Well, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to drive the idea out of
that critter’s head that his relative had gone loony. I was hoppin’
around on my sound foot tryin’ to dress, while I explained things. I had
enough clothes on to be presentable in white folks’ society, when there
come a whoop up the back stairs.
"Good morn-in’!" whoops Aunt Lucindy. "Breakfast is ready! Shall I fetch
it up?"
"My soul!" squeals Cousin Lemuel, and bolts for his own room. I buttoned
my collar by main strength and answered the hail.
"All hands on deck!" I sung out. "Fetch her along."
There was a mighty stompin’ on the stairs, and then through the door
marches as big a woman as ever I see in my born days. ’Twa’n’t only that
she was fleshy,—she must have weighed all of two hundred and thirty,—but
she was big, big as a small mountain, seemed so, and was dressed in some
sort of curtain-calico gown that made her look bigger yet. She was
luggin’ a tray heaped up with vittles enough for a small ship’s company.
"Good mornin’," says she, in a voice as big as the rest of her, and as
cheery as the fust sunshine on a foggy day. She was smilin’ all over,
but there was a square look to her chin—the upper one, for she had no
less than two and a half—that made me think she could be the other thing
if occasion called for. "Good mornin’," says she. "Is this Lemuel?"
"It ain’t," says I. "Cousin Lemuel is in disability just at present. My
name’s Snow."
"Oh, yes!" she hollers—every time she spoke she hollered—"Oh, yes! Cap’n
Zebulon Snow, of course. I’m Mrs. Hammond. Here’s your breakfast."
"Mine!" says I, lookin’ at the heap of rations. "You mean mine and
Cousin Lemuel’s."
"Oh, no, I don’t," says she, still smilin’, and puttin’ the tray down on
the table, in the way she did everything, with a bang; "I mean yours,
Cap’n Snow. Lemuel’s is all ready, though, and I’ll fetch it right up. I
know what men’s appetites are; I’ve had experience."
Afore I could think of an answer to this she swept out of the door like
a toy typhoon, the breeze from her skirts settin’ papers and light stuff
flyin’, and was stompin’ down the stairs, singin’ "Sweet By and By" at
the top of her lungs. I looked at the tray and scratched my head. My
appetite ain’t a hummin’-bird’s, by a considerable sight, but that
breakfast would have lasted me all day. As for Lemuel, about all he did
with food was find fault with it. And just then in he comes.
"What’s that?" says he, pointin’ to the tray.
"That?" says I. "That’s my breakfast. Yours is just like it and it’ll be
right up."
He fidgeted with his specs and bent over to look. His nose was anything
but a pug, but I give you my word you could almost see it turn up.
"Fried potatoes!" he says; "and fried fish! and fried eggs! and
griddle-cakes! Why—why it’s _all_ fried! Horrible!"
"Ain’t there enough?" I asks, sarcastic. "If not, I presume likely
there’s more in the kitchen."
"Enough!" he fairly screamed it. "I never take anything but a slice of
very dry toast and a cup of tea in the mornin’. It’s a principle of
mine. And I never eat anything fried! I—I—"
"All right," says I, "you tell her so. Here she is." And afore he could
get out of the door she sailed through it, luggin’ another tray loaded
like the fust one. She slammed it down and turned to the invalid, who
was tryin’ to hide his blanket dressin’-sack behind a chair.
"Here is Lemuel!" she hollers. "It _is_ Lemuel, isn’t it? I’m _so_ glad
to see you! I’m Lucindy, Lot’s auntie. In a way we’re related, so we
must shake hands."
She reached over and took his little thin hand in her big one and gave
it a squeeze that made him curl up like a fishin’ worm.
"There!" says she, "now we’re all acquainted and sociable. Ain’t that
nice! You two set right down and eat. I’ll trot up again in a few
minutes to see how you’re gettin’ on. Sure you’ve got all you want? All
right, then." Out she went, singin’ away, and Cousin Lemuel flopped down
in a chair.
"Good heavens!" he gasps, working the fingers Aunt Lucindy had shook, to
make sure they was all there. "Good heavens!" says he.
"Yes," says I, "I agree with you."
"She calls me by my Christian name!" he says, pantin’, "and I never saw
her before in my life! And it—it didn’t seem to occur to her that I was
not fully dressed. What shall I do?"
