"'For indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)To possess but a span of the hour of leisureIn elegant, pure, and aerial minds.'
"'For indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)To possess but a span of the hour of leisureIn elegant, pure, and aerial minds.'
That peculiar pleasure, Miss Bethia, has been mine up to the present time. My brother Pindar's course has been far different. At an early age, as you are aware, he sought the maddening throng; the—a—busy hum; the—a—in short, the roaring mart. I understand that much of his time has been devoted to music, and the remainder to histrionic art. He is permanently employed, as I understand, at a—a metropolitan place of amusement, where he occasionally takes part in Shakespearian representations (he has played the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' he tells me), and at other times performs upon the—in short, the kettledrums. You will readily perceive, my dear friend, that such a life conduces to the development of ideas which are discrepant;—a—divergent from,—a—devoid of commensurability with, thegenius loci, the spirit which hovers, or has hitherto hovered, over Elm—I would say Quahaug. Miss Bethia, we are not a dramatic community. With the exception of Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works, some thirty years ago, and an Old Folks' Concert at a somewhat later period, I am unable to recall any occurrence of a—of a histrionic nature in our—shall I say midst? And now,—Miss Bethia, I love my brother tenderly, and am anxious, deeply anxious, to respond to the feeling, the—a—propendency, the—kindling of affection's torch, which has led him to seek his early home. I also respect,—a—revere,—a—entertain the loftiest sentiments in regard to the Muse; but when I am asked to appear in public, clad in draperies which—in short, of domestic origin,"—he waved further detail delicately away,—"and crowned with bays, I—Miss Bethia, I assure you my spirit faints within me. Nor can I feel that the proposed demonstration would in any way have commended itself to my cousin Marcia. It is borne in upon me—strenuously, I may say—that, if my cousin Marcia were present at this time in the—a—fleshly tabernacle, she would receive this whole matter in a spirit of—levity; of—a—derision; of—a—contumely. Am I wrong in this supposition, Miss Bethia?"
"I feel positive that you are right, Homer!" said Miss Wax. "I speak with conviction. In fact, it was the thought of—of Her we honor,"—she glanced at the trophy with an introductory wave,—"that brought me to a decision on the point. I do feel for you, Homer, and share with you the distress of having to—to deny Pindar anything he desires. He will be here soon, and perhaps if we speak to him gently on the subject, he may see it in the light in which it presents itself to us. Probably this side has not been suggested to him." (Has it not? Oh, Miss Prudence! Miss Prudence!) "I think that if we compose our thoughts to a greater degree of calm, we may have more effect. A little music, Homer?"
Mr. Homer put his hand to his head with a sigh. "Miss Bethia," he said, "a little music would be balm to the thirsty soul;—a—wings to the rainbow-hued spirit; a—oil which runs down the—" He waved the rest of the simile away. "I thank you, my elegant and valued friend. May I conduct you to the instrument?"
It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Homer conducting Miss Bethia Wax to the instrument. After a profound bow (his feet in the first position in dancing), he held out his hand; she laid the tips of her long fingers delicately in it, and, thus supported, glided across the room; a courtesy of thanks, a bow of acknowledgment, and she sank gracefully on the music-stool, while Mr. Homer returned to his favorite chair, drew a long breath, and sank back with folded hands and closed eyes.
Miss Wax's instrument was one of Mr. Homer's chief sources of inspiration, and I must give it a word of description, for perhaps there never was another precisely like it. Tommy Candy called it a barrel-organ, and indeed it was not wholly unlike an idealized barrel of polished rosewood, standing erect on four slender legs. The front was decorated with flutings of red silk; the wood was inlaid with flowers and arabesques in mother-of-pearl. Beneath the silk flutings appeared an ivory handle, and it was by turning this handle that Miss Bethia "performed." "Cecilia's Bouquet" was the name inscribed on the front in flourishing gilt letters; and Miss Bethia had often been told that, when playing on the instrument, she reminded her hearers of the saint of that name. It was perhaps on this account that she was in the habit of assuming a rapt expression at such times, her head thrown back, her eyes raised to the level of the cornice. Thus seated and performing, Miss Bethia was truly a pleasant sight; and the melodies that came faltering out from the old music-box (for really it was nothing else!) were as pensive, mild, and innocent as the good lady herself. "The Maiden's Prayer," "The Sorrowful Shepherd," "Cynthia's Roundelay," and "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite;" these were among them, I remember, but there were twelve airs, and it took quite half an hour to play them all through.
On this occasion, long before the half-hour was over, Mr. Homer's brow had cleared, and his face grown as placid as Miss Bethia's own. "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite" was also his (a most melancholy air I always thought it, as if the poor princess had foreseen her early death, and bewailed it, a Jephthah's Daughter in hoop and powder), and he followed it with pensive pleasure, bowing his head and waving his hands in time to the music, and occasionally joining in the melody with a thin but sweet falsetto. "Ta-ta, ta-tee, ta-ta, ta-tum!" warbled Mr. Homer, and Miss Bethia's gentle heart rejoiced to hear him.
