The first person to discover that ANN BRUMMET had left the house, was
Mrs. LADLE, Now, ever since the Hon. MICHAEL had asked ANN to go to the
circus, Mrs. LADLE had hated her. But when he took ANN to the
Agricultural Fair, and bought her a tin-type album and a box of initial
note-paper, Mrs. LADLE was simply raving. Whether she herself was
viewing the Hon. MICHAEL with an eye matrimonial, and was jealous of
ANN, must remain an open question. At any rate, she was the first to
start the scandal about ANN and JEFFRY, and lost no time in conveying it
to the ears of the Hon. MICHAEL, with profuse embellishments. At the
croquet party the Hon. MICHAEL had been particularly sweet on ANN, his
ardor finding vent in such demonstrations as throwing kisses at her
slyly, holding up printed lozenges for her inspection, or tossing sticks
at her and dodging behind a tree. And when Mrs. LADLE went to ANN'S room
next day, for a good square scold, she found her out.
Now Mrs. LADLE was a mother-in-law, and consequently a pretty old fowl
in ferreting out things of this sort. She determined to discover the why
and wherefore of ANN'S departure. If she could confront the Hon. MICHAEL
with proofs of ANN'S indiscretion, it would be the loudest kind of
feather in her cap.
She examined everybody in the house, and everybody that went by the
house, but without the smallest result. She was out in the front yard
waiting for a fresh victim, when she saw HERSEY DEATHBURY coming up the
road. She signed to her to come in.
She came in.
HERSEY DEATHBURY was an extraordinary woman. A woman of genius, sir.
What if her make-up _was_ limited? What if, when she was born, nature
_was_ economizing, and gave her only one eye, and she was lame and
hump-backed, and hadn't got any eyebrows and wore a wig; what of that?
It's to her credit, _I_ say. You saw her just as she was. No airs
_there_. And in this lay the great charm of H. DEATHBURY'S character.
Looking at her closely, you would see a fixed and stony eye and a
chronic scowl, and you would say: "Disposition a little morose; some man
has soured on her." Looking at her more closely, you would see under her
right arm a common blackboard, such as is used in schools, and over her
shoulder a canvas bag containing lumps of chalk, and you would say: "A
little eccentric; likes to write on the blackboard instead of talking.
Would make a nice wife. Looks, on the whole, like a country schoolma'am,
whom the boys have stoned out of town, with the fixtures of the
school-house tied to her." But she has talents. What is she, an
authoress? "Yes, she is." But, like other authoresses, she isn't
appreciated, and has returned to her legitimate occupation, the
Wash-Tub; but still doth she itch for fame, and so, between times, she
writes verbose essays on Female Suffrage, composed during the process
known as "wringing." And when there's a Woman's Rights Convention in
that locality, she sits on the platform, and applauds all the Red-Hot
Resolutions with that trenchant female weapon, the umbrella, in one
hand, and an antediluvian reticule the other. In the words of the Hon.
MICHAEL: "She is not only a leading _Re_former, sir, but a great
_Plat_former." And Mrs. LADLE will tell you that, as a washer, she is
superb. She "does up things" in a manner simply celestial.
Mrs. LADLE told her first to shut the door.
"Have you seen ANN BRUMMET to-day?" she said.
HERSEY nodded.
"Where?" was the eager inquiry.
HERSEY DEATHBURY placed her blackboard against the wall, unslung her
chalk, and wrote in very large letters:--
"I C hur a-Goin on The rode 2 forneys Kragg."
"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. LADLE joyfully, "traced at last." And she ran to
tell the Hon. MICHAEL all about it.
* * *
The Half-Way House at Forney's Crag was a hoary-headed old vagabond of a
house, that had passed the heyday of its youth long before that great
encyclopaedia, the oldest inhabitant, emitted his first infantile
squawk. Each successive season caused it to lean a little more and the
most casual observer must perceive that it couldn't by any possibility
become much leaner without pining entirely away.
