A LONG LOST RELATIVE.
Ezekiel Pettengill owned what Deacon Mason did not--a nice carryall and
a good road horse. Ezekiel would fix no price, but Quincy would not
drive him unless he paid for the use of the team. One dollar for half a
day, two dollars for a whole day, were the prices finally fixed upon.
Quincy drove first to Mrs. Putnam's. As he was ascending the steps the
front door was opened and Lindy stood there to welcome him, which she
did by extending her hand and then showing him into the parlor. She was
evidently on the point of going out, for she had on her outdoor
garments. After a few commonplaces relating to health and the weather,
Quincy abruptly approached the object of his visit by saying, "I
received your letter, Miss Putnam, and I have come to see if I can be of
any service to you."
"Oh! I know you can," said Lindy; "you are wealthy--"
"I beg your pardon," interposed Quincy, "I am not what they call a
wealthy young man; the fact that my father is possessed of a large
fortune has probably given rise to the incorrect impression just
repeated by you."
"I understand," said Lindy, with a laugh. "What I meant to say was, that
you are undoubtedly acquainted with wealthy gentlemen, who know the best
ways of investing money. I find my money a great trouble to me," she
continued. "I had $25,000 invested in a first mortgage, but the property
has been sold and the money repaid to me, and I don't know what to do
with it."
"The obvious thing to do," remarked Quincy, "is to invest it at once, so
that it will begin paying you interest."
"That is just what I wished to see you about," responded Lindy. "How
would you advise me to invest it?" she asked.
"I would not presume," replied Quincy, "to give positive advice in such
a case. I would go either to Foss & Follansbee, or Braithwaite & Mellen,
or perhaps Rothwell Brothers & Co., look over the securities they have
for sale and make my own selection, if I were in your place."
Lindy was manifestly disappointed at Quincy's polite refusal to
recommend any particular security, but she evidently realized that
further argument or entreaty would be useless, so she quickly changed
the subject by remarking that her mother had considerable money
invested, but that she was a woman who never took any advice and never
gave any.
"I wonder who my mother is going to leave her money to? Do you know, Mr.
Sawyer?"
Quincy replied that he did not. "But she did tell me that by the terms
of your brother's will you were not to inherit it."
"Well, if you ever find out," said Lindy, "you will tell me, won't you,
Mr. Sawyer?"
"Yes," said Quincy, "unless I am requested to keep it a secret."
"But you wouldn't keep it from me, their own daughter," said Lindy.
"Well," he replied, "I don't think it at all likely that they will
inform me; but I promise to tell you if I learn who it is and am not
bound in any way to keep the information secret."
"And will you tell me just as soon as you know?" persisted Lindy.
"In less than twenty-four hours from the time I learn the name you
shall hear it from my own lips," he replied.
"Thank you," said Lindy. "Would you like to see father and mother?
Father has been quite sick for a few days and they are in their own
room. I will go up and tell them you are coming."
Quincy was left in the room. That gossip about Miss Putnam could not be
true. Gossip said she was ashamed of her father and mother, and yet she
had invited him to go up and see them. What a pretty girl she was, well
educated and with a hundred thousand dollars; such a beautiful singer
and their voices blended so nicely together. How pleased his mother and
sisters would be if he should bring home a wife like her. On the wall
hung an oil portrait of her, evidently painted within a short time. He
sat looking at it as Lindy opened the door.
Before he could remove his eyes from the picture, Lindy had noticed his
fixed gaze at it and smiled brightly.
"Mother would be delighted to see you."
Lindy rang a small bell that was on a table. In a moment Samanthy
entered the room.
"Samantha, please show Mr. Sawyer to mother's room. Will you excuse me,
Mr. Sawyer, if I am not here to say good-by to you after you have seen
mother? I am going to the city this morning and there--" looking out of
the window--"here comes Abner Stiles; he is going to drive me over to
Eastborough. Did you ever meet Mr. Stiles, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I may have seen him," replied Quincy.
"Seeing him is nothing," said Lindy. "He must be heard to be
appreciated. He is a most engaging talker; he has caught the biggest
fish and killed the biggest bears--"
"And told the biggest lies," broke in Quincy,--
"Of any man in town," Lindy concluded.
"I think there is one man in town who can tell bigger ones," Quincy
said gravely; "he has been telling a good many lately."
