THE PUBLISHMENT IN THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.
How Ned came to do such a thing will always remain something of
a mystery. Mr. Emerson laid it to the account of the "general
cussedness" of boys. But Mr. Emerson was fearfully out of sorts at
that time. Whether it was the succession of Thanksgiving-dinners to
which he had been invited, and of which he had recklessly partaken, or
whether it was only a perennial visitation of his arch-enemy, the fact
remains, that with the drawing near of the new year his dyspepsia had
increased in violence, and his temper worsened in proportion.
Ned had got into scrapes before; he would not have been a genuine boy
if he had not. But he had usually had "some regard for the decencies
of life," as his father remarked in his wrath.
When he, with three other boys, dragged the Perkins's family carriage
to the top of Crow Hill, and then coasted over the turf into the
mill-pond, barely escaping with their lives, and leaving the ancient
chariot soaking in its waters, people were scandalized. But Mr.
Perkins having good-naturedly remarked that he was "glad the old
thing was at last disposed of satisfactorily," and at once entered
into negotiations for a new carriage, they said, "Well, boys will be
boys," and then forgot all about it.
Then, too, when he with the same boys made that memorable raid on
Deacon Hart's watermelon patch, in which they were caught, and Ned was
forced to expend all his allowance of pocket-money for three months to
pay his share of the damage, the people in general sympathized with
the boys. "Nobody ever expects to eat their own watermelons," they
said. "Watermelons always get stole."
It was the same with that Fourth-of-July episode, over which the
Byfield folks laughed so at Phœbe's expense. Phœbe, the tailoress, was
a courageous woman, who liked to boast of her courage. Like another
woman known in literature, she had been heard to say that she did not
fear the face of "mortial man."
On this Fourth-of-July night--it was a dark, thundery night, following
a thundery day--her boasted courage was put to a severe test. At
twelve o'clock she was aroused by a knock at her door. The neighbors
were in the habit of calling upon her in emergencies. She was a
capable woman, knew just what to do for a baby with croup, or for a
boy in convulsions from over-eating. It was no unusual thing for her
to be called up in the night in this way.
She partially dressed and went to the door. She had spoken from the
window at first, demanding "Who's there?" But at the instant she put
her head out there had come a blinding flash of lightning, followed by
a deafening peal, and she had drawn in her head without waiting for a
reply; for, though not afraid of "mortial man," she had a slight dread
of a thunder-storm.
So she hastened to the door, and, throwing it open, her light revealed
a man standing a little one side--a man of remarkable height and
breadth, wearing his hat well over his face, and carrying a small
carpet-bag, a genuine _carpet_-bag of tapestry carpeting. He was
standing at the foot of the three stone steps leading up to the door.
Phœbe said "Good-evening," and waited for him to speak, but he neither
spoke nor moved.
"Well?" she said, at last, impatiently. But still no answer.
"Can't y' speak? what d' y' want? I can't stand here all night," said
Phœbe, when, with a tremendous explosion, his head flew in pieces, his
carpet-bag burst, and Phœbe, "scared t' death," as she confessed the
next day, banged the door, bolted it, and waited till the first pale
rays of daylight revealed the remains of the fearful apparition lying
at the foot of the steps. These remains consisted of a suit of clothes
of ancient make, which Phœbe recognized as the work of her predecessor
in the tailoring business, fragments of a hat, and bits of tapestry
carpeting scattered over a large area. The clothes had been propped on
rails, which accounted for the prodigious height of the scarecrow.
Bits of red paper betrayed the cause of the explosion, and Phœbe
comprehended at once the joke that had been played upon her.
"It's some o' that Ned Park's work," she had said, smiling in spite of
the chagrin she felt at being so frightened. For Ned, notwithstanding
his pranks, was a prime favorite with her, indeed, if the truth be
told, she liked him all the better for them. The hat as well as the
carpet-bag had been filled with fire-crackers, and a fuse arranged to
explode them at the right moment.
"An' I s'pose th' young rascals were hid out there somewhere laughin'
at me," thought Phœbe, and her supposition was correct. They were
hidden about six feet from the door, behind the rain-water hogshead,
where they enjoyed to the utmost the success of their original
firework piece.
But this last prank of Ned's which I am about to relate indicated a
much greater depth of depravity, so some people thought--his father
among the number. He was not alone in this nefarious transaction.