The two friends were so absorbed that they did not hear the door-bell,—indeed, it rang in the kitchen, and was a subdued tinkle at that,—nor Peggy's steps as she went to answer the call; and it was only when the "Princess Charlotte's Favorite" had faltered to its dismal conclusion that Mr. Homer, chancing to raise his eyes, saw his brother standing in the doorway. The vision was a disconcerting one. Mr. Pindar stood with his arms folded in his little cloak, his head bent forward, peering up through his eyebrows with a keen and suspicious look. Thus he stood for an instant; but, on meeting his brother's eyes, he flung up both arms as if in invocation,—whether of blessing or malediction was not clear to Mr. Homer's perturbed gaze,—the cloak fluttered in batlike sweeps, and he was gone.
Mr. Homer sprang to his feet with an exclamation of dismay; and Miss Bethia, whose back had been turned to the door, rose also in wonder and distress. "What is the matter, Homer?" she asked. "You appear disturbed. Is—is any one there?" she added, seeing his look still fixed on the empty doorway.
"It was my brother!" replied Mr. Homer. "It was Pindar. He was apparently—moved;—a—agitated;—a—under stress of emotion. I fear he is ill, Miss Bethia; I must hasten after him."
"Pindar ill!" cried Miss Bethia. "Oh, Homer, bring him back, will you not? bring him back, and let me give him some of my Raspberry Restorative! Do hasten!"
Mr. Homer promised to return if it were possible, and hurried away, leaving his hostess wringing her hands and uttering plaintive murmurs. He hastened along the quiet street. The moon was up, and he could see a figure fluttering on ahead of him, with waving cloak and hasty, disordered steps.
"Pindar!" cried Mr. Homer. "My dear brother! wait for me, I implore you. It is I, Homer; I entreat you to pause!"
The figure wavered, halted; finally turned round, and stood with folded arms till Mr. Homer hurried up, anxious and breathless.
"Are you ill, Pindar?" cried the little gentleman. "Some sudden seizure, my dear brother? I am truly distressed: let me support you!"
But Mr. Pindar waved him aside with a lofty gesture. "I require no support, Brother!" he said. "My corporal envelope is robust, I am obliged to you."
"Then why—why this sudden appearance and disappearance?" asked Mr. Homer, bewildered. "Miss Wax was expecting you; we were both expecting you, sir!"
"Were you?" said Mr. Pindar, bitterly. "I should hardly have thought it. I judged that I intruded, sir. It appeared to me that tender passages were in progress. I inferred that the advent of the Wanderer was unwelcome, sir, unwelcome."
Mr. Homer attempted to speak, but Mr. Pindar waved him off, and hurried on, a real feeling struggling through the pompous structure of his sentences. "It would appear that I was in error, sir, when I requested you to compose an ode. I should have demanded an epithalamium; flute and clarionet, sir:
"Tweedle, tweedle, toodle turn,Clash the cymbal, bang the drum!Cupid and his antic choirSing for Homer and Bethia!
"Tweedle, tweedle, toodle turn,Clash the cymbal, bang the drum!Cupid and his antic choirSing for Homer and Bethia!
But you might have told me, Homer; you might have told me, sir!"
Mr. Homer Hollopeter blushed very red all over; if it is discreet even to allude to Mr. Homer's toes, I am quite sure that even they must have grown rosy. He looked gravely at his brother, who was waving his cloak in great excitement.
"My dear brother," he said, slowly, "it—I—I fail to find words in which to express the—the—enormousnessof your misconception. I regard Miss Wax, sir, as a sister, an esteemed and valued sister."
At the place where Mr. Homer had overtaken his brother, stood a watering-trough, a hollowed section of a huge oak-tree, through which ran a tiny crystal stream. The companion oak, still vigorous, overshadowed the trough, making a pleasant circle of shade, and around this oak ran a rustic seat. It was a favorite gathering-place of the village boys, but now the boys were in bed, and all was still save for the gurgle of the little rill as it babbled along the trough.
To Mr. Homer's utter amazement and discomfiture, Mr. Pindar now flung himself down upon this seat, and, pulling out a large blue cotton handkerchief, buried his face in it and burst into tears.
"Nobody is glad to see me!" cried Mr. Pindar, sobbing violently. "Everybody thinks I am mad. Prudence Pardon called me a—a gonoph, and refused to make tunics for the Village Elders. A horrible fat woman—rightly named Weight—horresco referens!—wished to be Goddess of Liberty, and, when I shrank appalled, she robbed me of the pretty child who should have been my Psyche. I am—unappreciated, sir. I am mocked at and derided. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart—I returned to benefit my native heath: to cause—blossoms of histrionic art to spring up in the—arid pathways—oyster shells!"—he indicated by a wave the white and glittering paths which led to one and another silent house, and which are indeed the pride of the village. "I have piped to everybody, and nobody will dance, except—hideous persons who squint. I came for comfort and sympathy to Bethia Wax, the playmate of my early days; I found—" He waved his arms with a gesture of despair. "And I am so tired of playing the kettledrum!" said the poor gentleman; and he wept afresh.
Mr. Homer sat down by his brother's side, and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Don't cry!" he said. "Don't cry, Pindy! Mother wouldn't like to have you cry."
