 | Dukesborough tales |  |
INVESTIGATIONS CONCERNING MR.
JONAS LIVELY.
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know,
And so far will I trust thee.”
Shakspeare.
“Man is but half without woman.”
Bailey.
1. CHAPTER I.
ALTHOUGH Mr. Bill Williams had moved into Dukesborough,
this exaltation did not seem to interfere with the cordial relations
established between him and myself at the Lorriby school. He used to
come out occasionally on visits to his mother, and seldom returned
without calling at our house. This occurred most usually upon the
Sundays when the monthly meetings were held in the church at
Dukesborough. On such days he and I usually rode home together,
I upon my pony and he upon a large brown mare which his mother
had sent to him in the forenoon.
Ever since those remote times I have associated in my memory Mr.
Bill with that mare, and one or another of her many colts. According
to the best of my recollection, she was for years and years never
without a colt. Her normal condition seemed to be always to be
followed by a colt. Sometimes it was a horse-colt and sometimes
a mule; for the planters in those times raised at home all their
domestic animals. And what a lively little fellow this colt
always was; and what an anxious parent was old Molly Sparks, as
Mr. Bill called the dam! How that colt would run about and get
the old mare would whicker all during the service! I knew that
whicker among a hundred. Mr. Bill used always to tie her to a
swinging limb; for her anxiety would sometimes cause her to break
the frail bridle which usually confined her, and run all about the
grounds in pursuit of her truant offspring. Mr. Bill had also to sit
where he could see her in order to be ready for all difficulties. I
used to be amused to notice how he would be annoyed by her cries
and prancings, and how he would pretend to be listening intently to
the sermon when his whole attention I knew to be on old Mary and
the colt. Seldom was there a Sunday that he did not have to leave
the church in order to catch old Mary and tie her up again. This
was a catastrophe he was ever dreading, because he really disliked to
disturb the service; and he had the consideration when he rose to go
to place his handkerchief to his face, that the congregation might
suppose that his nose was bleeding.
While we would be riding home, the conduct of that colt, if anything,
would be worse than at the church. His fond parent would exert
every effort to keep him by her side, but he would get mixed up with
the horses more than before. Twenty times would he be lost. Sometimes
he would be at an immense distance behind; then he would
pretend, as it seemed, to be anxiously looking for his mother, and
would run violently against every horse, whether under the saddle or
in harness. Old Mary would wheel around and try to get back, her
whickers ever resounding far and wide. When the colt would have
enough of this frolic, or some one of the home-returning horsemen
would give him a cut with his riding-switch, he would get out upon the
side of the road, run at full speed past his dam and get similarly mixed
up with the horses in front. If he ever got where she was he would
appear to be extravagantly gratified, and would make an immediate
and violent effort to have himself suckled. Failing in this, he would
let fly his hind legs at her, and dash off again at full speed in whatever
direction his head happened to be turned. Mr. Bill would often say
that of all the fools he ever saw, old Molly and her colt were the
biggest. As for my part, the anxiety of the parent seemed to me
natural in the circumstances; but I must confess that in the matter of
the quality usually called discretion, while the young of most animals
have little of it usually, I have frequently thought that of all others
the one who had the least amount was the colt.
Yet I did not intend to speak of such a trifling matter, but was led
to it unwarily by the association of ideas. Mr. Bill often accepted our
invitations to dinner upon these Sundays, or he would walk over in
the afternoon. Although he liked much the society of my parents,
yet he was fondest of being with me singly. I was certainly more
appreciative of his conversation than they were. With all his fondness
for talking, there was some constraint upon him, especially in the
presence of my father, for whom he had the profoundest respect. So,
somehow or other Mr. Bill and I would get away to ourselves, when
he could display his full powers in that line. This was easily practicable,
as never or seldom did such a day pass without our having
other guests to dinner from among those neighbors who resided at a
greater distance from the village than we did. Our table on these
Sundays was always extended to two or three times its usual length.
My parents, though they were religious, thought there was no harm in
detaining some of these neighbors to dinner and during the remainder
of the day.
