you are. Who could expect an agent to go over the roof like a cat, and
examine each shingle? Gracious! it's dropping here, too!"
Again I lighted the candle and moved the bed, but before I had time to
retire Sophronia complained that a stream was trickling down upon her
feet. The third time the bed was moved water dropped down upon _my_
pillow, and the room was too small to re-locate the bed so that none of
these unauthorized hydrants should moisten us. Then we tried our spare
chamber, but that was equally damp.
Suddenly I bethought myself of another war relic; and, hurrying to an
old trunk, extracted an india-rubber blanket. This, if we kept very
close together, kept the water out, but almost smothered us. We changed
our positions by sitting up, back to back, and dropping the rubber
blanket over our heads. By this arrangement the air was allowed to
circulate freely, and we had some possibilities of conversation left us;
but the effect of the weight of the blanket resting largely upon our
respective noses was somewhat depressing. Suddenly Sophronia remarked:
"Oh, Pierre! this reminds me of those stories you used to tell me, of
how you and all your earthly treasures used to hide under this blanket
from the rain!"
The remark afforded an opportunity for a very graceful reply, but four
hours elapsed before I saw it. Sophronia did not seem hurt by my
negligence, but almost instantly continued:
"It would be just like war, if there was only some shooting going on.
Can't you fire your revolver out of the window, Pierre?"
"I could," I replied, "if that blue-eyed agent was anywhere within
range."
"Why, Pierre, I think you're dreadfully unjust to that poor man. _He_
can't go sleeping around in all the rooms of each of his cottages every
time there's a rainstorm, to see if they leak. Besides--oh, Pierre! I've
a brilliant idea! It can't be wet down-stairs."
True. I was so engrossed by different plans of revenge, that I had not
thought of going into the parlor or dining-room to sleep. We moved to
the parlor; Sophronia took the lounge, while I found the floor a little
harder than I supposed an ex-soldier could ever find any plane surface.
It did not take me long, however, to learn that the parlor-floor was
_not_ a plane surface. It contained a great many small elevations which
kept me awake for the remainder of the night, wondering what they could
be. At early dawn I was as far from a satisfactory theory as ever, and I
hastily loosened one end of the carpet and looked under. The
protuberances were knots in the flooring boards. In the days when the
sturdy patriots of New Jersey despised such monarchical luxuries as
carpets, the soft portions of these boards had been slowly worn away,
but the knots--every one has heard the expression "as tough as a pine
knot." Fortunately, we had indulged in a frightfully expensive rug, and
upon this I sought and found a brief period of repose and forgetfulness.
While we were at the breakfast-table our girl appeared, with red eyes
and a hoarse voice, and remarked that now she _must_ leave; she had
learned to like us, and she loved the country, but she had an aged
parent whose sole support she was, and could not afford to risk her life
in such a house.
"Let her go," said Sophronia. "If variety is the spice of life, why
shouldn't the rule apply to servants?"
"Perhaps it does, my dear," I replied; "but if we have to pay each girl
a month's wages for two or three days of work, the spice will be more
costly than enjoyable--eh?"
Immediately after breakfast I sought the agent. I supposed he would meet
me with downcast eyes and averted head, but he did nothing of the kind;
he extended his hand cordially, and said he was delighted to see me.
"That roof," said I, getting promptly to business, "leaks--well, it's
simply a sieve. And you told me the house was dry."
"So the owner told _me_, sir; of course you can't expect us to inspect
the hundreds of houses we handle in a year."
"Well, however that may be, the owner is mistaken, and he must repair
the roof at once."
The agent looked thoughtful. "If you had wished the landlord to make
necessary repairs, you should have so stipulated in the lease. The lease
you have signed provides that all repairs shall be made at your own
expense."
"Did the landlord draw up the lease?" I asked, fixing my eye severely
upon the agent's liquid orbs. But the agent met my gaze with defiance
and an expression of injured dignity.
"I asked you whether you would have the usual form of lease," said the
agent, "and you replied, 'Certainly.'"