"Well," says I, "if you asked me I should say you better make believe
eat somethin’. What _I_ can’t eat I’m goin’ to heave out of the back
window. I’d ruther satisfy that woman than explain to her, enough
sight."
But he wouldn’t eat, seemed to be in a sort of daze, as you might say,
and went flappin’ back to his own room. I tackled the breakfast.
It would take a week to tell you all that happened that forenoon. My
time’s limited, so I’ll only tell a little of it. When Aunt Lucindy come
upstairs again and see his tray, not a thing on it touched, she wanted
to know why. I done my best to explain, tellin’ her Cousin Lemuel was
afflicted in the nerves, and about his tea and toast, and his diff’rent
kinds of medicines, and his doctors, and so on, but she wouldn’t listen
to more’n half of it.
"The poor thing!" she says, "Lot told me some about him. He’s in error,
ain’t he. Horatio, my husband that was, was in error, too, but he died
of it. That was afore I got enlightened. And you’re in error with your
foot, Cap’n Snow, so Lot says. Well, it’s a mercy I’m here. The first
thing I’ll do for you is to give you a cheerful thought. ’All’s right in
the world.’ You keep thinkin’ that this forenoon and I’ll give you
another after dinner. I must get a thought for poor Lemuel, but he needs
a stronger one. I’ll have one ready for him pretty soon. Now I must do
my dishes."
Soon’s she cleared out this time I locked my door. An hour or so later
there was a snappish kind of knock on it.
"Cap’n Snow! I say, Cap’n Snow," whispers Lemuel, pretty average testy,
"where is my tea and toast? Did you tell that woman about my tea and
toast? I’m hungry."
"I told her," says I. "If you ain’t got it, you better tell her
yourself."
"But I don’t want to see the creature," he says.
"Neither do I; that is, I ain’t partic’lar about it. And I couldn’t hop
down-stairs if I was. You’ll have to do your own tellin’. I’m goin’ to
read a spell."
My readin’ didn’t amount to much. He went grumblin’ back to his room,
but I judge his longin’ for tea and toast got the better of his dread
for the "creature," ’cause pretty soon I heard him go down-stairs. Aunt
Lucindy’s singin’ and dish-clatterin’ stopped, and I heard consider’ble
pow-wow goin’ on. Cousin Lemuel’s voice kept gettin’ higher and
shriller, but Aunt Lucindy’s was just the same even cheerfulness all the
time. Then the ex-insect man comes up the stairs again. I was curious,
so I unlocked the door.
"How was the toast?" I asked. His usual pale face was bright red and he
was a heap more energetic than I’d ever seen him.
"She—she—that woman’s crazy!" he sputters. "She’s insane; I told her so.
I—"
"Hold on!" I interrupted. "Did you get the toast?"
"I did not. She refused to give it to me. Actually refused! She—she had
that dreadful fried breakfast on the back of the stove and told me to
sit right down and eat it—like a good fellow. A good fellow—to me!—as if
I was a dog! A dog, by Jove! I explained—in spite of my just resentment
I endeavored to reason with her. I told her the doctor had forbidden my
eatin’ a heavy breakfast. I said that my nerves were shattered and so
on. And what do you suppose she said to me? She had the brazen
effrontery to tell me that I had no nerves. Nerves were ’errors,’
whatever that means. All I had to do was to think that—that those fried
outrages were all right and they would be. And when I—you’ll admit I had
a good reason—when I lost my temper and expressed my opinion of her she
began to sing. And she kept on singin’. _Such_ singin’! Good heavens!
Horrible!"
"Then you ain’t had any breakfast?"
"I have not. But I will have it! I will! You mark my words, I—"
He stopped. "The Sweet By and By" had swung into the lower entry and was
movin’ up the stairs. I expected to see Cousin Lemuel beat for snug
harbor, but no sir-ee! he stayed right where he was, settin’ up in his
chair as straight as a ramrod. Aunt Lucindy’s treatment might not be
workin’ exactly as she intended, the patient’s nerves might not be any
better, but his _nerve_ was improvin’ fast.
In she swept, smilin’ like clockwork, as smooth and as serene as a flat
calm in Ostable cove. She paid no attention to the way the little man
glared at her, but turned to me and says: "Well, Cap’n," she says, "have
you cherished the thought I gave you?"
"Um-hm," says I, "I’ve put it on ice. I cal’late 'twill keep over
Sunday."
