SYMPATHIES MISPLACED
The first time Mr. Smith saw Frank Blaisdell, after Miss Maggie’s news
of the forty-thousand-dollar loss, he tried, somewhat awkwardly, to
express his interest and sympathy. But Frank Blaisdell cut him short.
“That’s all right, and I thank you,” he cried heartily. “And I know
most folks would think losing forty thousand dollars was about as
bad as it could be. Jane, now, is all worked up over it; can’t sleep
nights, and has gone back to turning down the gas and eating sour cream
so’s to save and help make it up. But me—I call it the best thing that
ever happened.”
“Well, really,” laughed Mr. Smith; “I’m sure that’s a very delightful
way to look at it—if you can.”
“Well, I can; and I’ll tell you why. It’s put me back where I
belong—behind the counter of a grocery store. I’ve bought out the old
stand. Oh, I had enough left for that, and more! Closed the deal last
night. Gorry, but I was glad to feel the old floor under my feet again!”
“But I thought you—you were tired of work, and—wanted to enjoy
yourself,” stammered Mr. Smith.
Frank Blaisdell laughed.
“Tired of work—wanted to enjoy myself, indeed! Yes, I know I did say
something like that. But, let me tell you this, Mr. Smith. Talk about
work!—I never worked so hard in my life as I have the last ten months
trying to enjoy myself. How these folks can stand gadding ’round the
country week in and week out, feeding their stomachs on a French
dictionary instead of good United States meat and potatoes and squash,
and spending their days traipsing off to see things they ain’t a mite
interested in, and their nights trying to get rested so they can go and
see some more the next day, I don’t understand.”
Mr. Smith chuckled.
“I’m afraid these touring agencies wouldn’t like to have you write
their ads for them, Mr. Blaisdell!”
“Well, they hadn’t better ask me to,” smiled the other grimly. “But
that ain’t all. Since I come back I’ve been working even harder trying
to enjoy myself here at home—knockin’ silly little balls over a
ten-acre lot in a game a healthy ten-year-old boy would scorn to play.”
“But how about your new car? Didn’t you enjoy riding in that?” bantered
Mr. Smith.
“Oh, yes, I enjoyed the riding well enough; but I didn’t enjoy hunting
for punctures, putting on new tires, or burrowing into the inside of
the critter to find out why she didn’t go! And that’s what I was doing
most of the time. I never did like machinery. It ain’t in my line.”
He paused a moment, then went on a little wistfully:—
“I suspect, Mr. Smith, there ain’t anything in my line but groceries.
It’s all I know. It’s all I ever have known. If—if I had my life to
live over again, I’d do different, maybe. I’d see if I couldn’t find
out what there was in a picture to make folks stand and stare at it
an hour at a time when you could see the whole thing in a minute—and
it wa’n’t worth lookin’ at, anyway, even for a minute. And music,
too. Now, I like a good tune what is a tune; but them caterwaulings
and dirges that that chap Gray plays on that fiddle of his—gorry, Mr.
Smith, I’d rather hear the old barn door at home squeak any day. But
if I was younger I’d try to learn to like ’em. I would! Look at Flora,
now. She can set by the hour in front of that phonygraph of hers, and
not know it!”
“Yes, I know,” smiled Mr. Smith.
“And there’s books, too,” resumed the other, still wistfully. “I’d read
books—if I could stay awake long enough to do it—and I’d find out what
there was in ’em to make a good sensible man like Jim Blaisdell daft
over ’em—and Maggie Duff, too. Why, that little woman used to go hungry
sometimes, when she was a girl, so she could buy a book she wanted. I
know she did. Why, I’d ‘a’ given anything this last year if I could ‘a’
got interested—really interested, readin’. I could ‘a’ killed an awful
lot of time that way. But I couldn’t do it. I bought a lot of ’em,
too, an’ tried it; but I expect I didn’t begin young enough. I tell
ye, Mr. Smith, I’ve about come to the conclusion that there ain’t a
thing in the world so hard to kill as time. I’ve tried it, and I know.