I abruptly left the agent's presence, went to a lumber yard near by, and
asked where I could find the best carpenter in town. He happened to be
on the ground purchasing some lumber, and to him I made known my
troubles, and begged him to hasten to my relief. The carpenter was a man
of great decision of character, and he replied promptly, ciphering on a
card in the meantime:
"No you don't. Every carpenter in town has tried his hand on that roof,
and made it worse than before. The only way to make it tight is to
re-shingle it all over. That'll cost you $67.50, unless the scantling is
too rotten to hold the nails, in which case the job'll cost you $18.75
more. I guess the rafters are strong enough to hold together a year or
two longer."
I made some excuse to escape the carpenter and his dreadful figures, and
he graciously accepted it; doubtless the perfect method in which he did
it was the result of frequent interviews with other wretched beings who
had leased the miserable house which I had taken into my confidence. I
determined to plead with the landlord, whose name I knew, and I asked a
chance acquaintance on the train if he knew where I could find the
proprietor of my house.
"Certainly," said he; "there he is in the opposite seat but one, reading
a religious weekly."
I looked; my heart sank within me, and my body sank into a seat. A
cold-eyed, hatchet-faced man, from whom not even the most eloquent
beggar could hope to coax a penny. Of what use would it be to try to
persuade him to spend sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents on something
which _I_ had agreed to take care of. _Something_ had to be done,
however, so I wasted most of the day in consulting New York roofers. The
conclusion of the whole matter was that I spent about thirty dollars for
condemned "flies" from "hospital" tents, and had these drawn tightly
over the roof. When this was done the appearance of the house was such
that I longed for an incendiary who would compel me to seek a new
residence; but when Sophronia gazed upon the roof she clapped her hands
joyfully, and exclaimed:
"Pierre, it will be _almost_ as nice as living in a tent, to have one on
the roof; it _looks_ just the same, you know, until your eyes get down
to the edge of it."
There was at least one comfort in living at Villa Valley: the people
were very intelligent and sociable, and we soon made many pleasant
acquaintances. But they all had something dreadful to suggest about our
house. A doctor, who was a remarkably fine fellow, said he would be glad
of my patronage, and didn't doubt that he would soon have it, unless I
had the cellar pumped out at once. Then Mrs. Blathe, the leader of
society in the village, told my wife how a couple who once lived in our
cottage always had chills, though no one else at Villa Valley had the
remotest idea of what a chill was. The several coal dealers in the
village competed in the most lively manner for our custom, and when I
mentioned the matter, in some surprise, to my grocer, he remarked that
_they_ knew what houses needed most coal to keep them warm the year
through, and worked for custom accordingly. A deacon, who was sociable
but solemn, remarked that some of his most sweetly mournful associations
clustered about our cottage--he had followed several of its occupants to
their long homes.
And yet, as the season advanced, and the air was too dry to admit of
dampness anywhere, and the Summer breezes blew in the windows and doors
whole clouds of perfume from the rank thickets of old-fashioned roses
which stood about the garden, we became sincerely attached to the little
cottage. Then heavy masses of honeysuckles and vines which were trained
against the house, grew dense and picturesque with foliage, and
Sophronia would enjoy hours of perfect ecstasy, sitting in an easy-chair
under the evergreens and gazing at the graceful outlines of the house
and its verdant ornaments.
But the cellar was obdurate. It was pumped dry several times, but no
pump could reach the inequalities in its floor, and in August there came
a crowd of mosquitoes from the water in these small holes. They covered
the ceilings and walls, they sat in every chair, they sang
accompaniments to all of Sophronia's songs, they breakfasted, dined, and
supped with us and upon us. Sophronia began to resemble a person in the
first stages of varioloid, yet that incomparable woman would sit between
sunset and dusk, looking, through nearly closed eyes, at the walls and
ceiling, and would remark:
"Pierre, when you look at the walls in this way, the mosquitoes give
them the effect of being papered with some of that exquisite new
Japanese wall-paper, with its quaint spots; don't you think so?"
