I
A land of entrancing inner waters, our own marvellous Lake Country of
the East, lies just behind those mountains of Maine that sink their
bases in the Atlantic and are fitly termed in Indian nomenclature
_Waves-of-the-Sea_. Bight and bay indent this mountainous coast, in
beauty comparable, if less sublime yet more enticing, to the Norwegian
fjords; within them are set the islands large and small whereon the
sheep, sheltered by cedar coverts, crop the short thick turf that is
nourished by mists from the Atlantic. Above bight and bay and island
tower the mountains. Their broad green flanks catch the earliest eastern
and the latest western lights. Their bare summits are lifted boldly into
the infinite blue that is reflected in the waters which lap their
foundations.
Flamsted lies at the outlet of Lake Mesantic, on the gentle northward
slope of these _Waves-of-the-Sea_, some eighteen miles inland from
Penobscot Bay. Until the last decade of the nineteenth century it was
unconnected with the coast by any railroad; but at that time a branch
line from Hallsport on the Bay, encouraged by the opening of a small
granite quarry in the Flamsted Hills, made its terminus at The
Corners--a sawmill settlement at the falls of the Rothel, a river that
runs rapidly to the sea after issuing from Lake Mesantic. A mile beyond
the station the village proper begins at its two-storied tavern, The
Greenbush.
From the lower veranda of this hostelry, one may look down the shaded
length of the main street, dignified by many an old-fashioned house, to
The Bow, an irregular peninsula extending far into the lake and
containing some two hundred acres. This estate is the ancestral home of
the Champneys, known as Champ-au-Haut, in the vernacular "Champo." At
The Bow the highway turns suddenly, crosses a bridge over the Rothel and
curves with the curving pine-fringed shores of the lake along the base
of the mountain until it climbs the steep ascent that leads to Googe's
Gore, the third division of the town of Flamsted.
As in all New England towns, that are the possessors of "old families,"
so in Flamsted;--its inhabitants are partisans. The result is, that it
has been for years as a house divided against itself, and heated
discussion of the affairs of the Googes at the Gore and the Champneys at
The Bow has been from generation to generation an inherited interest.
And from generation to generation, as the two families have ramified and
intermarriages occurred more and more frequently, party spirit has run
higher and higher and bitter feelings been engendered. But never have
the factional differences been more pronounced and the lines of
separation drawn with a sharper ploughshare in this mountain-ramparted
New England town, than during the five years subsequent to the opening
of the Flamsted Quarries which brought in its train the railroad and the
immigrants. This event was looked upon by the inhabitants as the
Invasion of the New.
The interest of the first faction was centred in Champ-au-Haut and its
present possessor, the widow of Louis Champney, old Judge Champney's
only son. That of the second in the Googes, Aurora and her son Champney,
the owners of Googe's Gore and its granite outcrop.
The office room of The Greenbush has been for two generations the
acknowledged gathering place of the representatives of the hostile
camps. On a cool evening in June, a few days after the departure of
several New York promoters, who had formed a syndicate to exploit the
granite treasure in The Gore and for that purpose been fully a week in
Flamsted, a few of the natives dropped into the office to talk it over.
When Octavius Buzzby, the factotum at Champ-au-Haut and twin of Augustus
Buzzby, landlord of The Greenbush, entered the former bar-room of the
old hostelry, he found the usual Saturday night frequenters. Among them
was Colonel Milton Caukins, tax collector and assistant deputy sheriff
who, never quite at ease in the presence of his long-tongued wife,
expanded discursively so soon as he found himself in the office of The
Greenbush. He was in full flow when Octavius entered.
"Hello, Tave," he cried, extending his hand in easy condescension,
"you're well come, for you're just in time to hear the latest; the
deal's on--an A. 1 sure thing this time. Aurora showed me the papers
to-day. We're in for it now--government contracts, state houses, battle
monuments, graveyards; we've got 'em all, and things'll begin to hum in
this backwater hole, you bet!"
Octavius looked inquiringly at his brother. Augustus answered by raising
his left eyebrow and placidly closing his right eye as a cautionary
signal to lie low and await developments.