He had an accomplice, none other than Johnny Tuttle, the hero of
the temperance tale, who, my boy readers will like to know, was
not altogether good--not too good to live, by any means--and who,
although a hero, was a fair specimen of uproarious boyhood.
At that time it was the law in Massachusetts that people intending
marriage must have the banns read or posted in some public place.
In Byfield they were usually posted, though occasionally read or
"cried," as it was called. As, for instance, on one Sunday while
Dolly was there, after the benediction, as the people were going out,
the town-clerk arose from his seat in the gallery and announced the
"intention of marriage" of Samuel Latham and Priscilla Weston.
The banns were always posted in the meeting-house. This old
meeting-house, built in 1732, with square pews and diamond-paned,
leaded windows, had been remodelled a hundred years later, and a spire
and vestibule and porches added, the latter admirably arranged for
nest-building on the part of mud-swallows, and as a lounging-place
for the church-goers before and after service. In one corner of the
vestibule, where you turned to go up the stairs to the galleries, the
"publishments," as they were called, were posted, written on a slip of
paper and fastened up with four tacks. The pair thus posted were said
to be "published."
On Sunday mornings almost everybody, the young people of the
congregation especially, cast a glance of inquiry into that corner
as they entered, to see if there were any fresh publishments. There
were often surprises, for engagements of marriage were not announced
then as now. People liked a little air of mystery to hang about these
matters; they fancied too great publicity lessened their charm, as
contact with rough winds spoils the tender grace of the rose.
On the morning of the last Sunday of the year 18--, a surprise awaited
the church-goers in Byfield. The morning was clear and frosty, the
sleighing good, and a more than usual number betook themselves to this
last service of the year. At this service the pastor usually gave a
sort of resumé of local events of the year, with the lessons to be
drawn therefrom, and few cared to miss his pithy and apt teachings.
The first arrivals immediately espied a fresh bit of paper in the
publishing corner. The sight was unexpected, for Thanksgiving-day,
the day of family reunions, was also the popular day for weddings,
and there had been no less than four on the Thanksgiving just past.
People were not looking for another so soon. But the surprise of these
first-comers deepened into the profoundest astonishment as they read
of the intention of marriage between Hiram Emerson and Amanda Matilda
Mortimer.
Who _was_ Amanda Matilda Mortimer?
"Never heard her name before," remarked one. "Sly, ain't he?"
"Where upon earth did he find her? He never goes anywhere."
"Lovely times she'll have with him and his queer old mother!" remarked
one spiteful soul.
"Oh, oh!"--running up to a fresh arrival--"who _do_ you think's
published?--Mr. EMERSON!" pausing to see the effect of her
words. The effect was satisfactory.
"_Mr. Emerson!_" incredulously. "You don't mean it! I don't believe
it!"
"Well, just go up there and see for yourself!" triumphantly.
The unbeliever went up and read the notice carefully, not then fully
crediting even the evidence of sight. "Well, I _am_ beat!" was her
sole comment.
Meanwhile the crowd in the vestibule grew dense, for no one dreamed
of going inside and seating herself while under the stress of this
astounding bit of news. The report of it at last crept out into the
open porches, where the men were discussing "swamping" and "milling"
and the probabilities of a cold winter.
"Goin' t' git merried, eh?--Mr. Emerson? Wa'al, I'm glad on't. 'Tain't
good f' man t' be alone," quoted Deacon Hart, who had been married
four times. "Who's 't tew?"
"Well, I d'n' know," was the reply of his neighbor. "D' you?" he asked
of the man next in line, who had told him the news.
"No, I don't. Who's he published to, Sam?" passing the question
on; and Sam learns from a roguish-looking girl at the door of the
vestibule that the lady's name is Amanda Matilda Mortimer.
"It sounds like a hoax," said Sam to his right-hand neighbor. Sam
had read "The Children of the Abbey" in his young and innocent days,
and thought the name sounded familiar. "But don't say anything. The
joke's too good to spoil. The boy that did it--it's a boy, I'll bet a
dollar!--ought to have a leather medal."
"Mortimer!" echoed Deacon Hart, the name at last reaching his ears.
"Never _heer'd_ o' no Mortimers 'n these parts. Must 'a' come from
York State, where his mother's folks be."