Finally September came, and with it the equinoctial storm. We lay in bed
one night, the wind howling about us, and Sophronia rhapsodising,
through the medium of Longfellow's lines, about
"The storm-wind of the Equinox,"
when we heard a terrific crash, and then the sound of a falling body
which shook the whole house. Sophronia clasped me wildly and began to
pray; but I speedily disengaged myself, lighted a candle, and sought the
cause of our disturbance. I found it upon the hall-floor: it was the
front-door and its entire casing, both of which, with considerable
plaster, lathing, and rotten wood, had been torn from its place by the
fury of the storm.
In the morning I sought a printer, with a small but strong manuscript
which I had spent the small hours of the night in preparing. It bore
this title, "The House I Live In." The printer gave me the proof the
same day, and I showed it to the owner of the house the same evening,
remarking that I should mail a copy to every resident of Villa Valley,
and have one deposited in every Post Office box in New York City. The
owner offered to cancel my lease if I would give up my unkind intention,
and I consented. Then we hired a new cottage (_not_ from the agent with
the liquid blue eyes), and, before accepting it, I examined it as if it
were to be my residence to all eternity. Yet when all our household
goods were removed, and Sophronia and I took our final departure, the
gentle mistress of my home turned regretfully, burst into tears, and
sobbed:
"Oh, Pierre! in spite of everything, it _is_ a love of a cottage."
THE BLEIGHTON RIVALS.
The village of Bleighton contained as many affectionate young people as
any other place of its size, and was not without young ladies, for the
possession of whose hearts two or more young men strove against each
other. When, however, allusion was ever made to "the rivals" no one
doubted to whom the reference applied: it was always understood that the
young men mentioned were those two of Miss Florence Elserly's admirers
for whom Miss Elserly herself seemed to have more regard than she
manifested toward any one else.
There has always been some disagreement among the young ladies of
Bleighton as to Miss Elserly's exact rank among beauties, but there was
no possibility of doubt that Miss Elserly attracted more attention than
any other lady in the town, and that among her admirers had been every
young man among whom other Bleighton ladies of taste would have chosen
their life-partners had the power of choosing pertained to their own
sex.
The good young men of the village, the successful business men who were
bachelors, and the stylish young fellows who came from the neighboring
city in the Summer, bowed before Miss Elserly as naturally as if fate,
embodied in the person of the lady herself, commanded them.
How many proposals Miss Elserly had received no one knew; for two or
three years no one was able to substantiate an opinion, from the young
lady's walk and conversation, that she specially preferred any one of
her personal acquaintances; but at length it became evident that she
evinced more than the interest of mere acquaintanceship in Hubert Brown,
the best of the native-born young men of the village.
Mr. Brown was a theological student, but the march of civilization had
been such at Bleighton that a prospective shepherd of souls might listen
to one of Beethoven's symphonies in a city opera-house without having
any sin imputed unto him! Such music-loving inhabitants of Bleighton as
listened to one of these symphonies, which was also heard by Mr. Brown
and Miss Elserly, noticed that when the young couple exchanged words and
glances, Miss Elserly's well-trained features were not so carefully
guarded as they usually were in society. Such ladies as had nothing to
do, and even a few who were not without pressing demands upon their
time, canvassed the probabilities of the match quite exhaustively, and
made some prophecies, but were soon confused by the undoubted fact that
Miss Elserly drove out a great deal with Major Mailing, the dashing
ex-soldier, and successful broker from the city.
The charm of uncertainty being thus added to the ordinary features of
interest which pertain to all persons suspected of being in love, made
Miss Elserly's affairs of unusual importance to every one who knew the
young lady even by sight, and for three whole months "the rivals" were a
subject of conversation next in order to the weather. At length there
came a day when the case seemed decided. For three days Hubert Brown's
face was very seldom seen on the street, and when seen it was longer and
more solemn than was required even by that order of sanctity in which
theological students desire to live.
Then it was noticed that while Miss Elserly's beauty grew no less in
degree, it changed in kind; that she was more than ever seen in the
society of the handsome broker, and that the broker's attentions were
assiduous. Then it was suspected that Mr. Brown had proposed and been
rejected. Ladies who owed calls to Mr. Brown's mother, made haste to
pay them, and, as rewards of merit, brought away confirmation of the
report. Then, before the gossips had reported the probable engagement of
Miss Elserly to Major Mailing, the lady and major made the announcement
themselves to their intimate friends, and the news quickly reached every
one who cared to hear it.