It was the Colonel's way to boom everything, and simply because he could
not help it. It was not a matter of principle with him, it was an affair
of temperament. He had boomed Flamsted for the last ten years--its
climate, its situation, its scenery, its water power, its lake-shore
lands as prospective sites for mansion summer cottages, and the
treasures of its unopened quarries. So incorrigible an optimist was
Milton Caukins that any slight degree of success, which might attend the
promotion of any one of his numerous schemes, caused an elation that
amounted to hilarity. On the other hand, the deadly blight of
non-fulfilment, that annually attacked his most cherished hopes for the
future development of his native town, failed in any wise to depress
him, or check the prodigal casting of his optimistic daily bread on the
placid social waters where, as the years multiplied, his enthusiasms
scarce made a ripple.
"I see Mis' Googe yisterd'y, an' she said folks hed been down on her so
long for sellin' thet pass'l of paster for the first quarry, thet she
might ez well go the hull figger an' git 'em down on her for the rest of
her days by sellin' the rest. By Andrew Jackson! she's got the grit for
a woman--and the good looks too! She can hold her own for a figger with
any gal in this town. I see the syndicaters a-castin' sheeps' eyes her
ways the day she took 'em over The Gore prospectin'; but, by A. J.! they
hauled in their lookin's when she turned them great eyes of her'n their
ways.--What's the figger for the hull piece? Does anybody know?"
It was Joel Quimber, the ancient pound-master, who spoke, and the
silence that followed proved that each man present was resenting the
fact that he was not in a position to give the information desired.
"I shall know as soon as they get it recorded, that is, if they don't
trade for a dollar and if they ever do get it recorded." The speaker was
Elmer Wiggins, druggist and town clerk for the last quarter of a
century. He was pessimistically inclined, the tendency being fostered by
his dual vocation of selling drugs and registering the deaths they
occasionally caused.
Milton Caukins, or the Colonel, as he preferred to be called on account
of his youthful service in the state militia and his present connection
with the historical society of The Rangers, took his cigar from his lips
and blew the smoke forcibly towards the ceiling before he spoke.
"She's got enough now to put Champ through college. The first forty
acres she sold ten years ago will do that."
"I ain't so sure of thet." Joel Quimber's tone implied obstinate
conviction that his modestly expressed doubt was a foregone conclusion.
"Champ's a devil of a feller when it comes to puttin' through anything.
He's a chip off the old block. He'll put through more 'n his mother can
git out if he gits in any thicker with them big guns--race hosses, steam
yachts an' fancy fixin's. He could sink the hull Gore to the foundations
of Old Time in a few of them suppers I've heerd he gin arter the show. I
heerd he gin ten dollars a plate for the last one--some kind of
primy-donny, I heerd. But Champ's game though. I heerd Mr. Van Ostend
talkin' 'bout him to one of the syndicaters--mebbe they're goin' to work
him in with them somehow; anyway, I guess Aurory don't begrutch him a
little spendin' money seein' how easy it come out of the old sheep
pasters. Who'd 'a' thought a streak of granite could hev made sech a
stir!"
"It's a stir that'll sink this town in the mud." Mr. Wiggins' voice was
what might be called thorough-bass, and was apt to carry more weight
with his townspeople than his opinions, which latter were not always
acceptable to Colonel Caukins. "Look at it now! This town has never been
bonded; we're free from debt and a good balance on hand for
improvements. Now along comes three or four hundred immigrants to begin
with--trade following the flag, I suppose _you_ call it, Colonel," (he
interpolated this with cutting sarcasm)--"a hodge-podge of Canucks, and
Dagos, and Polacks, and the Lord knows what--a darned set of foreigners,
foreign to our laws, our ways, our religion; and behind 'em a lot of men
that would be called windbags if it wasn't for their money-bags. And
between 'em our noses are going to be held right down on the grindstone.
I tell you we'll have to bond this town to support the schooling for
these foreign brats, and there's a baker's dozen of 'em every time; and
there'll be tooting and dancing and singing and playing on Sunday with
their foreign gimcranks,--mandolin-banjos and what-all--"
"Good heavens, my dear fellow!" the Colonel broke in with an air of
impatience, "can't you see that it's this very 'stir,' as you term it,
that is going to put this town into the front rank of the competing
industrial thousands of America?"
The Colonel, when annoyed at the quantity of cold water thrown upon his
redhot enthusiasm, was apt to increase the warmth of his patronizing
address by an endearing term.
