When Deacon Zeb Clark—the same Deacon Zeb who fell into the cistern, as narrated by Captain Cy—made his first visit to the city, years and years ago, he stayed but two days. As he had proudly boasted that he should remain in the metropolis at least a week, our people were much surprised at his premature return. To the driver of the butcher cart who found him sitting contentedly before his dwelling, amidst his desolate acres, the nearest neighbor a half mile away, did Deacon Zeb disclose his reason for leaving the crowded thoroughfares. “There was so many folks there,” he said, “that I felt lonesome.”
And Captain Cy, returning from the town meeting to the Whittaker place, felt lonesome likewise. Not for the Deacon's reason—he met no one on the main road, save a group of school children and Miss Phinney, and, sighting the latter in the offing, he dodged behind the trees by the schoolhouse pond and waited until she passed. But the captain, his trouble now heavy upon him, did feel the need of sympathy and congenial companionship. He knew he might count upon Dimick and Asaph, and, whenever Keturah's supervision could be evaded, upon Mr. Bangs. But they were not the advisers and comforters for this hour of need. All the rest of Bayport, he felt sure, would be against him. Had not King Heman the Great from the steps of the throne, banned him with the royal displeasure! “If Heman ever SHOULD come right out and say—” began Asaph's warning. Well, strange as it might seem, Heman had “come right out.”
As to why he had come out there was no question in the mind of the captain. The latter had left Mr. Thomas, the prodigal father, prostrate and blasphemous in the road the previous evening. His next view of him was when, transformed and sanctified, he had been summoned to the platform by Mr. Atkins. No doubt he had returned to the barber shop and, in his rage and under Mr. Simpson's cross examination, had revealed something of the truth. Tad, the politician, recognizing opportunity when it knocked at his door, had hurried him to the congressman's residence. The rest was plain enough, so Captain Cy thought.
However, war was already declared, and the reasons for it mattered little. The first skirmish might occur at any moment. The situation was desperate. The captain squared his shoulders, thrust forward his chin, and walked briskly up the path to the door of the dining room. It was nearly one o'clock, but Bos'n had not yet gone. She was waiting, to the very last minute, for her “Uncle Cyrus.”
“Hello, shipmate,” he hailed. “Not headed for school yet? Good! I cal'late you needn't go this afternoon. I'm thinkin' of hirin' a team and drivin' to Ostable, and I didn't know but you'd like to go with me. Think you could, without that teacher woman havin' you brought up aft for mutiny?”
Bos'n thought it over.
“Yes, sir,” she said; “I guess so, if you wrote me an excuse. I don't like to be absent, 'cause I haven't been before, but there's only my reading lesson this afternoon and I know that ever so well. I'd love to go, Uncle Cy.”
The captain removed his coat and hat and pulled a chair forward to the table.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What's this—the mail?”
Bos'n smiled delightedly.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I knew you was at the meeting and so I brought it from the office. Ain't you glad?”
“Sure! Yes, indeed! Much obliged. Tryin' to keep house without you would be like steerin' without a rudder.”
Even as he said it there came to him the realization that he might have to steer without that rudder in the near future. His smile vanished. He smothered a groan and picked up the mail.
“Hum!” he mused, “the Breeze, a circular, and one letter. Hello! it isn't possible that—Well! well!”
The letter was in a long envelope. He hastily tore it open. At the inclosure he glanced in evident excitement. Then his smile returned.
“Bos'n,” he said, after a moment's reflection, “I guess you and me won't have to go to Ostable after all.” Noticing the child's look of disappointment, he added: “But you needn't go to school. Maybe you'd better not. You and me'll take a tramp alongshore. What do you say?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Cy! Let's—shall we?”
“Why, I don't see why not. We'll cruise in company as long as we can, hey, little girl? The squall's likely to strike afore night,” he muttered half aloud. “We'll enjoy the fine weather till it's time to shorten sail.”
They walked all that afternoon. Captain Cy was even more kind and gentle with his small companion than usual. He told her stories which made her laugh, pointed out spots in the pines where he had played Indian when a boy, carried her “pig back” when she grew tired, and kissed her tenderly when, at the back door of the Whittaker place, he set her on her feet again.
“Had a good time, dearie?” he asked.
“Oh, splendid! I think it's the best walk we ever had, don't you, Uncle Cy?”
“I shouldn't wonder. You won't forget our cruises together when you are a big girl and off somewheres else, will you?”
“I'll NEVER forget 'em. And I'm never going anywhere without you.”
It was after five as they entered the kitchen.
“Anybody been here while I was out?” asked the captain of Georgianna. The housekeeper's eyes were red and swollen, and she hugged Bos'n as she helped her off with her jacket and hood.
“Yes, there has,” was the decided answer. “First Ase Tidditt, and then Bailey Bangs, and then that—that Angie Phinney.”
“Humph!” mused Captain Cy slowly. “So Angie was here, was she? Where the carcass is the vultures are on deck, or words similar. Humph! Did our Angelic friend have much to say?”
“DID she? And I had somethin' to say, too! I never in my life!”
“Humph!” Her employer eyed her sharply. “So? And so soon? Talk about the telegraph spreadin' news! I'd back most any half dozen tongues in Bayport to spread more news, and add more trimmin' to it, in a day than the telegraph could do in a week. Especially if all the telegraph operators was like the one up at the depot. Well, Georgianna, when you goin' to leave?”
“Leave? Leave where? What are you talkin' about?”
“Leave here. Of course you realize that this ship of ours,” indicating the house by a comprehensive wave of his hand around the room, “is goin' to be a mighty unpopular craft from now on. We may be on a lee shore any minute. You've got your own well-bein' to think of.”
“My own well-bein'! What do you s'pose I care for my well-bein' when there's—Cap'n Whittaker, you tell me now! Is it so?”
“Some of it is—yes. He's come back and he's who he says he is. You've seen him. He was here all day yesterday.”
“So Angie said, but I couldn't scarcely believe it. That toughy! Cap'n Whittaker, do you intend to hand over that poor little innocent thing to—to such a man as THAT?”
“No. There'll be no handin' over about it. But the odds are against us, and there's no reason why you should be in the rumpus, Georgianna. You may not understand what we're facin'.”
The housekeeper drew herself up. Her face was very red and her small eyes snapped.
“Cy Whittaker,” she began, manners and deference to employer alike forgotten, “don't you say no more of that wicked foolishness to me. I'll leave the minute you're mean-spirited enough to let that child go and not afore. And when THAT happens I'll be GLAD to leave. Land sakes! there's somebody at the door; and I expect I'm a perfect sight.”
She rubbed her face with her apron, thereby making it redder than ever, and hurried into the dining room.
“Bos'n,” said Captain Cy quickly, “you stay here in the kitchen.”
Emmie looked at him in surprised bewilderment, but she suppressed her curiosity concerning the identity of the person who had knocked, and obeyed. The captain pulled the kitchen door almost shut and listened at the crack.
The first spoken words by the visitor appeared to relieve Captain Cy's anxiety; but they seemed to astonish him greatly.
“Why!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “Ain't that—It sounds like—”
“It's teacher,” whispered Bos'n, who also had been listening. “She's come to find out why I wasn't at school. You tell her, Uncle Cy.”
Georgianna returned to announce:
“It's Miss Dawes. She says she wants to see you, Cap'n. She's in the settin' room.”
The captain drew a long breath. Then, repeating his command to Emmie to stay where she was, he left the room, closing the door behind him. The latter procedure roused Bos'n's indignation.
“What made him do that?” she demanded. “I haven't been bad. He NEVER shut me up before!”
The schoolmistress was standing by the center table in the sitting room when Captain Cy entered.
“Good evenin',” he said politely. “Won't you sit down?”
But Miss Dawes paid no attention to trivialities. She seemed much agitated.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” she began, “I just heard something that—”
The captain interrupted her.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I think we'll pull down the curtains and have a little light on the subject. It gets dark early now, especially of a gray day like this one.”
He drew the shades at the windows and lit the lamp on the table. The red glow behind the panes of the stove door faded into insignificance as the yellow radiance brightened. The ugly portraits and the stiff old engravings on the wall retired into a becoming dusk. The old-fashioned room became more homelike.
