University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
A COMFORT OR A CURSE — WHICH?

It is about five o'clock. There is a comparative lull
in the excitement of the occasion, for the afternoon races
are over, and the ball, which is to many the climax of
the festivities, has not begun. The crowd, however, is
at its height, the frequenters of the race-course not having
yet dispersed, while the patrons of the evening pastime
are already pouring in. Parties having a long ride
in prospect, are fortifying themselves, individually, or
in groups, some at a select table in the tavern parlor,
some drawn around the kitchen hearth, some hovering
in the neighborhood of the bar. Orders for refreshment
are issued on all sides. The maid-servants are
hurrying hither and thither, and two awkward farmer
boys, drafted for the occasion, are stumbling over each
other in the passages. Still, on the whole, the attendance
is good and the supplies ample, for old Stein is
eagle-eyed, and his patient wife is slaving herself to
death in the pantry, as she has been ever since she was
his wife, and will be till she dies.

Above stairs every thing is in a buzz of anticipation.
The rooms on the second floor have been allotted to the
fresh arrivals; and here the farmers' wives, decked in
tall turbans and Sunday finery, are enjoying something
more than a Sunday's gossip, while their daughters are
tying on high-heeled slippers, or struggling to get a place
at the mirror, or, with toilet completed to their satisfaction,
are humming a lively air, and keeping time to it
with impatient feet, while now and then the bolder sort
are darting into the entry-way, chatting saucy nonsense
to some country beau coming up the stairs, or peeping
through the rails with a half-suppressed titter, intended
to attract the attention of some city gallant loitering in
the hall below.

Outside the house the scene is even noisier and more
confused. Here horses are harnessed and unharnessed,
horses are petted and praised, horses are abused and
kicked. Men are laughing, talking, snapping whips,
quarrelling, chcating, and settling their bets. There are
all expressions of face among them, from the exultant
smiles of fortunate competitors to the sullen airs of their
discomfited rivals, from the shrewd sidelong glance of
the jockey to the anxious features of his probable victim,
from the indifference of the looker-on to the eagerness
of the wrestler in the game of chance.

No one ventures to dispute the assertion of Stein, that
the races have been successful, wonderfully successful,
the most successful he has ever witnessed; there are
many to echo this sentiment, annually expressed by the

landlord; but there is more than one who responds to it
by mentally cursing Stein, his tavern, and his race-course,
as being at the bottom of all his ill fortune in life.

Among the former class, satisfied with the occasion
and complacent towards the host, is a middle-aged gentleman,
who has just mounted his curricle, and who, as
he receives the reins from the hands of the landlord himself,
exclaims, with good-humored condescension, “Goodnight,
and a merry Christmas to you, Mr. Stein! You
have forestalled the date a little, but that is all right; tomorrow
is Saturday, and it would not do to let the young
folks' ball run into the Subbath. Your races have gone
off finely this year. I generally drive out to look on,
and I never saw fleeter horses on the ground.”

“No one is a better judge than yourself, sir,” said
Stein, bowing, hat in hand, and bestowing a diplomatic
glance on the handsome pair to whom the New York
merchant was just giving the reins.

“I don't much approve of this horse-racing,” remarked
the merchant, as he somewhat vainly watched the even
trot of his own horses, and addressed the respectable
lawyer who was the companion of his drive; “but our
young men will have their sport, and these annual meetings
furnish the best opportunity for completing one's
stud. I want a better match for that off horse, if I
can find one; and, setting aside the races, it is worth
one's while to step over into Jersey, to dine off a canvass-back,
served as one gets them at Stein's. Honest
fellow, that Stein! Take care, there!” and the fine

gentleman pulled up just in time to avoid running over a
rough, elderly farmer, who, with his broad-brimmed hat
pulled low over his forehead, was crossing the road, on
his way to the tavern, without looking to the right or left.

“Bless me!” cried the farmer, as he stepped aside,
and stood staring after the curricle, which, the obstacle
removed, rolled rapidly on. “How these New Yorkers
sweep the road! They don't leave a Jarseyman room
to steer!”

“Don't let 'em run you down, neighbor Rycker,” exclaimed
a voice just beside him. “They drive like the
devil on two sticks — them fellers do — 'specially arter
dinner; but the plains is free ground, and they're bound
to turn out for a man whether or no.”

“Wal,” said old Rycker, retreating to the grassy
road-side, and keeping a flank lookout as another light
vehicle approached from the tavern, “I reckon I'd better
take a safe course, and go round the stump; that's my
way allers.”

