THE CAUSE OF THE BATTLE.
Mrs. Taylor’s advertisements had paid her well, bringing every summer a
few guests from Boston and its suburbs, but New York had not responded,
and until it did Dorothy’s ambition would not be satisfied. Boston
represented a great deal that was desirable, but New York represented
more.
“Why don’t you advertise in the New York papers?” Mark Hilton, the head
clerk and real head of the house after herself, said to her, with the
result that he was authorized to write an advertisement and have it
inserted in as many New York papers as he thought best.
Three days later there appeared in several dailies a notice which would
have startled Mrs. Taylor if she had seen it before it left Mark’s
hands. It did throw Zacheus off his base when he at last read it in the
New York _Times_.
“Wall, I’ll be dumbed,” he exclaimed, setting his spectacles more
squarely on his nose and running his eyes rapidly over the article.
“Yes, I’ll be dumbed if this don’t beat all for a whopper. I shouldn’t
s’pose Dotty would have writ it, and she a church member! Mebby she
didn’t. Here, Dot,—Dorothy, come here.”
She came and listened wide eyed while her husband read and commented as
he read. The scenery of Ridgefield was described in glowing terms.
“Hills and valleys for pleasant drives, two ponds and a river for
sailing, rowing and fishing; many points of interest, such as haunted
houses, and the like.”
“That’s all so,” Zacheus said, “except the ‘haunted houses.’ There ain’t
but one, and that’s about played out. Queer thing to put in a paper; but
listen to the rest of the lockrum,” and he proceeded to read a
description of the house, which was nearly as fine as if a Vanderbilt
had planned it. The _cuisine_ was first mentioned as unsurpassed, and
superintended by the lady of the house. “That’s you, Dot,” and Zacheus
nodded toward her. “That’s you, but what the old Harry is that
_cu-i-sine_ you superintend?”
Dot didn’t know, and her husband went on to the rooms, which were
palatial in size, handsomely furnished,—hot and cold water,—with
intimations of suites of apartments, each connected with a private
bathroom and balcony. It didn’t say so in so many words, but the idea
was there and Uncle Zach saw it and disclaimed against it as false. “Hot
and cold water,” he said. “That’s great; only two fassets, and them in
the hall under the stairs near the dinin’ room where it’s handy for the
teamsters to wash up before goin’ to dinner; and what’s them _suits_ of
rooms, I’d like to know, with baths and things? It’s a fraud; only one
bathroom in the house and that always out of gear and wantin’
plummin’,—and I’ve a good mind to write to the _Times_ and tell ’em so.
You didn’t have nothin’ to do with this, Dotty, did you?”
“No,” she replied, glancing at Mark Hilton, who sat in the office
listening to the tirade and shaking with laughter.
“I wrote it,” he said at last, “and it is quite as true as most of the
ads you see, and those rooms in the upper hall which open together are
suites, if you choose to call them so.”
“_Sweets!_ Who said anything about sweets? The paper called ’em
_suits_,” the excited man rejoined, while Mark explained the _sweets_
and _cu-i-sine_ which had puzzled Zacheus more than the suits.
“I wanted something to attract New Yorkers,” Mark said, “and perhaps I
did romance a little, but once get them here they’ll be all right.”
Partially satisfied with this explanation, but wondering why he should
have mentioned the haunted house, with which, in a way, he was
connected, and glad Dotty had nothing to do with the fraud, as he
persisted in calling the advertisement, Zach gave up his idea of writing
to the _Times_, and with his wife began to look for any result the
advertisement might have. It came sooner than they anticipated in a
letter from Mrs. Freeman Tracy of New York, whose grandfather, Gen.
Allen, had lived behind the largest brass knocker and Corinthian columns
in town and was lying under the tallest monument in Ridgefield cemetery.