"I see farther than the front ranks of your 'competing industrial
thousands of America,' Milton Caukins; I see clear over 'em to the very
brink, and I see a struggling wrestling mass of human beings slipping,
sliding to the bottomless pit of national destitution, helped downwards
by just such darned boomers of what you call 'industrial efficiency' as
you are, Milton Caukins." He paused for breath.
Augustus Buzzby, who was ever a man of peace, tried to divert this
raging torrent of speech into other and personal channels.
"I ain't nothin' 'gainst Mis' Googe as a woman, but she played me a mean
trick when she sold that first quarry. It killed my trade as dead as a
door nail. You can't hire them highflyers to put themselves into a town
their money's bankin' on to ruin in what you might call a summer-social
way. I found _that_ out 'fore they left this house last week."
"Yes, and she's played a meaner one now." Mr. Wiggins made the assertion
with asperity and looked at the same time directly at Octavius Buzzby.
"I know all about their free dispensaries that'll draw trade away from
my very counter and take the bread and butter out of my mouth; and as
for the fees--there won't be a chance for recording a homestead site;
there isn't any counting on such things, for they're a homeless lot,
always moving from pillar to post with free pickings wherever they
locate over night, just like the gypsies that came through here last
September."
"It's kinder queer now, whichever way you've a mind to look at it," Joel
Quimber remarked meditatively. His eyes were cast up to the ceiling; his
fore-fingers and thumbs formed an acute triangle over the bridge of his
nose; the arms of his chair supported his elbows. "Queer thet it's allus
them upper tens an' emigrants thet keep a-movin' on, fust one place then
t'other. Kinder looks ez if, arter all, there warn't no great real
difference when it comes to bein' restless. Take us home folks now,
we're rooted in deep, an' I guess if we was to be uprooted kinder
suddin', p'raps we'd hev more charity for the furriners. There's no
tellin'; I ain't no jedge of sech things, an' I'm an out-an-out
American. But mebbe my great-great-great-granther's father could hev'
told ye somethin' wuth tellin'; he an' the Champneys was hounded out of
France, an' was glad 'nough to emigrate, though they called it
refugeein' an' pioneerin' in them days."
Augustus Buzzby laid his hand affectionately on the old man's shoulder.
"You're a son of the soil, Joel; I stand corrected. I guess the less any
of us true blue Americans say 'bout flinging stones at furriners the
safer 'twill be for all on us."
But Mr. Wiggins continued his diatribe: "There ain't no denying it, the
first people in town are down on the whole thing. Didn't the rector tell
me this very day that 'twas like ploughing up the face of nature for the
sake of sowing the seeds of political and social destruction--his very
words--in this place of peace and happy homes? He don't blame Mrs.
Champney for feeling as she does 'bout Aurora Googe. He said it was a
shame that just as soon as Mrs. Champney had begun to sell off her lake
shore lands so as her city relatives could build near her, Mrs. Googe
must start up and balk all her plans by selling two hundred acres of old
sheep pasture for the big quarry."
"Humph!" It was the first sound that Octavius Buzzby had uttered since
his entrance and general greeting. Hearing it his brother looked
warningly in his direction, for he feared that the factional difference,
which had come to the surface to breathe in his own and Elmer Wiggins'
remarks, might find over-heated expression in the mouth of his twin if
once Tave's ire should be aroused. But his brother gave no heed and,
much to Augustus' relief, went off at a tangent.
"I heard old Judge Champney talk on these things a good many times in
his lifetime, an' he was wise, wiser'n any man here." He allowed himself
this one thrust at Mr. Wiggins and the Colonel. "He used to say: 'Tavy,
it's all in the natural course of things, and it's got to strike us here
sometime; not in my time, but in my boy's. No man of us can say he owns
God's earth, an' set up barriers an' fences, an' sometimes breastworks,
an' holler "hands off" to every man that peeks over the wall, "this here
is mine or that is ours!" because 't isn't in the natural order of
things, and what isn't in the natural order isn't going to be, Tavy.'
That's what the old Judge said to me more'n once."
"He was right, Tavy, he was right," said Quimber eagerly and earnestly.