“You're an easy old cove, Rycker, and the right one
for them folks to deal with,” remarked his neighbor.
“It stirs my blood a leetle to see how them city chaps
rides it over the old settlers. You didn't jine in the
races, farmer?”

“No, no,” replied Rycker, facetiously; “my hosses
was busy at the plough.”

“I jest see your red colt up at the shed,” said the
other. “Young Joe's been puttin' him over the road, I
reckon.”

“Joe fetched up his marm and the gals about an
hour ago in the wagon. They hadn't no room to spare,
what with all their gim-cracks and cock-a-toos, so I
footed it.”

“The ball's what you've come fur, then, is it?”

“Wal, yes. If the gals and boys likes to stir their
stumps, I've no objections to lookin' on, and hearin' a
brisk tune or so on the fiddle.”

“Old Cato plays lively yet,” was the answer to this
remark. “Some on 'em 'll dance hearty to his music
to-night, I'm thinkin', and then agin some on 'em
won't.”

“Ah, that's the wust on't,” said old Rycker. “That's
the reason, to speak truth, neighbor Van Hausen, that
I've gin up the races, and keep Joe out on 'em when I
can. I allers calkerlate to have more business than ordnary
on hand these days, if it's only to keep the boy at
home. When folks set their hearts on the legs of a
hoss, they stand a good chance to be disappinted, and
sarves 'em right; they're a pack o' fools, all on 'em.”

“Wal, ginerally speakin',” said Van Hausen, “I
wouldn't pitch a copper who wins, either way; but if
Geordie Rawle will be fool enough to run his brown
marc agin the stuff them city blades stake their money
and their souls on, why, you may depend on't Dick Van
Hausen's heart is purty sure to be sot on the mare's
legs.”

“Geordie's mare! Do tell, now!” cried Rycker, with
animation. “Has any body's beast gone ahead o' that?

Geordie's mare's a lady; what did Geordie put her on
the course fur?”

“'Cause he's a fool, I reckon,” said Van Hausen.

There was a moment's silence between the two men.
“Look here, Dick,” said Rycker, at length, taking his
neighbor by the button, and speaking confidentially,
“what do 'yer think about that boy? Will he be a
comfort to his poor old mother or a cuss?”

“Dun know,” responded Van Hausen, gravely.

“Geordie 'd no business to do it,” mused Rycker,
aloud; “his father's son had no business to do it,”—
then added, looking inquiringly at Van Hausen, “I 'spose
he bet on her, too?”

“'Spose so,” was the brief answer.

“It'll kind o' discourage him,” said Rycker, softening.

“Kind o'? You ought to have seen them two —
Geordie and the mare — look each other in the eye
arterwards,” said Van Hausen. “I tell you them two
felt jest of a piece; they was ashamed — they was
mad — they was desprate.”

“He'll have to sell her, won't he?” asked Rycker.

“Give her away, more like,” said Van Hausen.
“Last week that mare would ha' brought a purty
price. Who wants her now? She was a fancy beast
allers, and there was many a young blade had his eye
on her. But Geordie held off till arter the races; dun
know whether 'twas his pride in the crittur, or whether
he thought he'd get a louder figur. Game's up now;
he'll have to let her go for what she'll fetch.”

“Poor boy!” said Rycker. “He sets a sight by
her.”

“Who can wonder?” exclaimed Van Hausen. “That
'ere colt was born the night his father died. Farmer
Rawle bred the finest hosses that were raised in the
Jarseys, but none on 'em came up to this 'ere. There
was consid'able stock on the farm when Rawle died,
but only this fraction of a hoss did Geordie get out on't.
'Twas his inheritance, farmer; his inheritance; the only
plum he got out of the pie!”

“So small, it was overlooked?” queried Rycker,
significantly.

“Jest so, farmer — jest so; else yer may be sure
Stein's long fingers would ha' grabbed it. Where did
the best hosses and cows that are in his barn now first
larn to nibble grass? Down in Rawle's meader, I
swear.”

“Rawle owed Stein money, I 'spose?”

“Can't say. Stein settled the estate, of course; who
else could the widder look ter? Settled it much to his
own fancy, I reckon.”

“Pity, on the whole,” said Rycker, “that he didn't
take a fancy to Geordie's colt 'long wi' the rest. It's
been only a mischief to the boy. Fust, he must needs
raise it, then break it, and then ride round the country
on it. Turns a boy's head to have a racer made to his
hand, and a race-course running within a stone's throw
of his mother's door. Now, when I was a youngster,
there wern't no harm in boys matchin' their colts: but

nowadays it's about the wust thing they could turn their
hand ter.”

