“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.Ishan'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'.”
The number of reasons given by Mr. Bangs one after the other, to prove that it would be quite impossible for him to be Mrs. Beasley's charioteer was a credit to the resources of his invention. The blacksmith might be back any minute; it was dinner time, and he was hungry; Henry, the horse, was tired; it wasn't a nice day for riding, and he would come over some other time and take the widow out; he—But Debby had a conclusive answer for each protest.
“You said yourself the blacksmith wouldn't be back for an hour,” she observed. “And you can leave word with the boy what he's to do when he does come. As for dinner, I'll be real glad to give you and Miss Dorcas a snack soon's we get back. I don't mind if it ain't a pleasant day; a little fresh air 'll do me good. I been shut up here house-cleanin' ever since I got back from out West. Now, hurry right along, and fetch your horse. I'll unlock the barn.”
“But, Mrs. Beasley,” put in the schoolmistress, “why couldn't you give us a note to Mrs. Atwood and let us stop for the diary on our way home? I could return it to you by mail. Or you might get it yourself some other day and mail it to me.”
“No, no! Never put off till to-morrer what you can do to-day. My husband was a great hand to put off and put off. For the last eight years of his life I was at him to buy a new go-to-meetin' suit of clothes. The one he had was blue to start with, but it faded to a brown, and, toward the last of it, I declare if it didn't commence to turn green. Nothin' I could say would make him heave it away even then. Seemed to think more of it than ever. Said he wanted to hang to it a spell and see what 'twould turn next. But he died and was laid out in that same suit, and I was so mortified at the funeral I couldn't think of nothin' else. No, I'll go after them papers and the diary while they're fresh in my mind. And besides, do you s'pose I'd let Sarah Ann Atwood rummage through my trunks? I guess not!”
Phoebe began to be sorry she had thought of sending for the diary, particularly as the chance of its containing valuable information was so remote. Mrs. Beasley went into the house to dress for the ride. The schoolmistress went with her as far as the sitting room. The perturbed Bailey stalked off, muttering, to the blacksmith's.
In a little while he returned, leading Henry by the bridle. Debby, adorned with the beflowered bonnet she had worn when she arrived at the Cy Whittaker place, and with a black cloth cape over her lean shoulders, was waiting for him by the open door of the barn. The cape had a fur collar—“cat fur,” so Mr. Bangs said afterwards in describing it.
“Pull the sulky right out,” commanded the widow.
Bailey stared into the black interior of the barn.
“Which is it?” he shouted.
Mrs. Beasley pointed with her ear trumpet.
“Why, that one there, of course. 'Tother's a truck cart. You wouldn't expect me to ride in that, would you?”
Mr. Bangs entered the barn, seized the vehicle indicated by the shafts, and drew it out into the yard. He inspected it deliberately, and then sat weakly down on the chopping block near by. Apparently he was overcome by emotion.
The “sulky” bequeathed by the late doctor had been built to order for its former owner. It was of the “carryall” variety, except that it had but a single narrow seat. Its top was square and was curtained, the curtains being tightly buttoned down. Altogether it was something of a curiosity. Miss Dawes, who had come out to see the start, looked at the “sulky,” then at Mr. Bangs's face, and turned her back. Her shoulders shook:
“It used to be a real nice carriage when Ezra had it,” commented the widow admiringly. “It needs ilin' and sprucin' up now, but I guess 'twill do. Come!” to Bailey, who had not risen from the chopping block. “Hurry up and harness or we'll never get started. Thought you wanted to get back for dinner?”
Mr. Bangs stood up and heaved a sigh.
“I did,” he answered slowly, “but,” with a glance at the sulky, “somethin' seems to have took away my appetite. Teacher, do you mean to—”
But Miss Dawes had withdrawn to the corner of the house, from which viewpoint she seemed to be inspecting the surrounding landscape. Bailey seized Henry by the bridle and backed him into the shafts.
“Back up!” he roared. “Back up, I tell you! You needn't look at me that way,” he added, in a lower tone. “Ican't help it. You ain't any worse ashamed than I am. There! the ark's off the ways. All aboard!”
