal to
'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
"Of course not," said I; "that was an inspiration that I cannot
expect every day. But there must be something wrong about this last
story which we do not perceive. Perhaps my recent success may have
made me a little careless in writing it."
"I don't believe that," said Hypatia.
"At any rate," I continued, "I will lay it aside, and will go to
work on a new one."
In due course of time I had another manuscript finished, and I sent
it to my favorite periodical. It was retained some weeks, and then
came back to me. "It will never do," the editor wrote, quite warmly,
"for you to go backward. The demand for the number containing 'His
Wife's Deceased Sister' still continues, and we do not intend to let
you disappoint that great body of readers who would be so eager to
see another number containing one of your stories."
I sent this manuscript to four other periodicals, and from each of
them was it returned with remarks to the effect that, although it
was not a bad story in itself, it was not what they would expect
from the author of "His Wife's Deceased Sister."
The editor of a Western magazine wrote to me for a story to be
published in a special number which he would issue for the holidays.
I wrote him one of the character and length he asked for, and sent
it to him. By return mail it came back to me. "I had hoped," the
editor wrote, "when I asked for a story from your pen, to receive
something like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister,' and I must own that I
am very much disappointed."
I was so filled with anger when I read this note that I openly
objurgated "His Wife's Deceased Sister." "You must excuse me," I
said to my astonished wife, "for expressing myself thus in your
presence; but that confounded story will be the ruin of me yet.
Until it is forgotten nobody will ever take anything I write."
"And you cannot expect it ever to be forgotten," said Hypatia, with
tears in her eyes.
It is needless for me to detail my literary efforts in the course of
the next few months. The ideas of the editors with whom my principal
business had been done, in regard to my literary ability, had been
so raised by my unfortunate story of "His Wife's Deceased Sister"
that I found it was of no use to send them anything of lesser merit.
And as to the other journals which I tried, they evidently
considered it an insult for me to send them matter inferior to that
by which my reputation had lately risen. The fact was that my
successful story had ruined me. My income was at end, and want
actually stared me in the face; and I must admit that I did not like
the expression of its countenance. It was of no use for me to try to
write another story like "His Wife's Deceased Sister." I could not
get married every time I began a new manuscript, and it was the
exaltation of mind caused by my wedded felicity which produced that
story.
"It's perfectly dreadful!" said my wife. "If I had had a sister, and
she had died, I would have thought it was my fault."
"It could not be your fault," I answered, "and I do not think it was
mine. I had no intention of deceiving anybody into the belief that I
could do that sort of thing every time, and it ought not to be
expected of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had tried to keep him
screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine Madonna, and had refused to
buy anything which was not as good as that. In that case I think he
would have occupied a much earlier and narrower grave than that on
which Mr. Morris Moore hangs his funeral decorations."
"But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on such subjects, "the
Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings."
"Very true," said I; "but if he had married, as I did, he would have
painted it earlier."
I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I met
Barbel--a man I had known well in my early literary career. He was
now about fifty years of age, but looked older. His hair and beard
were quite gray; and his clothes, which were of the same general
hue, gave me the idea that they, like his hair, had originally been
black. Age is very hard on a man's external appointments. Barbel had
an air of having been to let for a long time, and quite out of
repair. But there was a kindly gleam in his eye, and he welcomed me
cordially.
"Why, what is the matter, old fellow?" said he. "I never saw you
look so woebegone."
I had no reason to conceal anything from Barbel. In my younger days
he had been of great use to me, and he had a right to know the state
of my affairs. I laid the whole case plainly before him.
"Look here," he said, when I had finished, "come with me to my room:
I have something I would like to say to you there."
I followed Barbel to his room. It was at the top of a very dirty and
well-worn house which stood in a narrow and lumpy street, into which
few vehicles ever penetrated, except the ash and garbage carts, and
the rickety wagons of the venders of stale vegetables.
"This is not exactly a fashionable promenade," said Barbel, as we
approached the house; "but in some respects it reminds me of the
streets in Italian towns, where the palaces lean over toward each
other in such a friendly way."
Barbel's room was, to my mind, rather more doleful than the street.
It was dark, it was dusty, and cobwebs hung from every corner. The
few chairs upon the floor and the books upon a greasy table seemed
to be afflicted with some dorsal epidemic, for their backs were
either gone or broken. A little bedstead in the corner was covered
with a spread made of New York _Heralds_, with their edges pasted
together.
"There is nothing better," said Barbel, noticing my glance toward
this novel counterpane, "for a bed-covering than newspapers: they
keep you as warm as a blanket, and are much lighter. I used to use
_Tribunes_, but they rattled too much."
The only part of the room which was well lighted was at one end near
the solitary window. Here, upon a table with a spliced leg, stood a
little grindstone.
"At the other end of the room," said Barbel, "is my cook-stove,
which you can't see unless I light the candle in the bottle which
stands by it; but if you don't care particularly to examine it, I
won't go to the expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good
many odd pieces of bric-a-brac around here, if you chose to strike a
match and investigate; but I would not advise you to do so. It would
pay better to throw the things out of the window than to carry them
downstairs. The particular piece of indoor decoration to which I
wish to call your attention is this." And he led me to a little
wooden frame which hung against the wall near the window. Behind a
dusty piece of glass it held what appeared to be a leaf from a small
magazine or journal. "There," said he, "you see a page from the
_Grasshopper_, a humorous paper which flourished in this city some
half-dozen years ago. I used to write regularly for that paper, as
you may remember."
