The widow was looking at David with shining eyes and devouring his words. All the years of trouble and sorrow and privation were wiped out, and she was back in the days of her girlhood. Ah, yes! how well she remembered him as he looked that very day—so handsome, so splendidly dressed, so debonair; and how proud she had been to sit by his side that night, observed and envied of all the village girls.
"I ain't goin' to go over the hull show," proceeded David, "well 's I remember it. The' didn't nothin' git away from me that afternoon, an' once I come near to stickin' a piece o' gingerbread into my ear 'stid o' my mouth. I had my ten-cent piece that Billy P. give me, but he wouldn't let me buy nothin'; an' when the gingerbread man come along he says, 'Air ye hungry, Dave? (I'd told him my name), air ye hungry?' Wa'al, I was a growin' boy, an' I was hungry putty much all thetime. He bought two big squares an' gin me one, an' when I'd swallered it, he says, 'Guess you better tackle this one too,' he says, 'I've dined.' I didn't exac'ly know what 'dined' meant, but—he, he, he, he!—I tackled it," and David smacked his lips in memory.
"Wa'al," he went on, "we done the hull programmy—gingerbread, lemonade—pinklemonade, an' he took some o' that—pop corn, peanuts, pep'mint candy, cin'mun candy—scat my——! an' he payin' fer ev'rythin'—I thought he was jes' made o' money! An' I remember how we talked about all the doin's; the ridin', an' jumpin', an' summersettin', an' all—fer he'd got all the shyniss out of me for the time—an' once I looked up at him, an' he looked down at me with that curious look in his eyes an' put his hand on my shoulder. Wa'al, now, I tell ye, I had a queer, crinkly feelin' go up an' down my back, an' I like to up an' cried."
"Dave," said the widow, "I kin see you two as if you was settin' there front of me. He was alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David," she added solemnly, while two tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled face, "we lived together, husban' an' wife, fer seven year, an' he never give me a cross word."
"I don't doubt it a mossel," said David simply, leaning over and poking the fire, which operation kept his face out of her sight and was prolonged rather unduly. Finally he straightened up and, blowing his nose as it were a trumpet, said:
"Wa'al, the cirkis fin'ly come to an end, an' the crowd hustled to git out 's if they was afraid the tent 'd come down on 'em. I got kind o' mixed up in 'em, an' somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought he did, an' the upshot was that I lost sight o' Billy P., an' couldn't make out to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An'thenI kind o' come down to earth, kerchug! It was five o'clock, an' I had better 'n four mile to walk—mostly up hill—an' if I knowed anything 'bout the old man, an' I thought Idid, I had the all-firedist lickin' ahead of me 't I'd ever got, an' that was sayin' a good deal. But, boy 's I was, I had grit enough to allow 't was wuth it, an' off I put."
"Did he lick ye much?" inquired Mrs. Cullom anxiously.
"Wa'al," replied David, "he done his best. He was layin' fer me when I struck the front gate—I knowed it wa'n't no use to try the back door, an' he took me by the ear—mostpulled it off—an' marched me off to the barn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like he couldn't speak fer a while, but fin'ly he says, 'Where you ben all day?'
"'Down t' the village,' I says.
"'What you ben up to down there?' he says.
"'Went to the cirkis,' I says, thinkin' I might 's well make a clean breast on't.
"'Where 'd you git the money?' he says.
"'Mr. Cullom took me,' I says.
"'You lie,' he says. 'You stole the money somewheres, an' I'll trounce it out of ye, if I kill ye,' he says.
"Wa'al," said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, "I won't harrer up your feelin's. 'S I told you, he done his best. I was willin' to quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an' he had to throw water in my face 'fore he got through; an' he done that as thorough as the other thing. I was somethin' like a chickin jest out o' the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay on my back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye."
"You poor little critter," exclaimed Mrs.Cullom sympathetically. "You poor little critter!"
"'T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom," said David emphatically. "I'd had the most enjoy'ble day, I might say the only enjoy'ble day, 't I'd ever had in my hull life, an' I hain't never fergot it. I got over the lickin' in course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis fer forty year. The' wa'n't but one thing to hender, an' that's this, that I hain't never ben able to remember—an' to this day I lay awake nights tryin' to—that I said 'Thank ye' to Billy P., an' I never seen him after that day."
"How's that?" asked Mrs. Cullom.
"Wa'al," was the reply, "that day was the turnin' point with me. The next night I lit out with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much grub 's I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next time I see the old house on Buxton Hill the' hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years."
Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stood with his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face. "Is that all?" she asked after a while.
"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got throughyarnin' about Dave Harum at any rate, an' mebbe we'd better have a little confab on your matters, seem' 't I've got you 'way up here such a mornin' 's this. I gen'ally do bus'nis fust an' talkin' afterward," he added, "but I kind o' got to goin' an' kept on this time."
He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out three papers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, and then held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of the other, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyes fastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presently he broke the silence.
"About this here morgige o' your'n," he said. "I sent ye word that I wanted to close the matter up, an' seem' 't you're here an' come fer that purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't. The' ain't no time like the present, as the sayin' is."