Mr. Bill had evidently realised his expectations of the pleasures and
advantages of town-life. It seemed to me that he was greatly improved
by it. He had evidently laid aside some of his ancient awkwardness
and hesitation of manner. He talked more at his ease.
Then he gave a more careful and fashionable turn to his hair, and, I
thought, combed and brushed it oftener than he had been wont. His
trousers too were better pulled up, and his shirt-collar was now never or
seldom without the necessary button. I was therefore somewhat surprised
to hear my father remark more than once that he did not think
that town-life was exactly the best thing for Mr. Bill, and that he
would not be surprised if he would not have done better to keep at
home with his mother. But Mr. Bill grew more and more fond of
Dukesborough, and he used to relate to me some of the remarkable
things that occurred there. About every one of the hundred inhabitants
of the place and those who visited it, he knew everything that
by any possibility could be ascertained. He used to contend that it
was a merchant's business to know everybody, and especially those
who tried to conceal their affairs from universal observation. He had
not been very long in Dukesborough before he could answer almost
any question you could put to him about any of his fellow-citizens.
With one exception.
This was Mr. Jonas Lively.
He was too hard a case for Mr. Bill. Neither he nor any other
person, not even Mrs. Hodge, seemed to know much about him. The
late Mr. Hodge probably knew more than anybody else; but if he
did, he did not tell anybody, and now he was dead and gone, and Mr.
Lively was left comparatively unknown to the world.
Where Mr. Lively had come from originally people did not know
for certain, although he had been heard occasionally to use expressions
which induced the belief that he might have been a native of the
State of North Carolina. It was ascertained that he had done business
for some years in Augusta, and some said that he yet owned a
little property there. This much was certain that he went there or
somewhere else once every winter, and after remaining about a month,
returned, as was supposed, with two new vests and pairs of trousers.
At the time I began to take an interest in him, in sympathy with Mr.
Bill, he had been residing at Dukesborough for about two years; not
exactly at Dukesborough either, but something less than a mile
outside, where he boarded with the Hodges, occupying a small
building in one corner of the yard, which they called “The Office,”
and in which before he came the family used to take their meals. He
might have had his chamber in the main house where the others stayed
but for one thing; for besides the two main rooms there were a
couple of low-roofed shed-rooms in front, only one of which was
occupied by Susan Temple, a very poor relation of Mr. Hodge.
There were no children, and Mr. Lively might have had the other
shed-room across the piazza but for the fact that it was devoted to
another purpose. Mr. Hodge —
But one at a time. Let me stick to Mr. Lively for the present, and
tell what little was known about him.
Mr. Lively was about fifty-one or two years of age. Mr. Bill used
to insist that he would never see fifty-five again, and that he would not
be surprised if he was sixty. I have no idea but that this was an
over-estimate. The truth is that, as I have often remarked, young
men like Mr. Bill are prone to assign too great age to elderly men,
especially when, like Mr. Lively, they are unmarried. But let that go.
Mr. Lively was about five feet five, quite stout in body, but of
moderate-sized legs. He had a brown complexion, brown hair and
black eyebrows. His eyes were a mild green, with some tinge of red
in the whites. His nose was Roman, or would have been if it had been
longer; for just as it began to hook and to become Roman it stopped
especially foreign manners. He always wore a long black frock-coat,
either gray or black trousers and vest, and a very stout low-crowned
furred hat. He carried a hickory walking-stick with a hooked
handle.
Mr. Lively had come to the neighborhood about two years before
and taken board at the Hodges'. He had never seemed to have any
regular business. True, he would be known sometimes to buy a
bale of cotton, or it might be two or three, and afterwards have
them hauled to Augusta by some neighbor's wagon when the
latter would be carrying his own to market. Then he occasionally
bought a poor horse out of a wagon and kept it at the Hodges' for a
couple of months, and got him fat and sold him again at a smart
profit. He was a capital doctor of horses, and was suspected of
being somewhat proud of his skill in that line, as he would cheerfully
render his services when called upon, and always refused any compensation.
