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-gravelled road round to the
side kitchen door, Mrs. Noah’s special domain, and as sacred to her 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, she 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 my 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 the old man’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 weaknesses 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 this afternoon
was much smarter than usual, grandpa thought 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 she was
fearfully shocked when Grandpa Markham said:
“I come on business with Squire Guy. Are you his gran’marm?”
“His gran’marm!” screamed Mrs. Noah fearfully. “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 Remington—she did not explain that she was only the
housekeeper—but she simply said:
“If it’s Mr. Guy you want, I can tell you he is not at home, which will
save you 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 step-mother.
Perhaps you might tell your business to me; I know all Mr. Guy’s
affairs.”
“If I might come in, ma’am, and warm me,” grandpa 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 money 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. Maybe I’ll meet him going back, and
can ask him.”
“I tell you it won’t be any use. Mr. Guy has no three hundred dollars to
throw away,” was Mrs. Noah’s 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 take to 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 and the tall lookin’ glass. 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 her master’s
handsome house, in which she had lived so long that, in a way, she
considered it her own.
Conducting him through the wide 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 such 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 good-natured remark, “How d’ye
do—pretty well to-day?”
There was a familiar look about the cape of the camlet cloak worn by the
man in the glass, 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 next, and slyly touched 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
in the room and the grand piano, and came near bowing again to the
portrait of the first Mrs. Remington, which hung upon the wall.
“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 the yard, she went back to her vegetable oysters,
which were in danger of being overdone.
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 wagon, he kept steadily on, while Grandpa Markham,
determining to speak to 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 failed to
hear the insolent negro’s remark: “Served you right, old cove, might
have turned out for a gentleman;” 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 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 the camlet
cloak. Near by 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
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 darkey 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 out of 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
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 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 expresses 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 father 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 trotted 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, 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 tried 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.