"I s'pose it'll hev to be as you say," said the widow in a shaking voice.
"Mis' Cullom," said David solemnly, "youknow, an' I know, that I've got the repitation of bein' a hard, graspin', schemin' man. Mebbe I be. Mebbe I've ben hard done by all my hull life, an' have had to be; an' mebbe,now 't I've got ahead some, it's got to be second nature, an' I can't seem to help it. 'Bus'nis is bus'nis' ain't part of the golden rule, I allow, but the way it gen'ally runs, fur 's I've found out, is, 'Do unto the other feller the way he'd like to do unto you, an' do it fust.' But, if you want to keep this thing a-runnin' as it's goin' on now fer a spell longer, say one year, or two, or even three, you may, only I've got somethin' to say to ye 'fore ye elect."
"Wa'al," said the poor woman, "I expect it 'd only be pilin' up wrath agin the day o' wrath. I can't pay the int'rist now without starvin', an' I hain't got no one to bid in the prop'ty fer me if it was to be sold."
"Mis' Cullom," said David, "I said I'd got somethin' more to tell ye, an' if, when I git through, you don't think I've treated you right, includin' this mornin's confab, I hope you'll fergive me. It's this, an' I'm the only person livin' that 's knowin' to it, an' in fact I may say that I'm the only person that ever was really knowin' to it. It was before you was married, an' I'm sure he never told ye, fer I don't doubt he fergot all about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom, that was, made a small investment once on a time, yes, ma'am, he did, an' in his kind of careless way it jes'slipped his mind. The amount of cap'tal he put in wa'n't large, but the rate of int'rist was uncommon high. Now, he never drawed no dividends on't, an' they've ben 'cumulatin' fer forty year, more or less, at compound int'rist."
David Harum, Act III
The widow started forward, as if to rise from her seat. David put his hand out gently and said, "Jest a minute, Mis' Cullom, jest a minute, till I git through. Part o' that cap'tal," he resumed, "consistin' of a quarter an' some odd cents, was invested in the cirkis bus'nis, an' the rest on't—the cap'tal, an' all the cash cap'tal that I started in bus'nis with—was the ten cents your husband give me that day, an' here," said David, striking the papers in his left hand with the back of his right, "hereis thedividends! This here second morgige, not bein' on record, may jest as well go onto the fire—it's gettin' low—an' here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to execute now, that'll clear the thousan' dollar one. Come in here, John," he called out.
The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, but as the significance of his words dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly in her face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out: "My Lord! MyLord! Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true?—tell me it's true! You ain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You wouldn't fool a poor old woman that never done ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is it true? an' is my place clear? an' I don't owe nobody anythin'—I mean, no money? Tell it agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good to be true! Oh! Oh! Oh,my! an' here I be cryin' like a great baby, an', an'"—fumbling in her pocket—"I do believe I hain't got no hank'chif.—Oh, thank ye," to John; "I'll do it up an' send it back to-morrer.—Oh, what made ye do it, Dave?"
"Set right down an' take it easy, Mis' Cullom," said David soothingly, putting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back into her chair. "Set right down an' take it easy.—Yes," to John, "I acknowledge that I signed that."
He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes with John's handkerchief.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, "it's as true as anythin' kin be. I wouldn't no more fool ye, ye know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd—jerk a hoss," he asseverated. "Your place is clear now, an' by this time to-morro' the' won't be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send thesatisfaction over fer record fust thing in the mornin'."
"But, Dave," protested the widow, "I s'pose ye know what you're doin'——?"
"Yes," he interposed, "I cal'late I do, putty near. You ast me why I done it, an' I'll tell ye if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an old score, an' gettin' off cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'! I thought I'd hinted up to it putty plain, seem' 't I've talked till my jaws ache; but I'll sum it up to ye if ye like."
He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one hand in his trousers pocket, and holding in the other the "morgige," which he waved from time to time in emphasis.
David Harum, Act III
"You c'n estimate, I reckon," he began, "what kind of a bringin'-up I had, an' what a poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death little forlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an' jawed at till I'd come to believe myself—what was rubbed into me the hull time—that I was the most all-'round no-account animul that was ever made out o' dust, an' wa'n't ever likely to be no diff'rent. Lookin' back, it seems to me that—exceptin' of Polly—I never had a kind word said to me, nor a day's fun. Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust man that ever treated mehuman up to that time. He give me the only enjoy'ble time 't I'd ever had, an' I don't know 't anythin' 's ever equaled it since. He spent money on me, an' he give me money to spend—that had never had a cent to call my own—an', Mis' Cullom, he took me by the hand, an' he talked to me, an' he gin me the fust notion 't I'd ever had that mebbe I wa'n't only the scum o' the earth, as I'd ben teached to believe. I told ye that that day was the turnin' point of my life. Wa'al, it wa'n't the lickin' I got, though that had somethin' to do with it, but I'd never have had the spunk to run away 's I did if it hadn't ben for the heartenin' Billy P. gin me, an' never knowed it, an' never knowed it," he repeated mournfully. "I alwus allowed to pay some o' that debt back to him, but seein' 's I can't do that, Mis' Cullom, I'm glad an' thankful to pay it to his widdo'."