But when he traded, he traded. If he bought, he put
down squarely into the seller's hands; if he sold, the money had to
be put squarely into his. Such transactions were rare, however; he
certainly made but little in that way. But then he spent less.
Besides five dollars a month for board and lodging, he furnishing his
own room, if he was out any more nobody knew what it was for.
He was a remarkably silent man. Although he came into Dukesborough
almost every day, he had but little to say to anybody and
stayed but a short time. The greater part of the remainder of the
day he spent at home, partly in walking about the place and partly in
reading while sitting in his chamber, or in the piazza between the
two little shed-rooms in the front part of the house. He never went
to church; yet upon Sundays he read the Bible and other religious
books almost the livelong day.
In the life-time of Mr. Hodge he was supposed to know considerable
about Mr. Lively. The latter certainly used to talk with him with
more freedom than with any other person. Mrs. Hodge never was
able to get much out of Mr. Lively, notwithstanding that she was a
woman who was remarkably fond of obtaining as much information
as possible about other persons. She used to give it as her opinion
that there was nothing in Mr. Lively, and in his absence would talk
and laugh freely at his odd ways and looks. But Mr. Hodge at such
times (when he felt that it was safe to do so) would mildly rebuke his
no person was likely to succeed him in Mr. Lively's confidence, and
there was a good deal of dissatisfaction upon the subject.
Mr. Bill Williams felt this dissatisfaction to an uncommon degree.
Being now a citizen of Dukesborough, he felt himself strongly bound
to be thoroughly identified with all its interests. Any man that
thus kept himself apart from society and refused to allow everybody
to know all about himself and his business, was in his opinion a
suspicious character, and ought to be watched. What seemed to
concern him more than anything else was a question frequently
mooted as to whether Mr. Lively's hair was his own or was a wig.
Such a thing as the latter had never been seen in the town, and therefore
the citizens were not familiar with it; but doubts were raised
from the peculiar way in which Mr. Lively's hung from his head, and
there were others besides Mr. Bill who would have liked to see them
settled — not that this would have fully satisfied him, but he would
have felt something better. Mr. Bill desired to know all about Mr.
Lively, it is true; yet if he had been allowed to investigate him fully,
he certainly would have begun with his head. “The fact of it ar,” he
maintained, “that it aint right. It aint right to the Dukesborough
people, and it aint right to the transhent people. Transhent people
comes here goin through, and stops all night at Spouter's tavern.
They ax about the place and the people; and who knows but what
some of 'em mout wish to buy propty and come and settle here? In
cose I in ginerly does most o' the talkin to sich people, and tells 'em
about the place and the people. I don't like to be obleeged to tell
'em that we has one suspicious character in the neighborhood, and
which he ar so suspicious that he don't never pull off his hat, and that
people don't know whether the very har on his head ar his'n or not.
I tell you it aint right. I made up my mind the first good chance I
git to ax Mr. Lively a few civil questions about hisself.”
It was not very long after this before an opportunity was presented
to Mr. Bill of chatting a little with Mr. Lively. The latter had
walked into the store one morning when there was no other person
there except Mr. Bill, and inquired for some drugs to give to a sick
horse. Mr. Bill carefully but slowly made up the bundle, when the
following dialogue took place:
“I'm monstous glad to see you, Mr. Lively; you don't come into
the store so monstous powerful ofting. I wish I could see you here
though that's my business, and in course I feels better when trade's
brisk; but I jest nately would like to see you. You may not know
it, Mr. Lively, but I don't expect you've got a better friend in this
here town than what I am.”
Mr. Bill somehow couldn't find exactly where the twine was; he
looked about for it in several places, especially where it was quite
unlikely that it should be. Mr. Lively was silent.
“I has thought,” continued Mr. Bill, after finding his twine, “that I
would like to talk with you sometimes. The people is always a
inquirin of me about where you come from and all sich, and what
business you used to follow, jest like they thought you and me was
intimate friends,— which I am as good a friend as you've got in the
whole town, and which I spose you're a friend of mine. I tells 'em
you're a monstous fine man in my opinion, and I spose I does know
you about as well as anybody else about here. But yit we haint had
no long continyed convisation like I thought we mout have some time,
when it mout be convenant, and we mout talk all about old North
Calliner whar you come from, and which my father he come from thar
too, which he ar now dead and gone. Law! how he did love to
talk about that old country! and how he did love the people that
come from thar. If my father was here, which now he ar dead and
gone, he wouldn't let you rest wheresomever he mout see you for
talkin about old North Calliner and them old people thar.”