"Oh yes, indeed!" I exclaimed. "And I shall never forget your
'Conundrum of the Anvil' which appeared in it. How often have I
laughed at that most wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it
to my friends!"
Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed to the
frame. "That printed page," he said, solemnly, "contains the
'Conundrum of the Anvil.' I hang it there so that I can see it while
I work. That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I wrote for
the _Grasshopper_. How I ever came to imagine it I cannot tell. It
is one of those things which occur to a man but once in a lifetime.
After the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted that
conundrum, my subsequent efforts met with hoots of derision. The
_Grasshopper_ turned its hind legs upon me. I sank from bad to
worse--much worse--until at last I found myself reduced to my
present occupation, which is that of grinding points to pins. By
this I procure my bread, coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes
and meat. One day while I was hard at work an organ-grinder came
into the street below. He played the serenade from "Trovatore"; and
the familiar notes brought back visions of old days and old
delights, when the successful writer wore good clothes and sat at
operas, when he looked into sweet eyes and talked of Italian airs,
when his future appeared all a succession of bright scenery and
joyous acts, without any provision for a drop-curtain. And as my ear
listened, and my mind wandered in this happy retrospect, my every
faculty seemed exalted, and, without any thought upon the matter, I
ground points upon my pins so fine, so regular and smooth, that they
would have pierced with ease the leather of a boot, or slipped
among, without abrasion, the finest threads of rare old lace. When
the organ stopped, and I fell back into my real world of cobwebs and
mustiness, I gazed upon the pins I had just ground, and, without a
moment's hesitation, I threw them into the street, and reported the
lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money, but it saved me my
livelihood."
After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed:
"I have no more to say to you, my young friend. All I want you to do
is to look upon that framed conundrum, then upon this grindstone,
and then to go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of pins
to grind before the sun goes down."
I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all relieved by what
I had seen and heard. I had lost sight of Barbel for some years, and
I had supposed him still floating on the sun-sparkling stream of
prosperity where I had last seen him. It was a great shock to me to
find him in such a condition of poverty and squalor, and to see a
man who had originated the "Conundrum of the Anvil" reduced to the
soul-depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I walked and
thought, the dreadful picture of a totally eclipsed future arose
before my mind. The moral of Barbel sank deep into my heart.
When I reached home I told my wife the story of my friend Barbel.
She listened with a sad and eager interest.
"I am afraid," she said, "if our fortunes do not quickly mend, that
we shall have to buy two little grindstones. You know I could help
you at that sort of thing."
For a long time we sat together and talked, and devised many plans
for the future. I did not think it necessary yet for me to look out
for a pin-contract; but I must find some way of making money, or we
should starve to death. Of course the first thing that suggested
itself was the possibility of finding some other business; but,
apart from the difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work
in occupations to which I had not been trained, I felt a great and
natural reluctance to give up a profession for which I had carefully
prepared myself, and which I had adopted as my life-work. It would
be very hard for me to lay down my pen forever, and to close the top
of my inkstand upon all the bright and happy fancies which I had
seen mirrored in its tranquil pool. We talked and pondered the rest
of that day and a good deal of the night, but we came to no
conclusion as to what it would be best for us to do.
The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the
journal for which, in happier days, before the blight of "His Wife's
Deceased Sister" rested upon me, I used most frequently to write,
and, having frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his
advice. The editor was a good man, and had always been my friend. He
listened with great attention to what I told him, and evidently
sympathized with me in my trouble.
"As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we did
not accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would have
disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to
you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to
publish another story like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.' We felt,
and we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy
the fair fabric which yourself has raised. But," he added, with a
kind smile, "I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation
will be of little advantage to you if you should starve at the
moment that its genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up."
"Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched and
withered me."
"How would you like," said the editor, after a short reflection, "to
allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some
other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public,
would put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your
reputation."
Joyfully I seized that noble fellow by the hand, and instantly
accepted his proposition. "Of course," said I, "a reputation is a
very good thing; but no reputation can take the place of food,
clothes, and a house to live in; and I gladly agree to sink my
over-illumined name into oblivion, and to appear before the public
as a new and unknown writer."
"I hope that need not be for long," he said, "for I feel sure that
you will yet write stories as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the
editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal
under the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a
substitute for my own, permanently disabled. I made a similar
arrangement with other editors, and John Darmstadt received the
credit of everything that proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances
now became very comfortable, and occasionally we even allowed
ourselves to indulge in little dreams of prosperity.
Time passed on very pleasantly; one year, another, and then a little
son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful
persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or
the earliest weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest
and proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say
that the same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and
invention, which succeeded upon my wedding-day came upon me now. As
then, my ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for
a story, and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was
about six weeks old when the manuscript was finished; and one
evening, as we sat before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room,
with the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby
sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I read the story to my
wife.
When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my arms.
"I was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes sparkling,
"as I am at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is--indeed I
am sure it is--just as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"
As she spoke these words a sudden and chilling sensation crept over
us both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow
engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I
loved, vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each
other with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had
flashed upon us both.
This story _was_ as good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister"!
We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's superpointed pins
seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of
an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should
vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just as we had
begun to build them up.
My wife approached me and took my hand in hers, which was as cold as
ice. "Be strong and firm," she said. "A great danger threatens us,
but you must brace yourself against it. Be strong and firm."