And so query and speculation, astonishment and laughter alternated,
and two boys leaning over the railing of the stairs midway of the
vestibule looked down upon the excited multitude, shaking at one
moment with laughter over the success of their prank, and at another
shivering with fear of its possible consequences, but it must be
acknowledged that the laughter outweighed the fear.
The pastor, a grave and courtly gentleman, arriving, made his way
in surprise through this chattering, giggling crowd, who, suddenly
brought to the remembrance of the fact that the day was Sunday, and
the service about to begin, hastily followed him in.
The two boys fled before the crowd of singers and others that came
surging up the stairway, and betook themselves to the "niggers'
seats," as they were called, though at that time not one of the
despised race for whose use they had been set apart lived within the
limits of Byfield.
These "nigger seats" were in either corner of the gallery, square pews
raised above the level of the gallery floor, and infested the greater
part of the year with wasps.
From time immemorial the understanding had been that boys were not
to occupy these seats during service. They might eat their pies and
dough-nuts there at noon if they liked, but they were altogether too
far away from the sober portion of the congregation to be a fit and
safe place for them during service. These seats were entirely hidden
by the galleries from the people in the pews below--the fathers and
mothers--and as to the singers and players on violins, and the young
men who habitually sat in the galleries--well, _their_ conduct was
not always above reproach, and they would be likely to view with a
lenient eye any shortcomings on the part of the boys. Furthermore,
by closing the doors of these "nigger seats," and dropping upon the
floor, the occupants could be entirely hidden from everybody in the
meeting-house, galleries included.
Yes, it certainly was a wise decision that had closed those seats
to occupancy during service. And had not our two boys been utterly
reckless under a sense of deserved and impending punishment, they
would never have thought of breaking this unwritten law. But
remarking that "they might as well be killed for an old sheep as a
lamb," they buttoned the door of the "niggers' seat" and abandoned
themselves to the consequences.
The congregation having at last all gone in, there arrived in the
vestibule, almost simultaneously, two men who belonged to that class
of humanity that are always just a minute late--Mr. Emerson and the
town-clerk. Mr. Emerson adjusted his spectacles at the right angle and
walked up to read the publishment. So taken by surprise was he that
he did not at first reading comprehend that he was the Hiram Emerson
announced therein as intending marriage. He was reading it a second
time when the town-clerk came up.
"Halloo! what's that?" he said. He was equally surprised to find a
notice of which he knew nothing posted in his special corner.
"You ought to know, if anybody," was the reply.
"Well, 'tain't signed," said the town-clerk, who at once noticed a
defect that had apparently escaped the observation of those who had
read it.
"Who's Amanda Matilda Mortimer, anyhow?" he asked, looking
suspiciously at Mr. Emerson.
"Hanged 'f I know!" was the reply, and Mr. Emerson's eyes twinkled.
"I'm thankful the young scamps had the grace to use a fictitious
name." It was apparent that he, too, had read "The Children of the
Abbey."
"I think I know who did it," he resumed. "It's a piece of revenge, and
I don't much blame them."
The town-clerk took down the notice and made a move to tear it up.
"Let me have it," said Mr. Emerson, and he stowed it carefully away in
his breast-pocket.
At noon the congregation learned that they had been hoaxed--that the
publishment was spurious--that Amanda Matilda Mortimer was a myth, and
great was their rage.
The boys stood ready, caps in hand, and as the final "amen" dropped
from the pastor's lips, they slipped from the "nigger pew," and were
out of the meeting-house and away before any other of the congregation
had fairly reached the vestibule. And it was well understood who were
the rogues; their final act had betrayed them; it was not that of
innocents.
"Ain't published, eh?" asked Deacon Hart, striving in vain to
comprehend; and when the iniquitous joke did dawn upon him, adding,
"Well, well! them boys ought'er be dealt pooty severely with." With
which opinion a majority of the congregation agreed.
When Mr. Park reached home he looked up Ned. He found him leaning idly
against the barn door, thoughtfully kicking the snow with his foot. He
was wondering how his father and mother would view the joke, and was
not at all startled when he heard his father's voice say, "Ned, come
to my room; I wish to speak with you."
He obeyed, not with any great alacrity, and on arriving found his
father already seated at the table where he transacted business as
justice of the peace. Ned did not feel at liberty to sit down, as he
would ordinarily have done, and so stood as a culprit might who was
awaiting his sentence.
