recollection is right," answered Mr. Talbot over his shoulder and
through the folds of a woolen throat comforter. "But it's mostly been
lumbered off for pulp. They're figgerin' some on strippin' the ridges
of the hard woods next," he added with a touch of local pride for local
enterprise.
The car took the first steep rise into the range, buck-jumping and
slewing like a skittish colt. Frequently it seemed to shy from bump
to bump. The task of steering engaged Mr. Talbot. He addressed his
vibrating passengers but rarely.
"Got a party booked to chore for you," he told Mrs. Bugbee over his
shoulder. "Name of Anna Rapley. Widder woman. Had quite a job of it
gittin' her to agree to do it. She told me to tell you her wages would
be twenty-five a week fur ez long ez you stay."
"Twenty-five a week?" echoed Mrs. Bugbee rather blankly.
"That's whut she says. Says it's her reg'lar price fur a special job
like this one is. Says to tell you to take it or leave it, just ez
you please. Says it don't make a bit of difference to her either way.
Independent, that's her."
"Oh, I'm sure we won't quarrel over the wages!" Mrs. Bugbee hastened to
explain. "Of course she's competent?"
"Oh, spry enough so fur ez that goes, but strictly between you and me,
watch her!" He twisted his head and punctuated the speech with a slow,
significant wink.
"Watch her for what?"
"I ain't sayin'. I ain't even hintin' at nothin'. All I'm tellin' you
in confidence is--watch her. She's a good friend of my folks so mebbe I
shouldn't 'a' said that much. Just keep your eyes open, that's all."
On through to their destination there was silence between the
visitors--the silence of two persons engrossed in inner contemplations.
As for Mr. Talbot, he was concerned with restraining his mettlesome
conveyance.
At their journey's end, the bungalow where it nestled against a
background of mountains half a mile on beyond the clumping of small
houses that was the village, made a gladdening sight for the Bugbees,
what with its broad front windows shining redly in the clear cold and a
slender spindle of smoke rising straight up the air from the mouth of
its big stone chimney. Mrs. Bugbee hurried inside to establish liaison
with the widow who was a friend to the Talbot family. Her husband
tarried on the snow-piled veranda with his belongings piled about him.
"Let's see, now," Mr. Talbot said speculatively. "There's your fare
over from the depot--we'll call that six dollars even for the two of
you. And two dollars more fur your valises, I guess that'd be fair,
considerin'. That comes to eight. Then there was some odds and ends I
done myself fur you yistiddy ez an accommodation--shovelin' out this
path here and so forth. That'll be about six dollars, I sh'd say."
Mr. Bugbee unpocketed a fold of bills.
"Hold on," bade Mr. Talbot. "Then I got you in three cords of firewood
at ten dollars a cord; that mounts up to thirty more. You're lucky
I ain't chargin' you full city prices," he continued, studying Mr.
Bugbee's expression. "There's some around here would, namin' no names.
But you folks bein' sent on by Mr. Rousseau I'm makin' you a rate on
that firewood. Thanky."
He accepted payment.
"Oh, yes, there's an order of provisions in the house, too, but the
account fur them'll be rendered in your reg'lar weekly bills. I'll make
the deliveries without extry cost," he promised generously. "Just call
freely fur more stuff ez you need it. I run the leadin' grocery down
below, you understand. There's an opposition grocery but I wouldn't
recommend no stranger to do his tradin' there unlessen he checked off
the statements mighty close. Well, good-by and see you later."
Mr. Bugbee, mechanically holding a depleted roll in his numbed grasp,
watched the flivver as it lurched back down the highway. "But at
least the sunrise was an unqualified success," he remarked softly to
himself. He further comforted himself with the philosophies that first
impressions did not necessarily count and that a poor beginning often
made a good ending and that to all rules there were exceptions, et
cetera, et cetera.
Lack of space forbids that we should trace our two sojourners step by
step and day by day through the ensuing fortnight. A few vignettes,
a few small thumb-nail views of them, taken in the privacy of their
fireside, will suffice, this chronicler hopes, progressively to suggest
the course of developments in pursuance of their ambitions for the
happiness of the dwellers in that isolated hamlet of Pleasant Cove.
For example, an intimate little scene was enacted before the
hearthstone on the second evening but one following their arrival.
Mr. Bugbee was wrestling manfully with a cigar of an exceedingly
formidable aspect. That morning he had made a lamentable discovery.
