All the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in the number
and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their roofs and in
the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were all alike, too, in their
general expression of putting their best foot foremost and feeling quite
sure that they made a brave show. They had lace curtains in their front
parlour windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellow
pots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and vulcanised
rubber-plants. It was a gay sight.
But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence of Mr. Matthew
Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw City. It stood on a corner
of Main Street, glancing slyly out of the tail of one eye, side-ways
down the street, toward the shop and the business, but keeping a bold,
complacent front toward the street-cars and the smaller houses across
the way. It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three more
pinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the scroll-saw was
looped and festooned all around the eaves and porticoes and bay-windows
in amazing richness. Moreover, in the front yard were cast-iron images
painted white: a stag reposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressed
and returning from the chase; a small iron boy holding over his head a
parasol from the ferrule of which a fountain squirted. The paths were of
asphalt, gray and gritty in winter, but now, in the summer heat, black
and pulpy to the tread.
There were many feet passing over them this afternoon, for Mr. and
Mrs. Matthew Wilson were giving a reception to celebrate the official
entrance of their daughter Amanda into a social life which she had
permeated unofficially for several years. The house was sizzling full
of people. Those who were jammed in the parlour tried to get into the
dining-room, and those who were packed in the dining-room struggled to
escape, holding plates of stratified cake and liquefied ice-cream high
above their neighbours’ heads like signals of danger and distress.
Everybody was talking at the same time, in a loud, shrill voice, and
nobody listened to what anybody else was saying. But it did not matter,
for they all said the same things.
“Elegant house for a party, so full of--” “How perfectly lovely Amanda
Wilson looks in that--” “Awfully warm day! Were you at the Tompkins’
last--” “Wilson’s Emporium must be doing good business to keep up all
this--” “Hear he’s going to enlarge the store and take Luke Woods into
the--”
“Shouldn’t wonder if there might be a wedding here before next--”
The tide of chatter rose and swelled and ebbed and suddenly sank away.
At six o’clock, the minister and two maiden ladies in black silk with
lilac ribbons, laid down their last plates of ice-cream and said they
thought they must be going. Amanda and her mother preened their dresses
and patted their hair. “Come into the study,” said Mr. Wilson to Luke. “I
want to have a talk with you.”
The little bookless room, called the study, was the one that kept its
eye on the shop and the business, away down the street. You could see
the brick front, and the plate-glass windows, and part of the gilt sign.
“Pretty good store,” said Mr. Wilson, jingling the keys in his pocket,
“does the biggest trade in the county, biggest but one in the whole
state, I guess. And I must say, Luke Woods, you’ve done your share,
these last five years, in building it up. Never had a clerk work so hard
and so steady. You’ve got good business sense, I guess.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Luke. “I did as well as I could.”
“Yes,” said the elder man, “and now I’m about ready to take you in with
me, give you a share in the business. I want some one to help me run
it, make it larger. We can double it, easy, if we stick to it and spread
out. No reason why you shouldn’t make a fortune out of it, and have a
house just like this on the other corner, when you’re my age.”
Luke’s thoughts were wandering a little. They went out from the stuffy
room, beyond the dusty street, and the jangling cars, and the gilt sign,
and the shop full of dry-goods and notions, and the high desks in the
office--out to the dim, cool forest, where Snowberry and Partridge-berry
and Wood-Magic grow. He heard the free winds rushing over the tree-tops,
and saw the trail winding away before him in the green shade.
“You are very kind,” said he, “I hope you will not be disappointed in
me. Sometimes I think, perhaps--”
“Not at all, not at all,” said the other. “It’s all right. You’re well
fitted for it. And then, there’s another thing. I guess you like my
daughter Amanda pretty well. Eh? I’ve watched you, young man. I’ve had
my eye on you! Now, of course, I can’t say much about it--never can be
sure of these kind of things, you know--but if you and she--”
The voice went on rolling out words complacently. But something strange
was working in Luke’s blood, and other voices were sounding faintly in
his ears. He heard the lisping of the leaves on the little poplar-trees,
the whistle of the black duck’s wings as he circled in the air, the
distant drumming of the grouse on his log, the rumble of the water-fall
in the River of Rocks. The spray cooled his face. He saw the fish rising
along the pool, and a stag feeding among the lily-pads.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Wilson,” said he at last, when
the elder man stopped talking. “You have certainly treated me most
generously. The only question is, whether--But to-morrow night, I think,
with your consent, I will speak to your daughter. To-night I am going
down to the store; there is a good deal of work to do on the books.”
But when Luke came to the store, he did not go in. He walked along the
street till he came to the river.
The water-side was strangely deserted. Everybody was at supper. A couple
of schooners were moored at the wharf. The Portland steamer had gone
out. The row-boats hung idle at their little dock. Down the river,
drifting and dancing lightly over the opalescent ripples, following the
gentle turns of the current which flowed past the end of the dock where
Luke was standing, came a white canoe, empty and astray.