His voice, faltered on the long-unspoken diminutive; but, at the sound of it, Mr. Pindar, still holding the handkerchief to his eyes with his right hand, held out his left; Mr. Homer grasped it, and the two sat silent, hand in hand, while the little stream trickled cheerfully along, and the black leaf-shadows flickered on the white road.
Mr. Homer opened and shut his mouth several times, and patted his brother's hand, before he spoke again. At length he said, very gently:
"My dear boy, my dear fellow, you are unnerved. Compose yourself, compose yourself! I also have been sadly unnerved, Pindy. An hour ago I could have mingled my tears with yours freely, sir, freely. But music hath charms, as you are aware, to soothe the—Savagery is far from my breast at the present time, sir, but the quotation is too familiar to require elucidation. Our friend Miss Wax has been performing upon the instrument, and an hour spent in her society, when thus employed, is invariably soothing to the wounded spirit. I wish, my dear brother, that you had come earlier in the evening."
Mr. Pindar groaned, and dried his eyes, but made no reply. Mr. Homer, pausing, looked carefully about him, as if struck by a sudden thought.
"Pindar," he said, in an altered tone, "do you know where we are sitting? Look about you!"
Mr. Pindar looked around, then up at the tree which bent friendly over them. "It is the oak-seat!" he exclaimed. "The oak-seat and the watering-trough. Muffled drums! Enter Homeless Wanderer, weeping."
"Do you remember the day when Silas Candy ducked Ephraim Weight?" said Mr. Homer, disregarding the last remark. "We were sitting here, Pindar, and we did not interfere. I have sometimes reflected that it was a—an error, sir; a—a faltering in the way; a—a dereliction from the—a—star-y-pointing path; but we were young, sir, and Ephraim was—shall I say unattractive? But—Pindy, when Silas came along—I remember it as if it were yesterday—I had just been cutting some initials in the tree. Upon my word, they are here still!" With a trembling finger he pointed out some half-obliterated letters. "B. H., sir; do you see them? Bethia Hollopeter!"
Mr. Pindar nodded gloomily, and, putting away the blue handkerchief, crossed his arms on his breast. "I see them, sir," he said. "Why turn the dagger in the wound? I see them!"
"What was my thought, Brother," Mr. Homer went on, growing more and more animated, "when I made those letters; when I—a—wounded the oaken breast which—which—not precisely nourished, but certainly cheered and comforted me? Brother, I fancied Bethia as your bride. Stay! hear me!" as Mr. Pindar made a hasty gesture of dissent. "I knew later that—that your affections, like my own, were placed elsewhere; but—but Fate, sir, planted an arrow, of a highly barbed description, in our twin breasts. No more of that. Miss Bethia Wax, sir, has been the friend, the elegant and valued friend, of my entire life. Since the lamented death of our cousins, Phœbe and Vesta, and recently the irreparable loss I have sustained in the death of Cousin Marcia, we—Miss Bethia and I—have been brought into yet closer and more sympathetic companionship. Aside from the devoted tenderness of Thomas and William, and the—the faithful, if occasionally violent ministrations of Direxia Hawkes, Miss Bethia has been my chief stay and comfort in these troublous days. But I assure you, sir, with my hand on my heart,"—Mr. Homer suited the action to the word,—"that nothing of a tender nature has ever passed, or will ever pass, between me and my elegant and valued friend. Yet once more hear me, Brother! It is my firm belief, Pindar, that one image, and one only, has remained since youth implanted in—in that bosom, sir, to which I allude with the highest respect; that image, sir, I believe to be yours!"
Mr. Homer paused, much moved. Mr. Pindar waved his cloak in protest, but his countenance brightened perceptibly.
"Not so!" he murmured. "Not so! Thunder. Exit Homeless Wanderer, pursued by furies. Brother, I will return to my hated task. Enough! I thank you, but I go."
"Brother, I implore you not so to do!" cried Mr. Homer, earnestly. "I believe that other and happier things are in store for you. I have a vision, sir, of a home replete with elegant comfort. Miss Bethia, though not opulent, is possessed of a comfortable competence—though Mammon is far from my thoughts!" cried Mr. Homer, blushing again. "A home, I say, sir, brightened by the society of—of Woman, and by every evidence of a refined and cultivated taste. My dear brother, return with me now to the—the bower, if I may so express myself, of our esteemed and valued friend. Miss Bethia urged, I may say, implored, me to bring you back."
"Not so!" murmured Mr. Pindar. "Alarums and excursions. Exit—"
But Mr. Homer interrupted him, a sudden fire shining in his mild eyes. "Brother Pindar," he cried, "you have many times alluded, since your return, to the Dramatic Moment; you have commented upon the absence of the dramatic element in my composition. But, sir, it is borne in upon me strongly at this instant that a Dramatic Moment is now striking in—in your life and that of our esteemed and valued friend. As you yourself would observe, hark to it, sir! it strikes;—a—resounds;—a—larums, sir, larums."
The two brothers had risen, and stood facing each other in the moonlight. They waved their arms with an identical gesture; never had they looked so alike. "It larums!" repeated Mr. Pindar, solemnly. Suddenly he seized his brother's hand, and motioned him forward.
"Flourish and a sennet!" he cried. "Possible joy-bells! Brother, set on!"