Mr. Bill handed the parcel over to Mr. Lively with as winning a look
as it was possible for him to bestow. Mr. Lively seemed slightly
interested.
“And your father was from North Carolina?”
“Certinly,” answered Mr. Bill with glee; “right from Tar River.
I've heern him and mammy say so nigh and in and about a thousand
times, I do believe.” And Mr. Bill advanced from behind the counter,
came up to Mr. Lively, and looked kindly and neighborly upon him.
“Do you ever think about going there yourself?” inquired the
latter.
Mr. Bill did that very thing over and ofting. From a leetle bit of a
boy he had thought how he would like to go thar and see them old
people. If he lived, he would go thar some day to that old place and
see them old people.
From the way Mr. Bill talked, it seemed that his ideas were that
they were all quite aged persons. But this was possibly intended as
a snare to catch Mr. Lively, by paying in this indirect manner respect
for his advanced age.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Lively, while he stored away the parcel in
his capacious pocket, “you ought to go there by all means. If you
should ever go there, you will find as good people as you ever saw in
your life. They are a peaceable people, those North Carolinians, and
industrious. You hardly ever see a man there that has not got some
sort of business; and then, as a general thing, people there attend to
their own business and don't bother themselves about other people's.”
Mr. Lively then turned and walked slowly to the door. As he
reached it, he turned again and said:
“Oh yes, Mr. Williams, you ought to go there and see that people
once before you die; it would do you good. Good-day, Mr. Williams.”
After Mr. Lively had gotten out of the store and taken a few steps,
Mr. Bill went to the door, looked at him in silence for a moment or
two, and then made the following soliloquy:
“Got no more manners than a hound. I axed him a civil question,
and see what I got! But never mind, I'll find out somethin about you
yit. Now, aint thar a picter of a man! Well you cars a walkin-stick:
them legs needs all the help they can git in totin the balance of you
about. And jest look at that har: I jest know it aint all his'n. But
never do you mind.”
After this, Mr. Bill seemed to regard it as a point of honor to find
Mr. Lively out. Hitherto he had owed it to the public mainly; now,
there was a debt due to himself. He had propounded to Mr. Lively
a civil question, and instead of getting a civil answer had been as
good as laughed at. Mr. Lively might go for the present, but he
should be up with him in time.
It was perhaps fortunate for Mr. Bill's designs, as well for the
purposes of this narrative, that he was slightly akin to Mrs. Hodge,
whom he occasionally visited. However, we have seen that this lady
had known heretofore about as little of her guest as other people, and
that, at least in the life-time of Mr. Hodge, her opinion was that there
was nothing in him. True, since Mr. Hodge's death she had been
more guarded in her expressions. Mrs. Hodge probably reflected
that now she was a lone woman in the world, except Susan Temple,
sounded his cousin Malviny (as he called her) heretofore, and of
course could get nothing more than she had to impart. He might
give up some things, but they were not of the kind we are considering.
He informed me one day that on one subject he had made up his
mind to take the responsibility. This expression reminded me of our
last day with the Lorribies, and I hesitated whether the fullest reliance
could be placed upon such a threat. But I said nothing.
“That thing,” he continued, “are the circumsance of his har: which
it ar my opinion that it ar not all his'n: which I has never seed a wig,
but has heern of 'em; and which it ar my opinion that that har ar a
imposition on the public, and also on Cousin Malviny Hodge, and he
a livin in her very house — leastways in the office. I mout be mistaken;
ef so, I begs his pardon: though he have not got the manners
of a hound, no, not even to answer a civil question. Still I wouldn't
wish to hurt a har of his head; no, not even ef it war not all his'n.
Yit the public have a right to know, and — I wants to know myself.
