That first week Sidney Trove went to board at the home of "the two
old maids," a stone house on Jericho Road, with a front door
rusting on idle hinges and blinds ever drawn. It was a hundred
feet or more from the highway, and in summer there were flowers
along the path from its little gate and vines climbing to the upper
windows. In winter its garden was buried deep under the snow. One
family--the Vaughns--came once in awhile to see "the two old
maids." Few others ever saw them save from afar. A dressmaker
came once a year and made gowns for them, that were carefully hung
in closets but never worn. To many of their neighbours they were
as dead as if they had been long in their graves. Tales of their
economy, of their odd habits, of their past, went over hill and
dale to far places. They had never boarded the teacher and were
put in a panic when the trustee came to speak of it.
"He's a grand young man," said he; "good company--and you'll enjoy
it."
They looked soberly at each other. According to tradition, one was
fifty-four the other fifty-five years of age. An exclamation broke
from the lips of one. It sounded like the letter _y_ whispered
quickly.
"Y!" the other answered.
"It might make a match," said Mr. Blount, the trustee, smiling.
"Y! Samuel Blount!" said the younger one, coming near and smiting
him playfully on the elbow. "You stop!"
Miss Letitia began laughing silently. They never laughed aloud.
"If he didn't murder us," said Miss S'mantha, doubtfully.
"Nonsense," said the trustee; "I'll answer for him."
"Can't tell what men'll do," she persisted weakly. "When I was in
Albany with Alma Haskins, a man came 'long an' tried t' pass the
time o' day with us. We jes' looked t'other way an' didn't preten'
t' hear him. It's awful t' think what might 'a' happened."
She wiped invisible tears with an embroidered handkerchief. The
dear lady had spent a good part of her life thinking of that narrow
escape.
"If he wa'n't too partic'lar," said Miss Letitia, who had been
laughing at this maiden fear of her sister.
"If he would mind his business, we--we might take him for one
week," said Miss S'mantha. She glanced inquiringly at her sister.
Letitia and S'mantha Tower, "the two old maids," had but one near
relative--Ezra Tower, a brother of the same neighbourhood.
There were two kinds of people in Faraway,--those that Ezra Tower
spoke to and those he didn't. The latter were of the majority. As
a forswearer of communication he was unrivalled. His imagination
was a very slaughter-house, in which all who crossed him were
slain. If they were passing, he looked the other way and never
even saw them again. Since the probate of his father's will both
sisters were of the number never spoken to. He was a thin, tall,
sullen, dry, and dusty man. Dressed for church of a Sunday, he
looked as if he had been stored a year in some neglected cellar.
His broadcloth had a dingy aspect, his hair and beard and eyebrows
the hue of a cobweb. He had a voice slow and rusty, a look arid
and unfruitful. Indeed, it seemed as if the fires of hate and envy
had burned him out.
The two old maids, feeling the disgrace of it and fearing more,
ceased to visit their neighbours or even to pass their own gate.
Poor Miss S'mantha fell into the deadly mire of hypochondria. She
often thought herself very ill and sent abroad for every medicine
advertised in the county paper. She had ever a faint look and a
thin, sickly voice. She had the man-fear,--a deep distrust of
men,--never ceasing to be on her guard. In girlhood, she had been
to Albany, Its splendour and the reckless conduct of one Alma
Haskins, companion of her travels, had been ever since a day-long
perennial topic of her conversation. Miss Letitia was more
amiable. She had a playful, cheery heart in her, a mincing and
precise manner, and a sweet voice. What with the cleaning,
dusting, and preserving, they were ever busy. A fly, driven hither
and thither, fell of exhaustion if not disabled with a broom. They
were two weeks getting ready for the teacher. When, at last, he
came that afternoon, supper was ready and they were nearly worn out.
"Here he is!" one whispered suddenly from a window. Then, with a
last poke at her hair, Miss Letitia admitted the teacher. They
spoke their greeting in a half whisper and stood near, waiting
timidly for his coat and cap.
"No, thank you," said he, taking them to a nail. "I can do my own
hanging, as the man said when he committed suicide."