"I’ve thought up one for you, Lemuel, you poor thing," she says, turnin’
to the insect chaser. "It is—"
"Woman," broke in Cousin Lemuel, "I’ll trouble you not to call me a poor
thing. Where is my tea and toast?"
She smiled at him, condescendin’ but pitiful, same as a cow might smile
at a kitten that tried to scratch it—if a cow could smile.
"Your breakfast is on the stove, all nice and warm," she says. "You
don’t really want tea and toast; you only think so. Cap’n Snow will tell
you how nice those fried potatoes are, and the codfish and—"
"Confound your codfish, madam! I shall have that tea and toast. I—I
_must_ have it. My system demands it."
She shook her head. "Oh, no, it doesn’t," says she. "It will demand all
the nice things I’ve cooked for you if you only think so. Thought is
all. Now let me give you your cheerful thought for the day. It is—"
"Confound your thoughts!" yells the nerve sufferer, jumpin’ out of his
chair and makin’ for the door. "I always have tea and toast for
breakfast, and I intend to have it now."
I hate a fuss, so I tried to pour a little ile on the troubled waters.
"Now, Lemuel," says I, "don’t let’s be stubborn. You—"
He whirled on me like a teetotum. "Stubborn!" he snaps, "I was never
stubborn in my life. This is a matter of principle with me. That woman
shall give me my tea and toast."
Aunt Lucindy smiled, same as ever. "Oh, no, I sha’n’t," says she, "it
would only encourage you in your error and that I shall not permit.
Please listen to the thought I have for you. It is _such_ a nice one.
’Be true to your higher self and’—"
"Madam," shrieks Lemuel, "my thought about you is that you’re an old fat
fool! There!" And he rushed into the hall and the next second his door
slammed so it shook the house.
For just one minute I thought Aunt Lucindy was goin’ after him. Her
smile stopped, her teeth snapped together, she took one step towards the
door, and her big hands opened and shut. But that one step was all she
took. When she turned back to me her face was red, but the smile had got
busy once more. She set down in the cane rocker—it cracked, but it
held—and says she:
"He’s a little mite antagonistic, don’t you think so, Cap’n Snow?"
"Well," says I, "I should think you might call it that without
exaggeratin’ much."
"Yes," says she, "but I don’t mind. There was a time when if anybody’d
called me an old fat fool I’d have—well, never mind. I’m above such
things now. Nothin’ can make me cross any more. Not even a sassy little,
long-nosed shrimp like.... Ahem. Cap’n Snow, have you read ’The Soarin’
of Self’? It’s a lovely book, an upliftin’ book."
I said I hadn’t read it and she commenced to tell me about it, repeatin’
it by chapters, so to speak. I couldn’t make much out of it but a
whirligig of words, and when she was just beginnin’ I thought I heard
Lemuel’s door creak. However, I didn’t hear anything more, and she
strung along and strung along, about "soul" and "mental uplift" and
"high altitude of spirit" and a lot more. By and by I commenced to
sniff.
"Excuse me, marm," I says, "but seems to me I smell somethin’ burnin’.
Have you got anything on cookin’?"
_She_ sniffed then. "No," says she, wonderin’. "I can’t remember
anything." Then, with another sniff, "But seems as if I smelt it, too.
Like—like bread burnin’. Hey? You don’t s’pose—"
She put for down-stairs. Next thing I knew there was the greatest
hullabaloo below decks that you ever heard. Then up the stairs comes
Cousin Lemuel, two steps at a jump, which, considerin’ that his usual
gait had been a crawl, was surprisin’ enough of itself. He had a
scorched slice of bread in each hand and he stopped on the upper landin’
and waved 'em.
"I’ve got the toast," he yells, triumphant, "and I’m goin’ to have the
tea." Then he bolts into his room and locked the door.
Up the stairs comes Aunt Lucindy. Her face was so red that it looked as
if somebody’d lit a fire inside it, and her big hands was shut tight.
She marched straight to that locked door and hollers through the
keyhole.
"You—you little, dried-up critter!" she pants. "Humph! I s’pose you’ve
been sent to try my faith, but you sha’n’t shake it. No, sir! you nor
nobody else can shake it or make me lose my temper. I’m perfectly calm
and cheerful this minute. I am! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!"
"I got my toast," hollers Cousin Lemuel from inside. "And I’ll have my
tea, in spite of all the New Thought cranks in this horrible hole!"
"Indeed you won’t. I was prepared for a difficult case when I came here.