And I'm gittin tired of sich foolin and bamboozlin, so to speak; and
the fact ar, that Mr. Lively ar got to 'splain hisself on the circumsance
o' that har.”
The next time I met Mr. Bill he was delighted with some recent
and important information. I shall let him speak for himself.
2. CHAPTER II.
Mr. Bill had come over to our house one Sunday to dinner. I
knew from his looks upon entering that he had something to communicate.
As soon as dinner was over, and he could decently do so,
he proposed a walk to me. My father was much amused at the
intimacy between us, and I could sometimes observe a quiet smile
upon his face when we would start out together upon one of our
afternoon strolls. As I was rather small for nine, and Mr. Bill rather
large for nineteen years old, I suppose it was somewhat ludicrous to
observe such a couple sustaining to each other the relation of equality.
Mr. Bill seemed to regard me as fully his equal except in the matter
of size, and I had come to feel as much ease in his society as if he
had been of my own age. By his residence in town he had acquired
interesting to me than formerly. This sprightliness was manifested
by his forbearing to call me Squire persistently, and varying my name
with that ease and freedom which town-people learn so soon to
employ. This was interesting to me.
When we had gotten out of the yard and into the grove, Mr. Bill
began:
“Oh, my friend, friend of my boyhood's sunny hour, I've been nigh
and in about a dyin to see you, especially sence night afore last —
sence I caught old Jonah.”
“Have you caught him, Mr. Bill?”
“Caught him! Treed him. Not ezactly treed him neither; but
runned him to his holler. I told you I was goin to do it.”
Seeing that I did not clearly understand, Mr. Bill smiled with
delight at the felicitous manner in which he had begun his narrative.
We proceeded a little farther to a place where a huge oak-tree had
protruded its roots from the ground. There we sat, and he resumed:
“Yes, Sir, I runned him right into his holler. And now, Squire,
I'm goin to tell you a big secret; and you are the onliest man,
Phillmon Pearch, that I've told it, becase, you see, the circumsances
is sich that it won't do to tell too many people nohow; becase you see
Mr. Lively he ar a curis sort o' man, I'm afeard. And then you
know, Philip, you and me has been thick and jest like brothers, and
I'll tell to you what I wouldn't tell to no monstous powerful chunce o'
people nohow. And ef it was to git out, people, and specially other
people, mout say that — ah — I didn't — ah — do ezactly right. And
then thar's Cousin Malviny Hodge. Somehow Cousin Malviny she
aint — somehow she aint ezactly like she used to be in Daniel Hodge's
life-time. Wimming is right curis things, Squire, specially arfter thar
husbands dies. I never should a believed it of her arfter what I've
heern her say and go on about that old feller. But wimming's wimming;
and they ar going to be so always. But that's neither here
nor thar: you mustn't let on that I said a word about him.”
I felt flattered by this the first confidential communication I had
ever received, and promised secrecy.
“Well, you see, Squire Phil, I axed Mr. Lively as far and civil
question as one gentleman could ax another gentleman, becase I
thought that people had a right and was liable to know somethin about
a man who live in the neighborhood, and been a livin thar for the last
it mout be to Daniel Hodge, which he are now dead and gone, and
not even Cousin Malviny don't know. Leastways didn't. I don't
know what she mought know now. Oh wimming, wimming! They
won't do, Philip. But let 'em go. I axed Mr. Lively a civil question.
One day when he come in the sto' I axed him as polite and civil as
I knowed how about gittin a little bit acquainted along with him, and
which I told him I was friendly, and also all about my father comin
from North Calliner, thinkin may be, as he come from thar too, he
mout have a sorter friendly to me in a likewise way, ef he didn't
keer about bein so monstous powerful friendly to the people in ginerl,
which the most of 'em, you know, like your folks, they mostly come
from old Firginny. You see I sorter slyly baited my hook with old
North Calliner. But nary bite did I git — no, nary nibble. The old
fellow look at me mighty interestin while I war a goin on about the
old country, and arfter I got through he smiled calm as a summer
evenin like — so to speak — and then I thought we was goin to have
a good time. Instid o' that, he axed me ef I war ever expectin to
ever go thar, and then said that I ought to go thar by all means and
see them old people; and then he sorter hinted agin me for axin about
him bein from thar, becase he was mighty particler to say that them
old people in ginerly was mighty fond o' tending to their own business
and lettin t'other people's alone. Which I don't have to be kicked
down stairs befo' I can take a hint. And so I draps the subject;
which in fact I was obleeged to drap it, becase no sooner he said it
he went right straight immejantly outen the sto'. But, thinks I to
myself, says I, I'll head you yit, Mr. Lively. I'll find out sumthin
about you, ef it be only whether that head o' har ar yourn or not.”