It was that he had forgotten to bring along two boxes of his favorite
brand of specially cured Havanas which were purchased expressly with
that intent. His pocket case was almost empty when he became aware of
the oversight. He looked upon it in the light of a tragedy; a confirmed
smoker will appreciate how laden with tragic possibilities such a
situation might become. He had wired for a supply to be forwarded
immediately, but in these parts immediately might be a relative term.
So to bridge over the emergency he had procured some substitutes from
Mr. Talbot's somewhat restricted stock.
It was with one of the substitutes that now he contended. He freed an
intake of smoke and choked slightly, then coughed fretfully.
"It is called 'Jake's Choice,'" he said. "I read it on the box. It was
an exceedingly beautiful box--a regular whited sepulcher of a box.
I wonder who Jake was? Probably a friend of the manufacturer. But
I'll say this much for him--he was no customer! It may have its good
qualities. It's certainly very durable and it has splendid powers of
resistance--fights back every inch of the way. But for smoking purposes
it is open to the same criticisms that a rag carpet is."
"Why don't you throw it in the fire, then?" suggested Mrs. Bugbee.
"When I came in here a minute ago I thought for a second the flue must
be defective."
"I'd have you know I'm not to be daunted by an enemy that I could
crush--maybe--in the palm of my hand. Besides, it's easy enough for you
to give such advice--you with plenty of your favorite cigarettes on
hand. But cigarettes are not for me--I'm what they call a man's man."
"Speaking of cigarettes--" began Mrs. Bugbee, but got no further. It
would seem that Mr. Bugbee was not to be diverted from his present
morbid mood.
"Now you take Jake's peculiar Choice," he went on. "I wish I'd
had the job of christening this article. I'd have labeled it the
'R. C. N. W. M. P.'"
"What does that stand for?"
"Royal Canadian Northwestern Mounted Police--to give the full title."
"I don't see the application."
"You would if you knew the motto of that magnificent force--'Always
Gets Its Man.'" Again he coughed.
"Speaking of names, Anna--"
"You were speaking of cigarettes a moment ago."
"I tried to but you interrupted. Anyhow, cigarettes and Anna are all
mixed up with what I wanted to say in the first place."
"You refer to our culinary goddess?"
"Of course."
"Does she smoke?"
"No--never."
"Then why drag in Anna's cigarettes, if she doesn't use 'em?"
"I didn't. It's my cigarettes."
"Well, why then Anna as a factor in this discussion?"
"I'm coming to that. Speaking of names--"
"We are not speaking of names any more. Pray be coherent."
"We are--at least I am. Speaking of names, do you know what she calls
me? She calls me 'Miss Fleeceyou,' like that."
"In view of the salary Anna is drawing down I'd call that a touch of
subtle irony," stated Mr. Bugbee. "But I see no reason why she should
address me as 'Mr. Clammy.' I'm not clammy--I leave it to any impartial
judge. I'll not start complaining yet, though. I have a foreboding of
worse things to follow. I foresee that when the feeling of formality
wears off and we get on an easier social footing she'll call me 'Clam.'
I decline to be just plain Clam to Anna or anybody else. If I've got to
be a clam I'm going to be a fancy one."
"You drift about so! What I've been trying for the last five minutes to
tell you was that Anna has been confiding to me that some of the older
inhabitants are taking exception to us--to me, rather. It seems they've
already found out that I smoke cigarettes. They regard that as sinful
or at least highly improper. There's been talk. She told me so."
"I wonder how they learned of your secret vice!" mused Mr. Bugbee. "It
can't be that Anna is a gossip--heaven forbid! Have you been detected
in any other shameful practice?"
"Not exactly detected--but, well, criticized. She tells me that certain
persons, including one of the two ministers--the Reverend Mr. Peters is
the one--have been discussing my costume." She glanced down at her trim
riding-breeches and her smart high-laced boots, which with her soft
flannel shirt gave her the look of a graceful, good-looking boy. "And I
thought I was dressed so appropriately!"
"I believe there is still a prejudice in certain remote districts
against the human female leg," said her husband. "Just what fault do
the merry villagers find with your get-up?"
"One man at the post-office spoke of these"--she touched a slender
Bedford-corded thigh--"of these as choke-bore pants. He said there
ought to be a law against a woman parading the public streets with a
pair of choke-bore pants on. He said it this afternoon and Anna heard
about it and came right straight and told me."
