IN SEARCH OF SOME DATES
Very promptly the next morning Mr. John Smith and his two trunks
appeared at the door of his new boarding-place. Mrs. Jane Blaisdell
welcomed him cordially. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved gingham
apron this time, which she neither removed nor apologized for—unless
her cheerful “You see, mornings you’ll find me in working trim, Mr.
Smith,” might be taken as an apology.
Mellicent, her slender young self enveloped in a similar apron, was
dusting his room as he entered it. She nodded absently, with a casual
“Good-morning, Mr. Smith,” as she continued at her work. Even the
placing of the two big trunks, which the shuffling men brought in, won
from her only a listless glance or two. Then, without speaking again,
she left the room, as her mother entered it.
“There!” Mrs. Blaisdell looked about her complacently. “With this
couch-bed with its red cover and cushions, and all the dressing things
moved to the little room in there, it looks like a real sitting-room in
here, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does, Mrs. Blaisdell.”
“And you had ’em take the trunks in there, too. That’s good,” she
nodded, crossing to the door of the small dressing-room beyond. “I
thought you would. Well, I hope you’ll be real happy with us, Mr.
Smith, and I guess you will. And you needn’t be a mite afraid of
hurting anything. I’ve covered everything with mats and tidies and
spreads.”
“Yes, I see.” A keen listener would have noticed an odd something in
Mr. Smith’s voice; but Mrs. Blaisdell apparently noticed nothing.
“Yes, I always do—to save wearing and soiling, you know. Of course, if
we had money to buy new all the time, it would be different. But we
haven’t. And that’s what I tell Mellicent when she complains of so many
things to dust and brush. Now make yourself right at home, Mr. Smith.
Dinner’s at twelve o’clock, and supper is at six—except in the winter.
We have it earlier then, so’s we can go to bed earlier. Saves gas, you
know. But it’s at six now. I do like the long days, don’t you? Well,
I’ll be off now, and let you unpack. As I said before, make yourself
perfectly at home, perfectly at home.”
Left alone, Mr. Smith drew a long breath and looked about him. It was
a pleasant room, in spite of its cluttered appearance. There was an
old-fashioned desk for his papers, and the chairs looked roomy and
comfortable. The little dressing-room carried many conveniences, and
the windows of both rooms looked out upon the green of the common.
“Oh, well, I don’t know. This might be lots worse—in spite of the
tidies!” chuckled Mr. John Smith, as he singled out the keys of his
trunks.
At the noon dinner-table Mr. Smith met Mr. Frank Blaisdell. He was a
portly man with rather thick gray hair and “mutton-chop” gray whiskers.
He ate very fast, and a great deal, yet he still found time to talk
interestedly with his new boarder.
He was plainly a man of decided opinions—opinions which he did not
hesitate to express, and which he emphasized with resounding thumps of
his fists on the table. The first time he did this, Mr. Smith, taken
utterly by surprise, was guilty of a visible start. After that he
learned to accept them with the serenity evinced by the rest of the
family.
When the dinner was over, Mr. Smith knew (if he could remember them)
the current market prices of beans, corn, potatoes, sugar, and flour;
and he knew (again if he could remember) why some of these commodities
were higher, and some lower, than they had been the week before. In a
way, Mr. John Smith was interested. That stocks and bonds fluctuated,
he was well aware. That “wheat” could be cornered, he realized. But of
the ups and downs of corn and beans as seen by the retail grocer he
knew very little. That is, he had known very little until after that
dinner with Mr. Frank Blaisdell.
It was that afternoon that Mr. Smith began systematically to gather
material for his Blaisdell book. He would first visit by turns all the
Hillerton Blaisdells, he decided; then, when he had exhausted their
resources, he would, of course, turn to the town records and cemeteries
of Hillerton and the neighboring villages.
Armed with a pencil and a very businesslike looking notebook,
therefore, he started at two o’clock for the home of James Blaisdell.
Remembering Mr. Blaisdell’s kind permission to come and ask all the
questions he liked, he deemed it fitting to begin there.
He had no trouble in finding the house, but there was no one in
sight this time, as he ascended the steps. The house, indeed, seemed
strangely quiet. He was just about to ring the bell when around the
corner of the veranda came a hurried step and a warning voice.
“Oh, please, don’t ring the bell! What is it? Isn’t it something that I
can do for you?”
Mr. Smith turned sharply. He thought at first, from the trim, slender
figure, and the waving hair above the gracefully poised head, that he
was confronting a young woman. Then he saw the silver threads at the
temples, and the fine lines about the eyes.
“I am looking for Mrs. Blaisdell—Mrs. James Blaisdell,” he answered,
lifting his hat.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Smith. Aren’t you Mr. Smith?” She smiled brightly, then
went on before he could reply. “You see, Benny told me. He described
you perfectly.”