And after all, as every one said, everything went off so beautifully that people need not have been disturbed. The Processional Festival Jubilee was given up (really, I think, to Mr. Pindar's relief as well as that of every one else,—except Miss Luella Slocum), and a reception substituted for it; not a Pink Tea, but a dignified and really charming occasion. Mrs. Bliss and Will Jaquith planned it, and the whole village helped to carry it out. The day was perfection, the very crown jewel of the summer: the house was thrown open, and the guests were met in the hall by a Reception Committee, consisting of the Messrs. Hollopeter, Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, Miss Wax and Mrs. Ware, and Dr. Geoffrey Strong. First, Doctor Strong made a brief address of welcome, which put every one into a holiday humor of twinkling anticipation; and then there were tableaux, framed in the wide low arch of the dining-room door, illustrating the history of the village since the first Darracott, Timothy Philo, settled here in 1680. The First Service, the Indian Massacre (Mr. Pindar superb as King Philip, in full war-paint and feathers, flourishing a real tomahawk from the Collection over the prostrate form of Tommy Candy), the departure of the Quahaug Company of Patriot Militia for Lexington, the women of Quahaug praying for the success of Washington's arms, and so on down to the last, when the Guardian Spirit of the village was represented as mourning for the death of Mrs. Tree. This was dear Miss Wax's idea, and she besought the Committee so earnestly to carry it out, "as a token of respect for Her we honor," that they had not the heart to refuse. Mrs. Bliss was secretly afraid that it might make people smile; and so it might have done if Annie Lizzie had not looked so sweet, in her white dress and drooping wings (she got them, after all!), that everybody cried instead.
Between the scenes the band, stationed in the garden, "discoursed acceptable strains," as the paper said next day; and, after the final scene, Mr. Homer made a little speech. He had been most unwilling to speak, but everybody insisted that he, and no one else, must actually open the Museum. So the dear gentleman got up, very pink and fluttering, and said that joy and sorrow had woven a mingled wreath to crown this day, but that it was the proudest one of his life, and that the proudest action of that life was to open the Captain and Mrs. Ethan Tree Museum of Quahaug.
And then—then every one sang the Ode. Mr. Homer had written the words, and Mr. Pindar set them to music, and words and music were printed on white silk and distributed as souvenirs. The two brothers did not know that, when the music began, they took hold of hands, and stood so all through, waving their free arms and bowing their heads in time to the melody, and opening and shutting their mouths; but the rest of the company knew it, and cried so that they could hardly sing.
These are the words:
ODEFOR THE OPENING OF THE CAPTAIN AND MRS.ETHAN TREE MUSEUM OF QUAHAUGAs smooth the bivalve opes its jaws,Admitting crystal flood,So opes our own Museum its doorsTo all of native blood.On honored bier we drop the tear,And then, with joy agog,Our village proud doth cry aloud,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!Our patroness we fondly bless,And likewise honor himWho filled so free this treasury,Then sought the cherubim.Of objects fair, so rich and rare,Description would but clog;So let us sing till welkin ring,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!Captain and Mrs. Ethan TreeWe honor so this day,As Muses nine, with fire divine,Alone could fitly say.Yet still each heart would bear its part,With this for epilogue:While life remains we'll praise thy plains,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!
ODE
FOR THE OPENING OF THE CAPTAIN AND MRS.ETHAN TREE MUSEUM OF QUAHAUG
As smooth the bivalve opes its jaws,Admitting crystal flood,So opes our own Museum its doorsTo all of native blood.On honored bier we drop the tear,And then, with joy agog,Our village proud doth cry aloud,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!
Our patroness we fondly bless,And likewise honor himWho filled so free this treasury,Then sought the cherubim.Of objects fair, so rich and rare,Description would but clog;So let us sing till welkin ring,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!
Captain and Mrs. Ethan TreeWe honor so this day,As Muses nine, with fire divine,Alone could fitly say.Yet still each heart would bear its part,With this for epilogue:While life remains we'll praise thy plains,Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!
(The "bangs" were not printed on the souvenirs, but without them one does not get the effect of the cymbals, which really were superb.)
And then the Museum was open, and the village flowed in through the rooms, examining, wondering, praising. It was really a fine collection, and beautifully arranged. Mr. Homer and Tommy Candy had been at work for a month, with much help from the Jaquiths and Annie Lizzie, and everything was classified and marked, and displayed to the best advantage. In one room, the "Captain's room," were the samples of wood, smooth little slabs of ebony, satinwood, violet, leopard, dragon, sandal, and every other known wood, polished till they shone like wooden mirrors. In another were the minerals: rough crystals, rose and amethyst, smoky yellow and clouded brown; nuggets of gold, of silver, of copper; uncut gems of every variety, from the great ruby that Captain Tree took from the Malay pirate's turban down to the pink and lilac pearls found in our own oysters and mussels in Quahaug harbor.
The carved crystal, jade, ivory, and amber, and the enamels, were displayed in the parlor, and were so skilfully arranged that the character of the room was not changed, only the dim richness accentuated. The light fell softly on bowls and cups of translucent green, on the rounded backs of ivory elephants, on exquisite shapes of agate, jasper, and chalcedony, on robes stiff with gold and crusted with gems; but still it was Mrs. Tree's own parlor, and still the principal thing in it was the ebony chair, with the crutch-stick leaning against it.