“Is it a wig?” I asked.
“Phillimon,” said Mr. Bill, in a tone intended to be considered as
remonstrative against all improper haste — “Phiilemon Pearch, when
a man ar goin to tell you a interestin circumsance about a highly
interestin character, so to speak, you mustn't ax him about the last
part befo' he git thoo the first part. If you does, the first part mout
not have a far chance to be interestive, and both parts mout, so to
speak, git mixed up and confused together. Did you ever read
Alonzo and Melissy, Phil?”
I had not.
“Thar it is, you see. Ef you had a read Alonzo and Melissy you
the best for the last, and ef you knowed what it was all goin to be
you wouldn't read the balance o' the book; and which the man, he
knowed you wouldn't, and that made him hold it back. And which I
war readin that same book one day, and Angeline Spouter she told
me that nary one of 'em wan't goin to git killed, and that they got
married at the last, and which then I wouldn't read the book no longer,
and which I war gittin sorter tired anyhow, becase I got very little
time from my business to be readin novyuls anyhow.”
I was very sorry that I had asked the question.
“No, Philmon, give every part a far chance to be interestin. I
give Jonas Lively a far chance; but the diffic-ulty war he wouldn't
give me one, and I tuck it. I'm goin to take up Mr. Lively all over.
He ar a book, Sir — a far book. I'll come to his har in time.”
Mr. Bill readjusted himself between the roots of the old oak so as
to lie in comfort in a position where he could look me fully in the face.
“You see, Squire,” he continued, “Cousin Malviny Hodge, she ar
sort o' kin to me, and we always calls one another cousin. The
families has always been friendly and claimed kin, but I don't blieve
they ever could tell whar it started, but it war on Cousin Malviny's
side, leastways John Simmonses, her first husband, who his father he
also come from North Calliner. I used to go out thar sometimes and
stay all night; but I haint done sich a thing sence Mr. Lively have
been thar. One thing, you know, becase he sleeps in the office, and
the onliest other place for a man to sleep at thar is the t'other shed-room
on the t'other side o' the pe-azer from Susan Temple's room,
and which about three year ago they made a kind of a sto' outen
that. The very idee of callin that a sto'! It makes Mr. Bland laugh
every time I talk about Cousin Malviny's sto'. I jest brings up the
subject sometimes jest to see Mr. Bland laugh and go on. Mr.
Bland, you know, Philip, ar the leadin head pardner, and one of the
funniest men you ever see. Mr. Jones ar a monstous clever man, but
he ar not a funny man like Mr. Bland, not nigh.”
This compliment of Mr. Bill to his employer I considered proper
enough, although I could have wished that he had made fewer remarks
which appeared to me to be so far outside of the subject. But I knew
that he lived in town, and I think I had a sort of notion that such
persons had superior rights as well as superior privileges to mere
country people. Still I was extremely anxious on the wig question.
they were scalped from dead men's heads, and I did not like to think
about them at night.
“But,” continued he, “as I was a sayin, they aint been no convenant
place for a man to sleep thar sence they had the sto', as they
calls it, exceptin a feller was to sleep with Mr. Lively; and I should
say that would be about as oncomfortable and ontimely sleepin as
anybody ever want anywhar and stayed all night. And which I've no
idee that Mr. Lively hisself would think it war reasonable that anybody
mout be expected to sleep with him, nor him to sleep with any other
man person. When a old bachelor, Philmon, git in the habit o'
sleepin by hisself for about fifty year, I spose he sorter git out o' the
way of sleepin with varus people, so to speak, and — ah — he ruther
not sleep with other people, and which — ah — well, the fact ar, by
that time he aint fitten too sleep with nobody. I tell you, Phlimmon
Pearch, befo' I would sleep with Jonas Lively, specially arfter knowin
him like I does, I would — ah — I'd set up all night and nod in a
cheer — dinged ef I wouldn't!”