"Is this true that I hear, Ned?" his father began--"that you could so
far forget all decency as to stick up a publishment of Mr. Emerson
to--to--" hesitating at the lady's name.
"Amanda Matilda Mortimer," suggested Ned, a gleam of fun stealing out
of the corner of either eye, in spite of himself.
But his father was not to be softened by a comic view of the affair.
His face grew stern as he noticed that gleam of fun.
(Mr. Park had left the meeting-house so promptly that he had only
learned that the publishment was a hoax. He had not learned that
Amanda Matilda Mortimer was a myth.)
"It may seem fun to you, sir," he said; "but it seems to me you are
getting too old for such tricks, and ought to have manliness enough to
be done with them." This last thrust hurt Ned.
"It's no worse than Mr. Emerson does himself!" he burst out. "'Tain't
so bad. The other day I spelt _isosceles_ with two o's, an' he said
there _was_ a word spelt with two o's that just described me, an'
nobody's going t' call me a fool 'f I can help it--not even Piggy."
"Ned, how often have I told you that whatever nickname you boys may
choose to give Mr. Emerson, it's not to be repeated in my presence. In
my day, a boy who did such a thing would have got a sound flogging,
and served him right."
Ned muttered something in reply.
"What's that you say?" asked his father.
"I'm glad I didn't live in those days, then."
"And how do you think your mother feels about it?" his father resumed.
"I should think you might have a little regard for her feelings, if
your own sense of what is right and decent is no restraint."
This was a still harder thrust, for Ned had a boy's chivalrous feeling
for his mother. She was the true Madonna of his youthful worship; and
although he might try her sorely at times, none knew better than he
how the thought of her--of what she might think and feel--had kept him
back from many a scrape. He felt that the scrapes he hadn't got into
just on account of his consideration for his mother far outnumbered
those he had. He did not say anything for a moment.
"Well, I wish I hadn't done it, for mother's sake," he said at last,
"but I don't care a darn for Mr. Emerson. I tell you, father, you
don't know anything about it--the way he's knocked us boys round
lately. He's as savage as a bear. An' I wish he was one, an' could be
caged." This last sentence _sotto voce_.
"Well, Ned," replied his father, soothingly, "you know Mr. Emerson
is a great sufferer, and allowances must be made. At the same time,
he's a first-class teacher. He'll put you through and fit you well for
Harvard, and few country school-teachers can do that. And you've got
to learn to put up with things. A little knocking round won't hurt
you: it'll do you good.
"But that isn't the question. I must say I am truly grieved that a son
of mine could do what you have done to-day. Had it been on a week-day,
or in any other place, it would not seem so bad. But to forget all the
proprieties of time and place--As to Mr. Emerson and Miss--Miss--"
"Amanda Matilda Mortimer," put in Ned again, and he smiled. He could
not help it, as he recalled the combination over which he and Johnny
had labored so successfully.
"As to Mr. Emerson and this Miss Mortimer, how do you think they must
feel?"
"Why, father," exclaimed Ned, "there's no such person as Amanda
Matilda Mortimer!"
"No such person!--no such person!" repeated the bewildered Mr. Park.
"Why no! she's only a name--Amanda Malvina Fitzwilliams, don't y'
know? an' Lord Mortimer, in 'Th' Children of the Abbey.'"
"No, I don't know," replied Mr. Park, somewhat ruffled at his blunder,
but at the same time greatly relieved. "I never read that delightful
romance. _My_ father didn't allow me to read novels." Which statement
was strictly true, though Uncle Harry had long since got bravely over
the interdiction, as Ned knew. He was a great lover of the Waverley
Novels--as great a lover of "Ivanhoe" as Ned himself--and had sat up
till three o'clock one night to finish it, after his return from that
trip to Plymouth alluded to in an earlier chapter of this story, about
the time of the tournament. But Ned discreetly kept silence.
"Well, that doesn't make it so bad--not quite. I'm glad you had the
decency to use a fictitious name. Mr. Emerson can settle with you as
he likes; I sha'n't interfere," he concluded. "Now I think you had
better go to your room until dinner-time."
