A WET DAY.
When Quincy alighted from the train at Eastborough Centre, after
attending his uncle's funeral, he found the rain descending in torrents.
He hired a closed carriage and was driven to Mason's Corner, arriving
there about ten o'clock. He had taken his breakfast in Boston.
When he reached the Pettengill house he saw Hiram standing at the barn
door. Bidding the driver stop, he got out and paid his score; he then
took Hiram by the arm and led him into the barn. When he had primed the
latter with a good cigar, he said, "Now, Hiram, I've been away several
days and I want to know what has been going on. You know our agreement
was that you should tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I
don't want you to spare my feelings nor anybody else's. Do you
understand?" said he to Hiram. Hiram nodded. "Then go ahead," said
Quincy.
"Well, first," said Hiram, puffing his cigar with evident satisfaction,
"they got hold of the point that Miss Huldy drove back alone from
Eastborough Centre. Abner Stiles took Lindy Putnam down to the station
and she went to Boston on the same train that you did. Abner tried to
catch up with Huldy, so he could quiz her, but she whipped up her horse
and got away from him."
"Smart girl!" interjected Quincy.
"You can just bet," said Hiram, "there ain't a smarter one in this town,
though, of course, I think Mandy is pretty smart, too."
"Mandy's all right," said Quincy; "go ahead."
"Well, secondly, as the ministers say," continued Hiram, "Lindy Putnam
told Abner when he drove her home from the station that night that the
copper company that Mr. Sawyer told her to put her money in had busted,
and she'd lost lots of money. That's gone all over Mason's Corner, and
if Abner told Asa Waters, it's all over Eastborough Centre by this
time."
"The whole thing is a lie," said Quincy hotly; "the stock did go down,
but my father told me yesterday it had rallied and would soon advance
from five to ten points. What's the next confounded yarn?"
"Well, thirdly," continued Hiram, "of course everybody knows Jim Sawyer
was your uncle, and somebody said--you can guess who--that it would look
better if you would pay up his back board instead of spending so much
money on a fancy funeral and cheating the town undertaker out of a job."
"I paid him for all that he did," said Quincy.
"Yes," said Hiram, "but this is how it is. You see the undertaker makes
a contract with the town to bury all the paupers who die during the year
for so much money. They averaged it up and found that about three died a
year, so the town pays the undertaker on that calculation; but this
year, you see, only two have died, and there ain't another one likely to
die before town meeting day, which comes the first Monday in March, so,
you see the undertaker gets paid for buryin' your uncle, though he
didn't do it, and some one says--you can guess who--that he is going to
bring the matter up in town meeting."
Quincy smothered an exclamation and bit savagely into his cigar.
"Anything else?" inquired he. "Have they abused the ladies as well as
me?"
"No," said Hiram; "you see somebody--you know who--is giving Huldy music
lessons and he will keep quiet about her anyway; but he says he can't
understand how 'Zeke Pettengill can let you board in his house and go
out riding with Huldy, unless things is up between 'Zeke and Huldy."
"Well, I guess that's about the size of it," said Quincy. "Now, for
instance, Hiram, you and Mandy are good friends, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Hiram, "after we get over our little difficulties we are."
"Well," said Quincy, "I happen to know that 'Zekiel and Huldy have got
over their little difficulties and they are now good friends."
"Been't they going to get married?" asked Hiram.
"Are you and Mandy going to get married?" asked Quincy.
"Well, we haven't got so far along as to set the day exactly," said
Hiram.
"And I don't believe 'Zekiel and Huldy will get married any sooner than
you and Mandy will," remarked Quincy. "But don't say a word about this,
Hiram."
"Mum's the word," replied Hiram. "I am no speaker, but I hear a thing or
two."
"Now, Hiram," said Quincy, "run in and tell Mandy I'll be in to lunch as
usual, and then come back, for I have something more to say to you."
Hiram did as directed, and Quincy sat and thought the situation over. So
far he had been patient and he had borne the slings and arrows hurled at
him without making any return. The time had come to change all that, and
from now on he would take up arms in his own defence, and even attack
his opponents.
When he had reached this conclusion, Hiram reappeared and resumed his
seat on the chopping block.
Quincy asked, "In what regiment did the singing-master go to war?"
"The same one as I did,--th Mass.," replied Hiram.
"Did you go to war?" inquired Quincy.
"Well, I rather guess," said Hiram. "I went out as a bugler; he was a
corporal, but he got detailed for hospital duty, and we left him behind
before we got where there was any fightin'."
"Was he ever wounded in battle?" asked Quincy.