Mr. Bill could not have looked more serious and resolute if he had
been confidently expecting on the night of that day an invitation from
Mr. Lively to share his couch.
“Hadn't been for that,” he went on, “I should a been thar sooner
than I did. But arfter he seem so willin and anxious for me to go to
North Calliner, I thinks I to myself I'll go out to Cousin Malviny's,
and maybe she'll ax me to stay all night, and then she can fix a place
for me jest for one night: I sposen she would make a pallet down on
the flo' in the hall-room. So Friday evenin I got leaf from Mr. Jones
to go away from the sto' one night. He sleep thar too, you know,
and they warn't no danger in my goin away for jest one night. So
Friday evenin I went out, I did, to supper, and I sorter hinted around
that if they was to invite me I mout stay all night, ef providin that
it war entirely convenant; specially as I wanted a little country ar
arfter bein cooped up so long in town — much as I loved town I had
not got out o' all consate for country livin and country ar, and so
forth.”
Mr. Bill showed plainly that he knew all about how to bamboozle
Cousin Malviny, and country folks generally.
“Cousin Malviny were monstous glad to see me, she say; and I tell
you, Squire, Cousin Malviny are right jolly lately. She look better
ago. Oh, wimming, wimming! But that's neither here nor thar;
you can't alter 'em, and let 'em go. Cousin Malviny said her house
war small but it war stretchy. I laughed, I did, and said I would let
it stretch itself one time for my accommidation. Then Cousin
Malviny she laughed, she did, and looked at Mr. Lively, and Mr.
Lively he come mighty nigh laughin hisself. As it war, he look like
I war monstous welcome to stay ef I felt like it. As for Susan
Temple, she look serious. But that gurl always do look serious
somehow. I think they sorter puts on that poor gurl. She do all the
work about the house, and always look to me like she thought she
have no friends.
“Well, be it so. I stays; and we has a little talk, all of us together
arfter supper; that is, me and Cousin Malviny and Mr. Lively.
Which I told you he had no manners, becase he don't pull off that hat
even at the table. Oh well, he moutn't. But never mind that now;
give every part a far chance to be interestin. We has a talk together,
and which Mr. Lively are in ginerly a better man to talk to than I
thought, leastways at his own home. That is, it ar Cousin Malviny's
home in cose; but I tell you, Phlimmon Pearch, she look up monstous
to the old man these days. Oh, wimming, wimming! But sich it ar,
and you can't alter it. Mr. Lively and me talk freely. He ax me
freely any question he mout please. Our convisation war mostly in
his axin o' me questions, and me a answerin 'em. He seem to look
like he thought I did not keer about axin him any more: which he
did see me once lookin mighty keen at his head o' har. And what
do you sposen he done then? He look at me with a kind of a
interestin smile, and said I ought by all means to go some time and see
old North Calliner. And somehow, Squire, to save my life I couldn't
think o' nothin to answer back to him. I knowed he had caught me,
and I tried to quit lookin at his old head. The fact of it is, ef Mr.
Lively say old North Calliner to me many more times, I shall git out
o' all consate of the place and all them old people over thar. Cousin
Malviny she sorter smile. She look up to the old man more'n she
used to. But you can't alter 'em, and t'aint worth while to try. But I,
thinks I to myself, old fellow, when I come here I owed you ONE;
now I owe you TWO. You may go 'long.
“Well, arfter a while, bed-time, hit come, and Mr. Lively he went
on out to the office; which, lo and behold! I found that Susan had
Susan's room. I sorter hated that, and didn't have no sich expectation
that the poor gurl she have to sleep on the flo' on my account;
and I told Cousin Malviny so, and which I could sleep on a pallet
myself in the hall-room. But Cousin Malviny wouldn't hear to it.