Lindy looked up and smiled. "He will never forgive us for what we did at
the concert," said she, "Well, I mustn't keep Mr. Stiles waiting any
longer, if I do he may--"
"Try to compete with the other one," added Quincy.
She smiled again, and gave him her little gloved hand, which he took in
his for an instant.
She ran out quickly and got into the team, which immediately drove off.
Samanthy, who had been waiting impatiently in the hallway, ushered
Quincy into an upper chamber, where sat Mrs. Putnam. Her husband was
reclining on a lounge near the fire.
"Well, I am awful glad to see yer," said Mrs. Putnam. "Silas here hasn't
been feelin' fust rate for more'n a week. He's most frozen to death all
the time. So I got him up front of the fire, same as I used to roast
turkeys. Set down, Mr. Sawyer, and tell me all the news. Have you heerd
anybody going to git engaged or anybody going to git married? I heerd as
how you had left Deacon Mason's. So you 'cided to take my advice. I'm
kinder sorry you tipped the buggy over, for Huldy Mason's a nice girl.
The fact is I was thinkin' more of her than I was of you, when I told
yer you'd better git out. Where be yer boardin' now?"
"I am boarding at Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's. His sister has got home and
his Uncle Isaac has come back to live with him."
"Lord sakes, do tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "I allus thought that old fool
would die out there in the woods and they'd bury him in his chicken
coop. But what on airth is Alice home for? Has she lost her job?"
"No," replied Quincy; "poor girl, she has almost lost her sight. She
has been very sick, and as a result she is almost blind, and had to give
up work and come home."
Mrs. Putnam sank back in her chair.
"If I didn't think you were a truthful man, Mr. Sawyer, I wouldn't
b'lieve a word you said. My poor Alice. Why, do you know, Mr. Sawyer, I
never saw a human being in all my life that I liked so much as I have
Alice Pettengill. Did you ever see her, Mr. Sawyer?"
"No," said Quincy, "she only arrived yesterday afternoon, and she did
not appear at supper nor at breakfast this morning. She was tired and
wished to rest, her brother told me."
"Well, I hope she won't die," said Mrs. Putnam. "I have left her every
dollar I've got in the world, and if she should die I shouldn't know who
on airth to give it to. Well, there, I've let the cat out of the bag,
and my daughter Lindy, mean as she is about money, would give a thousand
dollars to know who I am goin' to leave my money to. I wish I could see
Alice. I can't walk, and that poor, deaf girl can't see. Why, Mr.
Sawyer, I think she's the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever sot eyes on in
my life, and I've seed a good many on 'em. Now you tell me what you
think of her the next time you come up, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I certainly will," said Quincy, "and if she will come with me I will
bring her over to see you. If she came from Boston with her brother, she
can surely ride as far as this," he added.
"Tell her I shall count every minute till she, comes over here, but
don't say a word to her about my money," said Mrs. Putnam.
"Certainly not," Quincy answered. "You did not intend to tell me."
"No, I didn't," acknowledged Mrs. Putnam, "it slipped out before I
thought."
Quincy arose. "I must go now, Mrs. Putnam. I have business at
Eastborough Centre, and I don't know how long it will take me, and
besides, I am anxious to see Miss Pettengill after your glowing
description of her beauty and her virtues."
"Well, I haven't put the paint on half as thick as it would stand," said
Mrs. Putnam. "Well, good-by, Mr. Sawyer. It's very kind in you to come
and see two old folks like us. No use saying good-by to Silas; he's
stone deef and besides he's sound asleep."
When Quincy took up the reins and started towards Eastborough Centre it
was with conflicting emotions. If there had been no Alice Pettengill to
see, his thoughts, no doubt, would have related chiefly to Lindy Putnam,
who had never attracted his attention before as she had that morning.
Could Alice Pettengill be as pretty and as good as Mrs. Putnam had
portrayed? And she was to be an heiress. He was sorry that Mrs. Putnam
had told him. When he was talking to Miss Pettengill what he knew would
be continually in his mind. He was glad that she was to have the money,
but very sorry that he knew she was to have it; he had promised not to
tell her, but he had promised to tell Lindy. Mrs. Putnam had not told
him not to tell Lindy, but she had said Lindy would give a thousand
dollars to know. Now, was that the same as requesting him not to tell
Lindy, and should he tell Lindy for nothing what her mother said she
would give a thousand dollars to know? Anyhow, that question must be
decided within the next twenty-four hours.