"Strong language for a minister of the Gospel to be using," commented
Mr. Bugbee. "Still, the comparison is apt. Choke-bore, eh? Not so bad
for a backwoods preacher. The man has traveled and seen the world."
"It wasn't the minister, stupid! It was another man. At that the
minister--I mean the Reverend Mr. Peters, not the other one--glared at
me today as though he were thinking unutterable things. I thought then
he might be miffed because I'd been to see the other minister first. He
behaved so--so stand-offish and sort of hostile when I told him about
our plan for having a joint Christmas tree for both Sunday Schools. But
since I talked with Anna I'm pretty sure it must have been my clothes
he didn't like. I'm afraid some of these people are going to be rather
difficult, really I am!"
"I'm going to be a trifle difficult myself unless those cigars get
here soon," said Mr. Bugbee. "Say, they seem to be having unusually
long and silent nights up here this winter, don't they?" he added. "I
never thought I'd become so city-broke that I'd miss the plaintive
call of the taxicab mooing for its first-born. Gee--it's nearly nine
o'clock. If the lights in this house aren't turned out pretty soon
some unacquainted passers-by--if any such there be--will suspect the
presence of burglars on the premises."
* * * * *
It was on Friday afternoon of that week that a female villager called.
She had a keen and searching gaze--that was the first thing to be
noticed when the door had been opened in response to her knock. And the
second striking thing about her was that on taking a seat she seemed to
sink into herself sectionally rather in the style of certain nautical
instruments.
The collapsible-looking lady stayed on for upwards of an hour. Upon
leaving, she uncoupled joint by joint, as it were, becoming again a
person of above the average height. Mr. Bugbee, who after a mumbled
introduction and a swift appraisal of the visitor had betaken himself
to another part of the house, reentered the living-room upon her
departure.
"Who," he asked, "who is yon gentle stranger with the telescopic eye
and the self-folding figure? I failed to catch the name."
"Miss Teasdale--a Miss Henny Teasdale."
"Did you say Henny--or do my ears deceive me?"
"Yes; it's short for Henrietta, I think."
"And long for Hen. I'll think that, if you don't mind. If I'm not
too inquisitive, might I make so bold as to inquire what brought her
hither?"
"She came to tell me some--well, some things. She said she felt it to
be her Christian duty to walk up here and tell me these things."
"For example, what?"
"For one thing she thinks we make a mistake in----" Mrs. Bugbee, who
appeared slightly flustered, left this sentence uncompleted and built a
second one of fresh materials: "Clem, why is it that people have to be
so narrow and so critical of other people's motives and so everything?"
"I give it up. But to return to the lady whose fighting name is Henny?"
"Oh, yes! Well, she told me that quite a good many of the members of
one of the congregations here rather resent the fact that the pastor of
the other congregation is the chairman of my committee that's getting
up the Christmas entertainment. And they aren't going to cooperate or
let their children come either. There are two cliques, it seems, and
they're both awfully cliquey."
"A common fault of cliques, I believe. And what else?"
"And she says some of the young people think our celebration is going
to be too tame for them. So they're planning to import special music
from over at the junction and throw a jazz party, as they put it, on
the same night. It seems there's a barber over at the junction who
plays the saxophone and he has an orchestra of four pieces; that's the
one they're going to hire."
"Every junction has a barber who plays the saxophone. But formerly
the favored instrument was the guitar, though in exceptional cases
the harmonica or mouth-organ might be preferred. Proceed, please; you
interest me deeply."
"And she says that there's a good deal of curiosity--_curiosity_ was
the word she used--about our private lives. There actually seems to be
a suspicion that we're some sort of refugees or fugitives or something,
and that we're trying to ingratiate ourselves with the residents here
in order to work some scheme on them later. At least she hinted that
much. But this Miss Teasdale doesn't share in this sentiment at all.
She said so several times. She said she only came up as a friend to
let me know what was going on. She hasn't any ax to grind herself, she
says. She doesn't believe in all this envy and jealousy, she says."
"I don't believe the ax is her favorite weapon. I seem to picture her
in the privacy of the home circle brewing a great jorum of poison-ivy
tea. Perchance she revealed more?"