The shells, in glass cases, lined the sides of the long room known as the Workshop; and, as Seth said, "Gosh! if they didn't beat the everlastin' Dutch!"
"Why," he said, turning to Salem Rock, who was behind him in the slowly moving throng that filled the room, "you wouldn't think, to look at all these, that that man had done anything all his life only pick up shells."
"He certingly was the darndest!" replied Salem, soberly.
"I wouldn't use language, Pa!" said Mrs. Rock, who rustled beside him in her best black silk.
"I expect you would, Ma," retorted her husband, "if things came home to you as they do to me this day. They had that way with 'em, both Cap'n and Mis' Tree, that when we had shore leave, and they said: 'Pick up some shells, will you, boys?' that was every livin' thing any man aboard that ship desired to do. Jerusalem! I can feel the crick in my back still, stoopin' over them blazin' beaches, pickin' up—Here, Ma! look at this beauty, with the pink and yeller stripes. See them sharp spines, and one of 'em broke off? Wal, that broke off in my foot. It was wropped up in seaweed, and I trod square on it. I don't know as it would be real becomin' to repeat what I said, here and now."
"I don't know as it would be real improvin' to hear it, either, Pa!" replied his consort, calmly. "Let's us move on a mite further, shall we?"
Refreshments were served in the dining-room and on the broad piazza outside it, and here Direxia Hawkes was in her glory. The ladies might sit at the tables, and did so, Miss Bethia Wax pouring tea, Mrs. Bliss coffee, while Miss Slocum and Miss Goby simpered and bridled, twin sirens of the lemonade table; but Direxia's Dramatic Moment had struck, and she was taking full advantage of it. She had assumed the rigid little bonnet and cape, which were her badge of equality with anybody in the land except "the Family," and she moved among the guests, apparent queen. Annie Lizzie, all smiles and roses, came and went at her bidding, with a tendency to gravitate toward the piazza railing, on which Tommy Candy sat, beaming good-will to all mankind, ladling out frozen pudding and ice-cream from the great freezers.
"Annie Lizzie, Miss Wax ain't eatin' a thing. You tell her to let the folks wait for their tea a spell, and have somethin' herself. Here! take her this orange cream, and tell her I made it, and I expect her to eat it. And—Annie Lizzie, look here! you tell Mr. Homer I don't want he should touch that frozen puddin'. It's too rich, tell him; but he can have all the strawberry and vanilla he wants. I ain't goin' to have him sick after this, all worked up as he is."
There were forty-seven different kinds of cake, all "named varieties," as the flower catalogues say. Every housewife in the village had sent her "specialty," from Miss Wax's famous harlequin round down to the Irish christening loaf of good old Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, who was helping Diploma Crotty wash cups and plates in the kitchen. Mrs. Flanagan refused to come in, spite of Mr. Homer's urgent invitation.
"I thank ye, dear!" she said. "I thank ye kindly, but I'll not come in among the Quality. I wish ye well, Mr. Homer. May no dog ever bite ye but mine, and I'll kape a cat!"
Through the crowd, here and there, moved Mr. Homer and Mr. Pindar, bowing and smiling, waving and flapping, happiest of all the happy throng. Under the genial sun of cheer and encouragement that had been shining on him during the last two weeks, since the Procession had been given up, Mr. Pindar had grown less and less abrupt and jerky, and more and more like his brother; and the village readily accorded him a share of the benevolent affection with which they regarded Mr. Homer.
"I always said there warn't a mite of harm in Home," said Seth Weaver, "and I begin to think there ain't none in Pindar, either. They come out the same nest, and I expect they're the same settin' of aigs, if they be speckled different. Hatched out kinder queer chicks, old Mis' Hollopeter did, but, take 'em all round, I dunno but they're full as good as barn-door fowls, and they certingly do better when it comes to crowin'."
"That's right!" said Salem Rock.
And when at last it was over, and, with hand-shakings and congratulations, the tide of visitors had flowed out through the door and down the garden path, the two brothers stood and looked at each other with happy eyes.
"It has been a great occasion, Brother Pindar!" said Mr. Homer.
"It has!" said Mr. Pindar, fervently. "Flourish of trumpets. Enter Herald proclaiming victory. It has been a Dramatic Moment, sir."
"It has been the happiest occasion of my life!" Mr. Homer went on. "I wish Mother could have been present, Pindar; it would have been a gratification to her;—a—an oblectation;—a—a—but where are you going, my dear brother?"
Mr. Pindar, before replying, cast a glance toward the garden gate, through which at that moment a tall, slender figure was passing slowly, almost lingeringly; then he met his brother's eye hardily.
"Brother Homer," he said, and, though he blushed deeply, his voice was firm and cheerful, "I am going to see Bethia home!"
The village certainly had never seen a summer like this. People had not stopped talking of the Celebration, when the news of Miss Wax's engagement to Mr. Pindar Hollopeter set the ball of conversation rolling again. Everybody was delighted; and Mrs. Weight was not the only lady in the village who secretly hoped that, now Pindar had set him the example, Homer would see his way to following it, and would provide him with a helpmeet, "one who had ben through trouble and knew how to feel for him."