“Now won't you sit down?” repeated Captain Cy. “Take that rocker; it's the most comf'table one aboard—so Bos'n says, anyhow.”
Miss Phoebe took the rocker, under protest. Her host remained standing.
“It's been a nice afternoon,” he said. “Bos'n—Emmie, of course—and I have been for a walk. 'Twan't her fault, 'twas mine. I kept her out of school. I was—well, kind of lonesome.”
The teacher's gray eyes flashed in the lamplight.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” she cried, “please don't waste time. I didn't come here to talk about the weather nor Emily's reason for not attending school. I don't care why she was absent. But I have just heard of what happened at that meeting. Is it true that—” She hesitated.
“That Emmie's dad is alive and here? Yes, it's true.”
“But—but that man last night? Was he THAT man?”
The captain nodded.
“That's the man,” he said briefly.
Miss Dawes shuddered.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” she asked earnestly, “are you sure he is really her father? Absolutely sure?”
“Sure and sartin.”
“Then she belongs to him, doesn't she? Legally, I mean?”
“Maybe so.”
“Are—are you going to give her up to him?”
“No.”
“Then what I heard was true. You did say at the meeting that you were going to do your best to keep him from getting her.”
“Um—hum! What I said amounts to just about that.”
“Why?”
Captain Cy was surprised and a little disappointed apparently.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, for reasons I've got.”
“Do you mind telling me the reasons?”
“I cal'late you don't want to hear 'em. If you don't understand now, then I can't make it much plainer, I'm afraid.”
The little lady sprang to her feet.
“Oh, you are provoking!” she cried indignantly. “Can't you see that I want to hear the reasons from you yourself? Cap'n Whittaker, I shook hands with you last night.”
“You remember I told you you'd better wait.”
“I didn't want to wait. I believed I knew something of human nature, and I believed I had learned to understand you. I made up my mind to pay no more attention to what people said against you. I thought they were envious and disliked you because you did things in your own way. I wouldn't believe the stories I heard this afternoon. I wanted to hear you speak in your own defense and you refuse to do it. Don't you know what people are saying? They say you are trying to keep Emily because—Oh, I'm ashamed to ask it, but you make me: HAS the child got valuable property of her own?”
Captain Cy had been, throughout this scene, standing quietly by the table. Now he took a step forward.
“Miss Dawes,” he said sharply, “sit down.”
“But I—”
“Sit down, please.”
The schoolmistress didn't mean to obey the order, but for some reason she did. The captain went on speaking.
“It's pretty plain,” he said, “that what you heard at the boardin' house—for I suppose that's where you did hear it—was what you might call a Phinneyized story of the doin's at the meetin'. Well, there's another yarn, and it's mine; I'm goin' to spin it and I want you to listen.”
He went on to spin his yarn. It was practically a repetition of his reply to Tad Simpson that morning. Its conclusion was also much the same.
“The land ain't worth fifty dollars,” he declared, “but if it was fifty million he shouldn't have it. Why? Because it belongs to that little girl. And he shan't have her until he and those back of him have hammered me through the courts till I'm down forty fathom under water. And when they do get her—and, to be honest, I cal'late they will in the end—I hope to God I won't be alive to see it! There! I've answered you.”
He was walking up and down the room, with the old quarter-deck stride, his hands jammed deep in his pockets and his face working with emotion.
“It's pretty nigh a single-handed fight for me,” he continued, “but I've fought single-handed before. The other side's got almost all the powder and the men. Heman and Tad and that Thomas have got seven eighths of Bayport behind 'em, not to mention the 'Providence' they're so sure of. My crowd is a mighty forlorn hope: Dimick and Ase Tidditt, and Bailey, as much as his wife 'll let him. Oh, yes!” and he smiled whimsically, “there's another one. A new recruit's just joined; Georgianna's enlisted. That's my army. Sort of rag-jacketed cadets, we are, small potatoes, and few in a hill.”
The teacher rose and laid a hand on his arm. He turned toward her. The lamplight shone upon her face, and he saw, to his astonishment, that there were tears in her eyes.
“Cap'n Whittaker,” she said, “will you take an other recruit? I should like to enlist, please.”
“You? Oh, pshaw! I'm thick-headed to-night. I didn't see the joke of it at first.”
“There isn't any joke. I want you to know that I admire you for the fight you're making. Law or no law, to let that dear little girl go away with that dreadful father of hers is a sin and a crime. I came here to tell you so. I did want to hear your story, and you made me ask that question; but I was certain of your answer before you made it. I don't suppose I can do anything to help, but I'm going to try. So, you see, your army is bigger than you thought it was—though the new soldier isn't good for much, I'm afraid,” she added, with a little smile.
Captain Cy was greatly disturbed.
“Miss Phoebe,” he said, “I—I won't say that it don't please me to have you talk so, for it does, more'n you can imagine. Sympathy means somethin' to the under dog, and it gives him spunk to keep on kickin'. But you mustn't take any part in the row; you simply mustn't. It won't do.”
“Why not? Won't I be ANY help?”
“Help? You'd be more help than all the rest of us put together. You and me haven't seen a great deal of each other, and my part in the few talks we have had has been a mean one, but I knew the first time I met you that you had more brains and common sense than any woman in this county—though I was too pig-headed to own it. But that ain't it. I got you the job of teacher. It's no credit to me; 'twas just bull luck and for the fun of jarrin' Heman. But I did it. And, because I did it, the Atkins crowd—and that means most everybody now—haven't any love for you. My tryin' for school committee was really just to give you a fair chance in your position. I was licked, so the committee's two to one against you. Don't you see that you mustn't have anything to do with me? Don't you SEE it?”
She shook her head.
“I see that common gratitude alone should be reason enough for my trying to help you,” she said. “But, beside that, I know you are right, and I SHALL help, no matter what you say. As for the teacher's position, let them discharge me. I—”
“Don't talk that way. The youngsters need you, and know it, no matter what their fool fathers and mothers say. And you mustn't wreck your chances. You're young—”
She laughed.
“Oh, no! I'm not,” she said. “Young! Cap'n Whittaker, you shouldn't joke about a woman's age.”
“I ain't jokin'. You ARE young.” As she stood there before him he was realizing, with a curiously uncomfortable feeling, how much younger she was than he. He glanced up at the mirror, where his own gray hairs were reflected, and repeated his assertion. “You're young yet,” he said, “and bein' discharged from a place might mean a whole lot to you. I'm glad you take such an interest in Bos'n, and your comin' here on her account—”
He paused. Miss Dawes colored slightly and said:
“Yes.”
“Your comin' here on her account was mighty good of you. But you've got to keep out of this trouble. And you mustn't come here again. That's owner's orders. Why, I'm expectin' a boardin' party any minute,” he added. “I thought when you knocked it was 'papa' comin' for his child. You'd better go.”
But she stood still.
“I shan't go,” she declared. “Or, at least, not until you promise to let me try to help you. If they come, so much the better. They'll learn where my sympathies are.”
Captain Cy scratched his head.
“See here, Miss Phoebe,” he said. “I ain't sure that you fully understand that Scripture and everything else is against us. Did Angie turn loose on you the 'Whom the Lord has joined' avalanche?”
The schoolmistress burst into a laugh. The captain laughed, too, but his gravity quickly returned. For steps sounded on the walk, there was a whispering outside, and some one knocked on the dining-room door.
The situation was similar to that of the evening when the Board of Strategy called and “John Smith” made his first appearance. But now, oddly enough, Captain Cy seemed much less troubled. He looked at Miss Dawes and there was a dancing twinkle in his eye.
“Is it—” began the lady, in an agitated whisper.
“The boardin' party? I presume likely.”
“But what can you do?”
“Stand by the repel, I guess,” was the calm reply. “I told you that they had most of the ammunition, but ours ain't all blank cartridges. You stay below and listen to the broadsides.”
They heard Georgianna cross the dining room. There was a murmur of voices at the door. The captain nodded.
“It's them,” he said. “Well, here goes. Now don't you show yourself.”