"Mebbe he knows, Dave," said Mrs. Cullom softly.
"Mebbe he does," assented David in a low voice.
Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said: "David, I can't thank ye 's I ought ter—I don't know how—but I'll pray fer ye night an' mornin' 's long 's I got breath.An', Dave," she added humbly, "I want to take back what I said about the Lord's providin'."
She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then exclaimed, "Oh, it don't seem 's if I c'd wait to write to Charley!"
"I've wrote to Charley," said David, "an' told him to sell out there an' come home, an' to draw on me fer any balance he needed to move him. I've got somethin' in my eye that'll be easier an' better payin' than fightin' grasshoppers an' drought in Kansas."
"Dave Harum!" cried the widow, rising to her feet, "you ought to 'a' ben a king!"
"Wa'al," said David with a grin, "I don't know much about the kingin' bus'nis, but I guess a cloth cap 'n' a hoss whip 's more 'n my line than a crown an' scepter. An' now," he added, "'s we've got through 'th our bus'nis, s'pose you step over to the house an' see Polly. She's expectin' ye to dinner. Oh, yes," replying to the look of deprecation in her face as she viewed her shabby frock, "you an' Polly c'n prink up some if you want to, but we can't take 'No' fer an answer Chris'must day, clo'es or no clo'es."
"I'd really like ter," said Mrs. Cullom.
"All right then," said David cheerfully."The path is swep' by this time, I guess, an' I'll see ye later. Oh, by the way," he exclaimed, "the's somethin' I fergot. I want to make you a proposition, ruther an onusual one, but seem' ev'rythin' is as 't is, perhaps you'll consider it."
"Dave," declared the widow, "if I could, an' you ast for it, I'd give ye anythin' on the face o' this mortal globe!"
"Wa'al," said David, nodding and smiling, "I thought that mebbe, long 's you got the int'rist of that investment we ben talkin' about, you'd let me keep what's left of the princ'pal. Would ye like to see it?"
Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled expression without replying.
David took from his pocket a large wallet, secured by a strap, and, opening it, extracted something enveloped in a much faded brown paper. Unfolding this, he displayed upon his broad fat palm an old silver dime black with age.
"There's the cap'tal," he said.
"Why, Mis' Cullom, I'm real glad to see ye. Come right in," said Mrs. Bixbee as she drew the widow into the "wing settin' room," and proceeded to relieve her of her wraps and her bundle. "Set right here by the fire while I take these things of your'n into the kitchen to dry 'em out. I'll be right back"; and she bustled out of the room. When she came back Mrs. Cullom was sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was in her eyes an expression of smiling peace that was good to see.
Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair, and seating herself, said: "Wa'al, I don't know when I've seen ye to git a chance to speak to ye, an' I was real pleased when David said you was goin' to be here to dinner. An' my! how well you're lookin'—more like Cynthy Sweetland than I've seen ye fer I don't know when; an' yet," she added, looking curiously at her guest, "you 'pear somehow as if you'd ben cryin'."
"You're real kind, I'm sure," responded Mrs. Cullom, replying to the other's welcome and remarksseriatim; "I guess, though, I don't look much like Cynthy Sweetland, if I do feel twenty years younger 'n I did a while ago; an' I have ben cryin', I allow, but not fer sorro', Polly Harum," she exclaimed, giving the other her maiden name. "Your brother Dave comes putty nigh to bein' an angel!"
"Wa'al," replied Mrs. Bixbee with a twinkle, "I reckon Dave might hev to be fixed up some afore he come out in that pertic'ler shape, but," she added impressively, "es fur as bein' amangoes, he's 'bout 's good 's they make 'em. I know folks thinks he's a hard bargainer, an' close-fisted, an' some on 'em that ain't fit to lick up his tracks says more'n that. He's got his own ways, I'll allow, but down at bottom, an' all through, I know the' ain't no better man livin'. No, ma'am, the' ain't, an' what he's ben to me, Cynthy Cullom, nobody knows but me—an'—an'—mebbe the Lord—though I hev seen the time," she said tentatively, "when it seemed to me 't I knowed more about my affairs 'n He did," and she looked doubtfully at her companion, who had been following her with affirmative and sympathetic nods,and now drew her chair a little closer, and said softly: "Yes, yes, I know. I ben putty doubtful an' rebellious myself a good many times, but seems now as if He had had me in His mercy all the time." Here Aunt Polly's sense of humor asserted itself. "What's Dave ben up to now?" she asked.
And then the widow told her story, with tears and smiles, and the keen enjoyment which we all have in talking about ourselves to a sympathetic listener like Aunt Polly, whose interjections pointed and illuminated the narrative. When it was finished she leaned forward and kissed Mrs. Cullom on the cheek.
"I can't tell ye how glad I be for ye," she said; "but if I'd known that David held that morgige, I could hev told ye ye needn't hev worried yourself a mite. He wouldn't never have taken your prop'ty, more'n he'd rob a hen-roost. But he done the thing his own way—kind o' fetched it round fer a Merry Chris'mus, didn't he?"