Why, I got so I couldn’t even kill it _eatin’_—though I ’most
killed myself _tryin’_ to! An’ let me tell ye another thing. A
full stomach ain’t in it with bein’ hungry an’ knowing a good dinner’s
coming. Why, there was whole weeks at a time back there that I didn’t
know the meaning of the word ‘hungry.’ You’d oughter seen the jolt I
give one o’ them waiter-chaps one day when he comes up with his paper
and his pencil and asks me what I wanted. ‘Want?’ says I. ‘There ain’t
but one thing on this earth I want, and you can’t give it to me. I want
to _want_ something. I’m tired of bein’ so blamed satisfied all
the time!’”
“And what did—Alphonso say to that?” chuckled Mr. Smith appreciatively.
“Alphonso? Oh, the waiter-fellow, you mean? Oh, he just stared a
minute, then mumbled his usual ‘Yes, sir, very good, sir,’ and shoved
that confounded printed card of his a little nearer to my nose. But,
there! I guess you’ve heard enough of this, Mr. Smith. It’s only that I
was trying to tell you why I’m actually glad we lost that money. It’s
give me back my man’s job again.”
“Good! All right, then. I won’twaste any more sympathy on you,” laughed
Mr. Smith.
“Well, you needn’t. And there’s another thing. I hope it’ll give me
back a little of my old faith in my fellow-man.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just this. I won’t suspect every man, woman, and child that says a
civil word to me now of having designs on my pocketbook. Why, Mr.
Smith, you wouldn’t believe it, if I told you, the things that’s been
done and said to get a little money out of me. Of course, the open
gold-brick schemes I knew enough to dodge, ’most of ’em (unless you
count in that darn Benson mining stock), and I spotted the blackmailers
all right, most generally. But I _was_ flabbergasted when a
_woman_ tackled the job and began to make love to me—actually
make love to me!—one day when Jane’s back was turned. Gorry! _Do_
I look such a fool as that, Mr. Smith? Well, anyhow, there won’t be
any more of that kind, nor anybody after my money now, I guess,” he
finished with a sage wag of his head as he turned away.
To Miss Maggie that evening Mr. Smith said, after recounting the
earlier portion of the conversation: “So you see you were right, after
all. I shall have to own it up. Mr. Frank Blaisdell had plenty to
retire upon, but nothing to retire to. But I’m glad—if he’s happy now.”
“And he isn’t the only one that that forty-thousand-dollar loss has
done a good turn to,” nodded Miss Maggie. “Mellicent has just been
here. You know she’s home from school. It’s the Easter vacation,
anyway, but she isn’t going back. It’s too expensive.”
Miss Maggie spoke with studied casualness, but there was an added color
in her cheeks—Miss Maggie always flushed a little when she mentioned
Mellicent’s name to Mr. Smith, in spite of her indignant efforts not to
do so.
“Oh, is that true?”
“Yes. Well, the Pennocks had a dance last night, and Mellicent went.
She said she had to laugh to see Mrs. Pennock’s efforts to keep Carl
away from her—the loss of the money is known everywhere now, and has
been greatly exaggerated, I’ve heard. She said that even Hibbard
Gaylord had the air of one trying to let her down easy. Mellicent was
immensely amused.”
“Where was Donald Gray?”
“Oh, he wasn’t there. He doesn’t move in the Pennock crowd much. But
Mellicent sees him, and—and everything’s all right there, now. That’s
why Mellicent is so happy.”
“You mean—Has her mother given in?”
“Yes. You see, Jane was at the dance, too, and she saw Carl, and she
saw Hibbard Gaylord. And she was furious. She told Mellicent this
morning that she had her opinion of fellows who would show so plainly
as Carl Pennock and Hibbard Gaylord did that it was the money they were
after.”
“I’m afraid—Mrs. Jane has changed her shoes again,” murmured Mr. Smith,
his eyes merry.
“Has changed—oh!” Miss Maggie’s puzzled frown gave way to a laugh.
“Well, yes, perhaps the shoe is on the other foot again. But, anyway,
she doesn’t love Carl or Hibbard any more, and she does love Donald
Gray. He _hasn’t_ let the loss of the money make any difference
to him, you see. He’s been even more devoted, if anything. She told
Mellicent this morning that he was a very estimable young man, and she
liked him very much. Perhaps you see now why Mellicent is—happy.”
“Good! I’m glad to know it,” cried Mr. Smith heartily. “I’m glad—” His
face changed suddenly. His eyes grew somber. “I’m glad the _loss_
of the money brought them some happiness—if the possession of it
didn’t,” he finished moodily, turning to go to his own room. At the
hall door he paused and looked back at Miss Maggie, standing by the
table, gazing after him with troubled eyes. “Did Mellicent say—whether
Fred was there?” he asked.