A few weeks later, however, there circulated very rapidly a story whose
foreshadowing could not have been justly expected of the village
gossips. The major absented himself for a day or two from his
boarding-house, and at a time, too, when numerous gentlemen from the
city came to call upon him.
Some of these callers returned hurriedly to the city, evincing by words
and looks the liveliest disappointment, while two of them, after
considerable private conversation with the proprietress of the house,
and after displaying some papers, in the presence of a local justice of
the peace, to whom the good old lady sent in her perplexity, took
possession of the major's room and made quite free with the ex-warrior's
cigars, liquors, and private papers.
Then the city newspapers told how Mr. Malling, a broker of excellent
ability and reputation, as well as one of the most gallant of his
country's defenders in her hour of need, had been unable to meet his
engagements, and had also failed to restore on demand fifteen thousand
dollars in United States bonds which had been intrusted to him for
safe-keeping. A warrant had been issued for Mr. Malling's arrest; but at
last accounts the officers had been unable to find him.
Miss Elserly immediately went into the closest retirement, and even
girls whom she had robbed of prospective beaus felt sorry for her.
People began to suggest that there might have been a chance for Brown,
after all, if he had staid at home, instead of rushing off to the West
to play missionary. He owned more property in his own right than the
major had misplaced for other people; and though some doubts were
expressed as to Miss Elserly's fitness for the position of a minister's
wife, the matter was no less interesting as a subject for conversation.
The excellence of the chance which both Brown and Miss Elserly had lost
seemed even greater when it became noised abroad that Brown had written
to some real estate agents in the village that, as he might want to go
into business in the West, to sell for him, for cash, a valuable farm
which his father had left him. As for the business which Mr. Brown
proposed entering, the reader may form his own opinions from a little
conversation hereinafter recorded.
As Hubert Brown, trying to drown thought and do good, was wandering
through a Colorado town one evening, he found himself face to face with
Major Mailing. The major looked seedy, and some years older than he did
a month before, but his pluck was unchanged. Seeing that an interview
could not be avoided, he assumed an independent air, and exclaimed:
"Why, Brown, what did you do that you had to come West?"
"Nothing," said the student, flushing a little--"except be useless."
"I thought," said the major, quickly, with a desperate but sickly
attempt at pleasantry, "that you had gone in for Florence again; she's
worth all your 'lost sheep of the house of Israel.'"
"I don't make love to women who love other men," replied Brown.
"Don't, please, Brown," said the major, turning manly in a moment. "I
feel worse about her than about all my creditors or those infernal
bonds. I got into the snarl before I knew her; that's the only way I can
quiet my conscience. Of course the--matter is all up now. I wrote her as
good an apology as I could, and a release; she'd have taken the latter
without my giving it, but--"
"No she wouldn't," interrupted the student.
"How do you know?" demanded the major, with a suspicious glance, which
did not escape Brown. "Did you torment her by proposing again upon the
top of her other troubles?"
"No," said Brown; "don't be insulting. But I know that she keeps herself
secluded, and that her looks and spirits are dreadfully changed. If she
cared nothing for you, she knows society would cheerfully forgive her if
she were to show it."
"I wish to Satan that I hadn't met _you_, then," said the major. "I've
taken solid comfort in the thought that most likely she was again the
adored of all adorers, and was forgetting me, as she has so good a right
to do."
"Major," said Brown, bringing his hand down on the major's shoulder in a
manner suggestive of a deputy sheriff, "you ought to go back to that
girl!"
"And fail," suggested the major. "Thank you; and allow me to say you're
a devilish queer fellow for suggesting it. Is it part of your religion
to forgive a successful rival?"
"It's part of my religion, when I love, to love the woman more than I
love myself," said Brown, with a face in which pain and earnestness
strove for the mastery. "She loves you. I loved her, and want to see her
happy."
The defaulter grasped the student's hand.