David's house stood about a hundred feet back from the street, facing the east. The main body of the house was of two stories (through which ran a deep bay in front), with mansard roof. On the south were two stories of the "wing," in which were the "settin' room," Aunt Polly's room, and, above, David's quarters. Ten minutes or so before one o'clock John rang the bell at the front door.
"Sairy's busy," said Mrs. Bixbee apologetically as she let him in, "an' so I come to the door myself."
"Thank you very much," said John. "Mr. Harum told me to come over a little before one, but perhaps I ought to have waited a few minutes longer."
"No, it's all right," she replied, "for mebbe you'd like to wash an' fix up 'fore dinner, so I'll jes' show ye where to," and she led the way upstairs and into the "front parlor bedroom."
"There," she said, "make yourself comf'table, an' dinner 'll be ready in about ten minutes."
For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then he turned and caught both of Mrs. Bixbee's hands and looked at her, speechless. When he found words he said: "I don't know what to say, nor how to thank you properly. I don't believe you know how kind this is."
"Don't say nothin' about it," she protested, but with a look of great satisfaction. "I done it jes' t' relieve my mind, because ever sence you fus' come I ben worryin' over your bein' at that nasty tavern," and she made a motion to go.
"You and your brother," said John earnestly, still holding her hands, "have made me a gladder and happier man this Christmas day than I have been for a very long time."
"I'm glad on't," she said heartily, "an' I hope you'll be comf'table an' contented here. I must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come down to the settin' room when you're ready," and she gave his hands a little squeeze.
"Aunt Po——, I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee," said John, moved by a sudden impulse, "do you think you could find it in your heartto complete my happiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christmas, you know," he added smilingly.
David Harum, Act III
Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. "Wa'al," she said, with a little laugh, "seein' 't I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 't won't hurt me none," and as she went down the stairs she softly rubbed her lips with the side of her forefinger.
John understood now why David had looked out of the bank window so often that morning. All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bedroom, having been moved over from the Eagle while he and David had been in the office. A delightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast to his squalid surroundings at that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowy counterpane and silk patchwork "comf'table" folded on the foot, the bright fire in the open stove, the big bureau and glass, the soft carpet, the table for writing and reading standing in the bay, his books on the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his hand, not to mention an ample supply ofdrytowels on the rack.
The poor fellow's life during the weeks which he had lived in Homeville had beenutterly in contrast with any previous experience. Nevertheless he had tried to make the best of it, and to endure the monotony, the dullness, the entire lack of companionship and entertainment with what philosophy he could muster. The hours spent in the office were the best part of the day. He could manage to find occupation for all of them, though a village bank is not usually a scene of active bustle. Many of the people who did business there diverted him somewhat, and most of them seemed never too much in a hurry to stand around and talk the sort of thing that interested them. After John had got acquainted with his duties and the people he came in contact with, David gave less personal attention to the affairs of the bank; but he was in and out frequently during the day, and rarely failed to interest his cashier with his observations and remarks.
But the long winter evenings had been very bad. After supper, a meal which revolted every sense, there had been as many hours to be got through with as he found wakeful, an empty stomach often adding to the number of them, and the only resource for passing the time had been reading, which had often been well-nigh impossible for sheerphysical discomfort. As has been remarked, the winter climate of the middle portion of New York State is as bad as can be imagined. His light was a kerosene lamp of half-candle power, and his appliance for warmth consisted of a small wood stove, which (as David would have expressed it) "took two men an' a boy" to keep in action, and was either red hot or exhausted.
As from the depths of a spacious lounging chair he surveyed his new surroundings, and contrasted them with those from which he had been rescued out of pure kindness, his heart was full, and it can hardly be imputed to him as a weakness that for a moment his eyes filled with tears of gratitude and happiness—no less.
Indeed, there were four happy people at David's table that Christmas day. Aunt Polly had "smartened up" Mrs. Cullom with collar and cuffs, and in various ways which the mind of man comprehendeth not in detail; and there had been some arranging of her hair as well, which altogether had so transformed and transfigured her that John thought that he should hardly have known her for the forlorn creature whom he had encountered in the morning. And as he looked at the still fineeyes, large and brown, and shining for the first time in many a year with a soft light of happiness, he felt that he could understand how it was that Billy P. had married the village girl.
Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace collar fastened with a shell-cameo pin not quite as large as a saucer, and John caught the sparkle of a diamond on her plump left hand—David's Christmas gift—with regard to which she had spoken apologetically to Mrs. Cullom:
"I told David that I was ever so much obliged to him, but I didn't want a dimun' more'n a cat wanted a flag, an' I thought it was jes' throwin' away money. But he would have it—said I c'd sell it an' keep out the poor-house some day, mebbe."
David had not made much change in his usual raiment, but he was shaved to the blood, and his round red face shone with soap and satisfaction. As he tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, Sairy brought in the tureen of oyster soup, and he remarked, as he took his first spoonful of the stew, that he was "hungry 'nough t' eat a graven imidge," a condition that John was able to sympathize with after his two days of fasting on crackers andsuch provisions as he could buy at Purse's. It was, on the whole, he reflected, the most enjoyable dinner that he ever ate. Never was such a turkey; and to see it give way under David's skillful knife—wings, drumsticks, second joints, side bones, breast—was an elevating and memorable experience. And such potatoes, mashed in cream; such boiled onions, turnips, Hubbard squash, succotash, stewed tomatoes, celery, cranberries, "currant jell!" Oh! and to "top off" with, a mince pie to die for and a pudding (new to John, but just you try it some time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with a sauce of cream sweetened with shaved maple sugar.