“Do you think I am afraid? Indeed, I shan't stay 'below' as you call it! I shall let them see—”
Captain Cy held up his hand.
“I'm commodore of this fleet,” he said; “and that bein' the case, I expect my crew to obey orders. There's nothin' you can do, and—Why, yes! there is, too. You can take care of Bos'n. Georgianna,” to the housekeeper who, looking frightened and nervous, had appeared at the door, “send Bos'n in here quick.”
“They're there,” whispered Georgianna. “Mr. Atkins and Tad and that Thomas critter, and lots more. And they've come after her. What shall we do?”
“Jump when I speak to you, that's the first thing. Send Bos'n in here and you stay in your galley.”
Emily came running. Miss Dawes put an arm about her. Captain Cy, the battle lanterns still twinkling under his brows, stepped forth to meet the “boarding party.”
They were there, as Georgianna had said. Mr. Thomas on the top step, Heman and Simpson on the next lower, and behind them Abel Leonard and a group of interested volunteers, principally recruited from the back room of the barber shop.
“Evenin', gentlemen,” said the captain, opening the door so briskly that Mr. Thomas started backward and came down heavily upon the toes of the devoted Tad. Mr. Simpson swore, Mr. Thomas clawed about him to gain equilibrium, and the dignity of the group was seriously impaired.
“Evenin',” repeated Captain Cy. “Quite a surprise party you're givin' me. Come in.”
“Cyrus,” began the Honorable Atkins, “we are here to claim—”
“Give me my daughter, you robber!” demanded Thomas, from his new position in the rear of the other two.
“Mr. Thomas,” said Heman, “please remember that I am conducting this affair. I respect the natural indignation of an outraged father, but—ahem! Cyrus, we are here to claim—”
“Then do your claimin' inside. It's kind of chilly to-night, there's plenty of empty chairs, and we don't need to hold an overflow meetin'. Come ahead in.”
The trio looked at each other in hesitation. Then Mr. Atkins majestically entered the dining room. Thomas and Simpson followed him.
“Abe,” observed Captain Cy to Leonard, who was advancing toward the steps, “I'm sorry not to be hospitable, but there's too many of you to invite at once, and 'tain't polite to show partiality. You and the rest are welcome to sit on the terrace or stroll 'round the deer park. Good night.”
He closed the door in the face of the disappointed Abel and turned to the three in the room.
“Well,” he said, “out with it. You've come to claim somethin', I understand.”
“I come for my rights,” shouted Mr. Thomas.
“Yes? Well, this ain't State's prison or I'd give 'em to you with pleasure. Heman, you'd better do the talkin'. We'll probably get ahead faster.”
The Honorable cleared his throat and waved his hand.
“Cyrus,” he began, “you are my boyhood friend and my fellow townsman and neighbor. Under such circumstances it gives me pain—”
“Then don't let us discuss painful subjects. Let's get down to business. You've come to rescue Bos'n—Emily, that is,—from the 'robber'—I'm quotin' Deacon Thomas here—that's got her, so's to turn her over to her sorrowin' father. Is that it? Yes. Well, you can't have her—not yet.”
“Cyrus,” said Mr. Atkins, “I'm sorry to see that you take it this way. You haven't the shadow of a right. We have the law with us, and your conduct will lead us to invoke it. The constable is outside. Shall I call him in?”
“Uncle Bedny” was the town constable and had been since before the war. The purely honorary office was given him each year as a joke. Captain Cy grinned broadly, and even Tad was obliged to smile.
“Don't be inhuman, Heman,” urged the captain. “You wouldn't turn me over to be man-handled by Uncle Bedny, would you?”
“This is not a humorous affair—” began the congressman, with dignity. But the “bereaved father” had been prospecting on his own hook, and now he peeped into the sitting room.
“Here she is!” he shouted. “I see her. Come on, Emmie! Your dad's come for you. Let go of her, you woman! What do you mean by holdin' on to her?”
The situation which was “not humorous” immediately became much less so. The next minute was a lively one. It ended as Mr. Thomas was picked up by Tad from the floor, where he had fallen, having been pushed violently over a chair by Captain Cy. Bos'n, frightened and sobbing, was clinging wildly to Miss Dawes, who had clung just as firmly to her. The captain's voice rang through the room.
“That's enough,” he said. “That's enough and some over. Atkins, take that feller out of this house and off my premises. As for the girl, that's for us to fight out in the courts. I'm her guardian, lawfully appointed, and you nor nobody else can touch her while that appointment's good. Here it is—right here. Now look at it and clear out.”
He held, for the congressman's inspection, the document which, inclosed in the long envelope, had been received that morning. His visit to Ostable, made some weeks before, had been for the purpose of applying to the probate court for the appointment as Emily's guardian. He had applied before the news of her father's coming to life reached him. The appointment itself had arrived just in time.
Mr. Atkins studied the document with care. When he spoke it was with considerable agitation and without his usual diplomacy.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Humph! I see. Well, sir, I have some influence in this section and I shall see how long your—your TRICK will prevent the child's going where she belongs. I wish you to understand that I shall continue this fight to the very last. I—I am not one to be easily beaten. Simpson, you and Thomas come with me. This night's despicable chicanery is only the beginning. This is bad business for you, Cy Whittaker,” he snarled, his self-control vanishing, “and”—with a vindictive glance at the schoolmistress—“for those who are with you in it. That appointment was obtained under false pretenses and I can prove it. Your tricks don't scare me. I've had experience with TRICKS before.”
“Yup. So I've heard. Well, Heman, I ain't as well up in tricks as you claim to be, nor my stockin' isn't as well padded as yours, maybe. But while there's a ten-cent piece left in the toe of it I'll fight you and the skunk whose 'rights' you seem to have taken such a shine to. And, after that, while there's a lawyer that 'll trust me. And, meantime, that little girl stays right here, and you touch her if you dare, any of you! Anything more to say?”
But the Honorable's dignity had returned. Possibly he thought he had said too much already. A moment later the door banged behind the discomforted boarding party.
Captain Cy pulled his beard and laughed.
“Well, we repelled 'em, didn't we?” he observed. “But, as friend Heman says, the beginnin's only begun. I wish he hadn't seen you here, teacher.”
Miss Dawes looked up from the task of stroking poor Bos'n's hair.
“I don't,” she said, “I'm glad of it.” Then she added, laughing nervously: “Cap'n Whittaker, how could you be so cool? It was like a play. I declare, you were just splendid!”
Josiah Dimick has a unique faculty of grasping a situation and summing it up in an out-of-the-ordinary way.
“I think,” observed Josiah to the excited group at Simmons's, “that this town owes Cy Whittaker a vote of thanks.”
“Thanks!” gasped Alpheus Smalley, so shocked and horrified that he put the one-pound weight on the scales instead of the half pound. “THANKS! After what we've found out? Well, I must say!”
“Ya-as,” drawled Captain Josiah, “thanks was what I said. If it wan't for him this gang and the sewin' circle wouldn't have nothin' to talk about but their neighbors. Our reputations would be as full of holes as a skimmer by this time. Now all hands are so busy jumpin' on Whit, that the rest of us can feel fairly safe. Ain't that so, Gabe?”
Mr. Lumley, who had stopped in for a half pound of tea, grinned feebly, but said nothing. If he noticed the clerk's mistake in weights he didn't mention it, but took his package and hurried out. After his departure Mr. Smalley himself discovered the error and charged the Lumley account with “1 1/4 lbs. Mixed Green and Black.” Meanwhile the assemblage about the stove had put Captain Cy on the anvil and was hammering him vigorously.
Bayport was boiling over with rumor and surmise. Heman had appealed to the courts asking that Captain Cy's appointment as Bos'n's guardian be rescinded. Cy had hired Lawyer Peabody, of Ostable, to look out for his interests. Mr. Atkins and the captain had all but come to blows over the child. Thomas, the poor father, had broken down and wept, and had threatened to commit suicide. Mrs. Salters had refused to speak to Captain Cy when she met the latter after meeting on Sunday. The land in Orham had been sold and the captain was using the money. Phoebe Dawes had threatened to resign if Bos'n came to school any longer. No, she had threatened to resign if she didn't come to school. She hadn't threatened to resign at all, but wanted higher wages because of the effect the scandal might have on her reputation as a teacher. These were a few of the reports, contradicted and added to from day to day.
