GRANDPA MARKHAM.
Mrs. Noah, the housekeeper at Aikenside, was slicing vegetable oysters
for the nice little dish intended for her own supper, when the head of
Sorrel came around the corner of the building, followed by the
square-boxed wagon containing Grandpa Markham, who, bewildered by the
beauty and spaciousness of the grounds, and wholly uncertain as to
where he ought to stop, had driven over the smooth-graveled road around
to the front kitchen door, Mrs. Noah’s spacious domain, as sacred as
Betsey Trotwood’s patch of green.
“In the name of wonder, what codger is that? and what is he doing
here?” was Mrs. Noah’s exclamation, as she dropped the bit of salsify
she was scraping, and hurrying to the door, called out: “I say, you,
sir, what made you drive up here, when I’ve said over and over again,
that I wouldn’t have wheels tearing up turf and gravel?”
“I—I beg your pardon. I lost my way, I guess, there was so many
turnin’s, I’m sorry, but a little rain will fetch it right,” grandpa
said, glancing ruefully at the ruts in the gravel and the marks on the
turf.
Mrs. Noah was not at heart an unkind woman, and something in the
benignant expression of grandpa’s face, or in the apologetic tone of
his voice, mollified her somewhat, and without further comment she
stood waiting for his next remark. It was a most unfortunate one, for
though as free from weakness as most of her sex, Mrs. Noah was terribly
sensitive as to her age, and the same census-taker would never venture
twice within her precincts. Glancing at her dress, which was this
leisure afternoon much smarter than usual, grandpa concluded she could
not be a servant; and as she seemed to have a right to say where he
should drive and where he should not, the meek old man concluded she
was a near relation of Guy—mother, perhaps; but no, Guy’s mother was
dead, as grandpa well knew, for all Devonshire had heard of the young
bride Agnes, who had married Guy’s father for money and rank. To have
been mistaken for Guy’s mother would not have offended Mrs. Noah
particularly; but how was she shocked when Grandpa Markham said:
“I come on business with Squire Guy. Are you his gran’marm?” “His
gran’marm!” and Mrs. Noah bit off the last syllable spitefully. “Bless
you, man, Squire Guy, as you call him, is twenty-five years old.”
As Grandpa Markham was rather blind, he failed to see the point, but
knew that in some way he had given offense.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am; I was sure you was some kin—maybe an a’nt.”
No, she was not even that; but willing enough to let the old man
believe her a lady of the Remington order, she did not explain that she
was simply the housekeeper, she simply said:
“If it’s Mr. Guy you want, I can tell you he is not at home, which will
save your getting out.”
“Not at home, and I’ve come so far to see him!” grandpa exclaimed, and
in his voice there was so much genuine disappointment that Mrs. Noah
rejoined, quite kindly:
“He’s gone over to Devonshire with the young lady his stepmother.
Perhaps you might tell your business to me; I know all Mr. Guy’s
affairs.”
“If I might come in, ma’am,” he answered, meekly, as through the open
door he caught glimpses of a cheerful fire. “It’s mighty chilly for
such as me.” He did look cold and blue, Mrs. Noah thought, and she bade
him come in, feeling a very little contempt for the old-fashioned
camlet cloak in which his feet became entangled, and smiling inwardly
at the shrunken, faded pantaloons, betokening poverty.
“As you know all Squire Guy’s affairs,” grandpa said, when he was
seated before the fire, “maybe you could tell whether he would be
likely to lend a stranger three hundred dollars, and that stranger me?”
Mrs. Noah stared at him aghast. Was he crazy, or did he mean to insult
her master? Evidently neither. He seemed as sane as herself, while no
one could associate an insult with him. He did not know anything. That
was the solution of his audacity, and pityingly, as she would have
addressed a half idiot, Mrs. Noah made him understand how impossible it
was for him to think her master would lend to a stranger like him.
“You say he’s gone to Devonshire,” grandpa said, softly, with a quiver
on his lip when she had finished. “I wish I’d knew it; I left my
granddarter there to be examined. Mabby I’ll meet him going back, and
can ask him.”
“I tell you it won’t be no use. Mr. Guy has no three hundred dollars to
throw away,” was Mrs. Noah’s rather sharp rejoinder.