Then he began to think of his intended visit to Eastborough Poorhouse.
Would the Jim Sawyer that he found there turn out to be his own uncle?
What a sweet morsel that would be for Strout if it proved to be true.
Anyhow, he would follow his father's instructions and do all he could
for his uncle, come what might.
Since he had arrived at Mason's Corner everything that he had done
seemed to give rise to gossip, and a little more of it could do no harm.
Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the keeper. A very stout,
red-faced man answered the summons.
He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and that he had been
keeper of the town Poorhouse for the last ten years.
Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed between three and
four hundred pounds, that he had probably eaten all the food supplied
for the inmates. In reply to a direct question whether there was a man
there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said "yes," but that he was
sick abed and had been for the last week.
"He coughs awful," said Waters; "in fact, I had to change his room
because the rest of us couldn't sleep. When we tried to move him he
became sort of crazy like, and it took three on us to get him out of the
room and take him upstairs. He seems sot on getting back in that room.
The other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying to get into
the room, but I had it locked and we had another fight to get him
upstairs again."
"Well," said Quincy, "I would like to see him; it may be he is a distant
relative of our family. My father wishes me to talk with him and make
the inquiry anyway."
"What mought your name be?" asked Mr. Waters.
"My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer."
"Oh, yes, I remember you," said Waters. "Wasn't you the singer that Mr.
Strout hired to come down from Boston to sing at his concert. Strout
told me he paid you $50 for singing that night, and by gosh it was worth
it."
Quincy was not a profane young man, but he had to smother an oath on
hearing that. He replied, "Yes, I sang that night."
"And," said Waters, "didn't you whistle that piece, Listen to the
Bobolink, fine?"
"Here, Sam," said he to a young fellow who appeared in sight, "show this
gentleman up to Jim Sawyer's room; I'm getting kind of pussy, and I
don't go upstairs much."
Sam performed his mission and Quincy was ushered into the room and found
himself with the sick man.
"Is your name James Sawyer?" asked Quincy.
"Yes," said the man. "I used to be proud of it once."
"Did you have a brother?" asked Quincy.
"Well," said Jim, "I don't think he would be proud of me now, so I guess
I won't claim any relationship."
Quincy stopped for a moment. Evidently the man's pride would keep him
from telling anything about himself. He would try him on a new tack. The
man had a long fit of coughing. When it had subsided, Quincy said, "It
wearies you to talk. I will do the talking, and if what I say is true
you can nod your head." Quincy continued, "Your name is James Edward
Sawyer, your brother's name was Nathaniel." The man opened his eyes wide
and looked steadfastly at him. "Your father, Edward Sawyer, left you
fifty thousand dollars." The man clutched with both hands at the quilt
on the bed. "You are about sixty years of age." The man nodded. "You
married a young girl who lived in the country and took her to Boston
with you; her maiden name was Eunice Raymond."
The man started up in bed, resting on his elbow. "How did you know all
this?" asked he. "Who has told you this? Who are you?"
The exertion and the rapid speaking brought on another fit of coughing
and he fell back on his pillow.
"If what I have said is true," remarked Quincy quietly, "your brother,
Nathaniel, is my father, and I am your nephew, Quincy Adams Sawyer."
"Who sent you to see me?" asked the man.
"I heard," replied Quincy, "that a man named James Sawyer was in the
Eastborough Poorhouse. I wrote to my father, and in his reply he told me
what I have just said to you. If you are my uncle, father says to do
everything I can to help you, and if he had not said so I would have
done it anyway."
"It is all true," said the man faintly. "I squandered the money my
father left me. I married a sweet, young girl and took her to the city.
I tried to introduce her into the set to which I once belonged. It was a
failure. I was angry, not with myself for expecting too much, but with
her because she gave me too little, as I then thought. We had two
children--a boy named Ray and a little girl named Mary, after my
mother."
"My grandmother," said Quincy.
James Sawyer continued: "I took to drink. I abused the woman whose only
fault had been that she had loved me. I neglected to provide for my
family. My wife fell sick, my two little children died, and my wife soon
followed them. I returned from a debauch which had lasted me for about a
month to find that I was alone in the world. I fled from the town where
we had lived, came here and tried to reform. I could not. I fell sick
and they sent me here to the Poorhouse. I have had no ambition to leave.