“And whose fault's that, I want ter know?” questioned
Van Hausen, sharply. “'Taint Geordie's doin's
that racin's come to be such a temptation in these parts.
No, he owes that as well 's other things to his uncle
Stein. Ever since old Hans was under ground Diedrich
has been makin' this place a snare for men's souls, and
featherin' his nest with the profits. I can remember
when this used to be peaceablest road you could travel
on, and now there isn't a month in the year that these
ere highfliers ain't a-gettin' up some kind of a scrape, and
Stein a-backin' 'em up in 't.”

“It's e'en-a-most enough to make old Hans rise out
of his grave that this 'ere road by his tavern door
should prove the road to ruin fur poor Margaret's boy,”
said Rycker.

“Ah, ha, neighbor!” said Van Hausen, “if old
Hans's ghost ever meant to rise, 'twould ha' stood up
and protested on Margaret's wedding day, when Diedrich
sent her out of her father's house a beggar.”

“Didn't Rawle and his wife get Margery's share of
the tavern-house and farm? I'll take my oath she was
entitled to that, an' a many year's wages too. She
drudged in the tavern kitchen a good ten year or more,
to my knowledge.”

“She got a board-bill, farmer; yes, a board-bill, heavy
enough to eat up her share of the whole consarn. Farmer
Rawle told me so in his last sickness, and I believe

it. It only adds one figur to a long score that 'll come
up agin that Stein at the day o' judgment.”

“Hush, hush, Van Hausen!” said Rycker, in a tone
of mild reproof; “that's a day when each on us 'll have
an account of our own to settle, en' nothin' to do with
our neighbors.”

“Hush, hush! O, yes, it's sure to be hush, hush,
where Diedrich Stein is consarned. There's allers somethin'
turns up to muzzle men's mouths if they venture to
open 'em agin him. But what's the use o' talkin'? The
Rawles chose to pocket the wrong, and it's too late to
right 'em now; besides, Geordie dun know nothin'
about it, an' if he did, he ain't one to be rakin' up
old scores.”

“It's better so, it's better so,” remarked Rycker;
“'twould only be calkerlated to set the boy agin his
relations.”

“I ain't so sure it's better so,” said Van Hausen.
“Forewarned's forearmed, and I've some notion o'
givin' Geordie a warnin'. It goes agin my grain to see
that boy hangin' round the tavern, and keepin' in so
thick with the Steins. I was at work for Stein a whole
summer when I was prentice to my trade, as long ago
as when he built on the t'other end o' the tavern house.
My knowledge on him dates back twenty year. He
ain't a four-square man, and they're a disjinted set, all
on 'em;” and the honest carpenter accompanied this
professional diagnosis of the Stein character with an
emphatic blow upon the ground with his oaken stick.

“Wal, now, if I was you, Van Hausen,” advised
Rycker, “I wouldn't set Geordie to rootin' out mischief.
He'd better go round the stump. Family quarrels is
bad, and there's a double connection in the family, yer
know.”

“Hang the connection!” ejaculated Van Hausen.
“I hain't a doubt but the connection was the reason for
Rawle and Margery's swallerin' that board-bill whole.
Stein had married Rawle's sister only a year or two afore,
and Miss Stein was kind o' sick and broken down. She's
allers kind o' sick and broken down, poor body. Margery
was glad enough to get free of her brother on any
tarms, I'm thinkin', and Rawle was naterally soft about
money matters. So they made it up. And what came
on't? Why, when Rawle died, Stein stretched out his
long fingers agin, and claimed, — I dun know what, —
another board-bill, perhaps; ha, ha! Rawle and his
wife had taken a meal now and then at the tavern! who
knows? Any how, Stein had the fixin' o' things, an'
the widder got little enough out o' the property. That's
what come o' sticklin' for connection. Now, I don't go
in for connection. I go in for character. I'm about
equally connected myself with the Rawles and the
Steins, but I ain't equal in my likin' for both families,
by a long shot.”

“Don't you think you're rather hard on the Steins,
Van Hausen?” said Rycker. “When you git your
back up, you're real grit. But there's old Hans Stein
never had an innimy, — without 'twas the Britishers, —

and Geordie's own mother — she was a Stein. Steins
and Rawles is purty well stirred up together. 'Taint
best to make too nice distinctions.”