Cousin Lot told me about your foolish ’nerves’ and all the other errors
your selfishness has brought onto you. I made up my mind to set you in
the right path and I’m goin’ to do it."
"I’ll have that tea."
"No, you sha’n’t. When folks are in error I never give in to ’em. That’s
my principle and I stick to it."
When she said "principle" I pretty nigh fell over. If _she’d_ got the
"principle" disease the case was desperate. Anyhow, I thought ’twas
about time for somebody with a teaspoonful of common sense to take a
hand.
"See here," says I, "for grown-up folks this is the most ridiculous
doin’s I ever heard of. Mrs. Hammond, for the land sakes let him have
his tea and maybe we’ll have peace along with it."
She turned to me. "Cap’n Snow," she says, "speakin’ as one who has
learned to rise above their baser self, and perfectly calm and
good-tempered, I advise you to mind your own business. I don’t care
nothin’ about the tea itself; it’s the principle I’m strivin’ for, I
tell you. Do you s’pose I’ll let that little withered-up, sassy,
benighted scoffer—"
"There! there!" says I. Then I bent down to the keyhole. "Lemuel," I
says, "be a man and not prize inmate in a feeble-minded home. You’re not
an idiot. Apologize to this lady and, if you can’t get tea, take hot
water."
The answer I got was hotter than any water he was likely to get, enough
sight. And there was some "principle" in it, too.
"Well," says I, disgusted, "I’m durn glad that I’m unprincipled. Fight
it out amongst yourselves, but don’t you either of you dare come nigh
me. I mean that." And I went into my room and locked _that_ door.
For two hours I stayed there, readin’ some and thinkin’ a whole lot
more. Down-stairs Aunt Lucindy was singin’ at the top of her lungs—to
show how good her temper was, I presume likely—and out in the upper hall
Cousin Lemuel was tiptoein’ back and forth and yellin’ at her that he’d
have his tea in spite of her, and passin’ comments on her music. I never
knew two such stubborn critters in my life, and I couldn’t see any signs
of either of ’em givin’ in, long as their principles held out.
I remembered a conundrum that, when I was a young one in school, the
teacher used to spring on the big boys in the first class in arithmetic.
’Twas somethin’ like this:
"If an irresistible force runs afoul of an immovable object, what’s the
result?"
The boys used to grin and say they didn’t know. Neither did I—then; but
I was learnin’ the answer that very minute. When an irresistible force
meets an immovable object it’s a matter of principle, and the result is
liable to be ’most anything. That was the answer, and I was learnin’ it
by observation and experience, same as the barefooted boy learned where
the snappin’-turtle’s mouth was.
Now the force and the object was in the same house with me, and the
minute the doctor, or Jim Henry Jacobs, or anybody else with a horse and
team, come to that house, they could take me away with ’em. I’d
contracted for quiet and rest, not for a session in Bedlam.
Twelve o’clock struck and I begun to think of dinner. I hobbled over to
my door, unlocked it and looked out. Cousin Lemuel’s door was open, too,
but he wasn’t in his room or in the hall either. I wondered where on
earth he could be. Next minute I found out.
There was a whoop from the kitchen—Lemuel’s voice and brimmin’ with pure
joy. Then, somewhere in the same neighborhood, began a most tremendous
thumpin’ and bangin’. A "cast" horse in a narrow stall was the only
sounds I ever heard that compared with it. It kept on and kept on, and
Lemuel was whoopin’ and hurrahin’ accompaniments. Such a racket you
never heard in your born days.
Thinks I, "The critter’s nerves have gone back on him for good. He’s
really crazy and he’s killin’ that poor mind-curer out of principle."
Somehow or other I hopped down them stairs on my sound foot, draggin’
t’other after me. Through the dinin’-room I hobbled and into the
kitchen. There was a roarin’ fire in the cookstove and in front of that
stove was Cousin Lemuel dancin’ round with a teapot in his hand. The
cellar door opened out of the kitchen. It was shut tight, and somebody
behind it was bangin’ the panels till I expected every second to see ’em
go by the board. If they hadn’t been built in the days when they made
things solid they would have.
"What in the world—" I commenced. "You—Lemuel—whatever your name is—what
are you doin’?"
He turned and saw me. His bald head was all shinin’ with the heat, his
big round specs was almost droppin’ off the end of his long nose, and he
sartin did look like somethin’ the cat brought in.
"What am I doin’?" he says. "Can’t you see? I’m gettin’ my tea, same as
I said I would. Ho! ho!"