I knew if I did it would mean the same old life. I am glad you came. I
cannot tell you how glad. I do not wish for any assistance; the town
will care for me as long as I live, which will not be very long; but
your coming enables me to perform an act of justice which otherwise I
could not have done."
"Tell me in what way I can serve you," said Quincy, "and it shall be
done."
"Look outside of the door," said the man, "and see if anybody is
listening."
Quincy opened the door suddenly and the broad face of Mr. Asa Waters
stood revealed.
"I thought I would come up and see if Mr. Sawyer wanted anything."
"If he does," said Quincy, "I will inform you;" and he closed the door
in Mr. Waters's face.
Quincy waited till he heard his ponderous footsteps descending the
stairs at the foot of the hallway.
"Was old Waters out there listening?" asked Jim Sawyer.
"I don't think he had time to hear anything," Quincy replied.
"Come closer," said Jim; "let me whisper. I am not penniless. I have got
some money. I have five thousand dollars in government bonds. I sold
some stock I owned just before I went off on that last debauch, but I
didn't spend all the money. When I die I want you to pay back to the
town of Eastborough every dollar I owe for board. Don't let anybody know
you got the money from me. Pay it yourself and keep the balance of it
yourself."
"Where is the money?" said Quincy.
"It is down in my old room, No. 24, one flight down from here, at the
other end of the hallway. I have got a key that will open the door. I
made it myself. I nearly got in there the other day, but they caught me
before I had a chance to open the door. If you can get in there take up
the fourth brick from the window, second row from the front of the
fireplace, and you will find the bonds in an old leather wallet. What
time is it?" he asked quickly.
"Half-past eleven," replied Quincy.
"Now is your time," said the man; "all the hands have their dinner from
half-past eleven to twelve; at twelve they feed us; take this key, and
if you get the money, for God's sake come around to-morrow and let me
know. I sha'n't sleep a wink till I hear from you."
Quincy pressed the sick man's hand and left the room. He went downstairs
on tiptoe and quickly reached room No. 24. He listened; all was quiet;
it took but an instant to open the door, and, slipping quietly in, he
locked it after him. With some difficulty he found the wallet, looked
inside and saw five one thousand dollar United States bonds. He put the
wallet in his pocket, replaced the brick, and listened at the door; all
was quiet. He unlocked it, slipped out, locked it, and was retracing his
steps, when he saw Sam coming upstairs at the other end of the hallway.
"I think I took the wrong turn," said Quincy. "I thought I came up that
way."
"No," said Sam; "that's the back way."
"Thank you," said Quincy, as he ran lightly downstairs. At the foot he
met Mr. Waters.
"Well, is he any relative of yours?" asked Waters.
"I don't know yet," replied Quincy; "he has given me some facts, and I
am going to write to Boston, and when I hear from there I will be able
to answer your question. I will come around in a few days, as soon as I
hear from the city."
Quincy jumped into his team and drove to Eastborough Centre post office
to see if there were any letters for him.
When he reached the post office he found a letter from his father,
informing him his mother and sisters were going to New York for a two
weeks' visit and would very much like to see him if he would run up the
next day.
Quincy's mind was made up instantly. He drove to the hotel, left the
team, with instructions to have it ready for him when he came down on
the express that reached Eastborough Centre at 7.15 P.M., ran for the
station and caught on to the back platform of the last car as it sped on
its way to Boston.
Arriving there, he first took a hasty lunch, then hiring a coupe by the
hour, drove to his bank on State Street. Here he left the bonds with
instructions to write to Eastborough Centre the amount realized from
them and passed to the credit of his account.
His next trip was to his father's house on Beacon Street, where he found
his mother and sisters. They were overjoyed to see him, and his younger
sister declared that he had grown better looking since he went away. She
wanted to know if he had fallen in love with a country girl. Quincy
replied that his heart was still free and if it wasn't for the law he
would have her for his wife, and no one else. Maude laughed and slapped
him.
He next rode to his father's office on Court Street. The Hon. Nathaniel
had just lunched at Parker's and was enjoying a good cigar when his son
came in.
Quincy told him that the Jim Sawyer at Eastborough Poorhouse was
unquestionably their missing relative.
"Poor Jim," said Nathaniel; "I ought to go and see him."