Miss S'mantha looked suspicious and walked to the other side of the
stove. Impressed by the silence of the room, much exaggerated by
the ticking of the clock, Sidney Trove sat a moment looking around
him. Daylight had begun to grow dim. The table, with its cover
of white linen, was a thing to give one joy. A ruby tower of
jelly, a snowy summit of frosted cake, a red pond of preserved
berries, a mound of chicken pie, and a corduroy marsh of mince,
steaming volcanoes of new biscuit, and a great heap of apple
fritters, lay in a setting of blue china. They stood a moment by
the stove,--the two sisters,--both trembling in this unusual
publicity. Miss Letitia had her hand upon the teapot.
"Our tea is ready," said she, presently, advancing to the table.
She spoke in a low, gentle tone.
"This is grand!" said he, sitting down with them. "I tell you,
we'll have fun before I leave here."
They looked up at him and then at each other, Letitia laughing
silently, S'mantha suspicious. For many years fun had been a thing
far from their thought.
"Play checkers?" he inquired.
"Afraid we couldn't," said Miss Letitia, answering for both.
"Old Sledge?"
She shook her head, smiling.
"I don't wish to lead you into recklessness," the teacher remarked,
"but I'm sure you wouldn't mind being happy."
Miss S'mantha had a startled look.
"In--in a--proper way," he added. "Let's be joyful. Perhaps we
could play 'I spy.'"
"Y!" they both exclaimed, laughing silently.
"Never ate chicken pie like that," he added in all sincerity. "If
I were a poet, I'd indite an ode 'written after eating some of the
excellent chicken pie of the Misses Tower.' I'm going to have some
like it on my farm."
In reaching to help himself he touched the teapot, withdrawing his
hand quickly.
"Burn ye?" said Miss S'mantha.
"Yes; but I like it!" said he, a bit embarrassed. "I often go
and--and put my hand on a hot teapot if I'm having too much fun."
They looked up at him, puzzled.
"Ever slide down hill?" he inquired, looking from one to the other,
after a bit of silence.
"Oh, not since we were little!" said Miss Letitia, holding her
biscuit daintily, after taking a bite none too big for a bird to
manage.
"Good fun!" said be. "Whisk you back to childhood in a jiffy.
Folks ought to slide down hill more'n they do. It isn't a good
idea to be always climbing."
"'Fraid we couldn't stan' it," said Miss S'mantha, tentatively.
Under all her man-fear and suspicion lay a furtive recklessness.
"Y, no!" the other whispered, laughing silently.
The pervading silence of that house came flooding in between
sentences. For a moment Trove could hear only the gurgle of
pouring tea and the faint rattle of china softly handled. When he
felt as if the silence were drowning him, he began again:--
"Life is nothing but a school. I'm a teacher, and I deal in rules.
If you want to kill misery, load your gun with pleasure."
"Do you know of anything for indigestion?" said Miss S'mantha,
charging her sickly voice with a firmness calculated to discourage
any undue familiarity.
"Just the thing--a sure cure!" said he, emphatically.
"Come high?" she inquired.
"No, it's cheap and plenty."
"Where do you send?"
"Oh!" said he; "you will have to go after it."
"What is it called ?"
"Fun," said the teacher, quickly; "and the place to find it is out
of doors. It grows everywhere on my farm. I'd rather have a pair
of skates than all the medicine this side of China."
She set down her teacup and looked up at him. She was beginning to
think him a fairly safe and well-behaved man, although she would
have been more comfortable if he had been shut in a cage.
"If I had a pair o' skates," said she, faintly, with a look of
inquiry at her sister, "I dunno but I'd try 'em."
Miss Letitia began to laugh silently.
"I'd begin with overshoes," said the teacher, "A pair of overshoes
and a walk on the crust every morning before breakfast; increase
the dose gradually."
The two old maids were now more at ease with their guest. His
kindly manner and plentiful good spirits had begun to warm and
cheer them. Miss S'mantha even cherished a secret resolve to slide
if the chance came.
After tea Sidney Trove, against their protest, began to help with
the dishes. Miss S'mantha prudently managed to keep the stove
between him and her. A fire and candles were burning in the
parlour. He asked permission, however, to stay where he could talk
with them. Tunk Hosely, the man of all work, came in for his
supper. He was an odd character. Some, with a finger on their
foreheads, confided the opinion that he was "a little off." All
agreed he was no fool--in a tone that left it open to argument. He
had a small figure and a big squint. His perpetual squint and
bristly, short beard were a great injustice to him. They gave him
a look severer than he deserved. A limp and leaning shoulder
complete the inventory of external traits. Having eaten, he set a
candle in the old barn lantern.