Turning to the expectant widow, he “boosted” her, not too tenderly, up to the narrow seat. Then he climbed in himself. Two on that seat made a tight fit. Bailey took up the reins. Debby leaned forward and peered around the edge of the curtains.
“You!” she shouted. “You, Miss What's-your-name—Dorcas! Come here a minute. I want to tell you somethin'.”
The schoolmistress, her face red and her eyes moist, approached.
“I just wanted to say,” explained Debby, “that I ain't real sure as that diary's there. I burnt up a lot of my old letters and things a spell ago, and seems to me I burnt some old diaries, too, but maybe that wan't one of 'em. Anyhow, I can get them Arizona papers, and I do want you to see 'em. They're the most INTERESTIN' things. Now,” she added, turning to her companion on the seat, “you can git dap just as soon as you want to.”
Whether or not Mr. Bangs wanted to “git dap” is a doubtful question. But at all events he did. Before the astonished Miss Dawes could think of an answer to the observation concerning the diary, the carriage, its long unused axles shrieking protests, moved out of the yard. The schoolmistress watched it go. Then she returned to the sitting room and collapsed in a rocking chair.
Once out from the shelter of the house and on the open road, the sulky received the full force of the wind. The first gust that howled in from the bay struck its curtained side with a sudden burst of power that caused Mrs. Beasley to clutch her driver's arm.
“Good land of mercy!” she screamed. “It blows real hard, don't it?”
Mr. Bangs's answer was in the form of delicate sarcasm, bellowed into the ear trumpet.
“Sho!” he exclaimed. “I want to know! You don't say! Now you mention it, seems as if I had noticed a little air stirrin'.”
Another gust tilted the carriage top. Debby clutched the arm still tighter.
“Why, it blows awful hard!” she cried. “I'd no idee it blew like this.”
“Want to 'bout ship and go home again?” whooped Bailey, hopefully. But the widow didn't intend to give up the rare luxury of a “ride” which a kind Providence had cast in her way.
“No, no!” she answered. “I guess if you folks come all the way from Bayport I can stand it as fur's the Center. But hurry all you can, won't you? I'm kind of 'fraid of the springs.”
“Springs? What springs? Let go my arm, will you? It's goin' to sleep.”
Mrs. Beasley let go of the arm momentarily.
“I mean the springs on this carriage,” she explained. “Last time I lent it to anybody—Solon Davis, 'twas—he said the bolts underneath was pretty nigh rusted out, and about all that held the wagon part on was its own weight. So we'll have to be kind of careful.”
“Well—I—swan—to—MAN!” was Mr. Bangs's sole comment on the amazing disclosure; however, as an expression of concentrated and profound disgust it was quite sufficient. He spoke but once during the remainder of the trip to the “Center.” Then, when his passenger begged to know if “that Whittaker man” had been well since she left, he shouted: “Yes—EVER since,” and relapsed into his former gloomy silence.
The widow's stop at the Atwood house, which was in the immediate rear of the Atwood store, was of a half hour's duration. Bailey refused to leave the seat of the sulky and sat there, speaking to no one; not even replying to the questions of a group of loungers who gathered to inspect the ancient vehicle, and professed to be in doubt as to whether it had been washed in with the tide or been “left” to him in a will.
At last Debby made her appearance, her arms filled with newspapers. The latter she piled under the carriage seat, and then climbed to her former place beside the driver. Henry, in response to a slap from the reins, got under way once more. The axles squeaked and screamed.
“Gee!” cried one youngster, from the steps of the store. “It's the steam calliope. When's the rest of the show comin'?”
“Hi!” yelled another. “See how close they're hugged up together. Ain't they lovin'! It's a weddin'!”
“Shut up!” roared the tortured Bailey, whose hat had blown back into the body of the sulky, leaving his bald head exposed to the cutting wind.
The audience begged him to give them a lock of his hair, and added other remarks of a personal nature concerning the youth and beauty of the bridal couple and their chariot. Mr. Bangs was in a state of dumb frenzy. Debby, who, without her trumpet, had heard nothing of all this, was smiling and garrulous.
“I found all the papers,” she said. “They're right under the seat. I'm goin' to look 'em over so's to have the interestin' parts all ready to show Miss Dorcas when we get home. Ain't it nice I found 'em?”