"I can't argify, an' I can't convince; but I know he was right. I've
lived most a generation longer'n any man here, an' I've seen a thing or
two an' marked the way of nater jest like the Jedge. I've stood there
where the Rothel comes down from The Gore in its spring freshet, rarin',
tearin' down, bearin' stones an' rocks along with its current till it
strikes the lowlands; then a racin' along, catchin' up turf an' mud an'
sand, an' foamin' yaller an' brown acrost the medders, leavin' mud a
quarter of an inch thick on the lowlands; and then a-rushin' into the
lake ez if 't would turn the bottom upside down--an' jest look what
happens! Stid of kickin' up a row all along the banks it jest ain't
nowhere when you look for it! Only the lake riled for a few furlongs off
shore an' kinder humpin' up in the middle. An' arter a day or two ye
come back an' look agin, an' where's the rile? All settled to the
bottom, an' the lake as clear as a looking-glass. An' then ye look at
the medders an' ye see thet, barrin' a big boulder or two an' some stuns
thet an ox-team can cart off, an' some gullyin' out long the highroad,
they ain't been hurt a mite. An' then come 'long 'bout the fust of July,
an' ye go out an' stan' there and look for the silt--an' what d' ye see?
Why, jest thet ye're knee deep in clover an' timothy thet hez growed
thet high an' lush jest on account of thet very silt!
"Thet's the way 't is with nateral things; an' thet's what the old Jedge
meant. This furrin flood's a-comin'; an' we've got to stan' some scares
an' think mebbe The Gore dam'll bust, an' the boulders lay round too
thick for the land, an' the mud'll spile our medders, an' the lake show
rily so's the cattle won't drink--an' we'll find out thet in this great
free home of our'n, thet's lent us for a while, thet there's room 'nough
for all, an', in the end--not in my time, but in your'n--our Land, like
the medders, is goin' to be the better for it."
"Well put, well put, Quimber," said the Colonel who had been showing
signs of restlessness under the unusual and protracted eloquence of the
old pound-master. "We're making the experiment that every other nation
has had to make some time or other. Take old Rome, now--what was it
started the decay, eh?"
As no one present dared to cope with the decline of so large a subject,
the Colonel had the floor. He looked at each man in turn; then waved the
hand that held his cigar airily towards the ceiling. "Just inbreeding,
sir, inbreeding. That's what did it. We Americans, are profiting by the
experience of the centuries and are going to take in fresh blood just as
fast as it can attain to an arterial circulation in the body politic,
sir; an arterial circulation, I say--" the Colonel was apt to roll a
fine phrase more than once under his tongue when the sound thereof
pleased him,--"and in the course of nature--I agree perfectly with the
late Judge Champney and our friend, Quimber--there may be, during the
process, a surcharge of blood to the head or stomach of the body politic
that will cause a slight attack of governmental vertigo or national
indigestion. But it will pass, gentlemen, it will pass; and I assure you
the health of the Republic will be kept at the normal, with nothing more
than passing attacks of racial hysteria which, however undignified they
may appear in the eyes of all right-minded citizens, must ever remain
the transient phenomena of a great nation in the making."
The Colonel, having finished his peroration with another wave of his
cigar towards the ceiling, lowered his feet from their elevated position
on the counter, glanced anxiously at the clock, which indicated a
quarter of nine, and remarked casually that, as Mrs. Caukins was
indisposed, he felt under obligations to be at home by half-past nine.
Joel Quimber, whom such outbursts of eloquence on the Colonel's part in
the usual town-meeting left in a generally dazed condition of mind and
politics, remarked that he heard the whistle of the evening train about
fifteen minutes ago, and asked if Augustus were expecting any one up on
it.
"No, but the team's gone down to meet it just the same. Maybe there'll
be a runner or two; they pay 'bout as well as the big guns after all;
and then there's a chance of one of the syndicaters coming in on me at
any time now.--There's the team."
He went out on the veranda. The men within the office listened with
intensified interest, strengthened by that curiosity which is shown by
those in whose lives events do not crowd upon one another with such
overwhelming force, that the susceptibility to fresh impressions is
dulled. They heard the land-lord's cordial greeting, a confusion of
sounds incident upon new arrivals; then Augustus Buzzby came in,
carrying bags and travelling shawl, and, following him, a tall man in
the garb of a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Close at his side was
a little girl. She was far from appearing shy or awkward in the presence
of strangers, nodding brightly to Octavius, who sat nearest the door,
and smiling captivatingly upon Joel Quimber, whereupon he felt
immediately in his pockets for a peppermint which, to his
disappointment, was not there.