"Where’s Aunt Lucinda?" I sung out. "You loon, have you killed her?"
He laughed. "No, no!" he says. "She deserves to be killed, but she’s
alive. She refused to give me my tea; she refused to stop her horrible
singin’. She was utterly impossible and I got rid of her. I crept down
and watched until she went into the cellar. Then I closed the door and
locked it. Cap’n Snow, I have never been treated as that woman treated
me in my life! It was a matter of principle with me and I was obliged—"
He couldn’t say any more because the poundin’ on the door broke out
again louder than ever. I headed for it and he got in front of me.
"She is absolutely unharmed, I assure you," he says.
She sounded healthy, that was a fact. The names she called that
insect-hunter was a caution!
"Let me out!" she kept hollerin’. "You let me out of this cellar, you
miserable little good-for-nothin’! If I ever get my hands on you I’ll—"
"Ha! ha!" laughs Lemuel. "I couldn’t make her lose her temper, could I?
Oh, no, she’s perfectly calm now! You’re not in the cellar, madam," he
calls to her, "you’re in error. Thought can do anything; think yourself
out."
I looked at him. "Well," says I, "for a person with twitterin’ nerves,
you—"
"D—n my nerves!" says he, which was the most human remark he’d ever made
in my hearin’ and proved that he wasn’t beyond hopes. "You told me that
all I needed was somethin’ to keep me interested. Well, I’ve got it."
"You let me out!" whoops Aunt Lucindy. "Cap’n Snow, if you’re there, you
let me out!"
I think maybe I would have let her out, but when I heard what she
intended doin’ to Lemuel I thought 'twas too big a risk. I turned and
hobbled through the dinin’-room to the front outside door. And there,
just turnin’ into the yard, was Jim Henry Jacobs, with his horse and
buggy. When he saw me he almost fell off the seat. And maybe I wa’n’t
glad to see him!
"You!" he says. "You! _walkin’!_"
"Yes," says I, "and in five minutes I’d have been flyin’, I cal’late.
Don’t stop to talk. Help me into that buggy.... There! drive home as
fast as you can!"
"But what under the canopy is the row?" he says.
"Row enough," says I. "I’ve been shut up along with an irresistible
force and an immovable object, and I want to get away from ’em. Git
dap."
We turned the horse’s head. We had just left the yard when he looked
back. I looked, too. The cellar had an outside entrance, a bulkhead
door. This door was bendin’ and heavin’ as if an earthquake was under
it. Next minute the staple flew, the door slammed back, and Aunt Lucindy
popped out like a jack-in-the-box. She never paid no attention to us,
but made for the kitchen.
"Who—what is that?" gasps Jacobs.
"That," says I, "is the irresistible force."
There was a yell from the kitchen and then out of the door flew Cousin
Lemuel. _He_ didn’t stop for us, either, but ran like a lamplighter to
the fence, fell over it, and dove head-fust into the woods. After he was
away out of sight we could hear the bushes crackin’.
"And—and _what_," gasps Jim Henry, "was _that_?"
"That," says I, "was the immovable object. Drive on, for mercy sakes!"
————
Next day Lot came to see me at the Poquit House. He was dreadful upset.
Seems he hadn’t stayed his time out at camp-meetin’. One of the mediums
or spooks or somethin’ over there told him there was a destructive
influence hoverin’ over his house and he’d hurried back to find out
about it.
"Humph!" says I. "I should have said it had quit hoverin’ and had lit.
How’s Cousin Lemuel?"
Seems Cousin Lemuel was at the hotel over to Bayport. He’d telephoned
for his trunks.
"And he told me," says Lot, wonderin’ like, "to tell Aunt Lucindy that
he intended havin’ tea and toast three times a day now, as a matter of
principle. That’s strange, isn’t it?"
"Not to me ’tain’t," says I. "And how’s Aunt Lucindy?"
"Aunt Lucindy’s gone back to Denboro," he says. "And she left word for
Cousin Lemuel that she should send him a ’thought’—whatever that
is—every day by mail from now on. And you’d ought to have seen her face
when she said it! But, Cap’n Zeb, when are you comin’ back to board with
me?"
I shook my head. "Lot," says I, "I like you fust-rate, but your
relations are too irresistibly immovable. I’m goin’ to keep clear of ’em
for the rest of my life—as a matter of principle," I says, chucklin’.