"One of the sick fellers in the hospital gave him a lickin' one day, but
I don't suppose you'd call that a battle," remarked Hiram.
"Well, how about that rigmarole he got off down to the grocery store
that morning?" Quincy interrogated.
"Oh, that was all poppycock," said Hiram. "He said that just to get even
with you, when you were telling about your grandfathers and
grandmothers."
Quincy laughed.
"Oh, I see," said he. "Were you ever wounded in battle, Hiram?"
"Well, I was shot onct, but not with a bullet."
"What was it," said Quincy, "a cannon ball?"
"No," said Hiram. "I never was so thunderin' mad in my life. When I go
to regimental reunions the boys just joke the life out of me. You see I
was blowin' my bugle for a charge, and the boys were goin' ahead in
great style, when a shell struck a fence about twenty feet off. The
shell didn't hit me, but a piece of that darned fence came whizzin'
along and struck me where I eat, and I had a dozen stummick aches inside
o' half a minute. I just dropped my bugle and clapped my hands on my
stummick and yelled so loud that the boys told me afterwards that they
were afraid I had busted my bugle."
Quincy laid back in his chair and laughed heartily.
"What do the boys say to you when you go to the reunions?" he asked.
"They tell me to take a little whiskey for my stummick's sake," said
Hiram, "and some of them advise me to put on a plaster, and, darn 'em,
they always take me and toss me in a blanket every time I go, and onct
they made me a present of a bottleful of milk with a piece of rubber
hose on top of it. They said it would be good for me, but I chucked it
at the feller's head, darn him."
Quincy had another good laugh. Then he resumed his usual grave
expression and asked, "What town offices does the singing-master hold?"
"Well," said Hiram, "he is fence viewer and hog reeve and pound keeper,
but the only thing he gets much money out of is tax collector. He gets
two per cent on about thirty thousand dollars, which gives him about ten
dollars a week on an average, 'cause he don't get no pay if he don't
collect."
"Did he get a big vote for the place?" asked Quincy.
"No," said Hiram "he just got in by the skin of his teeth; he had last
town meetin' two more votes than Wallace Stackpole, and Wallace would
have got it anyhow if it hadn't been for an unfortunate accident."
"How was that?" asked Quincy.
"Well, you see," said Hiram, "two or three days before town meetin'
Wallace went up to Boston. He got an oyster stew for dinner, and it made
him kinder sick, and some one gave him a drink of brandy, and I guess
they gave him a pretty good dose, for when he got to Eastborough Centre
they had to help him off the train, 'cause his legs were kinder weak.
Well, 'Bias Smith, who lives over to West Eastborough, he is the best
talker we've got in town meetin'. He took up the cudgels for Wallace,
and he just lammed into those mean cusses who'd go back on a man 'cause
he was sick and took a little too much medicine. But Abner Stiles,--you
know Abner,--well, he's the next best talker to 'Bias Smith,--he stood
up and said he didn't think it was safe to trust the town's money to a
man who couldn't go to Boston and come home sober, and that pulled over
some of the fellers who'd agreed to vote for Wallace."
"Has the tax collector performed his duties satisfactorily?" asked
Quincy.
"Well," said Hiram, "Wallace Stackpole told me the other day that he
hadn't got in more than two-thirds of last year's taxes. He said the
selectmen had to borrow money and there'd be a row at the next town
meetin'."
"Well," said Quincy, rising, "I think I will go in and get ready for
lunch. I had a very early breakfast in Boston."
"Did you have oyster stew?" asked Hiram.
"No," replied Quincy, "people who live in Boston never eat oyster stews
at a restaurant. If they did there wouldn't be enough left for those
gentlemen who come from the country."
He opened the door and Hiram grasped his arm.
"By Gosh! I forgot one thing," he cried. "You remember Tilly James, that
played the pianner at the concert?"
"Yes," said Quincy, "and she was a fine player, too."
"Well," said Hiram, "she's engaged to Sam Hill, you know, down to the
grocery store. That ain't all, old Ben James, her father, he's a
paralytic, you know, and pretty well fixed for this world's goods, and
he wants Benoni to sell out his grocery when Tilly gets married and come
over and run the farm, which is the biggest one in the town, and I heerd
Abner Stiles say to 'Manuel Howe, that he reckoned he--you know who I
mean--would get some fellers to back him up and he'd buy out the grocery
and get 'p'inted postmaster. I guess that's all;" and Hiram started off
towards Deacon Mason's.
Quincy went to his room and prepared for the noonday meal. While doing
so he mentally resolved that the singing-master would not be the next
tax collector if he could prevent it; he also resolved that the same
party would not get the grocery store, if he had money enough to outbid
him; and lastly he felt sure that he had influence enough to prevent his
being appointed postmaster.