To quote Josiah Dimick again: “Sortin' out the truth from the lies is like tryin' to find a quart of sardines in a schooner load of herrin'. And they dump in more herrin' every half hour.”
Angeline Phinney was having the time of her life. The perfect boarding house hummed like a fly trap. Keturah and Mrs. Tripp had deserted to the enemy, and the minority, meaning Asaph and Bailey, had little opportunity to defend their friend's cause, even if they had dared. Heman Atkins, his Christian charity and high-mindedness, his devotion to duty, regardless of political consequences, and the magnificent speech at town meeting were lauded and exalted. The Bayport Breeze contained a full account of the meeting, and it was read aloud by Keturah, amidst hymns of praise from the elect.
“'Whom the Lord hath joined,'” read Mrs. Bangs, “'let no man put asunder.' Ain't that splendid? Ain't that FINE? The paper says: 'When Congressman Atkins delivered this noble sentiment a hush fell upon the excited throng.' I should think 'twould. I remember when I was married the minister said pretty nigh the same thing, and I COULDN'T speak. I couldn't have opened my mouth to save me. Don't you remember I couldn't, Bailey?”
Mr. Bangs nodded gloomily. It is possible that he wished the effect of the minister's declaration might have been more lasting. Asaph stirred in his chair.
“I don't care,” he said. “This puttin' asunder business is all right, but there's always two sides to everything. I see this Thomas critter when he fust come, and he didn't look like no saint then—nor smell like one, neither, unless 'twas a specimen pickled in alcohol.”
Here was irreverence almost atheistic. Keturah's face showed her shocked disapproval. Matilda Tripp voiced the general sentiment.
“Humph!” she sniffed. “Well, all I can say is that I've met Mr. Thomas two or three times, and I didn't notice anything but politeness and good manners. Maybe my nose ain't so fine for smellin' liquor as some folks's—p'raps it ain't had the experience—but all I saw was a poor lame man with a black eye. I pitied him, and I don't care who hears me say it.”
“Yes,” concurred Miss Phinney, “and if he was a drinkin' man, do you suppose Mr. Atkins would have anything to do with him? Cyrus Whittaker made a whole lot of talk about his insultin' some woman or other, but nobody knows who the woman was. 'Bout time for her to speak up, I should think. Teacher,” turning to Miss Dawes, “you was at the Whittaker place when Mr. Atkins and Emily's father come for her, I understand. I wish I'd have been there. It must have been wuth seein'.”
“It was,” replied Miss Dawes. She had kept silent throughout the various discussions of the week following the town meeting, but now, thus appealed to, she answered promptly.
Angeline's news created a sensation. The schoolmistress immediately became the center of interest.
“Is that so? Was you there, teacher? Well, I declare!” The questions and exclamations flew round the table.
“Tell us, teacher,” pleaded Keturah. “Wasn't Heman grand? I should so like to have heard him. Didn't Cap'n Whittaker look ashamed of himself?”
“No, he did not. If anyone looked ashamed it was Mr. Atkins and his friends. Perhaps I ought to tell you that my sympathies are entirely with Captain Whittaker in this affair. To give that little girl up to a drunken scoundrel like her father would, in my opinion, be a crime.”
The boarders and the landlady gasped. Asaph grinned and nudged Bailey under the table. Keturah was the first to recover.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “Everybody's got a right to their opinion, of course. But I can't see the crime, myself. And as for the drunkenness, I'd like to know who's seen Mr. Thomas drunk. Cyrus Whittaker SAYS he has, but—”
She waved her hand scornfully. Phoebe rose from her chair.
“I have seen him in that condition,” she said. “In fact, I am the person he insulted. I saw Captain Whittaker knock him down, and I honored the captain for it. I only wished I were a man and could have done it myself.”
She left the room, and, a few moments later, the house. Mr. Tidditt chuckled aloud. Even Bailey dared to look pleased.
“There!” sneered the widow Tripp. “Ain't that—Perhaps you remember that Cap'n Whittaker got her the teacher's place?”
“Yes,” put in Miss Phinney, “and nobody knows WHY he got it for her. That is, nobody has known up to now. Maybe we can begin to guess a little after this.”
“She was at his house, was she?” observed Keturah. “Humph! I wonder why? Seems to me if I was a young—that is, a single woman like her, I'd be kind of careful about callin' on bachelors. Humph! it looks funny to me.”
Asaph rose and pushed back his chair.
“I cal'late she called to see Emily,” he said sharply. “The child was her scholar, and I presume likely, knowin' the kind of father that has turned up for the poor young one, she felt sorry for her. Of course, nobody's hintin' anything against Phoebe Dawes's character. If you want a certificate of that, you've only got to go to Wellmouth. Folks over there are pretty keen on that subject. I guess the town would go to law about it rather'n hear a word against her. Libel suits are kind of uncomf'table things for them that ain't sure of their facts. I'D hate to get mixed up in one, myself. Bailey, I'm going up street. Come on, when you can, won't you?”
As if frightened at his own display of spirit, he hurried out. There was silence for a time; then Miss Phinney spoke concerning the weather.
Up at the Cy Whittaker place the days were full ones. There, also, legal questions were discussed, with Georgianna, the Board of Strategy, Josiah Dimick occasionally, and, more infrequently still, Miss Dawes, as participants with Captain Cy in the discussions. Rumors were true in so far as they related to Mr. Atkins's appeal to the courts, and the captain's retaining Lawyer Peabody, of Ostable. Mr. Peabody's opinion of the case was not encouraging.
“You see, captain,” he said, when his client visited him at his office, “the odds are very much against us. The court appointed you as guardian with the understanding that this man Thomas was dead. Now he is alive and claims his child. More than that, he has the most influential politician in this county back of him. We wouldn't stand a fighting chance except for one thing—Thomas himself. He left his wife and the baby; deserted them, so she said; went to get work, HE says. We can prove he was a drunken blackguard BEFORE he went, and that he has been drunk since he came back. But THEY'LL say—Atkins and his lawyer—that the man was desperate and despairing because of your refusal to give him his child. They'll hold him up as a repentant sinner, anxious to reform, and needing the little girl's influence to help keep him straight. That's their game, and they'll play it, be sure of that, It sounds reasonable enough, too, for sinners have repented before now. And the long-lost father coming back to his child is the one sure thing to win applause from the gallery, you know that.”
Captain Cy nodded.
“Yup,” he said, “I know it. The other night, when Miss Ph— when a friend of mine was at the house, she said this business was like a play. I didn't say so to her, but all the same I realize it ain't like a play at all. In a play dad comes home, havin' been snaked bodily out of the jaws of the tomb by his coat collar, and the young one sings out 'Papa! Papa!' and he sobs, 'Me child! Me child!' and it's all lovely, and you put on your hat feelin' that the old man is goin' to be rich and righteous for the rest of his days. But here it's different; dad's a rascal, and anybody who's seen anything of the world knows he's bound to stay so; and as for the poor little girl, why—why—”
He stopped, rose, and, striding over to the window, stood looking out. After an interval, during which the good-natured attorney read a dull business letter through for the second time, he spoke again.
“I hope you understand, Peabody,” he said. “It ain't just selfishness that makes me steer the course I'm runnin'. Course, Bos'n's got to be the world and all to me, and if she's taken away I don't know's I care a tinker's darn what happens afterwards. But, all the same, if her dad was a real man, sorry for what he's done and tryin' to make up for it—why, then, I cal'late I'm decent enough to take off my hat, hand her over, and say: 'God bless you and good luck.' But to think of him carryin' her off the Lord knows where, to neglect her and cruelize her, and to let her grow up among fellers like him, I—I—by the big dipper, I can't do it! That's all; I can't!”
“How does she feel about it, herself?” asked Peabody.