In spite of her driver's remonstrances, unheard because of the nonadjustment of the trumpet, she reached under the seat and brought out the pile of Blazeton weeklies. With her feet upon the pile to keep it from blowing away, she proceeded to unfold one of the papers. It crackled and snapped in the wind like a loose mainsail.
“Keep that dratted thing out of my face, won't you?” shrieked the agonized Bailey. “How'm I goin' to see to steer with that smackin' me between the eyes every other second?”
“Hey? Did you speak to me?” asked the widow sweetly.
“Did I SPEAK? No, I screeched! What in tunket—”
“I want you to see this picture of the mayor's house in Blazeton. Eva, my husband's niece, lives right acrost the road from him. Many's the time I've set on their piazza and seen him come out and go to the City Hall.”
“Keep it out of my face, I tell you! Reef it! Furl it, you—you woman! I wish to thunder the piazza had caved in on you! I never see such an old fool in my born days. TAKE IT AWAY!”
Mrs. Beasley removed the paper, but only to substitute another.
“Here's Eva's brother-in-law,” she screamed. “He's one of the prominent business men out there, so they put him in the paper. Ain't he nice lookin'?”
Bailey's comments on the prominent business man's appearance were anything but flattering. Debby continued to reach for more papers, carefully replacing those she had inspected in the pile beneath her feet. The wind blew as hard as ever; even harder, for it was now almost dead ahead. Henry plodded along. They were in the hollow at the foot of the last long hill, that from which the blacksmith shop had first been sighted.
“I know what I'll do,” declared the passenger. “I'll hunt for that missin' husband advertisement of Desire Higgins's. Let's see now! 'Twill be down at the bottom of the pile, 'cause the paper it's in is a last year one.”
She bobbed down behind the high dashboard. Mr. Bangs stood up in order that her gymnastics might interfere, to a lesser degree, with his driving. The equipage began to move up the slope of the hill, bouncing and twisting in the frozen ruts.
“Here 'tis!” exclaimed Debby. “I remember it's in this number, 'cause there's a picture of the Palace Hotel on the front page. Let's see—'Dog lost'—no, that ain't it. 'Corner lot for sale'—wish I had money enough to buy it; I'd like nothin' better than to live out there. 'Information wanted of my husband'—Here 'tis! Um—hum!”
She straightened up and eagerly began reading the advertisement. The hill was very steep just at its top, and the sulky slanted backward at a sharp angle. A terrific burst of wind tore around the corner of the bluff. It eddied through the sulky between the dashboard and the curtained sides. The widow, in her excitement at finding the advertisement, had inadvertently removed her feet from the pile of papers. In an instant the air was filled with whirling copies of the Blazeton Weekly Courier.
Henry, the horse, was a sober animal who had long ago reached the age of discretion. But to have his old ears and eyes suddenly blanketed with a flapping white thing swooping apparently from nowhere was too much even for his sedate nerves. He jumped sidewise. The reins were jerked from the driver's hands and fell in the road.
“Mercy on us!” shrieked Debby, clutching her companion about the waist. “What—”
“Let go of me!” howled Bailey, pushing her violently aside. “Whoa! Stand still!”
But Henry refused to stand still. The flapping paper still clung to his agitated head. He reared and pranced, jerking the sulky back and forth, its wheels still wedged in the ruts. Bailey sprang to the ground to pick up the reins. He seized them, but fell as he did so. The tug at his bits turned Henry's head, literally and figuratively. He reared and whirled about. The sulky rose on two wheels. The screaming Mrs. Beasley collapsed against its downward side. Another moment, and the whole upper half of the sulky—body, seat, curtains, and Debby—tilted over the lower wheels, and, the rusted bolts failing to hold, slid with a thump to the frozen road. The wind, catching it underneath as it slid, tipped it backward. Then Henry ran away.