She had seen the advertisement, she wrote, and as she had, when a child,
spent a few weeks with her grandfather, she had a most delightful
recollection of the town and wished to revisit it. She would like a
suite of rooms with bath adjoining for herself and daughter,—a smaller
room near for her maid, and her meals served in her private parlor. She
had just returned from abroad, and called it a _salon_, which puzzled
Mrs. Taylor a little, until enlightened by Mrs. Mason, her Boston
boarder, who, with her son Craig, was content with a table in the dining
room. To be served in a _salon_ was a new departure and if anything
could have raised Mrs. Freeman Tracy in Mrs. Taylor’s estimation, the
_salon_ would have done it. This, however, was scarcely possible. The
granddaughter of General Allen was a guest to be proud of without a
_salon_, and Mrs. Taylor was thrown into a state of great excitement and
Mark Hilton was told to write to the lady that she could be
accommodated.
Here Uncle Zacheus interposed, saying he should write himself, and he
did write a most wonderful letter! He would be glad to see Mrs. Tracy,
he said, and would give her the best the house afforded. That notice in
the paper overshot the mark some, but was none of his doings, nor
Dotty’s either. Dotty was his wife. It was all true about the river and
ponds and meadows and hills and views, but there wasn’t but one haunted
house as he knew of and that was tumblin’ down. There was a good many
places of interest, like old graves if she hankered after ’em, and an
old suller hole where a garrison once stood, and as to the tavern, it
was as good as they made ’em,—clean sheets, all the towels she wanted,
spring beds, hair mattrasses, feathers if she’d rather have ’em, silver
forks, too; none of your plated kind, and bread that would melt in her
mouth. Dotty did all the cookin’ and washed her hands every time she
turned round. The rooms was large and furnished comfortable, with a
rockin’ chair in every one, and when they wanted to ride out in style he
had two bloods, Paul and Virginny, which couldn’t be beat. But them
elegancies the paper spoke on was all in your eye. There was only two
fassets of hot and cold water, and the hot didn’t always work. There
wasn’t any _sweets_, such as he guessed she meant, but there was some
rooms openin’ together and jinin’ the bath room, which she could have,
and she could eat her victuals by herself if she wanted to. He told her
he knew her grandfather well,—had watched with him when he was sick,—sat
up with him after he died, and did a good many things at the funeral.
Signing himself, “Yours to command, Zacheus Taylor;” he handed the
letter to his wife for her approval.
She didn’t approve at all, but for once her husband asserted himself and
said it should go, and it went.
“We’ve heard the last from Mrs. Tracy we ever shall,” Mrs. Taylor said,
but she was mistaken. Within three days there came a dainty little note
written by Miss Helen Tracy, the daughter, and directed to “Zacheus
Taylor Esq., Prospect House, Ridgefield, Mass.,” and was as follows:
“Dear Sir:—
“Your kind letter is received, and I hasten to write for mother and say
that we shall be glad to become your guests. I know we shall be pleased,
whether there are two faucets in your house, or ten,—one bathroom or
twenty,—and you may expect us on Thursday, the —th day of the month.
Yours truly,
Helen Tracy.”
Not in years had Uncle Zacheus been as pleased as he was with that note.
It was his own, which he could open himself and keep. He usually went
for the mail which he took unopened to Dorothy, although it might be
addressed to the “Proprietor of the Prospect House.” No one wrote to
him; he was a cypher in the management of affairs and the correspondence
of the house. But this note was directed to him personally. He was
“Zacheus Taylor, Esq.,” and “Dear Sir,” and it made him feel several
inches taller than his real height. He read it on his way home from the
office, and then gave it to his wife with a flourish, saying exultingly,
“I told you honesty was the best policy. They are coming without hot and
cold fassets and bath tubs in every room. Read that.”
Dorothy read it while her husband watched her, holding the envelope in
his hand and taking the note from her the moment she had finished it. It
was his property, and after showing it to Mark and giving his opinion of
Miss Helen Tracy as “a gal with a head on her,” he went up to the garret
and deposited his treasure in the square trunk with Taylor’s Tavern and
Johnny’s blanket and went down with a feeling of importance and dignity
which showed itself in his going fishing after dinner without a word to
his wife.
She was in a state of unusual excitement. She had heard of the Tracys as
people who made a great show at Saratoga and other watering places and
had never dreamed they would honor her. But they were coming, and her
voice rang like a clarion through the house as she issued her orders and
began to look over her linen and rub up her silver forks not in use.