The Colonel sprang to his feet when the guests entered, and quickly
doffed his felt hat which was balancing in a seemingly untenable
position on the side of his head. The priest, who removed his on the
threshold, acknowledged the courtesy with a bow and a keen glance which
included all in the room; then he stepped to the desk on the counter to
enter his name in the ponderous leather-backed registry which Augustus
opened for him. The little girl stood beside him, watching his every
movement.
The Flamstedites saw before them a man in the prime of life, possibly
forty-five. He was fully six feet in height, noticeably erect, with an
erectness that gave something of the martial to his carriage, spare but
muscular, shoulders high and square set, and above them a face deeply
pock-marked, the features large but regular, the forehead broad and
bulging rather prominently above the eyes. The eyes they could not see;
but the voice made itself heard, and felt, while he was writing. The men
present unconsciously welcomed it as a personality.
"Can you tell me if Mrs. Louis Champney lives near here?" he said,
addressing his host.
"Yes, sir; just about a mile down the street at The Bow."
"Oh, please, yer Riverence, write mine too," said the child who, by
standing on tiptoe at the high counter, had managed to follow every
stroke of the pen.
The priest looked at the landlord with a frankly interrogatory smile.
"To be sure, to be sure. Ain't you my guest as long as you're in my
home?" Augustus replied with such whole-souled heartiness that the child
beamed upon him and boldly held out her hand for the pen.
"Let me write it," she said decidedly, as if used to having her way.
Colonel Caukins sprang to place a high three-legged stool for the little
registree, and was about to lift her on, but the child, laughing aloud,
managed to seat herself without his assistance, and forthwith gave her
undivided attention to the entering of her name.
Those present loved in after years to recall this scene: the old bar,
the three-legged stool, the little girl perched on top, one foot twisted
over the round--so busily intent upon making a fine signature that a tip
of her tongue was visible held tightly against her left cheek--the
coarse straw hat, the clean but cheap blue dress, the heavy shoes that
emphasized the delicacy of her ankles and figure; and above her the
leaning priest, smiling gravely with fatherly indulgence upon this
firstling of his flock in Flamsted.
[Illustration: "Those present loved in after years to recall this
scene"]
The child looked up for approval when she had finished and shaken, with
an air of intense satisfaction, a considerable quantity of sand over the
fresh ink. Evidently the look in the priest's eyes was reward enough,
for, although he spoke no word, the little girl laughed merrily and in
the next moment hopped down rather unexpectedly from her high place and
busied herself with taking a survey of the office and its occupants.
The priest took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Augustus,
saying as he did so:
"This is Mr. Buzzby, I know; and here is a letter from Mr. Van Ostend in
regard to this little girl. Her arrival is premature; but the matron of
the institution, where she has been, wished to take advantage of my
coming to Flamsted to place her in my care. Mr. Van Ostend would like to
have her remain here with you for a few days if Mrs. Champney is not
prepared to receive her just now."
There was a general movement of surprise among the men in the office,
and all eyes, with a question-mark visible in them, were turned towards
Octavius Buzzby. Upon him, the simple announcement had the effect of a
shock; he felt the need of air, and slipped out to the veranda, but not
before he received another bright smile from the little girl. He waited
outside until he saw Augustus show the newcomers upstairs; then he
re-entered the office and went to the register which was the speculative
focus of interest for all the others. Octavius read:
June 18, 1889--FR. JOHN FRANCIS HONORE, NEW YORK. AILEEN ARMAGH,
ORPHAN ASYLUM, NEW YORK CITY.
The Colonel was in a state of effervescing hilarity. He rubbed his hands
energetically, slapped Octavius on the back, and exclaimed in high
feather:
"How's this for the first drops of the deluge, eh, Tave?"
Octavius made no reply. He waited, as usual, for the evening's mail. The
carrier handed him a telegram from New York for Mrs. Champney. It had
just come up on the train from Hallsport. He wondered what connection
its coming might have with the unexpected arrival of this orphan child?