"Brown," said he, "you're one of God's noblemen; _she_ told me so once,
but I didn't imagine then that I'd ever own up to it myself. It can't be
done, though; she can't marry a man in disgrace--I can't ask a woman to
marry me on nothing; and, besides, there's the matter of those infernal
bonds. I _can't_ clear that up, and keep out of the sheriff's fingers."
"I can," said Brown.
"How?" asked the ex-broker, with staring eyes.
"I'll lend the money."
The major dropped Brown's hand.
"You heavenly lunatic!" said he. "I always _did_ think religion made
fools of men when they got too much of it. Then I could go back on the
Street again; the boys would be glad to see me clear myself--not
meeting my engagements wouldn't be remembered against me. But,
say--borrow money from an old rival to make myself right with the girl
_he_ loved! No, excuse me. I've got _some_ sense of honor left!"
"You mean you love yourself more than you do her," suggested Brown.
"I'll telegraph about the money, and you write her in the meantime.
Don't ruin her happiness for life by delay or trifling."
The major became a business man again.
"Brown," said he, "I'll take your offer; and, whatever comes of it,
you'll have one friend you can swear to as long as I live. You haven't
the money with you?"
"No," said Brown; "but you shall have it in a fortnight. I'll telegraph
about it, and go East and settle the business for you, so you can come
back without fear."
"You're a trump; but--don't think hard of me--money's never certain till
you have it in hand. I'll write and send my letter East by you; when the
matter's absolutely settled, you can telegraph _me_, and mail her my
letter. I'd expect to be shot if I made such a proposal to any other
rival, but you're not a man--you're a saint. Confound you, all the
sermons I ever heard hadn't as much real goodness in them as I've heard
the last ten minutes! But 'twould be awful for me to write and then have
the thing slip up!"
Brown admitted the justice of the major's plan, and took the major to
his own hotel to keep him from bad company.
During the whole evening the major talked about business: but when,
after a night of sound sleep, the student awoke, he found the major
pacing his room with a very pale face, and heard him declare that he had
not slept a wink.
Brown pitied the major in his nervous condition and did what he could to
alleviate it. He talked to him of Florence Elserly, of whom he seemed
never to tire of talking; he spoke to him of his own work and hopes. He
tried to picture to the major the happy future which was awaiting him
but still the major was unquiet and absent-minded. Brown called in a
physician, to whom he said his friend was suffering from severe mental
depression, brought on by causes now removed; but the doctor's
prescriptions failed to have any effect. Finally, when Brown was to
start for the East the major, paler and thinner than ever, handed him a
letter addressed to Miss Elserly.
"Brown," said the major, "I believe you won't lose any money by your
goodness. I _can_ make money when I am not reckless, and I'll make it my
duty to be careful until you are paid. The rest I _can't_ pay, but I'm
going to try to be as good a man as you are. That's the sort of
compensation that'll please such an unearthly fellow best, I guess."
When Hubert Brown reached Bleighton, he closed with the best offer that
had been made for his farm, though the offer itself was one which made
the natives declare that Hubert Brown had taken leave of his senses.
Then he settled with the loser of the bonds, saw one or two of the
major's business acquaintances, and prepared the way for the major's
return; then he telegraphed the major himself. Lastly, he dressed
himself with care and called upon Miss Elserly. Before sending up his
card, he penciled upon it "_avec nouvelles a lire_," which words the
servant scanned with burning curiosity, but of which she could remember
but one, when she tried to repeat them to the grocer's young man, and
this one she pronounced "arick," as was natural enough in a lady of her
nationality. This much of the message was speedily circulated through
the town, and caused at least one curious person to journey to a great
library in the city in quest of a Celtic dictionary. As for the
recipient of the card, she met her old lover with a face made more than
beautiful by the conflicting emotions which manifested themselves in it.
The interview was short. Mr. Brown said he had accidentally met the
major and had successfully acted as his agent in relieving him from his
embarrassments. He had the pleasure of delivering a letter from the
major, and hoped it might make Miss Elserly as happy to receive it as
it made him to present it. Miss Elserly expressed her thanks, and then
Mr. Brown said:
[Illustration: HE TOOK MISS ELSERLY'S HAND IN HIS OWN, AND STAMMERED, "I
CAME TO PLEAD FOR THE MAJOR."]