"What'll you have?" said David to Mrs. Cullom, "dark meat? white meat?"
"Anything," she replied meekly, "I'm not partic'ler. Most any part of a turkey 'll taste good, I guess."
"All right," said David. "Don't care means a little o' both. I alwus know what to give Polly—piece o' the second jint an' the last-thing-over-the-fence. Nice 'n rich fer scraggly folks," he remarked. "How fer you, John?—little o' both, eh?" and he heaped the plate till our friend begged him to keep something for himself.
"Little too much is jes' right," he asserted.
When David had filled the plates and handed them along—Sairy was for bringing in and taking out; they did their own helping to vegetables and "passin'"—he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his chair and started in the direction of the kitchen door.
"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise. "Where you goin'?"
"Woodshed!" said David.
"Woodshed!" she exclaimed, making as if to rise and follow.
"You set still," said David. "Somethin' I fergot."
"What on earth?" she exclaimed, with an air of annoyance and bewilderment. "What do you want in the woodshed? Can't you set down an' let Sairy git it fer ye?"
"No," he asserted with a grin. "Sairy might sqush it. It must be putty meller by this time." And out he went.
"Manners!" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. "You'll think (to John) we're reg'ler heathin'."
"I guess not," said John, smiling and much amused.
Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblerswhich she distributed, and was followed by David bearing a bottle. He seated himself and began a struggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick. Aunt Polly leaned forward with a look of perplexed curiosity.
"What you got there?" she asked.
"Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin remedy," said David, reading the label and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in a wink to John, "fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin' o' the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp'inted affections, an' pips in hens," and out came the cork with a "wop," at which both the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried out.
"David Harum," declared his sister with conviction, "I believe thet that's a bottle of champagne."
"If it ain't," said David, pouring into his tumbler, "I ben swindled out o' four shillin'," and he passed the bottle to John, who held it up inquiringly, looking at Mrs. Bixbee.
"No, thank ye," she said with a little toss of the head, "I'm a son o' temp'rence. I don't believe," she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, "thet that bottle ever costless'n a dollar." At which remarks David apparently "swalleredsomethin' the wrong way," and for a moment or two was unable to proceed with his dinner. Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously. It was her experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, he often laughed utterly without reason—so far as she could see.
"I've always heard it was dreadful expensive," remarked Mrs. Cullom.
"Let me give you some," said John, reaching toward her with the bottle. Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David.
"I don't know," she said. "I never tasted any."
"Take a little," said David, nodding approvingly.
"Just a swallow," said the widow, whose curiosity had got the better of scruples. She took a swallow of the wine.
"How do you like it," asked David.
"Well," she said as she wiped her eyes, into which the gas had driven the tears, "I guess I could get along if I couldn't have it regular."
"Don't taste good?" suggested David with a grin.
"Well," she replied, "I never did care any great for cider, and this tastes to me about asif I was drinkin' cider an' snuffin' horseredish at one and the same time."
"How's that, John?" said David, laughing.
"I suppose it's an acquired taste," said John, returning the laugh and taking a mouthful of the wine with infinite relish. "I don't think I ever enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or," turning to Aunt Polly, "ever enjoyed a dinner so much," which statement completely mollified her feelings, which had been the least bit in the world "set edgeways."
"Mebbe your app'tite's got somethin' to do with it," said David, shoveling a knife-load of good things into his mouth. "Polly, this young man's ben livin' on crackers an' salt herrin' fer a week."
"My land!" cried Mrs. Bixbee with an expression of horror. "Is that reelly so? 'T ain't now, reelly?"
"Not quite so bad as that," John answered, smiling; "but Mrs. Elright has been ill for a couple of days and—well, I have been foraging around Purse's store a little."
"Wa'al, of all the mean shames!" exclaimed Aunt Polly indignantly. "David Harum, you'd ought to be ridic'lous t' allow such a thing."
David Harum, Act III
"Wa'al, I never!" said David, holding hisknife and fork straight up in either fist as they rested on the table, and staring at his sister. "I believe if the meetin'-house roof was to blow off you'd lay it on to me somehow. I hain't ben runnin' the Eagle tavern fer quite a consid'able while. You got the wrong pig by the ear as usual. Jes' you pitch into him," pointing with his fork to John. "It's his funeral, if anybody's."
"Wa'al," said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone of injury, "I do think you might have let somebody know; I think you'd ortter 've known——"
"Yes, Mrs. Bixbee," he interrupted, "I did know how kind you are and would have been, and if matters had gone on so much longer I should have appealed to you, I should have indeed; but really," he added, smiling at her, "a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for."
"Wa'al," she said, mollified again, "you won't git no more herrin' 'nless you ask for 'em."
"That is just what your brother said this morning," replied John, looking at David with a laugh.