“Her? Bos'n? Why, that's the hardest of all. Some of the children at school pester her about her father. I don't know's you can blame 'em; young ones are made that way, I guess—but she comes home to me cryin', and it's 'O Uncle Cy, he AIN'T my truly father, is he?' and 'You won't let him take me away from you, will you?' till it seems as if I should fly out of the window. The poor little thing! And that puffed-up humbug Atkins blowin' about his Christianity and all! D—n such Christianity as that, I say! I've seen heathen Injuns, who never heard of Christ, with more of His spirit inside 'em. There! I've shocked you, I guess. Sometimes I think this place is too narrer and cramped for me. I've been around, you know, and my New England bringin' up has wore thin in spots. Seem's if I must get somewheres and spread out, or I'll bust.”
He threw himself into a chair. The lawyer clapped him on the shoulder.
“There, there, captain,” he said. “Don't 'bust' yet awhile. Don't give up the ship. If we lose in one court, we can appeal to another, and so on up the line. And meantime we'll do a little investigating of friend Thomas's career since he left Concord. I've written to a legal acquaintance of mine in Butte, giving him the facts as we know them, and a description of Thomas. He will try to find out what the fellow did in his years out West. It's our best chance, as I told you. Keep your pluck up and wait and see.”
The captain repeated this conversation to the Board of Strategy when he returned to Bayport. Miss Dawes had walked home from school with Bos'n, and had stopped at the house to hear the report. She listened, but it was evident that something else was on her mind.
“Captain Whittaker,” she asked, “has it ever struck you as queer that Mr. Atkins should take such an interest in this matter? He is giving time and counsel and money to help this man Thomas, who is a perfect stranger to him. Why does he do it?”
Captain Cy smiled.
“Why?” he repeated. “Why, to down me, of course. I was gettin' too everlastin' prominent in politics to suit him. I'd got you in as teacher, and I had 'Lonzo Snow as good as licked for school committee. Goodness knows what I might have run for next, 'cordin' to Heman's reasonin', and I simply had to be smashed. It worked all right. I'm so unhealthy now in the sight of most folks in this town, that I cal'late they go home and sulphur-smoke their clothes after they meet me, so's not to catch my wickedness.”
But the teacher shook her head.
“That doesn't seem reason enough to me,” she declared. “Just see what Mr. Atkins has done. He never openly advocated anything in town meeting before; you said so yourself. Even when he must have realized that you had the votes for committeeman he kept still. He might have taken many of them from you by simply coming out and declaring for Mr. Snow; but he didn't. And then, all at once, he takes this astonishing stand. Captain Whittaker, Mr. Tidditt says that, the night of Emily's birthday party, you and he told who she was, by accident, and that Mr. Atkins seemed very much surprised and upset. Is that so?”
Captain Cy laughed.
“His lemonade was upset; that's all I noticed special. Oh! yes, and he lost his hat off, goin' home. But what of it? What are you drivin' at?”
“I was wondering if—if it could be that, for some reason, Mr. Atkins had a spite against Emily or her people. Or if he had any reason to fear her.”
“Fear? Fear Bos'n? Oh, my, that's funny! You've been readin' novels, I'm 'fraid, teacher, 'though I didn't suspect it of you.”
He laughed heartily. Miss Dawes smiled, too, but she still persisted.
“Well,” she said, “I don't know. Perhaps it is because I'm a woman, and politics don't mean as much to me as to you men, but to me political reasons don't seem strong enough to account for such actions as those of Mr. Atkins. Emily's mother was a Thayer, wasn't she? and the Thayers once lived in Orham. I wish we could find out more about them while they lived there.”
Asaph Tidditt pulled his beard thoughtfully.
“Well,” he observed, “maybe we can, if we want to, though I don't think what we find out 'll amount to nothin'. I was kind of cal'latin' to go to Orham next week on a little visit. Seth Wingate over there—Barzilla Wingate's cousin, Whit—is a sort of relation of mine, and we visit back and forth every nine or ten year or so. The ten year's most up, and he's been pesterin' me to come over. Seth's been Orham town clerk about as long as I've been the Bayport one, and he's lived there all his life. What he don't know about Orham folks ain't wuth knowin'. If you say so, I'll pump him about the Thayers and the Richards. 'Twon't do no harm, and the old fool likes to talk, anyhow. I don't know's I ought to speak that way about my relations,” he added doubtfully, “but Seth IS sort of stubborn and unlikely at odd times. We don't always agree as to which is the best town to live in, you understand.”
So it was settled that Mr. Wingate should be subjected to the “pumping” process when Asaph visited him. He departed for this visit the following week, and remained away for ten days. Meanwhile several things happened in Bayport.
One of these things was the farewell of the Honorable Heman Atkins. Congress was to open at Washington, and the Honorable heeded the call of duty. Alicia and the housekeeper went with him, and the big house was closed for the winter. At the gate between the stone urns, and backed by the iron dogs, the great man bade a group of admiring constituents good-by. He thanked them for their trust in him, and promised that it should not be betrayed.
“I leave you, my fellow townsmen, er—ladies and friends,” he said, “with regret, tempered by pride—a not inexcusable pride, I believe. In the trying experience which my self-respect and sympathy has so recently forced upon me, you have stood firm and cheered me on. The task I have undertaken, the task of restoring to a worthy man his own, shall be carried on to the bitterest extremity. I have put my hand to the plow, and it shall not be withdrawn. And, furthermore, I go to my work at Washington determined to secure for my native town the appropriation which it so sorely needs. I shall secure it if I can, even though—” and the sarcasm was hugely enjoyed by his listeners—“I am, as I seem likely to be, deprived of the help of the 'committee,' self-appointed at our recent town meeting. If I fail—and I do not conceal the fact that I may fail—I am certain you will not blame me. Now I should like to shake each one of you by the hand.”
The hands were shaken, and the train bore the Atkins delegation away. And, on the day following, Mr. Thomas, the prodigal father, also left town. A position in Boston had been offered him, he said, and he felt that he must accept it. He would come back some of these days, with the warrant from the court, and get his little girl.
“Position offered him! Um—ya-as!” quoth Dimick the cynical, in conversation with Captain Cy. “Inspector of sidewalks, I shouldn't wonder. Well, please don't ask me if I think Heman sent him to Boston so's to have him out of the way, and 'cause he'd feel consider'ble safer than if he was loose down here. Don't ask me that, for, with my strict scruples against the truth I might say, No. As it is, I say nothin'—and wink my port eye.”
The ten-day visit ended, Mr. Tidditt returned to Bayport. On the afternoon of his return he and Bailey called at the Whittaker place, and there they were joined by Miss Dawes, who had been summoned to the conclave by a note intrusted to Bos'n.
“Now, Ase,” ordered Captain Cy, as the quartet gathered in the sitting room, “here we are, hangin' on your words, as the feller said. Don't keep us strung up too long. What did you find out?”
The town clerk cleared his throat. When he spoke, there was a trace of disappointment in his tone. To have been able to electrify his audience with the news of some startling discovery would have been pure joy for Asaph.
“Well,” he began, “I don't know's I found out anything much. Yet I did find out somethin', too; but it don't really amount to nothin'. I hoped 'twould be somethin' more'n 'twas, but when nothin' come of it except the little somethin' it begun with, I—”
“For the land sakes!” snapped Bailey Bangs, who was a trifle envious of his friend's position in the center of the stage, “stop them 'nothin's' and 'somethin's,' won't you? You keep whirlin' 'em round and over and over till my head's FULL of 'nothin',' and—”
“That's what it's full of most of the time,” interrupted Asaph tartly. Captain Cy hastened to act as peacemaker.
“Never mind, Bailey,” he said; “you let Ase alone. Tell us what you did find out, Ase, and cut out the trimmin's.”
“Well,” continued Mr. Tidditt, with a glare at Bangs, “I asked Seth about the Thayers and the Richards folks the very fust night I struck Orham. He remembered 'em, of course; he can remember Adam, if you let him tell it. He told me a whole mess about old man Thayer and old man Richards and their granddads and grandmarms, and what houses they lived in, and how many hens they kept, and what their dog's name was, and how they come to name him that, and enough more to fill a hogshead. 'Twas ten o'clock afore he got out of Genesis, and down so fur as John and Emily. He remembered their bein' married, and their baby—Mary Thayer, Bos'n's ma—bein' born.