“Wall, wall, we won’t quarrel about it,” the old man replied, in his
most conciliatory manner, as he turned his head away to hide the
starting tear.
Grandfather Markham’s heart was very sore, and Mrs. Noah’s harshness
troubled him. He could not bear to think that she really was cross with
him, besides that he wanted something to carry Maddy besides
disappointment, so by way of testing Mrs. Noah’s amiability and
pleasing Maddy, too, he said, as he arose: “I’m an old man, lady, old
enough to be your father.” Here Mrs. Noah’s face grew brighter, and she
listened attentively while he continued: “You won’t take what I say
amiss, I’m sure. I have a little girl at home, a grandchild, who has
heard big stories of the fine things at Aikenside. She has a hankerin’
after such vanities, and it would please her mightily to have me tell
her what I saw up here, so maybe you wouldn’t mind lettin’ me go into
that big room where the silk fixin’s are. I’ll take off my shoes, if
you say so.”
“Your shoes won’t hurt an atom; come right along,” Mrs. Noah replied,
now in the best of moods, for, except her cup of green tea with
raspberry jam and cream, she enjoyed nothing more than showing their
handsome house.
Conducting him through the wide, marbled hall, she ushered him into the
drawing-room, where for a time he stood perfectly bewildered. It was
his first introduction to rosewood, velvet, and brocatelle, and it
seemed to him as if he had suddenly been transported to fairy-land.
“Maddy would like this—it’s her nature,” he whispered, advancing a step
or two, and setting down his feet as softly as if stepping on eggs.
Happening to lift his eyes before one of the long mirrors, he spied
himself, wondering much what that “queer-looking chap” was doing there
in the midst of so much elegance, and why Mrs. Noah did not turn him
out! Then mentally asking forgiveness for this flash of pride, and
determined to make amends, he bowed low to the figure in the glass,
which bowed as low in return, but did not reply to the very
good-natured remark: “How d’ye do—pretty well, to-day?”
There was a familiar look about the round cape of the camlet cloak, and
Grandpa Markham’s face turned crimson as the truth burst upon him.
“How ’shamed of me Maddy would be,” he thought, glancing sidewise at
Mrs. Noah, who had witnessed the blunder, and was now looking from the
window to hide her laughter.
Grandpa believed she did not see him, and comforted with that
assurance, he began to remark upon the mirror, saying “it made it
appear as if there was two of you,” a remark which Mrs. Noah fully
appreciated. He saw the silk chairs, slyly touching one to see if it
did feel like the gored, peach-blossom dress worn by his wife forty-two
years ago that very spring. Then he tried one of them, examined the
rare ornaments, and came near bowing again to the portrait of the first
Mrs. Remington, so natural and lifelike it looked standing out from the
canvas.
“This will last Maddy a week. I thank you, ma’am. You have added some
considerable to the happiness of a young girl, who wouldn’t disgrace
even such a room as this,” he said, as he passed into the hall.
Mrs. Noah received his thanks graciously, and led him to the yard,
where Sorrel stood waiting for him.
“Odd, but clever as the day is long,” was Mrs. Noah’s comment, as,
after seeing him safe out of her yard, she went back to her vegetable
oysters boiling on the stove.
Driving at a brisk trot through the grounds, Sorrel was soon out upon
the highway; and with spirits exhilarated by thoughts of going home, he
kept up the trot until, turning a sudden corner, his master saw the
carriage from Aikenside approaching at a rapid rate. The driver, Paul,
saw him too, but scorning to give half the road to such as Sorrel and
the square-boxed wagons, he kept steadily on, while Grandpa Markham,
determined to speak with Guy, reined his horse a little nearer, raising
his hand in token that the negro should stop. As a natural consequence,
the wheels of the two vehicles became interlocked, and as the powerful
grays were more than a match for Sorrel, the front wheel of Grandpa
Markham’s wagon was wrenched off, and the old man precipitated to the
ground; which, fortunately for him, was in that locality covered with
sand banks, so that he was only stunned for an instant, and thus failed
to hear the insolent negro’s remark: “Served you right, old cove; might
of turned out for gentlemen;” neither did he see the sudden flashing of
Guy Remington’s eye, as, leaping from his carriage, he seized the
astonished African by the collar, and, hurling him from the box,
demanded what he meant by serving an old man so shameful a trick and
then insulting him.