The meal proceeded in silence for a few minutes. Mrs. Cullom had said but little, but John noticed that her diction was more conventional than in her talk with David and himself in the morning, and that her manner at the table was distinctly refined, although she ate with apparent appetite, not to say hunger. Presently she said, with an air of making conversation, "I suppose you've always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox?"
"It has always been my home," he replied, "but I have been away a good deal."
"I suppose folks in the city go to theaters a good deal," she remarked.
"They have a great many opportunities," said John, wondering what she was leading up to. But he was not to discover, for David broke in with a chuckle.
"Ask Polly, Mis' Cullom," he said. "She c'n tell ye all about the theater, Polly kin."Mrs. Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee, whose face was suffused.
"Tell her," said David, with a grin.
"I wish you'd shet up," she exclaimed. "I sha'n't do nothin' of the sort."
"Ne' mind," said David cheerfully. "I'lltell ye, Mis' Cullom."
"Dave Harum!" expostulated Mrs. Bixbee, but he proceeded without heed of her protest.
"Polly an' I," he said, "went down to New York one spring some years ago. Her nerves was some wore out 'long of diff'rences with Sairy about clearin' up the woodshed, an' bread risin's, an' not bein' able to suit herself up to Purse's in the qual'ty of silk velvit she wanted fer a Sunday-go-to-meetin' gown, an' I thought a spell off 'd do her good. Wa'al, the day after we got there I says to her while we was havin' breakfust—it was picked-up el'phant on toast, near 's I c'n remember, wa'n't it, Polly?"
"That's as near the truth as most o' the rest on't so fur," said Polly with a sniff.
"Wa'al, I says to her," he proceeded, untouched by her scorn, "'How'd you like to go t' the theater? You hain't never ben,' I says, 'an' now you're down here you mayjes' as well see somethin' while you got a chanst,' I says. Up to thattime," he remarked, as it were in passing, "she'd ben somewhat prejuced'ginst theaters, an'——"
"Wa'al," Mrs. Bixbee broke in, "I guess what we see that night was cal'lated——"
"You hold on," he interposed. "I'm tellin' this story. You had a chanst to an' wouldn't. Anyway," he resumed, "she allowed she'd try it once, an' we agreed we'd go somewheres that night. But somethin' happened to put it out o' my mind, an' I didn't think on't agin till I got back to the hotel fer supper. So I went to the feller at the news-stand an' says, 'Got any show-tickits fer to-night?'
"'Theater?' he says.
"'I reckon so,' I says.
"'Wa'al,' he says, 'I hain't got nothin' now but two seats fer "Clyanthy."'
"'Is it a good show?' I says—'moral, an' so on? I'm goin' to take my sister, an' she's a little pertic'ler about some things,' I says. He kind o' grinned, the feller did. 'I've took my wife twice, an' she's putty pertic'ler herself,' he says, laughin'."
"She must 'a' ben," remarked Mrs. Bixbee with a sniff that spoke volumes of her opinionof "the feller's wife." David emitted a chuckle.
"Wa'al," he continued, "I took the tickits on the feller's recommend, an' the fact of his wife's bein' so pertic'ler, an' after supper we went. It was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded an' carved all over like the outside of a cirkis wagin, an' when we went in the orchestry was playin' an' the people was comin' in, an' after we'd set a few minutes I says to Polly, 'What do you think on't?' I says.
"'I don't see anythin' very unbecomin' so fur, an' the people looks respectable enough,' she says.
"'No jail birds in sight fur 's ye c'n see so fur, be they?' I says. He, he, he, he!"
"You needn't make me out more of a gump 'n I was," protested Mrs. Bixbee. "An' you was jest as——" David held up his finger at her.
"Don't you sp'ile the story by discountin' the sequil. Wa'al, putty soon the band struck up some kind of a dancin' tune, an' the curt'in went up, an' a girl come prancin' down to the footlights an' begun singin' an' dancin', an', scat my——! to all human appearances you c'd 'a' covered ev'ry dum thing she hadon with a postage stamp." John stole a glance at Mrs. Cullom. She was staring at the speaker with wide-open eyes of horror and amazement.
"I guess I wouldn't go veryfurinto pertic'lers," said Mrs. Bixbee in a warning tone.
David bent his head down over his plate and shook from head to foot, and it was nearly a minute before he was able to go on. "Wa'al," he said, "I heard Polly give a kind of a gasp an' a snort, 's if some one 'd throwed water 'n her face. But she didn't say nothin', an', I swan! I didn't dast to look at her fer a spell; an' putty soon in come a hull crowd more girls that had left their clo'es in their trunks or somewhere, singin', an' dancin', an' weavin' 'round on the stage, an' after a few minutes I turned an' looked at Polly. He, he, he, he!"
"David Harum," cried Mrs. Bixbee, "ef you're goin' to discribe any more o' them scand'lous goin's on I sh'll take my victuals into the kitchen.Ididn't see no more of 'em," she added to Mrs. Cullom and John, "after that fust trollop appeared."
"I don't believe she did," said David, "fer when I turned she set there with her eyes shut tighter 'n a drum, an' her mouth shuttoo so's her nose an' chin most come together, an' her face was red enough so 't a streak o' red paint 'd 'a' made a white mark on it. 'Polly,' I says, 'I'm afraid you ain't gettin' the wuth o' your money.'