"No; I wouldn't," said Quincy, "it will do no good, and his remorse is
deep enough now without adding to it."
He then told his father about the money, and the latter agreed that
Jim's idea was right and Quincy had best use the money as though it were
his own.
"By the by," said his father, wheeling round in his office chair, "that
Miss Putnam from Eastborough is a very pretty girl; don't you think so,
Quincy?"
"Handsome is as handsome does," thought Quincy to himself, but he only
said, "Where did you see her?"
"She was in here to-day," replied his father. "She said she had $25,000
to invest, and that you gave her the address of some broker, but that
she had forgotten it."
"Her statement is partially true," said Quincy, "but not complete. I
gave her three addresses, because I did not wish to recommend any
particular one. I wished her to make her own choice."
"I was not so conservative," remarked his father. "I advised her to go
to Foss & Follansbee and even suggested that Quinnebaug Copper Company
was one of the most promising investments before the public to-day."
"Did she confide in you any farther," said Quincy.
"Oh, yes," replied his father; "I gleaned she was worth $100,000 and
that her parents, who were very old people, had nearly as much more. I
remember her brother, J. Jones Putnam. He was a 'plunger,' and a
successful one. He died suddenly of lung fever, I believe."
Quincy smiled.
"She seemed to be well educated," his father continued, "and told me
that you and she sang together at a concert."
"Did she tell you what her father's religion was?" inquired Quincy.
"You don't seem to admire this young lady, Quincy. I thought she would
be likely to be a great friend of yours. You might do worse than--"
"I know," said Quincy, "she is pretty, well educated, musical, very
tasteful in dress, and has money, but she can't have me. But how did it
end?" asked he; "how did you get rid of her?"
"Well," replied his father, "as I said before, I thought she must be a
great friend of yours, and perhaps more, so I went down to Foss &
Follansbee's with her; then we went to Parker's to lunch, then I sent
her to the station in a coupe."
"I am greatly obliged to you, father," said Quincy, "for the kind
attentions you paid her. I shall get the full credit of them down in
Eastborough; your name will not be mentioned; only," said Quincy with a
laugh, "if she is coming to the city very often I think perhaps I had
better come back to Boston and look after mother's interests."
The Hon. Nathaniel was nettled by this and said sternly, "I do not like
that sort of pleasantry, Quincy."
"Neither do I," said Quincy coolly, "and I hope there will be no further
occasion for it."
"How long do you intend to remain in Eastborough?" asked his father.
"I don't know," replied Quincy. "I can't come home while Uncle Jim is
sick, of course. I will ask him if he would like to see you, and if he
says yes, I will telegraph you. Well, good-by. I was up to the house and
saw mother and the girls. I am going up to the club to see if I can meet
some of the boys and have some dinner, and I shall go down on the 6.05
express."
Quincy lighted a cigar, shook hands rather stiffly with his father and
left the office.
When Quincy reached the Pettengill house it was a little after eight
o'clock. Hiram came out to help him put up the horse. "Anybody up?"
asked Quincy.
"Only Mandy and me," said Hiram. "Uncle Ike is up in his attic, and
'Zeke is up talkin' to his sister, and Mandy and me has been talkin' to
each other; and, say, Mr. Sawyer, did you meet Lindy Putnam up in Boston
to-day?"
"No," said Quincy between his shut teeth.
"Well, that's funny," said Hiram; "I heard Abner Stiles telling Strout
as how Miss Putnam told him that Mr. Sawyer had been to the banker's
with her to invest her money, and that Mr. Sawyer took her out to lunch
and then rode down to the station in a carriage and put her aboard the
train."
"There are a great many Mr. Sawyers in Boston, you must remember,
Hiram," remarked Quincy. "Anything else, Hiram?"
"Well, not much more," replied Hiram; "but Strout said that if you got
Lindy and her money and then cajoled the old couple into leavin' their
money to you, that it would be the best game of bunco that had ever been
played in Eastborough."
"Well, Strout ought to know what a good bunco game is," said Quincy.
"Have the horse ready by nine o'clock in the morning if you can get
over. Good night, Hiram," he said.
He passed through the kitchen, saying good night to Mandy, and went
straight to his own room. He sat and thought for an hour, going over the
events of the day.
"As soon as Uncle Jim is dead and buried," said he to himself, "I think
I will leave this town. As the children say when they play 'hide and go
seek,' I am getting warm."