All apology and regret, the cringing driver tried to make some excuse,
but Guy stopped him short, telling him to see how much the wagon was
damaged, while he ran to the old man, who had recovered from the first
shock and was trying to extricate himself from the folds of his camlet
cloak. Nearby was a blacksmith’s shop, and thither Guy ordered his
driver to take the broken-down wagon with a view to getting it
repaired.
“Tell him I want it done at once.” he said, authoritatively, as if he
well knew his name carried weight with it; then, turning to grandpa, he
asked again if he were hurt.
“No, not specially—jolted my old bones some. You are very kind, sir,”
grandpa replied, brushing the dust from his pantaloons and then
involuntarily grasping Guy’s arm for support, as his weak knees began
to tremble from the effects of excitement and fright.
“That darky shall rue this job,” Guy said, savagely, as he gazed
pityingly upon the shaky old creature beside him. “I’ll discharge him
to-morrow.”
“No, young man. Don’t be rash. He’ll never do’t again; and sprigs like
him think they’ve a right to make fun of old codgers like me,” was
grandpa’s meek expostulation.
“Do, pray, Guy, how long must we wait here?” Agnes asked, impatiently,
leaning back in the carriage and partially drawing her veil over her
face as she glanced at Grandpa Markham, but a look from Guy silenced
her; and turning again to grandpa, he asked:
“What did you say? You have been to Aikenside to see me?”
“Yes, and I was sorry to miss you. I—I—it makes me feel awkward to tell
you, but I wanted to borrow some money, and I didn’t know nobody as
likely to have it as you. That woman up to your house said she knowed
you wouldn’t let me have it, ’cause you hadn’t it to spare. Mebby you
haven’t,” and grandpa waited anxiously for Guy’s reply.
Now, Mrs. Noah had a singular influence over her young master, who was
in the habit of consulting her with regard to his affairs, and nothing
could have been more unpropitious to the success of grandpa’s suit than
the knowing she disapproved. Beside this, Guy had only the previous
week lost a small amount loaned under similar circumstances. Standing
silent for a moment, while he buried and reburied his shining patent
leather boots in the hills of sand, he said at last: “Candidly, sir, I
don’t believe I can accommodate you. I am about to make repairs at
Aikenside, and have partially promised to loan money on good security
to a Mr. Silas Slocum, who, ‘if things work right,’ as he expressed it,
intends building a mill on some property which has come, or is coming,
into his hands.”
“That’s mine—that’s mine, my homestead,” gasped grandpa, turning white
almost as his hair blowing in the April wind. “There’s a stream of
water on it, and he says if he forecloses and gets it he shall build a
mill, and tear our old house down.”
Guy was in a dilemma. He had not asked how much Mr. Markham wanted, and
as the latter had not told him, he naturally concluded it a much larger
sum than it really was, and did not care just then to lend it.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, after a little. “I’ll drop Slocum a
note to-night saying I’ve changed my mind, and shall not let him have
the money. Perhaps, then, he won’t be so anxious to foreclose, and will
give you time to look among your friends.”
Guy laid a little emphasis on that last word, and looking up quickly
grandpa was about to say: “I am not so much a stranger as you think. I
knew your father well;” but he checked himself with the thought: “No,
that will be too much like begging pay for a deed of mercy done years
ago.” So Guy never suspected that the old man before him had once laid
his sire under a debt of gratitude. The more he reflected the less
inclined he was to lend the money, and as grandpa was too timid to urge
his needs, the result was that when at last the wheel was replaced, and
Sorrel again trotting on toward Devonshire, he drew after him a sad,
heavy heart, and not once until the village was reached did he hear the
cheery chuckle with which his kind master was wont to encourage him.
“Poor Maddy! I dread tellin’ her the most, she was so sure,” grandpa
whispered, as he stopped before the office door, where Maddy waited for
him.
But Maddy’s disappointment was keener than his own, and so after the
sorrowful words, “and I failed, too,” he bent himself to comfort the
poor child, who, leaning her throbbing head against his shoulder,
sobbed bitterly, as in the soft spring twilight they drove back to the
low red cottage where grandma waited for them.