"'David Harum,' she says, with her mouth shut all but a little place in the corner toward me, 'if you don't take me out o' this place, I'll go without ye,' she says.
"'Don't you think you c'd stan' it a little longer?' I says. 'Mebbe they've sent home fer their clo'es,' I says. He, he, he, he! But with that she jes' give a hump to start, an' I see she meant bus'nis. When Polly Bixbee," said David impressively, "puts that foot o' her'ndownsomethin's got to sqush, an' don't you fergit it." Mrs. Bixbee made no acknowledgment of this tribute to her strength of character. John looked at David.
"Yes," he said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if in answer to a question, "I squshed. I says to her, 'All right. Don't make no disturbance more'n you c'n help, an' jes' put your hank'chif up to your nose 's if you had the nosebleed,' an' we squeezed out of the seats, an' sneaked up the aisle, an' by the time we got out into the entry I guess myface was as red as Polly's. It couldn't 'a' ben no redder," he added.
"You got a putty fair color as a gen'ral thing," remarked Mrs. Bixbee dryly.
"Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am, I expect that's so," he assented, "but I got an extra coat o' tan follerin' you out o' that theater. When we got out into the entry one o' them fellers that stands 'round steps up to me an' says, 'Ain't your ma feelin' well?' he says. 'Her feelin's has ben a trifle rumpled up,' I says, 'an' that gen'ally brings on the nosebleed,' an' then," said David, looking over Mrs. Bixbee's head, "the feller went an' leaned up agin the wall."
"David Harum!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, "that's a downrightlie. You never spoke to a soul, an'—an'—ev'rybody knows 't I ain't more 'n four years older 'n you be."
"Wa'al, you see, Polly," her brother replied in a smooth tone of measureless aggravation, "the feller wa'n't acquainted with us, an' he only went by appearances."
Aunt Polly appealed to John: "Ain't he enough to—to—I d' know what?"
"I really don't see how you live with him," said John, laughing.
Mrs. Cullom's face wore a faint smile, asif she were conscious that something amusing was going on, but was not quite sure what. The widow took things seriously for the most part, poor soul.
"I reckon you haven't followed theater-goin' much after that," she said to her hostess.
"No, ma'am," Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, "you better believe I hain't. I hain't never thought of it sence without tinglin' all over. I believe," she asserted, "that David 'd 'a' stayed the thing out if it hadn't ben fer me; but as true 's you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so 'shamed at the little 't I did see that when I come to go to bed I took my clo'es off in the dark."
David threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mrs. Bixbee looked at him with unmixed scorn. "If I couldn't help makin' a——" she began, "I'd——"
"Oh, Lord! Polly," David broke in, "be sure 'n wrap up when you go out. If you sh'd ketch cold an' your sense o' the ridic'lous sh'd strike in you'd be a dead-'n'-goner sure." This was treated with the silent contempt which it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with the remark that "he guessed he'd better make up fer lost time," though asa matter of fact while he had done most of the talking he had by no means suspended another function of his mouth while so engaged.
For a time nothing more was said which did not relate to the replenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. Finally David cleaned up his plate with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and pushed it away with a sigh of fullness, mentally echoed by John.
"I feel 's if a child could play with me," he remarked. "What's comin' now, Polly?"
"The's a mince pie, an' Injun puddin' with maple sugar an' cream, an' ice cream," she replied.
"Mercy on us!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'll have to go an' jump up an' down on the verandy. How do you feel, John? I s'pose you got so used to them things at the Eagle 't you won't have no stomech fer 'em, eh? Wa'al, fetch 'em along. May 's well die fer the ole sheep 's the lamb; but, Polly Bixbee, if you've got designs on my life, I may 's well tell ye right now 't I've left all my prop'ty to the Institution fer Disappinted Hoss Swappers."
"That's putty near next o' kin, ain't it?"was the unexpected rejoinder of the injured Polly.
"Wa'al, scat my——!" exclaimed David, hugely amused, "if Polly Bixbee hain't made a joke! You'll git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fust thing you know." Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding.
"John," said David, "if you've got a pencil an' a piece o' paper handy I'd like to have ye take down a few of my last words 'fore we proceed to the pie an' puddin' bus'nis. Any more 'hossredish' in that bottle?" holding out his glass. "Hi, hi! that's enough. You take the rest on't," which John did, nothing loath.
David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up his mind to attack the pudding, which was his favorite confection, he gave an audible chuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee's notice.
"What you gigglin' 'bout now?" she asked.
David laughed. "I was thinkin' of somethin' I heard up to Purse's last night," he said as he covered his pudding with the thick cream sauce. "Amri Shapless has ben gittin' married."
"Wa'al, I declare!" she exclaimed."That ole shack! Who in creation could he git to take him?"
"Lize Annis is the lucky woman," replied David with a grin.
"Wa'al, if that don't beat all!" said Mrs. Bixbee, throwing up her hands, and even from Mrs. Cullom was drawn a "Well, I never!"