The man’s eyebrows went up.
“Oh, did he? The young rascal! I fancy I should be edified to hear
it—that description.”
The other laughed. Then, a bit roguishly, she demanded:—“Should you
like to hear it—really?”
“I certainly should. I’ve already collected a few samples of Benny’s
descriptive powers.”
“Then you shall have this one. Sit down, Mr. Smith.” She motioned him
to a chair, and dropped easily into one herself. “Benny said you were
tall and not fat; that you had a wreath of light hair ’round a bald
spot, and whiskers that were clipped as even as Mr. Pennock’s hedge;
and that your lips, without speaking, said, ‘Run away, little boy,’ but
that your eyes said, ‘Come here.’ Now I think Benny did pretty well.”
“So I judge, since you recognized me without any difficulty,” rejoined
Mr. Smith, a bit dryly. “But—YOU—? You see you have the advantage of
me. Benny hasn’t described you to me.” He paused significantly.
“Oh, I’m just here to help out. Mrs. Blaisdell is ill upstairs—one of
her headaches. That is why I asked you not to ring. She gets so nervous
when the bell rings. She thinks it’s callers, and that she won’t be
ready to receive them; and she hurries up and begins to dress. So I
asked you not to ring.”
“But she isn’t seriously ill?”
“Oh, no, just a headache. She has them often. You wanted to see her?”
“Yes. But it’s not important at all. Another time, just as well. Some
questions—that is all.”
“Oh, for the book, of course. Oh, yes, I have heard about that, too.”
She smiled again brightly. “But can’t you wait? Mr. Blaisdell will soon
be here. He’s coming early so I can go home. I _have_ to go home.”
“And you are—”
“Miss Duff. My name is Duff.”
“You don’t mean—‘Poor Maggie’!” (Not until the words were out did Mr.
Smith realize quite how they would sound.) “Er—ah—that is—” He stumbled
miserably, and she came to his rescue.
“Oh, yes, I’m—‘Poor Maggie.’” There was an odd something in her
expressive face that Mr. Smith could not fathom. He was groping for
something—anything to say, when suddenly there was a sound behind them,
and the little woman at his side sprang to her feet.
“Oh, Hattie, you came down!” she exclaimed as Mrs. James Blaisdell
opened the screen door and stepped out on to the veranda. “Here’s Mrs.
Blaisdell now, Mr. Smith.”
“Oh, it’s only Mr. Smith!” With a look very like annoyance Mrs.
Blaisdell advanced and held out her hand. She looked pale, and her hair
hung a bit untidily about one ear below a somewhat twisted pyramid of
puffs. Her dress, though manifestly an expensive one, showed haste in
its fastenings. “Yes, I heard voices, and I thought some one had come—a
caller. So I came down.”
“I’m glad—if you’re better,” smiled Miss Maggie. “Then I’ll go, if
you don’t mind. Mr. Smith has come to ask you some questions, Hattie.
Good-bye!” With another cheery smile and a nod to Mr. Smith, she
disappeared into the house. A minute later Mr. Smith saw her hurrying
down a side path to the street.
“You called to ask some questions?” Mrs. Blaisdell sank languidly into
a chair.
“About the Blaisdell family—yes. But perhaps another day, when you are
feeling better, Mrs. Blaisdell.”
“Oh, no.” She smiled a little more cordially. “I can answer to-day as
well as any time—though I’m not sure I can tell you very much, ever. I
think it’s fine you are making the book, though. Some way it gives a
family such a standing, to be written up like that. Don’t you think so?
And the Blaisdells are really a very nice family—one of the oldest in
Hillerton, though, of course, they haven’t much money.”
“I ought to find a good deal of material here, then, if they have lived
here so long.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, what can I tell you? Of course I can tell
you about my own family. My husband is in the real estate business.
You knew that, didn’t you? Perhaps you see ‘The Real Estate Journal.’
His picture was in it a year ago last June. There was a write-up on
Hillerton. I was in it, too, though there wasn’t much about me. But
I’ve got other clippings with more, if you’d like to see them—where
I’ve poured, and been hostess, and all that, you know.”
Mr. Smith took out his notebook and pencil.
“Let me see, Mrs. Blaisdell, your husband’s father’s name was Rufus, I
believe. What was his mother’s maiden name, please?”
“His mother’s maiden name? Oh, ‘Elizabeth.’ Our little girl is named
for her—Bessie, you know—you saw her last night. Jim wanted to, so
I let him. It’s a pretty name—Elizabeth—still, it sounds a little
old-fashioned now, don’t you think? Of course we are anxious to have
everything just right for our daughter. A young lady soon coming out,
so,—you can’t be too particular. That’s one reason why I wanted to get
over here—on the West Side, I mean. Everybody who is anybody lives on
the West Side in Hillerton. You’ll soon find that out.”