“Folks used to call John Thayer a smart young feller, so Seth said. They used to cal'late that he'd rise high in the seafarin' and ship-ownin' line. Maybe he would, only he died somewheres in Californy 'long in '54 or thereabouts. 'Twas the time of the gold craziness out there, and he left his ship and went gold huntin'. And the next thing they knew he was dead and buried.”
“When was that?” inquired the schoolmistress.
“In '54, I tell you. So Seth says.”
“What ship was he on?” asked Bailey.
“Wan't on any ship. Why don't you listen, instead of settin' there moonin'? He was gold diggin', I tell you.”
“He'd BEEN on a ship, hadn't he? What was the name of her?”
“I didn't ask. What diff'rence does that make?”
“Wasn't Mr. Atkins at sea in those days?” put in the teacher. The captain answered her.
“Yes, he was,” he said. “That is, I think he was. He was away from here when I skipped out, and he didn't get back till '61 or thereabouts.”
“Well, anyhow,” went on Asaph, “that's all I could find out. Seth and me went rummagin' through town records from way back to glory, him gassin' away and stringin' along about this old settler and that, till I 'most wished he'd choke himself with the dust he was raisin'. We found John's grandad's will, and Emily's dad's will, and John's own will, and that's all. John left everything he had and all he might become possessed of to his wife and baby and their heirs forever. He died poorer'n poverty. What's the use of a will when you ain't got nothin' to leave?”
“Why!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “The answer to that's easy. John was goin' to sea, and, more'n likely, intended to have a shy at the diggin's afore he got back. So, if he did make any money, he wanted his wife and baby to have it.”
“Well, what they got wan't wuth havin'. Emily had to scrimp along and do dressmakin' till she died. She done fairly well at that, though, and saved somethin' and passed it over to Mary. And Mary married Henry Thomas, after she went with the Howes tribe to Concord, and he got rid of it for her in double quick time—all but the Orham land.”
“So that was all you could find out, hey, Ase?” asked the captain. “Well, it's at least as much as I expected. You see, teacher, these story-book notions don't work out when it comes to real life.”
Miss Dawes was plainly disappointed.
“I wish we knew more,” she said. “Who was on this ship with Mr. Thayer? And who sent the news of his death home?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” said Asaph. “'Twas some one-hoss doctor out there, gold minin' himself, he was. John died of a quick fever. Got cold and went off in no time. Seth remembered that much, though he couldn't remember the doctor's name. He said, if I wanted to learn more about the Thayers, I might go see—Humph, well, never mind that. 'Twas just foolishness, anyhow.”
But Phoebe persisted.
“To see whom?” she asked. “Some one you knew? A friend of yours?”
Asaph turned red.
“Friend of mine!” he snarled. “No, SIR! she ain't no friend of mine, I'm thankful to say. More a friend of Bailey's, here, if she's anybody's. One of his pets, she was, for a spell. A patient of his, you might say; anyhow, he prescribed for her. 'Twas that deef idiot, Debby Beasley, Cy; that's who 'twas. Her name was Briggs afore she married Beasley, and she was hired help for Emily Thayer, when Mary was born, and until John died.”
Captain Cy burst into a roar of laughter. Bailey sprang out of his chair.
“De—Debby Beasley!” he stammered. “Debby Beasley!”
“She was that deef housekeeper Bailey hired for me, teacher,” explained the captain. “I've told you about her. Ho! ho! so that's the end of the mystery huntin'. We go gunnin' for Heman Atkins, and we bring down Debby! Well, Ase, goin' to see the old lady?”
Mr. Tidditt's retort was emphatic.
“Goin' to SEE her?” he repeated. “I guess not! Godfrey scissors! I told Seth, says I, 'I've had all the Debby Beasley I want, and I cal'late Cy Whittaker feels the same way.' Go to see her! I wouldn't go to see her if she was up in Paradise a-hollerin' for me.”
“Nobody up there's goin' to holler for YOU, Ase Tidditt,” remarked Bailey, with sarcasm; “so don't let that worry you none.”
“Are YOU going to see her, Captain Whittaker?” asked Phoebe.
The captain shook his head.
“Why, no, I guess not,” he said. “I don't take much stock in what she'd be likely to know; besides, I'm a good deal like Ase—I've had about all the Debby Beasley I want.”
“Mrs. Bangs,” said the schoolmistress, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, “I want to borrow your husband to-morrow.”
It was Friday evening, and supper at the perfect boarding house had advanced as far as the stewed prunes and fruit-cake stage. Keturah, who was carefully dealing out the prunes, exactly four to each saucer, stopped short, spoon in air, and gazed at Miss Dawes.
“You—you want to WHAT?” she asked.
“I want to borrow your husband. I want him all day, too, because I'm thinking of driving over to Trumet, and I need a coachman. You'll go, won't you, Mr. Bangs?”
Bailey, who had been considering the advisability of asking for a second cup of tea, brightened up and looked pleased.
“Why, yes,” he answered, “I'll go. I can go just as well as not. Fact is, I'd like to. Ain't been to Trumet I don't know when.”
Miss Phinney and the widow Tripp looked at each other. Then they both looked at Keturah. That lady's mouth closed tightly, and she resumed her prune distribution.
“I'm sorry,” she said crisply, “but I'm 'fraid he can't go. It's Saturday, and I'll need him round the house. Do you care for cake to-night, Elviry? I'm 'fraid it's pretty dry; I ain't had time to do much bakin' this week.”
“Of course,” continued the smiling Phoebe, “I shouldn't think of asking him to go for nothing. I didn't mean borrow him in just that way. I was thinking of hiring your horse and buggy, and, as I'm not used to driving, I thought perhaps I might engage Mr. Bangs to drive for me. I expected to pay for the privilege. But, as you need him, I suppose I must get my rig and driver somewhere else. I'm so sorry.”
The landlady's expression changed. This was the dull season, and opportunities to “let” the family steed and buggy—“horse and team,” we call it in Bayport—were few.
“Well,” she observed, “I don't want to be unlikely and disobligin'. Far's he's concerned, he'd rather be traipsin' round the country than stay to home, any day; though it's been so long sence he took ME to ride that I don't know's I'd know how to act.”
“Why, Ketury!” protested her husband. “How you talk! Didn't I drive you down to the graveyard only last Sunday—or the Sunday afore?”
“Graveyard! Yes, I notice our rides always fetch up at the graveyard. You're always willin' to take me THERE. Seems sometimes as if you enjoyed doin' it.”
“Now, Keturah! you know yourself that 'twas you proposed goin' there. You said you wanted to look at our lot, 'cause you was afraid 'twan't big enough, and you didn't know but we'd ought to add on another piece. You said that it kept you awake nights worryin' for fear when I passed away you wouldn't have room in that lot for me. Land sakes! don't I remember? Didn't you give me the blue creeps talkin' about it?”
Mrs. Bangs ignored this outburst. Turning to the school teacher, she said with a sigh:
“Well, I guess he can go. I'll get along somehow. I hope he'll be careful of the buggy; we had it painted only last January.”
Mrs. Tripp ventured a hinted question concerning the teacher's errand at Trumet. The reply being noncommittal, the widow cheerfully prophesied that she guessed 'twas going to rain or snow next day. “It's about time for the line storm,” she added.
But it did not storm, although a brisk, cold gale was blowing when, after breakfast next morning, the “horse and team,” with Bailey in his Sunday suit and overcoat, and Miss Dawes on the buggy seat beside him, turned out of the boarding-house yard and started on the twelve-mile journey to Trumet.
It was a bleak ride. Denboro, the village adjoining Bayport on the bay side, is a pretty place, with old elms and silverleafs shading the main street in summer, and with substantial houses set each in its trim yard. But beyond Denboro the Trumet road winds out over rolling, bare hills, with cranberry bogs, now flooded and skimmed with ice, in the hollows between them, clumps of bayberry and beach-plum bushes scattered over their rounded slopes, and white scars in their sides showing where the cranberry growers have cut away the thin layer of coarse grass and moss to reach the sand beneath, sand which they use in preparing their bogs for the new vines.