"Fact," said David, "they was married yestidy forenoon. Squire Parker done the job. Dominie White wouldn't have nothin' to do with it!"
"Squire Parker 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself," said Mrs. Bixbee indignantly.
"Don't you think that trew love had ought to be allowed to take its course?" asked David with an air of sentiment.
"I think the squire 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself," she reiterated. "S'pose them two old skinamulinks was to go an' have children?"
"Polly, you make me blush," protested her brother. "Hain't you got no respect fer the holy institution of matrimuny?—and—at cet'ry?" he added, wiping his whole face with his napkin.
"Much as you hev, I reckon," she retorted. "Of all the amazin' things in thisworld, the amazinist to me is the kind of people that gits married to each other in gen'ral; but this here performence beats ev'rything holler."
"Amri give a very good reason for't," said David with an air of conviction, and then he broke into a laugh.
"Ef you got anythin' to tell, tell it," said Mrs. Bixbee impatiently.
"Wa'al," said David, taking the last of his pudding into his mouth, "if you insist on't, painful as 't is. I heard Dick Larrabee tellin' 'bout it. Amri told Dick day before yestiday that he was thinkin' of gettin' married, an' ast him to go along with him to Parson White's an' be a witniss, an' I reckon a kind of moral support. When it comes to moral supportin'," remarked David in passing, "Dick's as good 's a professional, an' he'd go an' see his gran'mother hung sooner 'n miss anythin', an' never let his cigar go out durin' the performence. Dick said he congratilated Am on his choice, an' said he reckoned they'd be putty ekally yoked together, if nothin' else."
Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly and said, protestingly, "Don't gi' me but jest a teasp'nful o' that ice cream. I'm so full now 't I can't hardly reach the table." He took ataste of the cream and resumed: "I can't give it jest as Dick did," he went on, "but this is about the gist on't. Him, an' Lize, an' Am went to Parson White's about half after seven o'clock an' was showed into the parler, an' in a minute he come in, an' after sayin' 'Good evenin'' all 'round, he says, 'Well, what c'n I do fer ye?' lookin' at Am an' Lize, an' then at Dick.
"'Wa'al,' says Am, 'me an' Mis' Annis here has ben thinkin' fer some time as how we'd ought to git married.'
"'Oughtto git married?' says Parson White, scowlin' fust at one an' then at t'other.
"'Wa'al,' says Am, givin' a kind o' shuffle with his feet, 'I didn't meanortterexac'ly, but jest aswell—kinder comp'ny,' he says. 'We hain't neither on us got nobody, an' we thought we might 's well.'
"'What have you got to git married on?' says the dominie after a minute. 'Anythin'?' he says.
"'Wa'al,' says Am, droppin' his head sideways an' borin' into his ear 'ith his middle finger, 'I got the promise mebbe of a job o' work fer a couple o' days next week.' 'H'm'm'm,' says the dominie, lookin' at him. 'Haveyougot anythin' to git married on?'the dominie says, turnin' to Lize. 'I've got ninety cents comin' to me fer some work I done last week,' she says, wiltin' down on to the sofy an' beginnin' to snivvle. Dick says that at that the dominie turned round an' walked to the other end of the room, an' he c'd see he was dyin' to laugh, but he come back with a straight face.
"'How old air you, Shapless?' he says to Am. 'I'll be fifty-eight or mebbe fifty-nine come next spring,' says Am.
"'How old airyou?' the dominie says, turnin' to Lize. She wriggled a minute an' says, 'Wa'al, I reckon I'm all o' thirty,' she says."
"All o' thirty!" exclaimed Aunt Polly. "The woman 's most 's old 's I be."
David laughed and went on with, "Wa'al, Dick said at that the dominie give a kind of a choke, an' Dick he bust right out, an' Lize looked at him as if she c'd eat him. Dick said the dominie didn't say anythin' fer a minute or two, an' then he says to Am, 'I suppose you c'n find somebody that'll marry you, but I cert'inly won't, an' what possesses you to commit such a piece o' folly,' he says, 'passes my understandin'. What earthly reason have you fer wantin' to marry? On yourown showin',' he says, 'neither one on you 's got a cent o' money or any settled way o' gettin' any.'
"'That's jes' the very reason,' says Am, 'that's jes' thevery reason. I hain't got nothin', an' Mis' Annis hain't got nothin', an' we figured that we'd jes' better git married an'settle down, an' make a good home fer us both,' an' if that ain't good reasonin'," David concluded, "I don't know what is."
"An' be they actially married?" asked Mrs. Bixbee, still incredulous of anything so preposterous.
"So Dick says," was the reply. "He says Am an' Lize come away f'm the dominie's putty down in the mouth, but 'fore long Amri braced up an' allowed that if he had half a dollar he'd try the squire in the mornin', an' Dick let him have it. I says to Dick, 'You're out fifty cents on that deal,' an' he says, slappin' his leg, 'I don't give a dum,' he says; 'I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer double the money.'"
Here David folded his napkin and put it in the ring, and John finished the cup of clear coffee which Aunt Polly, rather under protest, had given him. Coffee without cream and sugar was incomprehensible to Mrs. Bixbee.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation in the original book have been retained.