"Quite a lot more. She says we're being imposed on shamefully in regard
to the prices we're paying for things. She says we picked the wrong
people to deal with and that if we'd just come to her first she could
have saved us money. She says that Anna is charging us about three
times what she'd expect from a neighbor for the same services. Still, I
gather that there's a sort of feud between her and Anna, so she may be
biased. And she says that this man Talbot--"
"All of which reminds me. I had to order more firewood this morning.
Due, I take it, to post-war conditions in Europe the price is now
twelve dollars a cord. The egg market also shows an advance, influenced
no doubt by disquieting advices from Morocco. Well, if we will meddle
in world affairs we must pay the price."
"I believe that practically was about all she said," wound up Mrs.
Bugbee. "Where's my fur coat and muffler? I've got to hurry down to the
Masonic Hall. I called a rehearsal for three o'clock and I'll probably
be late as it is." Mrs. Bugbee lost her worried look. "I'm certain of
one thing: I'm not going to be disappointed in my Christmas carols.
Not that they have such good voices. But such enthusiasm as all eight
of them show! And how they're looking forward to midnight of Christmas
Eve! And how willing they are to practice!"
As the festival drew nearer, unforeseen complications ensued. Inspired
by an affection which the holiday spirit had quickened, various
persons back in New York chose to disregard the advertised views of
the Bugbees touching on the overworked custom of exchanging gifts.
Their hiding-place was known too, as now developed. By express and
by parcel-post came packages done up in gay wrappings and bearing
cards and sprigs of holly and inevitably containing the conventional
remembrances, the customary loving messages. The opening of each box
served to enhance an atmosphere of homesickness which was beginning to
fill the Rousseau bungalow.
"Well, I've done the best I could," wailed Mrs. Bugbee despairingly.
"Of course we have to make some return for all this." She indicated
a litter of brilliant paper and parti-colored ribbon bindings on the
floor about her.
"Why do we?" he countered, he having just returned from the settlement.
"Those darned fools knew how we felt about this business."
"Because we just do, that's why! They'd never forgive us. So while you
were gone I wrote out a telegram to Aunt Bessie and telephoned it down
to the junction. I gave Aunt Bessie the names of everybody who'd sent
us something and told her what stores we have charge accounts at and
begged her as a tremendous favor to get each one of them something, no
matter what, and send it around to them. It wouldn't have done any good
to wire the stores direct--they're too rushed to pay any attention. And
poor Aunt Bessie will be up to her ears in her own Christmas shopping
and of course it's a dreadful imposition on her and of course she won't
have time to pick out suitable presents or anything. But what could I
do?"
"I'll tell you what you could have done," said Mr. Bugbee, fixing an
accusing eye upon his wife. "You could have dissuaded me from this mad
folly, this wild impulse to flee to the wildwood for Christmas. Back
there in October had you but done this our associates might even now
be saying: 'Poor Bugbee had a brain-storm but what did Bugbee's little
woman do? She saved him from himself, that's what Bugbee's little woman
did!' But no, woman-like, you fed the flames of my delusion. And now
it's too late to turn back. Madam, you have but yourself to blame, I
refuse to offer you my pity. Anyhow, I need it all for personal use."
"What else has happened now?" she asked in the resigned tone of one who
is prepared for any tidings however grievous and hard to bear.
"I decline to furnish the harrowing details," he replied. "Suffice it
to say that one rift shows in the encompassing clouds. In certain
local quarters our intentions may be misinterpreted, that I grant you;
it would be wasting words to claim otherwise. But today, mark you,
I struck the trail of at least one prospective beneficiary who'll
surely respond to our overtures with gratitude. He's going to be our
reward--perhaps our only one--for making this trip."
"After certain recent experiences I'd love to meet him."
"Your desire shall be gratified. Let me tell you about him: You
remember that starved-looking shabby chap that we've seen several times
plowing past here through the drifts on his way to the village or back
again? And always alone?"
"Yes, I do. We were speaking of him yesterday, saying how forlorn he
seemed and how solitary."
"That's our candidate. The name is Sisson. He came into the post-office
an hour ago and I got a good look at him--at close range he's even
more melancholy than he is viewed from a distance--and after he was
gone I asked a few discreet questions about him. He's a mystery.
About six weeks ago he moved into a tumble-down cabin about a mile
up the mountain behind this clearing and he leads a sort of solitary
hermit existence up there. Nobody ever goes to see him and he never
comes to see anybody and nobody knows anything about him except that
occasionally he gets an official-looking letter from Washington. The
postmistress told me that much."