Nevertheless, it had been the only hotel that Spunkville could boast,
all within a short period of this writing. Like most Western hotels, it
had been ably supported by a large floating population, known as "New
York Drummers," and many a time had its old walls re-echoed with their
guileless hilarity and moral tales; and, if the ancient and time-honored
spittoon in the bar-room could speak, it could relate wonderful stories
concerning the Sample Gentry; relating, perhaps, to a Spunkville
merchant, who, having retreated precipitately down his cellar stairs
several tunes during the day, to avoid "them confounded drummers, with
their everlasting samples," was, while plodding his lonely way homeward,
seized upon by these commercial freebooters, conveyed forthwith to the
Half-Way House, and there deluged with such a perfect torrent of
brow-beating eloquence as to reduce him to an imbecile state, in which
condition he would willingly order large bills of goods, a custom still
somewhat in vogue, and known as "commanding trade."
At other times, it was refreshing to see a drummer emerge from a week's
carousal, take a drink of plain soda, and write a long letter to his
employers concerning the extreme dulness of trade.
But since the new hotel had been built the Half-Way House had waned, and
its quiet was only invaded by an occasional straggling traveller or a
runaway couple, and its walls resounded with nothing more clamorous than
the orgies of a Sunday-school picnic.
It is, however, with the Ladies' Parlor only (that wretched abode of
female discomfort in all country hotels) that we have to do.
The furniture of the room consisted of the articles usually found in a
_boudoir_ of this kind, to wit: a straight-backed sofa, much worn; the
inevitable and horrid straw carpeting; that old Satanic piano, that
never was in tune; an antique and rheumatic table, and three wheezy old
chairs. The only present attempts at ornament were two in number. The
first was a large engraving of the Presidents of the United States,
which had formerly done duty in the bar-room, where the villagers were
wont to gaze upon it in an awe-struck manner, being impressed with a
vague idea that it was CHRISTY'S Minstrels. The second was a living
statue, none other than ANN BRUMMET waiting for JEFFRY MAULBOY.
"Half-past three, and not come yet," said she. "Look out, JEFFRY
MAULBOY, for if you _do_ go back on me"--
She paused, for she saw a man coming towards the house.
"Well, if that ain't ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP," she added, "I'm regularly
sold. What can _he_ want _here_?"
Yes, it was ARCHIBALD sure enough, biting his finger-nails and breathing
very short, while he cast furtive glances at the windows.
He went slowly up the steps and into the entry just as Mrs. BACKUP, the
landlady of the House, came out of her sitting-room.
Now, Mrs. BACKUP was one of your eminently respectable females, who are
always loaded to the muzzle with Beautiful Moral Essays, which they try
to cram down everybody's throat, but never practise themselves. She
formerly kept a boarding-house in the city, where, at table regularly
after soup, she would regale those present with long dissertations on
the shocking immorality of the present day, varying the monotony,
perhaps, by allusions to the boarders who had just left. "Mr. SIMPSON
was a pleasant-spoken young man as I want to see, and as good as the
bank, but I'm afraid he _was_ agettin' dissipated;" or, "Mr. FIELDING
was quiet and mannerly, and never found fault with his vittles, but he
had _one_ DREAD_ful_ habit;" and then she would sigh heavily. And when
little Miss PINKHAM, who occupied the second floor back (and who, being
a schoolma'am, was naturally debarred from the other sex), indulged in
the smallest possible flirtation with the good-looking young man
opposite, Mrs. BACKUP'S sharp eye not only saw her, but Mrs. BACKUP'S
sharp tongue took occasion to berate her severely on a Sunday morning
(for then the boarders are all in), at the top of the first landing (for
then the boarders could all hear her). "I _am_ saprised, Miss PINKHAM.
Why, when I see that young man asittin' at his winder, and a blowin'
beans. Yes, a blowin' beans, Miss PINKHAM, through a horrible tin
pop-gun at _your'n_, and a winkin' vicious, and you a enjoyin' on it,
Miss PINKHAM, I sot down; yes, I sot right down, and I shuddered. 'Sich
doin's in _my_ house,' says I, 'I am totilly congealed.'" When all the
time, mind you, the virtuous Mrs. BACKUP was a woman who would bear any
amount of watching, having already caused three husbands to frantically
emigrate to parts unknown.