“Yes. She said he wasn’t there. He didn’t come home for this vacation
at all. She said she didn’t know why. I suspect Mellicent doesn’t know
anything about that wretched affair of his.”
“We’ll hope not. So the young gentleman didn’t show up at all?”
“No, nor Bessie. She went home with a Long Island girl. Hattie didn’t
go to the Pennocks’ either. Hattie has—has been very different since
this affair of Fred’s. I think it frightened her terribly—it was so
near a tragedy; the boy threatened to kill himself, you know, if his
father didn’t help him out.”
“But his father _did_ help him out!” flared the man irritably.
“Yes, I know he did; and I’m afraid he found things in a pretty bad
mess—when he got there,” sighed Miss Maggie. “It was a bad mess all
around.”
“You are exactly right!” ejaculated Mr. Smith with sudden and peculiar
emphasis. “It is, indeed, a bad mess all around,” he growled as he
disappeared through the door.
Behind him, Miss Maggie still stood motionless, looking after him with
troubled eyes.
As the spring days grew warmer, Miss Maggie had occasion many times
to look after Mr. Smith with troubled eyes. She could not understand
him at all. One day he would be the old delightful companion, genial,
cheery, generously donating a box of chocolates to the center-table
bonbon dish or a dozen hothouse roses to the mantel vase. The next, he
would be nervous, abstracted, almost irritable. Yet she could see no
possible reason for the change.
Sometimes she wondered fearfully if Mellicent could have anything to
do with it. Was it possible that he had cared for Mellicent, and to
see her now so happy with Donald Gray was more than he could bear? It
did not seem credible. There was his own statement that he had devoted
himself to her solely and only to help keep the undesirable lovers away
and give Donald Gray a chance.
Besides, had he not said that he was not a marrying man, anyway?
To be sure, that seemed a pity—a man so kind and thoughtful and so
delightfully companionable! But then, it was nothing to her, of
course—only she did hope he was not feeling unhappy over Mellicent!
Miss Maggie wished, too, that Mr. Smith would not bring flowers and
candy so often. It worried her. She felt as if he were spending too
much money—and she had got the impression in some way that he did not
have any too much money to spend. And there were the expensive motor
trips, too—she feared Mr. Smith _was_ extravagant. Yet she could
not tell him so, of course. He never seemed to realize the value of a
dollar, anyway, and he very obviously did not know how to get the most
out of it. Look at his foolish generosity in regard to the board he
paid her!
Miss Maggie wondered sometimes if it might not be worry over money
matters that was making him so nervous and irritable on occasions now.
Plainly he was very near the end of his work there in Hillerton. He was
not getting so many letters on Blaisdell matters from away, either.
For a month now he had done nothing but a useless repetition of old
work; and of late, a good deal of the time, he was not even making
that pretense of being busy. For days at a time he would not touch
his records. That could mean but one thing, of course; his work was
done. Yet he seemed to be making no move toward departure. Not that
she wanted him to go. She should miss him very much when he went, of
course. But she did not like to feel that he was staying simply because
he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Miss Maggie did not believe in
able-bodied men who had nowhere to go and nothing to do—and she wanted
very much to believe in Mr. Smith.
She had been under the impression that he was getting the Blaisdell
material together for a book, and that he was intending to publish it
himself. He had been very happy and interested. Now he was unhappy
and uninterested. His book must be ready, but he was making no move
to publish it. To Miss Maggie this could mean but one thing: some
financial reverses had made it impossible for him to carry out his
plans, and had left him stranded with no definite aim for the future.
She was so sorry!—but there seemed to be nothing that she could do.
She _had_ tried to help by insisting that he pay less for his
board; but he had not only scouted that idea, but had brought her more
chocolates and flowers than ever—for all the world as if he had divined
her suspicions and wished to disprove them.
That Mr. Smith was trying to keep something from her, Miss Maggie
was sure. She was the more sure, perhaps, because she herself had
something that she was trying to keep from Mr. Smith—and she thought
she recognized the symptoms.
Meanwhile April budded into May, and May blossomed into June; and June
brought all the Blaisdells together again in Hillerton.