And the wind! There is always a breeze along the Trumet road, even in summer—when the mosquitoes lie in wait to leeward like buccaneers until, sighting the luckless wayfarer in the offing, they drive down before the wind in clouds, literally to eat him alive. They are skilled navigators, those Trumet road mosquitoes, and they know the advantage of snug harbors under hat brims and behind spreading ears. And each individual smashed by a frantic palm leaves a thousand blood relatives to attend his funeral and exact revenge after the Corsican fashion.
Now, in December, there were, of course, no mosquitoes, but the wind tore across those bare hilltops in gusts that rocked the buggy on its springs. The bayberry bushes huddled and crouched before it. The sky was covered with tumbling, flying clouds, which changed shape continually, and ripped into long, fleecy ravelings, that broke loose and pelted on until merged into the next billowy mass. The bay was gray and white, and in the spots where an occasional sunbeam broke through and struck it, flashed like a turned knife blade.
Bailey drove with one hand and held his hat on his head with the other. The road had been deeply rutted during the November rains, and now the ruts were frozen. The buggy wheels twisted and scraped as they turned in the furrows.
“What's the matter?” asked the schoolmistress, shouting so as to be heard above the flapping of the buggy curtains. “Why do you watch that wheel?”
“'Fraid of the axle,” whooped Mr. Bangs in reply. “Nut's kind of loose, for one thing, and the way the wheel wobbles I'm scart she'll come off. Call this a road!” he snorted indignantly. “More like a plowed field a consider'ble sight. Jerushy, how she blows! No wonder they raise so many deef and dumb folks in Trumet. I'd talk sign language myself if I lived here. What's the use of wastin' strength pumpin' up words when they're blowed back down your throat fast enough to choke you? Git dap, Henry! Don't you see the meetin' house steeple? We're most there, thank the goodness.”
In Trumet Center, which is not much of a center, Miss Dawes alighted from the buggy and entered a building bearing a sign with the words “Metropolitan Variety Store, Joshua Atwood, Prop'r, Groceries, Coal, Dry Goods, Insurance, Boots and Shoes, Garden Seeds, etc.” A smaller sign beneath this was lettered “Justice of the Peace,” and one below that read “Post Office.”
She emerged a moment later, followed by an elderly person in a red cardigan jacket and overalls.
“Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm,” he said pointing. “It's pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall. Fust house this side of the blacksmith shop. About two mile, I'd say. Windy day for drivin', ain't it? That horse of yours belongs in Bayport, I cal'late. Looks to me like—Hello, Bailey!”
“Hello, Josh!” grunted Mr. Bangs, adding an explanatory aside to the effect that he knew Josh Atwood, the latter having once lived in Bayport.
“But say,” he asked as they moved on once more, “have we got to go to EAST Trumet? Jerushy! that's the place where the wind COMES from. They raise it over there; anyhow, they don't raise much else. Whose house you goin' to?”
He had asked the same question at least ten times since leaving home, and each time Miss Dawes had evaded it. She did so now, saying that she was sure she should know the house when they got to it.
The two miles to East Trumet were worse than the twelve which they had come. The wind fairly shrieked here, for the road paralleled the edge of high sand bluffs close by the shore, and the ruts and “thank-you-marms” were trying to the temper. Bailey's was completely wrecked.
“Teacher,” he snapped as they reached the crest of a long hill, and a quick grab at his hat alone prevented its starting on a balloon ascension, “get out a spell, will you? I've got to swear or bust, and 'long's you're aboard I can't swear. What you standin' still for, you?” he bellowed at poor Henry, the horse, who had stopped to rest. “I cal'late the critter thinks that last cyclone must have blowed me sky high, and he's waitin' to see where I light. Git dap!”
“I guess I shall get out very soon now,” panted Phoebe. “There's the blacksmith shop over there near the next hill, and this house in the hollow must be the one I'm looking for.”
They pulled up beside the house in the hollow. A little, story-and-a-half house it was, and, judging by the neglected appearance of the weeds and bushes in the yard, it had been unoccupied for some time. However, the blinds were now open, and a few fowls about the back door seemed to promise that some one was living there. The wooden letter box by the gate had a name stenciled upon it. Miss Dawes sprang from the buggy and looked at the box.
“Yes,” she said. “This is the place. Will you come in, Mr. Bangs? You can put your horse in that barn, I'm sure, if you want to.”
But Bailey declined to come in. He declared he was going on to the blacksmith's shop to have that wheel fixed. He would not feel safe to start for home with it as it was. He drove off, and Miss Dawes, knowing from lifelong experience that front doors are merely for show, passed around the main body of the house and rapped on the door in the ell. The rap was not answered, though she could hear some one moving about within, and a shrill voice singing “The Sweet By and By.” So she rapped again and again, but still no one came to the door. At last she ventured to open it.
A thin woman, with her head tied up in a colored cotton handkerchief, was in the room, vigorously wielding a broom. She was singing in a high cracked voice. The opening of the door let in a gust of cold wind which struck the singer in the back of the neck, and caused her to turn around hastily.
“Hey?” she exclaimed. “Land sakes! you scare a body to death! Shut that door quick! I ain't hankering for influenzy. Who are you? What do you want? Why didn't you knock? Where's my specs?”
She took a pair of spectacles from the mantel shelf, rubbed them with her apron, and set them on the bridge of her thin nose. Then she inspected the schoolmistress from head to foot.
“I beg pardon for coming in,” shouted Phoebe. “I knocked, but you didn't hear. You are Mrs. Beasley, aren't you?”
“I don't want none,” replied Debby, with emphasis. “So there's no use your wastin' your breath.”
“Don't want—” repeated the astonished teacher. “Don't want what?”
“Hey? I say I don't want none.”
“Don't want WHAT?”
“Whatever 'tis you're peddlin'. Books or soap or tea, or whatever 'tis. I don't want nothin'.”
After some strenuous minutes, the visitor managed to make it clear to Mrs. Beasley's mind that she was not a peddler. She tried to add a word of further explanation, but it was effort wasted.
“'Tain't no use,” snapped Debby, “I can't hear you, you speak so faint. Wait till I get my horn; it's in the settin' room.”
Phoebe's wonder as to what the “horn” might be was relieved by the widow's appearance, a moment later, with the biggest ear trumpet her caller had ever seen.
“There, now!” she said, adjusting the instrument and thrusting the bell-shaped end under the teacher's nose. “Talk into that. If you ain't a peddler, what be you—sewin' machine agent?”
Phoebe explained that she had come some distance on purpose to see Mrs. Beasley. She was interested in the Thayers, who used to live in Orham, particularly in Mr. John Thayer, who died in 1854. She had been told that Debby formerly lived with the Thayers, and could, no doubt, remember a great deal about them. Would she mind answering a few questions, and so on?
Mrs. Beasley, her hearing now within forty-five degrees of the normal, grew interested. She ushered her visitor into the adjoining room, and proffered her a chair. That sitting room was a wonder of its kind, even to the teacher's accustomed eyes. A gilt-framed crayon enlargement of the late Mr. Beasley hung in the center of the broadest wall space, and was not the ugliest thing in the apartment. Having said this, further description is unnecessary—particularly to those who remember Mr. Beasley's personal appearance.
“What you so interested in the Thayers for?” inquired Debby. “One of the heirs, be you? They didn't leave nothin'.”
No, the schoolmistress was not an heir. Was not even a relative of the family. But she was—was interested, just the same. A friend of hers was a relative, and—
“What is your friend?” inquired the inquisitor. “A man?”
There was no reason why Miss Dawes should have changed color, but, according to Debby's subsequent testimony, she did; she blushed, so the widow declares.
“No,” she protested. “Oh, no! it's a—she's a child, that's all—a little girl. But—”
“Maybe you're gettin' up one of them geographical trees,” suggested Mrs. Beasley. “I've seen 'em, fust settlers down in the trunk, and children and grandchildren spreadin' out in the branches. Is that it?”