Mr. Pindar was an ardent wooer, and pressed for an early marriage; indeed, there seemed no reason for delay. They were to live at the "Wax Works," and Mr. Pindar was to give lessons in elocution, and also on the flute and hautboy, if pupils could be found. Miss Bethia sighed gently, and told Mr. Pindar he was too impetuous; but she finally yielded, and they were married quietly one day, in the quaint, pleasant parlor, the bride dignified and gracious in lavender satin, and the bridegroom resplendent in white waistcoat and pearl-colored tie. He had a brand-new flyaway cloak for the occasion, and could hardly be persuaded to lay it aside during the ceremony, for, as he said, it assisted him in expression, sir, in expression.
Mr. Homer was best man, and never was that usually lugubrious part more radiantly filled. He accompanied the whole service in dumb show, bowing and waving in response to every clause; and Geoffrey Strong declares that when he came forward to give the bride away, he heard Mr. Homer murmur "until death do us part," in happy echo of his brother's response.
Then the bridal pair went off on a bridal trip, and the village shouted and cheered after them; and Mr. Homer went home and wept tears of joy on the back porch.
Amid the general rejoicing, one face was grave, or smiled only a perfunctory smile when occasion required it; this was the face of Thomas Candy. It was such an extraordinary thing for Tommy to be grave on any festive occasion that Mr. Homer noticed it, and took him gently to task, as they sat on the aforesaid porch that evening. "Thomas," said the little gentleman, "you appear pensive. You have not seemed to enjoy, as I expected, this festival; this—a—halcyon, I might almost say, millennial day. Is there any oppression on your spirits, my dear young friend?"
Tommy rumpled his black hair, and cast a look at Mr. Homer, half-whimsical, half-sorrowful. "I s'pose it's all right, sir!" he said, slowly. "Of course it's all right if you say so; but—the fact is, I'd planned otherwise myself, and I s'pose there ain't any one but thinks his own plan is the best. The fact is, Mr. Homer, I hoped to see Miss Wax in this house, instead of Mr. Pindar bein' in hers."
"Indeed, Thomas!" said Mr. Homer. "How so?"
"There's no harm in speakin' of it now, as I see," said Tommy. "Fact is, Mr. Homer, you need somebodys else in this house beside Direxia; some woman, I mean, to make things as they should be for you. Direxia's fine, and I think everything of her, but she's old, and—well, there! there'd oughter be somebodys else, that's all, if 'twas only to keep the rest of 'em off; and there was only one in this village that I could see anyways suitable, and that was Miss Wax. So I picked her out, and got my mind made up and all, and then along come Mr. Pindar and whisked her off under our noses, so to say. I've nothin' against Mr. Pindar, he's all right; but it was a disappointment, Mr. Homer, and I can't make believe it wasn't. There ain't another woman in this village that Mis' Tree would see set over this house," said Tommy Candy, with simple finality.
Mr. Homer smiled, and patted Tommy's arm cheerfully. "Things are much better as they are, Thomas," he said; "far better, I assure you. Besides, I have other thoughts—a—fancies—a—conceptions, in regard to this house; thoughts which, I fancy, would not have been disapproved by—as my brother's bride says, by Her we honor. I have felt as you do, my young friend, the want of—a—gracious and softening influence,—in short, the influence of Woman, sir, in this house; but this influence has suggested itself to me in the guise of youth—of—a—beauty; of—a—the morning of life, sir, the morning of life. I have thought—fancied—in short,—how would you like, sir, to see our charming neighbor across the way established in this house?"
Tommy looked at him, stupefied. "Mrs. Weight!" he cried.
But Mr. Homer waved the thought away indignantly. "No, no, Thomas! how could you suppose—not for an instant!—in fact, it was partly with a view to removing her from—sordid and sinister surroundings, that this idea suggested itself to me. What would you say to Annie Lizzie, Thomas?"
Mr. Homer beamed, and bent forward, rubbing his hands gently, and trying to see Tommy's face through the gathering dusk.
Tommy grew very pale.
"Annie Lizzie!" he said, slowly.
"Annie Lizzie!" repeated Mr. Homer, with animation. "I have watched that young person, Thomas, since her early childhood. I have seen her come up as a flower, sir, in an arid waste; as a jewel of gold in a—But I would not be discourteous. To remove this sweet creature from uncongenial surroundings; to transplant the blossom to more grateful soil, if I may so express myself; to beds of amaranth and moly—I speak in metaphor, sir; to see it unfold its vermeil tints beneath the mellow rays of—a—the tender passion—would give me infinite gratification. It would be my study, sir, to make her happy. What do you—how does this strike you, my dear young friend? But perhaps I have been too sudden, Thomas. Take time, sir. Consider it a little."
Thomas Candy rose slowly and painfully. "Thank you, sir!" he said, speaking slowly and steadily. "I will take a little time, if you please. It is—rather sudden, as you say."
Leaning heavily on his stick, the young man walked slowly down the garden path, and stood by the garden gate, looking across the way.
Annie Lizzie! Annie Lizzie marry Mr. Homer! the thought was monstrous. Annie Lizzie, only seventeen, a little soft, sweet rose, his own little sweetheart. Good heavens! could such a thing exist even as a dream in any human brain?