Miss Dawes, left alone in the house at the foot of the hill, had amused herself for a time with the Beasley library, which partially filled a shelf in the sitting room. But “The Book of Martyrs” and “A Believer's Thoughts on Death” were not cheering literature, particularly as the author of the latter volume “thought” so dismally concerning the future of all who did not believe precisely as he did. So the teacher laid down the book, with a shudder, and wandered about the room, inspecting the late Mr. Beasley's portrait, the photographs in splintwork frames, the “alum basket” on the mantel, the blue castles, blue trees, and blue people pictured on the window shades, and other works of art in the apartment. She even peeped into the parlor, but the musty, shut-up smell of that dusky tomb was too much for her, and she sat down by the sitting-room window, under the empty bird cage, to look up the road and watch for the return of the sulky and its occupants.
Sitting there, she was a witness of the alarming catastrophe on the hilltop, and reached the front gate just in time to see Henry go galloping by, dragging the four wheels and springs of the sulky, while, sprawled across the rear axle and still clinging to the reins, hung a familiar, howling, and most wickedly profane individual by the name of Bangs.
The runaway dashed on toward the blacksmith shop. Phoebe, bareheaded and coatless, ran up the hill. Before she reached the crest, she was aware of muffled screams, which sounded as if the screamer was shut up in a trunk.
“O-o-oh!” screamed Mrs. Beasley. “O-o-oh! Ow! Let me out! Help! I'm stuck! My back's broke! He-e-lp!”
The upper part of the sulky, with its boxlike curtained top, lay on its side in the road. From somewhere within the box came the groans and screams. The gale swept the hilltop, and, for a quarter mile to leeward, the scenery was animated by soaring, fluttering copies of the Blazeton Courier, that swooped and ducked like mammoth white butterflies.
The panting and alarmed teacher stooped and peered into the dark shadow between the dashboard and the back curtain. All she could make out at first were a pair of thin ankles and “Congress” shoes in agitated motion. These bobbed up and down behind the overturned seat and its displaced cushion.
“O Mrs. Beasley!” screamed Phoebe. “Are you hurt?”
Debby, of course, did not hear the question. She continued to groan and scream for help. Her lungs were not injured, at all events. The schoolmistress, dropping on her knees, reached into the sulky top and tugged at the seat. It was rather tightly wedged, but she managed to loosen it and pull it toward her.
The widow raised herself on an elbow and looked out between the flowers of her smashed bonnet.
“Who is it?” she demanded. “Oh, is that you, Miss Dorcas? Oh, my soul and body! Oh, my stars! Oh, my goodness me!”
“Are you hurt?” shrieked Phoebe.
“Hey? I don't know! I don't know WHAT I be! I don't know nothin'!”
“Can you help yourself? Can you get up?”
“Hey? I don't know. Maybe I can if you haul that everlastin' seat out of the way. Oh, my sakes alive!”
Her rescuer pulled the seat forward, and, with an effort, tumbled it clear of the curtains. Debby raised herself still higher.
“Oh!” she groaned. “Talk about—Land sakes! who's comin'? Men, ain't it? Let me out of here quick! QUICK!”
She scrambled out of her prison on hands and knees, and jumped to her feet with reassuring alacrity. Her fur-collared cape was draped in a roll about her neck, and her bonnet hung jauntily over her left eye.
“I'm a sight, ain't I?” she asked. “Haul this bunnet straight, quick's ever you can. Hurt? No, no! I ain't hurt none but my feelin's. Hurry UP! S'pose I want them men folks to see me with everything all hind side to?”
Miss Dawes, relieved to find that the accident had had no serious consequences, and trying her hardest not to laugh, assisted the widow to rearrange her wearing apparel. The blacksmith and his helper came running up the hill.
“Hello, Debby!” hailed the former. “What's the matter? Hurt, be you?”
Mrs. Beasley, whether she heard or not, did not deign to reply.
“Get my horn out of that carriage,” she ordered. “Don't stand there gapin'. Get it.”
The ear trumpet was resurrected from the interior of the vehicle. The widow adjusted it with dignity.
“Had a spill, didn't you, Debby?” inquired the blacksmith. “Upset, didn't you?”
Debby glared at him.
“No,” she replied with sarcasm. “Course I didn't upset! Just thought I'd roll round in the road for the fun of it. Smart question, that is! Where's that Bailey Bangs gone to with the rest of my carriage?”
The blacksmith pointed to his shop in the hollow. Before it stood Mr. Bangs, holding Henry by the bridle, and staring in their direction.