"I believe I can guess." Mrs. Bugbee's voice warmed sympathetically.
"He's probably a poor shell-shocked veteran that has hid himself away
on account of his nervous condition. And he's been writing to the
Government trying to get it to do something about his pension or his
disability allowance or something--poor neglected hero! I just feel it
that I'm right about him. You know yourself, Clem, how my intuition
works sometimes?"
"Well, in a way I rather jumped at that conclusion too," said Mr.
Bugbee. "So I dusted out and overtook the nominee and introduced myself
and walked along with him. As a matter of fact I just left him. I
invited him in but he declined. He behaved as though he distrusted me,
but before I quit I succeeded in getting him to promise faithfully that
he'd drop in on us late on Christmas Eve. I realized that he wouldn't
care to show himself among the crowd down at the hall."
"I think that's a splendid arrangement," applauded Mrs. Bugbee. "Just
perfectly splendid! And the next thing is, what are we going to give
him?"
"Not too much. We don't want him to get the idea that we look on him as
an object of charity. Just one timely, suitable small present--a token,
if you get what I mean; that would be my notion."
"Mine, too," chorused Mrs. Bugbee. "But the question is, what?"
They had quite a little dispute over it. She voted first for a pair of
military hair-brushes, the Herbert Ryders, of East Sixty-ninth Street,
having sent Mr. Bugbee a pair and he being already the possessor of two
other pairs. But as Mr. Bugbee pointed out, an offering even remotely
suggestive of the military life possibly might recall unpleasant
memories in the mind of one who had suffered in the Great War. So then
she suggested that a box containing one-half dozen cakes of imported
and scented violet soap might be acceptable; there was such a box among
the gifts accumulating about the room. But, as Mr. Bugbee said, suppose
he was sensitive? Suppose he took it as a personal reflection? They
argued back and forth. Eventually Mr. Bugbee found an answer to the
problem.
"I'm going to hand him my last full quart of old Scotch," he announced
with a gesture of broad generosity. "He'll appreciate that, or I miss
my guess."
He had the comforting feeling of having made a self-sacrifice for the
sake of a stranger. He had the redeemed feeling of one who means to
go the absolute limit on behalf of his fellow man. For Mr. Bugbee had
brought with him but three bottles of his treasured pre-Prohibition
Scotch. And the first bottle was emptied and the second had been
broached and half emptied and only the third precious survivor remained
intact.
It was a lovely yet a poignant feeling to have.
On the night before Christmas it was raining. By morning probably
the underfooting would be all one nice icy slickery glare but now
everything was melting and running. As the Bugbees, man and wife,
slopped along up the gentle slope leading from the highway to their
front door they were exchanging remarks which had been uttered several
times already on the homeward journey but each, with variations, was
still repeating his, or as the case was, her contributions to the
dialogue, just as persons will do when a subject for conversation
happens to be one that lies close to the speakers' heart.
"The little ones," she was saying, "they almost repaid me for all the
trouble we've been to and all the pains we've taken. Their glee was
genuine. Sometimes, Clem, I think there ought to be a law against
anybody celebrating Christmas who's more than twelve years old--I mean
celebrating it with gifts."
"Second the motion!" His tone was grim. One might even say it was
bitter.
"But some of these older ones--turning up their noses right before our
eyes at the little presents that we'd bought for them. What did they
expect--diamond bracelets? Do they think we're made out of money?"
"Well, I'm not, for one. I settled Brother Talbot's account for the
past two weeks this afternoon. That man's talents are wasted here. He
ought to be operating a fleet of pirate ships."
"There was one thing that I haven't had the courage to tell you about
yet." She blurted the rest in a gulped staccato: "With me it was
absolutely the last straw. And I'm ashamed of myself. But my heart was
so set on the singing! That's my only excuse for being so weak."
"Go on. I'm listening."
"Well, you know yourself, Clem, how hard I've worked at drilling those
eight men and boys for my Christmas carols? And how I've explained to
them over and over again about the meanings of all those beautiful Old
World customs such as the English have? And I thought they'd caught the
spirit--from the very first they seemed so inspired. But tonight--just
a little while ago when you were busy with the tree--they took me
aside. They said they wanted to tell me something. And Clem--they--they
struck!"
"Struck for what?"
"For money. Said they wouldn't sing a note unless I paid them for their
back time."