Then other thoughts came; ugly thoughts, which forced their way to the front in spite of him. Mr. Homer was rich now, rich and kind and generous. Women liked money, people said: Annie Lizzie had been bitter poor all her life, had never had a penny to call her own; might she be tempted? And, if she were, had he the right to stand in her way? Was he sure, sure, that her love for him, the love that he had taken for granted as he took the sunlight, would stand the test?
Faster and uglier came the hateful thoughts; he could almost see them as visible forms, with wicked, sneering faces. Was this why she had been so attentive to Mr. Homer of late, running in and out of the house on this or that pretended errand, coaxing Direxia to let her help with the work, begging a flower from the garden, a root from the vegetable border? He had never doubted that it was on his own account she came. Was she false and shallow, as well as sweet and soft and and—
Tommy Candy never knew how long he stood there at the garden gate, watching the house across the way, where a slender shape flitted to and fro in the lamplight. But by and by he struck his stick into the gravel and came back with a white set face, and stood before Mr. Homer, who was rocking happily in his chair and repeating the "Ode to a Nightingale."
"Mr. Homer," he said, and at the sound of his voice the little gentleman stopped rocking and looked up in alarm: "when it comes to things like this, it's man to man, I expect. If Annie Lizzie wants to marry you, I won't stand in her way. I'll take myself and my stick off out o' sight somewheres, where she'll never hear of neither one of us again. But if—"
He stopped short; for Mr. Homer had risen to his feet in great agitation, and was waving his hands and blinking painfully through the dusk.
"My dear young friend!" he cried. "My dear but mistaken young friend, you distress me infinitely. You do not think—it cannot be possible that you think that this poor child has—has formed any such—such monstrous conception? If I thought so, I should resign my being,—a—cease upon the midnight, not without pain, but unspeakably the reverse. It is a most extraordinary thing that twice within a single summer I should have been exposed, sir, to a misapprehension of this amazing, this—a—portentous, this—a—unspeakably inauspicious description. I am not a marrying man, Thomas. Though regarding the Sex with the deepest veneration, sir, I have for many years regarded it across a gulf, if I may so express myself; a chasm, sir; a—a—maelstrom of separation, to speak strongly. Your suggestion fills me with pain; with—anguish; with—a—gorgons and chimera dire—meaning no disparagement to the young person in question. I had thought, Thomas,—I had conceived,—I had formed the apprehension, sir, that she was attached to you, and that you admitted the soft impeachment; that your heart responded to the—a—soft flutings of the tender passion. I thought to see you wedded, and sharing my home, being as son and daughter to me. I—I—I—"
Mr. Homer's voice faltered. But Tommy Candy caught the distressedly waving hands in his.
"Mr. Homer," he cried, with a broken laugh, "don't, sir! don't take on! I'm a fool, that's all, the biggest fool the world holds this minute. I've loved Annie Lizzie ever since I was ten years old, and I believe she has me."
"Come back, have they?" said Seth Weaver. Seth was painting the outside of Miss Penny Pardon's shop, and Miss Penny was hopping in and out, hovering about the door like a lame robin, dividing her attention between Seth and the birds.
"Wal, have 'em a good time, did they?"
"Elegant!" replied Miss Penny, joyously. "They had them an elegant time, Seth. Miss Wax—There! look at me! and I said 'Mis' Hollopeter' just as slick when she come in! She was in this mornin', to tell Sister about the latest styles. I thought 'twas real kind of her, with all she had to think of in her golden joy. Folksisso kind, I don't see how it comes to be such a wicked world as some calls it. Well, she told us all about it. They went to Niag'ry Falls first. He was wishful to take her to Washin'ton, but she said Nature come first in her eyes, even before Gov'ment; she has fine thoughts, and an elegant way of expressin' 'em, I always think. There! she said the Falls was handsome! 'twas beyond the power of thought, she said. Ain't you gettin' jest a dite too much red in that trimmin', Seth?"
"I guess not!" said Seth. "You don't want it to look like you was advertisin' a new brand of mustard, do ye? Where else did they go?"
"They went to New York," said Miss Penny. "It was there she see the styles. Went to the theatre, and to Central Park, and walked down Fifth Avenue; and his friends give them a testimonial dinner, and—oh, it was lovely to hear her tell about it. I declare, I should like to go to New York some day myself. Big sleeves is comin' in again; not that you care about that, Seth, but Sister was real pleased to know it. And Mr. Pindar has commenced to flesh up some already, Mis' Hollopeter says. He was as poor as a split flounder, you know: hadn't ben nourished good for years, she thinks. There! Men-folks don't know how to feed themselves, seems though, no more nor birds doos. Take that parrot there; you'd think he'd know by this time that fresh paint don't agree with him real well, yet he'll get at it and chaw it every chance he gets, and then has to come to me for doctorin'; it's the same with men-folks, the best of 'em. But Mr. Pindar'll get the best of victuals from now on!" Miss Penny concluded with an emphatic nod.
"She don't want to feed him too high all of a suddin," said Seth, drawing his brush carefully round a window-casing. "He might go the way of Job Joralemon's hoss."
"What way was that?" asked Miss Penny, pausing with a cage in her hand. "Who is Job Joralemon? I don't know as I ever heard of him."