Four of them had been appropriated to the Masons. Four more were to be
given to the Tracys,—possibly five,—as they were to have their meals in
private, and paid handsomely for it. Finally, as the honor grew upon
her, she decided that the whole eight were none too many for New
Yorkers. They would look well upon the table, and she could hide them
away at night from any possible thief. The rooms Mrs. Tracy was to have
adjoining the bathroom were occupied when her daughter’s letter was
received, and were not vacated until the morning of the day when she was
to arrive. Consequently, there was not much time for preparations. But
Mrs. Taylor was equal to the emergency and took the helm herself and
gave her commands like a brigadier general, first to her maids, then to
the carpet-beaters, and then to a small, fair-haired boy whom she called
Jeff, and who ran for dusters and brooms and brushes, showing a most
wonderful agility in jumping over pails and chairs and whatever else was
in his way, and further exercising himself by turning summersaults when
there was sufficient space among the pieces of furniture crowding the
piazza. A box on his ears from a maid in whose stomach he had planted
his bare feet brought him to an upright position, and he stood whirling
on one foot and asking what he should fly at next.
Mrs. Taylor, who was mounted on a stepladder and passing her hand over
the top of a window to see if any dust had been left there, bade him go
up town after Mr. Taylor, who had been sent for a bottle of ammonia more
than an hour ago.
“I don’t see where under the sun and moon he can be,” she was saying,
when “I’ll be dumbed!” fell on her ear and she knew the delinquent had
arrived.
“I’ll be dumbed” was his favorite expression, which he used on all
occasions. It was not a _swear_, he said, when his wife remonstrated
with him for using language unbecoming a church member. It was not
spelled with an “a,” and it only meant that he could not find suitable
words with which to express himself when he must say something.
When he left for the ammonia he knew a cleaning up was in progress, but
he had no idea it would assume so vast proportions, until he found the
piazza blockaded with furniture and his wife on a stepladder arrayed in
her regimentals, which meant business, and which for length might almost
have satisfied a ballet dancer.
“Come down, Dotty; come down. You’ve no idea how you look up there so
high in that short gown. Shall I help you? I’ve brought you a
telegraph,” he said, and his wife came down quickly, while he explained
that he had stopped to talk with Deacon Hewett, and it was lucky he did,
for he was on hand to get the telegraph the minute it was ticked off. He
met the boy as he was leaving the office.
Mrs. Taylor took the telegram from him and read: “New York, July 15. To
Zacheus Taylor, Esq., Prospect House, Ridgefield, Mass.: My niece is
coming with me. Please have a room prepared for her and meet us at the 8
train instead of the 4.—Mrs. Freeman Tracy.”
“If this don’t beat all. Another room to clean. I’m about melted now,”
and Mrs. Taylor sank into a chair and wiped her face with her apron.
“Where’s Zach?” she continued. “I want him to help move them things out
of the northwest room, so we can tackle that next. Where is he, I
wonder. Find him, Jeff.”
Zach had disappeared. Mrs. Tracy’s telegram, addressed to Zacheus
Taylor, Esq., was of nearly as much importance as her daughter’s note
had been, and a second pilgrimage was made to the garret and square
trunk where Taylor’s Tavern and Johnny’s blanket were hidden away.
“It kinder seems as if I was of some account to have them Tracys so
respectful and callin’ me ’Squire twice,” he thought, and he went down
stairs with a pleasureable sensation of dignity not common with him.
“Miss Taylor wants you,” the irrepressible Jeff said, rolling round the
corner on his head and hands like a hoop, and nearly upsetting Zacheus
as he landed on his feet.
“What is it, Dotty; what can I do for you? It’s most too hot to do
much,” Zacheus asked his wife, and in his voice there was something
which made her glance curiously at him.
She had intended to “blow him up” for never being around when he was
needed, but she changed her mind and replied: “I did want you to help
move the bureau and things from the northwest room, but Jeff will answer
as well. You look hot. Go and rest yourself on the north piazza with Mr.
Mason.”
The tone of her voice was nearly as exhilarating as Zacheus Taylor, Esq.
had been, for it was not often that she spoke to him so considerately
when on the war path, and it was with a feeling of great satisfaction
that he took his way to Craig Mason and the north piazza.