So the winter wore away.... And as spring drew nigh upon our valley,
Duncan seemed to grow perturbed, even as he had been in the autumn
before Betty went away. He was pondering another scheme for the
betterment of the condition of those he cared for, and gave it ample
consideration before he broached it to old Sam, after swearing him to
secrecy.
He had to propose nothing more or less than an abandonment of the old
Graham housekeeping quarters above the store and a removal of the
_menage_ bodily to a vacant house on Beech Street, near the store,
which could be rented, partly furnished, at a moderate rate.
To begin with (thus ran his argument) the store itself was growing too
small for the volume of business it commanded. More room was needed,
both for storage and laboratory purposes, to say nothing of
accommodation for Sam's models and work-bench. The latter had already
been moved upstairs for the winter, the shed in the backyard being too
cold to work in; and the laboratory end of the business was growing at
such a rate that it was crowding the prescription counter to the
wall--so to speak. You see, there really wasn't a more clever
analytical chemist in the northern part of the State than Sam Graham,
and now that the drug-store was becoming an influence in the
neighbourhood he was receiving commissions from physicians operating in
districts as far as fifty miles away. So a room was needed for that
branch of the business alone.
Moreover, a separate residence distinctly befitted the dignity of a
man who was at once a prominent inventor and one of Radville's leading
merchants (vide a "Personal" in the late issue of the Radville
_Citizen_), to say nothing of the social position of his
daughter--meaning Betty. And the house Duncan had his metaphorical eye
upon was large enough to shelter Nat himself in addition to the Graham
family. Thus they might pool their living expenses to the economical
advantage of each.
Finally, it would be a great and glad surprise for Betty on her
homecoming.
Graham fell in with the scheme without a murmur of dubiety or dissent.
Whatever Nat proposed in Sam's understanding was right and feasible;
and even if it wasn't really so, Nat would make it so.... They engaged
the house and moved. Miss Ann Sophronsiba Whitmarsh, a maiden lady of
forty-five or thereabouts, popularly known as "Phrony," had been coming
in by the day to "do for" old Sam in the rooms above the shop. She was
engaged as resident housekeeper for the new establishment, and entered
upon her duties with all the discreet joy of one whose maternal
instincts have been suppressed throughout her life. She mothered Sam
and she mothered Nat and she panted in expectation of the day when she
would have Betty to mother. Incidentally, she was one of the best
housekeepers in Radville, and cooperated with all her heart with Nat
in the task of making a home out of the new house. They arranged and
disarranged and rearranged and discarded old furniture and bought new
with almost the abandon of a newly married couple fitting out their
first home.... It was surprising what they managed to accomplish with
it; when they were finished, there wasn't a prettier nor a more
home-like residence in all Radville--and Phrony Whitmarsh was Nat's
slave, even as Miss Carpenter had been. She gave him all the credit for
everything praiseworthy about the place: and with some reason; for, as
a matter of fact, he had spared himself not at all in the business of
scheming and contriving to make the new home suitable for the
reception of Betty Graham....
It's interesting when one has come to my time of life, to sit and
speculate on the singular mental blindness of mortal man, such as that
which kept Nat unaware of the real, rock-bottom reason why he was
working so hard on the Beech Street house. I daresay the young idiot
thought his motives as much selfish as anything else--told himself that
he wanted a comfortable home--and this was his way of securing one--and
all that rot. At all events, he told me as much, quite seriously--
seemed to believe it himself; and this, in spite of the fact that Miss
Carpenter had done everything imaginable to make him comfortable....
Josie Lockwood came home again for the Easter holidays, but didn't
return to finish her term in the New York school. Just why, we never
discovered: the Lockwoods furnished us with no really satisfying
explanation; they said that Josie didn't like New York, but I've always
doubted that, especially since Josie married and insisted on moving
straightway to that metropolis. I suspect she didn't get along with
the class of young women with whom she was thrown at school, and I'm
pretty certain she was uneasy about Nat all the time she was so far
away from him. Anyway, she elected to remain in Radville and keep the
young man dancing attendance on her day in and out. Which he did, as in
duty bound; he liked the game less and less all the time, but Kellogg
held his promise....
It was during this period, between the Easter vacation and the end of
the spring school term, that Roland Barnette's animosity toward Duncan
became virulent. Looking back, I can recall the symptoms of his waxing
hostility--as, for instance, the evening he spent in the
_Citizen_ office, poring over back files of our exchanges. That
seemed innocent enough at the time, a harmless freak on the part of the
young man, and no one paid much attention to it; but it led to great
things, in the end, and incidentally did Duncan a service which
probably could have been accomplished through no other agency. This,
however, is something that Roland doesn't realise to this day; and I'm
inclined to doubt if you could ever make him understand it.