"He was a man over to Tinkham Corners," said Seth. "Meanest man in them parts, where they get the gold medal for meanness every year, some say. Come along a man one day, travellin' man, lookin' for a hoss to buy. His hoss had died, or run away, or ben stole, or somethin', I dono what. Anyways, he heard Job had a hoss to sell, and come to look at him. He warn't much of a one to look at,—the hoss, I mean, though Job warn't no Venus, neither; but this man, he thought likely he could fat him up and drive him a spell, till he got through his business, and then sell him for a mite more than he give for him. Wal, he took the hoss—he was stayin' at Rowe's Tavern over there—and give him a good solid feed, hay and grain, and then started out to drive on to the next town. Wal, sir,—ma'am, I should say,—quick as he got out the yard, that hoss started on the dead run; man couldn't hold him any more than you could a yearlin' steer. He run like wild-fire a little ways, and then he clum over a fence, buggy and all,—stump-fence it was,—and then he fell down, and rolled over, and died, then and there. The man collected himself out of the kindlin's, and looked round, and see old Rowe, the tavern-keeper, comin' up, grinnin' all over.
"'What does this mean?' the man hollers out, mad as hops. 'What kind of a hoss do you call this?' he says.
"Old Rowe kinder grunts. 'I call that a sawdust hoss,' he says.
"'Sawdust Granny!' says the man. 'What d'ye mean by that?'
"'Wal!' says old Rowe. 'Fact is, Job's ben in the habit of feedin' sawdust to that hoss, and keepin' green goggles on him so's he'd think 'twas grass. Come to give him a good feed, ye see, and 'twas too much for him, and car'd him off.'
"So what I say is, you tell Mis' Hollopeter she wants to be careful how she feeds Pindar up, that's all."
"Seth Weaver, if you ain't the beat!" exclaimed Miss Penny. "I believe you made that up right here and now. Ain't you ashamed to tell such stories?"
"Not a mite! not a mite!" said Seth, comfortably. "Take more'n that to shame me. Ask Annie Lizzie if it don't. Here she comes along now. Ain't she a pictur'?"
Annie Lizzie came blossoming along the street in her pink calico dress; her pink sunbonnet was hanging on her shoulders, and her soft dark hair curled round her face just for the pleasure of it. She was swinging a bright tin pail in her hand; altogether the street seemed to lighten as she came along it.
"Hello, Annie Lizzie!" said Seth, as she came up to the shop. "Comin' to see me, ain't ye?"
"I guess not!" said Miss Penny. "I expect she's come to see me, ain't you, Annie Lizzie? I've got a new piece of ribbin in, jest matches your dress, and your cheeks, too."
Annie Lizzie dimpled and smiled shyly. "I'd love to see it, Miss Penny," she said; "but first I come with a message for Mr. Weaver."
"Then I'll go and feed the rest of them birds," said Miss Penny. "There! hear 'em hollerin' the minute I say 'feed'? They are the cutest!"
She vanished into the shop, and Seth looked up at the young girl with a friendly twinkle. "Back stairs again, Annie Liz?" he asked. "I expect to get at 'em to-morrow, honest I do."
"No, sir, 'twasn't the stairs this time," said Annie Lizzie, looking down. "Ma didn't know I was comin', or she might have said something. I come with a message from Tommy, Mr. Weaver. He wanted to know could you spare him some white paint."
"What does he want of white paint?" asked Seth.
"Wants to paint the front gate," replied Annie Lizzie.
"Sho!" said Seth. "The front gate was painted only last fall. There ain't no need to paint it ag'in for three years."
"I know!" said the girl, patiently. "But all the same he's goin' to paint it, and he wants you should put somethin' in it so's it won't dry."
"So's itwilldry, you mean!" corrected Seth. "Tell him I won't do it. Hastenin' white paint's like hastenin' a mud-turtle; it's bad for his constitution, andthenhe don't get anywheres. White paint has to dry slow, or it's no good. You tell Tommy that, and tell him he'd oughter know it, much as he's hung round my shop."
"He doos know it!" said Annie Lizzie, in her cooing voice. "He don't want it to dry, Mr. Weaver."
"Don't want it to dry!" repeated Seth.
"No, sir. He said I might tell you, so's you'd understand; he knew you wouldn't let it go no further, Mr. Weaver. Fact is, he wants to keep folks away for a spell, so's Mr. Homer can get rested up. He's real wore out with all these celebrations and goin's on, and he has so many callers he don't have no chance to live hardly. So Tommy thought if he could paint the gate, and keep on paintin' it, with a good paint that lasted wet, you see, it would—Well, what he means is,—there couldn't anybody get in but what had pants on. It's a narrow gate, you know."
"I know," said Seth, with a grim twinkle. "I see. That's Tommy Candy all over. Tell him I'll fix him up an article will do the business; he needn't have no fears. But how about them little pink petticuts of yourn, Annie Lizzie? I dono as Tommy is so special anxious to keep them out, is he?"
The pink of Annie Lizzie's dress was surely not a fast color, for it seemed to spread in a rosy cloud over her soft cheeks, up, up, to the soft rings of hair against her forehead.
"Direxia's real good to me," she said, simply. "She lets me come in the back gate."