“He's all right,” volunteered the “helper.” “The horse stopped runnin' soon's he got to the foot of the next hill.”
Mrs. Beasley was not, apparently, overjoyed at the news.
“Humph!” she grunted. “I 'most wish he'd broke his neck! Pesky, careless thing! gettin' us run away with and upset. Who's goin' to pay for fixin' my sulky, I want to know?”
“Mr. Bangs will pay for it, I'm sure,” said Phoebe soothingly. “If he doesn't, I will. Oh, Mrs. Beasley! did you find the diary?”
“Diary? No, no! I told you I was afraid I'd burnt it up. Well, I had, and a whole lot more of them old ones. But I did get all them Arizona papers, and took the trouble to tote 'em all the way here so's you could look at 'em. And now”—she shook with indignation and waved her hand toward a section of horizon where little white dots indicated the whereabouts of the Couriers—“now look where they be! Blowed from Dan to Beersheby! Come on to the house and let me set down. I been standin' on my head till I'm tired. Here, Jabez,” to the blacksmith, “you tend to that carriage, will you?”
She stalked off down the hill. The schoolmistress turning to follow her, caught a glimpse of the “helper” doubled up with silent laughter, and the blacksmith grinning broadly as he stooped toward the capsized sulky.
Phoebe was downcast and disappointed. She was convinced, in her own mind, that the Honorable Atkins had some hidden motive for his espousal of the Thomas cause. Asaph's fruitless quest in Orham had not shaken her faith. Captain Cy had refused to seek Debby Beasley for information concerning the Thayers, and so she, on her own responsibility, had done so. And this was the ridiculous ending of her journey. The diary had been a forlorn hope; now that was burned. Poor Bos'n! and poor—some one else!
Debby marching down the hill, continued to sputter about the lost weeklies.
“It's an everlastin' shame!” she declared. “I'd just found the one with that advertisement in it and was readin' it. I remember the part I read, plain as could be. While we're eatin' dinner I'll tell you about it.”
But Miss Dawes did not care for dinner. Like Mr. Tidditt and the captain, she had had about all the Debby Beasley she wanted.
“Yes, yes, you will stop, too,” affirmed the widow. “I want to tell you more about Blazeton. I can see that advertisement this minute, right afore my eyes—'Information wanted of my husband, Edward Higgins. Five foot eight inches tall, sandy complected, brown hair, and yellowish mustache; not lame, but has a peculiar slight limp with his left foot—'”
“What?” asked the schoolmistress, stopping short.
“Hey? 'Has a peculiar limp with his left foot.' I remember how Desire used to talk about that limp. She said 'twas almost as if he stuttered with his leg. He hurt it when he was up in Montana, and—”
“Oh!” cried Miss Dawes. The color had left her face.
“Yes. You see he used to be a miner or somethin' up there. He'd never say much about his younger days, but one time he did tell that. I'd just got as far as that limp when the sulky upset. Talk about bein' surprised! I never was so surprised in my life as when that horse critter rared up and—”
Phoebe interrupted. Her color had come back, and her eyes were shining.
“Mrs. Beasley,” she cried, “I think I shall change my mind. I believe I will stay to dinner after all. I'm EVER so much interested in Arizona.”
Bailey and the teacher began their long drive home about four o'clock. The buggy axle had been fixed, and the wind was less violent. Mr. Bangs was glum and moody. He seemed to be thinking.
“Say, teacher,” he said at length, “I'd like to ask a favor of you. If it ain't necessary, I wish you wouldn't say nothin' about that upsettin' business to the folks to home. It does sound so dum foolish! I'll never hear the last of it.”
Miss Dawes, who had been in high spirits, now took a moment for reflection.
“All right!” she said, nodding vigorously. “We won't mention it, then. We won't tell a soul. You can say that I called at the Atwoods', if you want to; that will be true, because I did. And we'll have Mrs. Beasley for our secret—yours and mine—until we decide to tell. It's a bargain, Mr. Bangs. We must shake hands on it.”
They shook hands, and Bailey, looking in her face, thought he never saw her look so well or as young. She was pretty, he decided. Then he thought of his own choice of a wife, and—well, if he had any regrets, he hasn't mentioned them, not even to his fellow-member of the Board of Strategy.