Josie, of course, was prompt to oust Angie Tuthill from her place in
the choir. After that she sang with Nat on Friday nights as well as
Wednesdays and twice per Sunday. Between whiles she was a pretty
constant patron of the store. There was no longer the least doubt in
the collective mind of the town as to the inclination of Josie's
affections. Nat himself gave evidence of his appreciation of the
gravity of the situation, managing by some admirable diplomacy to evade
the issue until the very last moment. But with the three--Roland, Nat,
and Josie--so involved, we sensed a storm below the horizon, and
awaited its breaking, if not with avidity, at least with quickened
apprehension.
The culmination came the day before Betty was to return--a day late in
May, I remember, and a Friday at that.
It began along toward evening. Duncan, alone in the store, was busy
behind the prescription counter. The day had been humid, warm and
sultry, and the doors and windows were open. The air was bland and
still, and sound travelled easily. He could hear the musical clanking
of hammers in Badger's smithy, on the next block, the deep-throated
_hoot-toot_ of the late afternoon train as it rushed down the
valley, sounds of fierce altercation from the home of Pete Willing near
by, a boy rattling a stick along palings down on Main Street.... But he
did not hear anybody enter the store: absorbed with his task, he
thought himself quite alone until a well-kenned voice reached his ear.
"Well!" it said, unctuous with appreciation of the sight of him.
"_Old_ Doctor Duncan!"
He let the pestle fall from his hand and jumped as if he had been stuck
with a pin. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. "Great Scott!" he
cried; and in a twinkling was round the counter, throwing himself into
the arms of a man whom he hailed ecstatically: "Harry, by all that's
wonderful!" He fairly danced with delight. "Henry Kellogg, Esquire!"
he cried, holding him at arms' length and looking him over. "What in
thunderation are you doing here?"
Kellogg freed himself, only to seize both Nat's hands and squeeze them
violently. "Wanted to see you," he replied, beaming. "On my way to
Cincinnati on business--thought I'd drop off for a night and size you
up. My, but it's good to get a look at you! How are you?"
"Me? Look at me--picture of health. Harry, you've made a new man of
me." Duncan pranced round his friend in a mild frenzy. "No booze--no
smokes--no swears--work! I feel like a two-year-old: I could do a
Marathon without turning a hair. Watch me kick up my heels and neigh!"
He paused for breath. "And you?"
"Fine as silk--but you've got it on me, Nat, physically. You're a sight
to heal the blind."
"And listen!" Nat crowed: "I'm a business man. Didn't you believe it?
Pipe my shop!"
Kellogg checked to obey the admonition of Duncan's gesticulations, and
took a long look round the store. "Gad!" said he. "I'm blowed if it
isn't true! It _was_ hard to credit your letters. But it's great,
old man. I congratulate you, with all my heart."
"Just wait and I'll tell you all about it. But first tell me how long
you're going to be here."
"Well, I plan to hang around with you a couple of days. My business in
the West isn't pressing."
"Good!"
"Which is the least worst hotel?"
"There ain't no such thing in the whole giddy town.... No, none of that
hotel stuff, now I I'm going to put you up--and I'll do it in style,
too. I wrote you about taking a new place for the Grahams?"
"Yes, and I'm mighty keen to meet 'em. The girl here?"
"Betty? No; she's coming home to-morrow. But Graham himself is upstairs
in the laboratory. Take you up in a minute, but not before I've had a
good look at you."
Kellogg found himself a chair. "Well," he inquired, twinkling, "how's
the scheme working out? Are you really living up to all the rules?"
"Every singletary one."
"You have got a strong constitution.... Even prayer-meetings?"
"The church thing? Honest, Harry, I _own_
it."
"Bully for you, Nat. But how does it work? Was I right?"
"I should say you were. It's so easy it's a shame to do it. If this
thing ever should get into the papers there'd be a swarm of city men
lighting out for the Rube centres so thick you wouldn't be able to see
the sky."
"I knew it! Trust your Uncle Harry." Kellogg waited a time for further
particulars, but Duncan seemed stuck; his transports of the few
minutes just gone were sensibly abated; and the sidelong look he gave
Kellogg was both uneasy and rueful--apprehensive, indeed. So Kellogg
had to pump for news. "And you've made a strong play for the fond
affections of Lockwood's daughter?"
"Certainly not!"
"Not--?"
"You forget your rules." Nat grinned, whimsical. "I let her to make a
play for me."
"Of course. My mistake.... But how has it worked?"
"Oh! immense." Duncan's tone, however, was wholly destitute of
enthusiasm. He stuck his hands in his trousers' pockets and half turned
away from his friend, looking out of the window.