Quincy met Ezekiel at lunch. He told Quincy that everything was working
smoothly; that the singing-master evidently thought he had the field all
to himself. He said Huldy and Alice were old friends, and Huldy was
coming over twice a week to see Alice, and so he shouldn't go up to
Deacon Mason's very often.
"Where is Miss Pettengill?" said Quincy.
"Well," replied Ezekiel, "she isn't used to heavy dinners at noon, so
she had a lunch up in her room. I am going over to West Eastborough this
afternoon with the boys to see some cows that 'Bias Smith has got to
sell. The sun is coming out and I guess it will be pleasant the rest of
the day."
"'Bias Smith?" asked Quincy.
"His name is Tobias," said Ezekiel, "but everybody calls him 'Bias."
"I have heard of him," said Quincy. "You just mention my name to him,
Mr. Pettengill, and say I am coming over some day with Mr. Stackpole to
see him."
'Zekiel smiled. "Going to take a hand yourself?" asked he.
"Yes," said Quincy, "the other fellow has been playing tricks with the
pack so long that I think I shall throw down a card or two myself, and I
may trump his next lead."
"By the way," said 'Zekiel, "while you were away Uncle Ike had our piano
tuned and fixed up. It hasn't been played since Alice went to Boston
five years ago. But the tuner who came from Boston said it was just as
good as ever. So if you hear any noise underneath you this afternoon you
will know what it means."
"Music never troubles me," said Quincy, "I play and sing myself."
"Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good time with the piano,"
remarked 'Zekiel as he left the room.
Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to a friend in Boston,
asking him to get a certified copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout,
Corporal --th Mass. Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre
as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its
destination.
He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the
details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had
disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of
the piano fell upon his ear.
She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that
art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard
it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and
melodious, and it was in perfect tone.
He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left
the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or
he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah!
Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the
alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight
Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for
of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a
"valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown
composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the
first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope
she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular
songs," thought Quincy.
As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but
a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure,
sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach
and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.
Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened
it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.
Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English
soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie
Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining
in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter,
no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could
do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would
have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.
But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished. Alice played a
short prelude that seemed familiar to him, and then her voice rang out
the words of that beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam
at the singing-master's concert. Yes, it was Jewell's "Over the Bridge."
This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly down the stairs and looked
in at the parlor door, which was wide open. Alice was seated at the
piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward course, shone in at
the window, and lighted up her crown of golden hair. This time she had
reversed the colors which she evidently knew became her so well, and
wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue knitted shawl, similar to
its pink companion, lay upon the chair beside her.
When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to control himself any
further, but joined in with her, and they sang the piece together to the
end.
Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door and clapped her hands.
"That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn't know that you sang so well. In
fact, I didn't know that you sang at all."
"How did you know it was I?" said Quincy, as he advanced towards her.
"It is a little cool here, Miss Pettengill. Allow me to place your shawl
about you;" and, suiting the action to the word, he put it gently over
her shoulders.
"Yes," said Alice, "I put it on when I first came down. It interfered
with my playing and I threw it into the chair."
"May I take the chair, now that it is unoccupied?" he asked.
"Yes," said Alice, "if you will give me your word of honor that you did
not try to make me think it was cold: here, so that you could get the
chair."
Quincy replied with a laugh, "If I did my reward is a great return for
my power of invention, but I assure you I was thinking of your health
and not of the chair, when I tendered my services."
"You are an adept in sweet speeches, Mr. Sawyer. You city young men all
are; but our country youth, who are just as true and honest, are at a
great disadvantage, because they cannot say what they think in so
pleasing a way."
"I hope you do not think I am insincere," remarked Quincy, gravely.
"Not at all," said Alice, "but I have not answered your question. How
did I know that it was you? You must remember, Mr. Sawyer, that those
who cannot see have their hearing accentuated, and the ear kindly sends
those pictures to the brain which unfortunately the eye cannot supply."
"I have enjoyed your playing and singing immensely," said Quincy. "Let
us try that duet again."
They sang it again, and then they went from piece to piece, each
suggesting her or his favorite, and it was not till Mandy's shrill voice
once more called out with more than usual force and sharpness, "Supper's
ready," that the piano was closed and Quincy, for the first time taking
Alice's hand in his, led her from the parlor, which was almost shrouded
in darkness, into the bright light of the dining-room, where they took
their accustomed seats. They ate but little, their hearts were full of
the melody that each had enjoyed so much.