“When I say Steins,” responded Van Hausen, irritably,
“I mean the present lot on 'em, — Diedrich and
his stock in trade, Peter, and that sly jade of a Poll.
They're all much of a muchness, and I fur one have seen
enough o' their mean ways.”

“Wal, now, there's your brother-in-law, Baultie,”
continued Rycker, “he must have a purty good opinion
o' Stein. He consults him on most pints, and if it
wan't fur a visit at the tavern off an' on, Baultie 'd be
a hermit downright.”

“Ah, farmer Rycker,” said Van Hausen, raising his
right arm as he spoke, and bringing it down with
emphasis on Rycker's shoulder, “now you've struck a
clincher! Ever since my sister Hannah married Baultie
Rawle, I've seen how Stein — the old fox — was
earthin' in that burrer; may be Baultie has money —
may be he hasn't; any how, there'll be some pickin's
yonder, and never a chick nor child to scratch for't. So
old Stein's on the scent, and he'll nose it out, take my
word for't.”

“I allers thought Baultie had a lurch for Geordie,
his own brother's son,” said Rycker. “It's no more'n
fair Geordie should have a fair shake with the Steins.”

“I tell yer, Rycker, fair play's not in Stein's catalogue
o' human vartues. He cheated Geordie's mother,
he cheated his father, and now he's underminin' the lad.

Why, I can remember when Margery's boy half lived
on the mountain with the old folks. They couldn't
make enough on him; my sister was allers stuffin' him
with jelly and pie, and old Rawle 'ud pat him on the
head, an' say, What trade shall we bring him up ter,
Dick? — or, Will ye go to college, Geordie? But how
is't now? Why, if Baultie meets him on the road, he
has nothin' far him but a long face an' a scowl, and
dame Rawle shakes her head, and talks about wild
doin's, and folks comin' to the gallers. I tell yer
nothin's cut Geordie up like the way the old folks ha'
turned the cold shoulder on him.”

“P'raps he desarves it,” suggested farmer Rycker.
“If all I've hearn tell on is true, Geordie's been runnin'
a pretty wild rig o' late.”

“So he has,” said Van Hausen. “I'm a tremblin' fur
him myself. But because a lad's shaky on the foundation
is that a reason fur pullin' him down? Prop him
up, I say, prop him up, an' he'll stand stout on his
timbers yet. But what do some folks do in sech a
case? Why, they pull out a nail here, an' loose a jint
there, an' then call all the neighbors to look in at the
chinks. My brother-in-law, Baultie, 's naterally short-sighted,
and his wife's deaf; who is it, I want ter know,
that keeps their eyes an' ears open to all poor Geordie's
sins?”

“Wal, sech things gets round,” said Rycker.

“Gets round!” cried Van Hausen. “So they do
when there's hands to keep 'em a-spinnin'. I tell yer

Stein's at the bottom on't. He's pizened the old man's
mind, and pizenin' a man's mind is one kind o' murder.”

“O! O! O! neighbor Van Hausen, them's hard
words!” exclaimed Rycker. “Stein ain't answerable
for all Baultie's crotchets, and if a man cries up his
own son, and reflects a leetle on another man's, by
way o' comparison, why that's kind o' nateral in
fathers.”

“Nateral, is it? Then, thank Heaven, I never was a
father,” responded Van Hausen. “My hearth's a lonely
one, farmer, but it's honest. So I'm fur home, an' a
pipe, an' a mug o' beer. You'll need a hop in the
tavern kitchen, Rycker, to warm up your cold blood,
an' a glass of sperits inter the bargain, to wash down
my hard words. I don't need any sich stirrin' up or
heatin' myself. My blood's hot yet, if I am gettin' old.
Good night!”

“Lor's sakes alive! What a downright set them
Van Hausens are!” soliloquized Rycker, as he came
out of the shadow of the stables, where he had paused
during the dialogue with his neighbor, and approached
the warm, bright tavern. The place looked so cheery
and inviting, it did not seem right to condemn the owner
for a bad-hearted man. “I reckon Van Hausen goes a
leetle too fur,” thought Rycker, “he's so prejudiced like.
The Steins an' the Rawles is good enough friends fur's
I know. What does he want to stir up ill blood atween
'em fur? It's best to b'lieve what yer know, and not
every thing yer've hearn tell on.” And as Rycker was

about to enjoy the hospitalities of the tavern (he
expected to pay his share towards the music and the
supper — still it was none the less Stein's ball), he made
up his mind to think charitably of the landlord; an
opportune resolve, for the spare, keen-eyed host was the
first to bid him welcome as he entered the doorway.