"Wal, mister," said he, when all was ready, "come out an' look at
my hoss."
The teacher went with him out under a sky bright with stars to the
chill and gloomy stable.
"Look at me," said Tunk, holding up the lantern as he turned about.
"Gosh all fish-hooks! I'm a wreck."
"What's the matter?" Sidney Trove inquired.
"All sunk in--right here," Tunk answered impressively, his hand to
his chest.
"How did it happen?"
"Kicked by a boss; that's how it happened," was the significant
answer. "Lord! I'm all shucked over t' one side--can't ye see it?"
"A list t' sta'b'rd--that's what they call it, I believe," said the
teacher.
"See how I limp," Tunk went on, striding to show his pace. "Ain't
it awful!"
"How did that happen?"
"Sprung my ex!" he answered, turning quickly with a significant
look. "Thrown from a sulky in a hoss race an' sprung my ex. Lord!
can't ye see it?"
The teacher nodded, not knowing quite how to take him.
"Had my knee unsot, too," he went on, lifting his knee as he turned
the light upon it. "Jes' put yer finger there," said he,
indicating a slight protuberance. "Lord! it's big as a bog spavin."
He had planned to provoke a query, and it came.
"How did you get it?"
"Kicked ag'in," said Tunk, sadly. "Heavens! I've had my share o'
bangin'. Can't conquer a skittish hoss without sufferin' some--not
allwus. Now, here's a boss," he added, as they walked to a stall.
"He ain't much t' look at, but--"
He paused a moment as he neared the horse--a white and ancient
palfrey. He stood thoughtfully on "cocked ankles," every leg in a
bandage, tail and mane braided,
"Get ap, Prince," Tunk shouted, as he gave him a slap. Prince
moved aside, betraying evidence of age and infirmity.
"But--" Tunk repeated with emphasis.
"Ugly?" the teacher queried.
"Ugly!" said Tunk, as if the word were all too feeble for the fact
in hand. "Reg'lar hell on wheels!--that's what he is. Look out!
don't git too nigh him. He ain't no conscience--that hoss ain't."
"Is he fast?"
"Greased lightnin'!" said Tunk, shaking his head. "Won
twenty-seven races."
"You're a good deal of a horseman, I take it." said the teacher.
"Wal, some," said he, expectorating thoughtfully. "But I don't
have no chance here. What d'ye 'spect of a man livin,' with them
ol' maids ?"
He seemed to have more contempt than his words would carry.
"Every night they lock me upstairs," he continued with a look of
injury; "they ain't fit fer nobody t' live with. Ain't got no hoss
but that dummed ol' plug."
He had forgotten his enthusiasm of the preceding moment. His
intellect was a museum of freaks. Therein, Vanity was the
prodigious fat man, Memory the dwarf, and Veracity the living
skeleton. When Vanity rose to show himself, the others left the
stage.
Tunk's face had become suddenly thoughtful and morose. In truth,
he was an arrant and amusing humbug. It has been said that
children are all given to lying in some degree, but seeing the
folly of it in good time, if, indeed, they are not convinced of its
wickedness, train tongue and feeling into the way of truth. The
respect for truth that is the beginning of wisdom had not come to
Tunk. He continued to lie with the cheerful inconsistency of a
child. The' hero of his youth had been a certain driver of
trotting horses, who had a limp and a leaning shoulder. In Tunk,
the limp and the leaning shoulder were an attainment that had come
of no sudden wrench. Such is the power of example, he admired,
then imitated, and at last acquired them. One cannot help thinking
what graces of character and person a like persistency would have
brought to him. But Tunk had equipped himself with horsey heroism,
adorning it to his own fancy. He had never been kicked, he had
never driven a race or been hurled from a sulky at full speed.
Prince, that ancient palfrey, was the most harmless of all
creatures, and would long since have been put out of misery but for
the tender consideration of his owners. And Tunk--well, they used
to say of him, that if he had been truthful, he couldn't have been
alive.
"Sometime," Trove thought, "his folly may bring confusion upon wise
heads."