Here was an avenue of escape. Phoebe stretched the truth a trifle, and admitted that that, or something of the sort, was what she was engaged in. The explanation seemed to be satisfactory. Debby asked her visitor's name, and, misunderstanding it, addressed her as “Miss Dorcas” thereafter. Then she proceeded to give her reminiscences of the Thayers, and it did not take long for the disappointed teacher to discover that, for all practical purposes, these reminiscences were valueless. Mrs. Beasley remembered many things, but nothing at all concerning John Thayer's life in the West, nor the name of the ship he sailed in, nor who his shipmates were.
“He never wrote home but once or twice afore he died,” she said. “And when he did Emily, his wife, never told me what was in his letters. She always burnt 'em, I guess. I used to hunt around for 'em when she was out, but she burnt 'em to spite me, I cal'late. Her and me didn't get along any too well. She said I talked too much to other folks about what was none of their business. Now, anybody that knows me knows THAT ain't one of my failin's. I told her so; says I—”
And so on for ten minutes. Then Phoebe ventured to repeat the words “out West,” and her companion went off on a new tack. She had just been West herself. She had been on a visit to her husband's niece, who lived in Arizona. In Blazeton, Arizona. “It's the nicest town ever you see,” she continued. “And the smartest, most up-to-date place. Talk about the West bein' oncivilized! My land! you ought to see that town! Electric lights, and telephones, and—and—I don't know what all! Why, Miss What's-your-name—Miss Dorcas, marm, you just ought to see the photygraphs I've got that was took out there. My niece, she took 'em with one of them little mites of cameras. You wouldn't believe such a little box of a thing could take such photygraphs. I'm goin' to get 'em and show 'em to you. No, sir! you ain't got to go, neither. Set right still and let me fetch them photygraphs. 'Twon't be a mite of trouble. I'd love to do it.”
Protests were unavailing. The photographs, at least fifty of them, were produced, and the suffering caller was shown the Blazeton City Hall, and the Blazeton “Palace Hotel,” and the home of the Beasley niece, taken from the front, the rear, and both sides. With each specimen Debby delivered a descriptive lecture.
“You see that house?” she asked. “Well, 'tain't much of a one to look at, but it's got the most interestin' story tagged on to it. I made Eva, that's my niece, take a picture of it just on that account. The woman that lives there's had the hardest time. Her fust name's Desire, and that kind of made me take an interest in her right off, 'cause I had an Aunt Desire once, and it's a name you don't hear very often. Afterwards I got to know her real well. She was a widder woman, like me, only she didn't have as much sense as I've got, and went and married a second time. 'Twas 'long in 1886 she done it. This man Higgins, he went to work for her on her place, and pretty soon he married her. They lived together, principally on her fust husband's insurance money, I cal'late, until a year or so ago. Then the insurance money give out, and Mr. Higgins he says: 'Old woman,' he says—I'D never let a husband of mine call me 'old woman,' but Desire didn't seem to mind—'Old woman,' he says, 'I'm goin' over to Phoenix'—that's another city in Arizona—'to look for a job.' And he went, and she ain't heard hide—I mean seen hide nor heard hair—What DOES ail me? She ain't seen nor heard of him since. And she advertised in the weekly paper, and I don't know what all. She thinks he was murdered, you know; that's what makes it so sort of creepy and interestin'. Everybody was awful kind to her, and we got to be real good friends. Why, I—”
This was but the beginning. It was evident that Mrs. Beasley had thoroughly enjoyed herself in Blazeton, and that the sorrows of the bereaved Desire Higgins had been one of the principal sources of that enjoyment. The schoolmistress endeavored to turn the subject, but it was useless.
“I fetched home a whole pile of them newspapers,” continued Debby. “They was awful interestin'; full of pictures of Blazeton buildin's and leadin' folks and all. And in some of the back numbers was the advertisement about Mr. Higgins. I do wish I could show 'em to you, but I lent 'em to Mrs. Atwood up to the Center. If 'twan't such a ways I'd go and fetch 'em. Mrs. Atwood's been awful nice to me. She took care of my trunks and things when I went West—yes, and afore that when I went to Bayport to keep house for that miser'ble Cap'n Whittaker. I ain't told you about that, but I will by and by. Them trunks had lots of things in 'em that I didn't want to lose nor have anybody see. My diaries—I've kept a diary since 1850—and—”
“Diaries?” interrupted Phoebe, grasping at straws. “Did you keep a diary while you were at the Thayers?”
“Yes. Now, why didn't I think of that afore? More'n likely there'd be somethin' in that to help you with that geographical tree. I used to put down everything that happened, and—Where you goin'?”
Miss Dawes had risen and was peering out of the window.
“I was looking to see if my driver was anywhere about,” she replied. “I thought perhaps he would drive over to Mrs. Atwood's and get the diary for you. But I don't see him.”
Just then, from around the corner of the house, peeped an agitated face; an agitated forefinger beckoned. Debby stepped to the window beside her visitor, and the face and finger went out of sight as if pulled by a string.
Miss Phoebe smiled.
“I think I'll go out and look for him,” she said. “He must be near here. I'll be right back, Mrs. Beasley.”
Without stopping to put on her jacket, she hurried through the dining room, out of the door, and around the corner. There she found Mr. Bangs in a highly nervous state.
“Why didn't you tell me 'twas Debby Beasley you was comin' to see?” he demanded. “If you'd mentioned that deef image's name you'd never got ME to drive you, I tell you that!”
“Yes,” answered the teacher sweetly. “I imagined that. That's why I didn't tell you, Mr. Bangs. Now I want you to do me a favor. Will you drive over to Trumet Center, and deliver a note and get a package for me? Then you can come back here, and I shall be ready to start for home.”
“Drive! Drive nothin'! The blacksmith's out, and won't be back for another hour. His boy's there, but he's a big enough lunkhead to try bailin' out a dory with a fork, and that buggy axle is bent so it's simply got to be fixed. I'd no more go home to Ketury with that buggy as 'tis than I'd—Oh! my land of love!”
The ejaculation was almost a groan. There at the corner, ear trumpet adjusted, and spectacles glistening, stood Debby Beasley. Bailey appeared to wilt under her gaze as if the spectacles were twin suns. Miss Dawes looked as if she very much wanted to laugh. The widow stared in silence.
“How—how d'ye do, Mrs. Beasley?” faltered Mr. Bangs, not forgetting to raise his voice. “I hope you're lookin' as well as you feel. I mean, I hope you're smart.”
Mrs. Beasley nodded decisively.
“Yes,” she answered. “I'm pretty toler'ble, thank you. What was the matter, Mr. Bangs? Why didn't you come in? Do you usually make your calls round the corner?”
The gentleman addressed seemed unable to reply. The schoolmistress came to the rescue.
“You mustn't blame Mr. Bangs, Mrs. Beasley,” she explained. “He wasn't responsible for what happened at Captain Whittaker's. He is the gentleman who drove me over here. I was going to send him to Mrs. Atwood's for the diary.”
“Who said I was blamin' him?” queried the widow. “If 'twas that little Tidditt thing I might feel different. But, considerin' that I got this horn from Mr. Bangs, I'm willin' to let bygones be past. It helps my hearin' a lot. Them ear-fixin's was good while they lasted, but they got out of kilter quick. I shan't bother Mr. Bangs. If he can square his own conscience, I'm satisfied.”
Bailey's conscience was not troubling him greatly, and he seemed relieved. Phoebe told of the damaged buggy.
“Humph!” grunted the widow. “The horse didn't get bent, too, did he?”
Mr. Bangs indignantly declared that the horse was all right.
“Um—hum. Well, then, I guess I can supply a carriage. My fust cousin Ezra that died used to be doctor here, and he give me his sulky when he got a new one. It's out in the barn. Go fetch your horse, and harness him in. I'll be ready time the harnessin's done.”
“You?” gasped the teacher. “You don't need to go, Mrs. Beasley. I wouldn't think of giving you that trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I wouldn't trust nobody else with them trunks. And besides, I always do enjoy ridin'. You could go, too, Miss Dorcas, but the sulky seat's too narrer for three. You can set in the settin' room till we get back. 'Twon't take us long. Don't say another word; I'm A-GOIN'.”
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