Dinner was served at the tavern at four o'clock on Sundays, and Ned
had a long interval for reflection. About an hour before dinner there
was a gentle knock at his door and his mother entered. The interview
may be safely left to your imagination.
If our two boys expected a burst of wrath on the part of Mr. Emerson
they were disappointed. Mr. Emerson was a man of surprises. He never
did exactly what you expected he was going to do. After a season of
irritability and petulance, just when appearances indicated nothing
less than a perfect cyclone of angry passion, a gleam of humor like a
ray of sunlight would pierce the clouds, the clouds would scatter and
disappear, and a calm ensue as serene as the blue depths of a June sky.
So it was in this instance. The boys had had a hard time with Mr.
Emerson, and he knew it. As was stated in the beginning of this
chapter, the demon of dyspepsia had held full possession of him, and
he had been merciless. And although, as he said to Mr. Park, when they
talked the matter over a few days later, the outrageous hoax might be
laid at the door of the "general cussedness of boys," in his heart
he did not blame these two. He really had a profound sympathy for
boyhood; he could easily put himself in a boy's place.
So as he went home on that Sunday, with the spurious publishment
stowed away in his breast-pocket, he was in a more amiable frame of
mind than he had been for weeks. As he sat in his comfortable library,
he pulled out the bit of paper, smoothed it, and read it anew. He
smiled a little, and then fell into a reverie. How many years ago was
it that Amanda Malvina Fitzwilliams was his boyish ideal of a lovely
woman? Twenty years?--thirty years? He was a yellow-haired laddie
then, studying Greek and Latin, and consoling himself for the hours
spent over those tough mental gymnastics with "The Children of the
Abbey," "The Mysteries of Udolpho," and "Evelina." This last, he
remembered, he did not like so well as the other two. It was vastly
entertaining, but it was not so full of delightful mystery, not so
poetic, perhaps.
How that dreamy, poetry-loving little laddie had changed with the
years! But had he changed so much, after all? He had crusted over, so
to speak. Contact with the world, the tussle which comes sooner or
later with principalities and powers, had hardened him outwardly. But,
as he mused, the man of forty felt that there was a good deal of the
yellow-haired laddie left in him yet. Why couldn't he bring it out
more? Why couldn't he let his boys see--he called them _his_ boys,
this childless man!--why could he not let them see that his youth was
as truly a part of himself as his graver middle life? that, in fact,
of every true life childhood and youth are as much a part as middle
life and old age. It is youth that is immortal, perennial--constantly
renewing itself as one grows in years, taking deeper root, bearing
richer fruit, but still immortal _youth_.
Wasn't this a blessed truth to teach his boys? Should he not let them
know it was a truth by showing them that he could sympathize with them
on all sides--could see their possibilities as well as their faults?
He went to the book-shelves and took down from an obscure corner the
three dingy leather-bound volumes of "The Children of the Abbey." It
was years since he had looked into them. He dusted them tenderly
with his pocket-handkerchief, and began to turn over the yellow
leaves. He fell into another reverie, which lasted till twilight stole
in, filling the room with its soft memory-haunted shadows. Then he
aroused himself briskly, replaced the books, and betook himself to his
mother's sitting-room.
Well, after all, Ned and Johnny had done no great harm; they had only
given him a few hours of pleasant retrospection; and he went to school
the next morning in the most amiable of tempers, and it remained with
him through the day. Ned's manly apology was graciously received,
and a few kind, sympathetic words in reply did more to secure Ned's
loyalty than years of the smoothest intercourse could have done.
At the close of the afternoon session he invited the whole school
to a candy-pull that evening in his big kitchen, where they were
received and delightfully entertained by the quaint little old lady
in her bizarre dress, whose acquaintance we have already made at the
Thanksgiving dinner at the tavern.
"I don't know whether I'm sorry or not I stuck up that publishment,"
said Ned to Dolly, as they were returning home from the candy-pull,
blissful and sticky. "If 't hadn't been f' that we shouldn't have had
this candy-pull to-night, I'll bet. Queer, ain't it? Everybody said
Mr. Emerson 'd be as mad 's fire. But I b'lieve I never liked him
half as well 's I do this minute. Anyway, I don't b'lieve I'll ever
try to plague him again."
As to whether he ever did or did not, let each boy judge for himself.
Human nature is weak, and, to quote from Thankful, "dretful human."