“No doubt, no doubt! And your mother Blaisdell’s surname?” Mr. Smith’s
pencil was poised over the open notebook.
“Surname? Mother Blaisdell’s? Oh, before she was married. I see.
But, dear me, I don’t know. I suppose Jim will, or Flora, or maybe
Frank—though I don’t believe _he_ will, unless her folks kept
groceries. Did you ever see anybody that didn’t know anything but
groceries like Frank Blaisdell?” The lady sighed and shrugged her
somewhat heavy shoulders with an expressive glance.
Mr. Smith smiled understandingly.
“Oh, well, it’s good—to be interested in one’s business, you know.”
“But such a business!” murmured the lady, with another shrug.
“Then you can’t tell me Mrs. Rufus Blaisdell’s surname?”
“No. But Jim—Oh, I’ll tell you who will know,” she broke off
interestedly; “and that’s Maggie Duff. You saw her here a few minutes
ago, you know. Father Duff’s got all of Mother Blaisdell’s papers and
diaries. Oh, Maggie can tell you a lot of things. Poor Maggie! Benny
says if we want _anything_ we ask Aunt Maggie, and I don’t know
but he’s right. And here I am, sending you to her, so soon!”
“Very well, then,” smiled Mr. Smith. “I don’t see but what I shall have
to interview Miss Maggie, and Miss Flora. Is there nothing more, then,
that you can tell me?”
“Well, there’s Fred, my son. You haven’t seen him yet. We’re very proud
of Fred. He’s at the head of his class, and he’s going to college
and be a lawyer. And that’s another reason why I wanted to come over
to this side—on Fred’s account. I want him to meet the right sort of
people. You know it helps so much! We think we’re going to have Fred a
big man some day.”
“And he was born, when?” Mr. Smith’s pencil still poised above an
almost entirely blank page.
“He’s seventeen. He’ll be eighteen the tenth of next month.”
“And Miss Bessie, and Benny?”
“Oh, she’s sixteen. She’ll be seventeen next winter. She wants to come
out then, but I think I shall wait—a little, she’s so very young;
though Gussie Pennock’s out, and she’s only seventeen, and the Pennocks
are some of our very best people. They’re the richest folks in town,
you know.”
“And Benny was born—when?”
“He’s eight—or rather nine, next Tuesday. Dear me, Mr. Smith, don’t you
want _anything_ but dates? They’re tiresome things, I think,—make
one feel so old, you know, and it shows up how many years you’ve been
married. Don’t you think so? But maybe you’re a bachelor.”
“Yes, I’m a bachelor.”
“Are you, indeed? Well, you miss a lot, of course,—home and wife and
children. Still, you gain some things. You aren’t tied down, and you
don’t have so much to worry about. Is your mother living, or your
father?”
“No. I have no—near relatives.” Mr. Smith stirred a little uneasily,
and adjusted his book. “Perhaps, now, Mrs. Blaisdell, you can give me
your own maiden name.”
“Oh, yes, I can give you that!” She laughed and bridled
self-consciously. “But you needn’t ask when I was born, for I shan’t
tell you, if you do. My name was Hattie Snow.”
“‘Harriet,’ I presume.” Mr. Smith’s pencil was busily at work.
“Yes—Harriet Snow. And the Snows were just as good as the
Blaisdells, if I do say it. There were a lot that wanted me—oh, I
was pretty _then_, Mr. Smith.” She laughed, and bridled again
self-consciously. “But I took Jim. He was handsome then, very—big
dark eyes and dark hair, and so dreamy and poetical-looking; and
there wasn’t a girl that hadn’t set her cap for him. And he’s been
a good husband to me. To be sure, he isn’t quite so ambitious as he
might be, perhaps. _I_ always did believe in being somebody, and
getting somewhere. Don’t you? But Jim—he’s always for hanging back and
saying how much it’ll cost. Ten to one he doesn’t end up by saying we
can’t afford it. He’s like Jane,—Frank’s wife, where you board, you
know,—only Jane’s worse than Jim ever thought of being. She won’t spend
even what she’s got. If she’s got ten dollars, she won’t spend but five
cents, if she can help it. Now, I believe in taking some comfort as you
go along. But Jane—greatest saver I ever did see. Better look out, Mr.
Smith, that she doesn’t try to save feeding you at all!” she finished
merrily.
“I’m not worrying!” Mr. Smith smiled cheerily, snapped his book shut
and got to his feet.
“Oh, won’t you wait for Mr. Blaisdell? He can tell you more, I’m sure.”
“Not to-day, thank you. At his office, some time, I’ll see Mr.
Blaisdell,” murmured Mr. Smith, with an odd haste. “But I thank you
very much, Mrs. Blaisdell,” he bowed in farewell.