Susan didn't say yea nor nay. They puts on that gurl, shore's you
ar born. But that aint none o' my business, and so I goes in to the
little shed-room. And arfter all I war right glad o' that arrangement,
becase it give me a better chance for what I wanted to do, and was
detumined too do ef I could. I war bent on findin out, ef I could find
out, ef that head o' har which Mr. Lively had on his head war his'n.
That's what I went out thar for. I had axed him a civil question and
he had give me a oncivil answer, and I war bent on it now more'n ever,
becase I couldn't even look at his head without gittin the same oncivil
answer and bein told that I ought to go and see North Calliner and all
them old people thar, which I'm beginnin not to keer whether I ever
sees 'em or not, and wish daddy he never come from thar. But I
runned him to his holler.”
Mr. Bill then rose from the ground. What he had to say now
seemed to require to be told in a standing attitude.
3. CHAPTER III.
“And now, Philip, I'm comin to the interestin part; I'm a gainin on
it fast. That man ar a book — a far book. If I war goin to write a
book I should write a book on Jonas Lively and the awful skenes,
so to speak, o' that blessed and ontimely night. But in cose you
know, Philipmon, I don't expect to write no book, becase I haint the
edyecation nor the time. But now, lo and behold! it war a foggy
evenin, and specially at Cousin Malviny's, whar you knows they lives
close onto Rocky Creek. Well, no sooner I got to my room than I
slyly slips out onto the pe-azer, and out into the yard, and walks quiet
and easy as I kin to the backside o' the office, whar thar war a
winder. I war detumined to get thar befo' the old feller blowed out
his candle and got to bed. I had seed befo' night that a little piece
war broke out o' the winder. I didn't like ezactly to be a peepin'
in on the old man, and I should a felt sorter bad ef he had a caught
him a civil question; it war his fault and not mine. My skeerts is
cler.”
It was pleasant to see my friend thus able to rid himself of responsibility
in a matter in which it was rather plain that blame must attach
somewhere.
“So I crope up thar, I did, and found that he had let down the
curtin. But I tuck a pin and draw the curtin up to the hole in the
glass, and then tuck my pen-knife and slit a little hole in the curtin, so
I could go one eye on him. I couldn't go but one eye; but I see a
plenty with that — a plenty for one time. In the first place, Phlim,
thar aint a man in the whole town of Dukesborough exceptin me that
know Mr. Lively ar a smoker. I don't blieve that Cousin Malviny
know it. As soon as I got my eye in the room I see him onlock his
trunk, which it war by the head o' his bed, and take out a little tin-box,
which it have the littlest pad-lock that ever I see: and then he
onlock it with a key accordin, and he tuck out the onliest lookin
pipe! I do blieve it war made out o' crockery. It war long, and
shape like a pitcher; and it had a kiver, and the kiver it war yaller
and have little holes, it 'pear like, like a pepper-box; and which it
have also a crooked stem made out o' somethin black; and ef it
warn't chained to his pipe by a little chain I'm the biggest liar in and
about Dukesborough! Well, Sir, he take out this pipe, and then he
take outen the trunk another little box, and which it have tobarker in
it, all cut up and ready for smokin. Well, Sir, he fill up that pipe, and
which I think it hilt nigh and in and about my hand-full of tobarker;
and then of all the smokes which I ever see a mortal man smoke, or
mortal woming either, that war the most tremenjus and ontimeliest!
It ar perfecly certin that that man never smoke but that one time in
the twenty-four hours. I tell you he war hongry for his smoke; and
when he smoke, he smoke. And the way he do blow! I could farly
hear him whistle as he shoot out the smoke. He don't seem to take
no consolation in his smokin, as fur as I could see; becase sich everlastin
blowin made him look like he war monstous tired at the last.
Sich vilence can't last, and he got through mighty soon. But he have
to git through quick for another reason; and which I ar now goin to
tell you what that other reason ar — that is providin, Squire, you keers
about hearin it.”
Notwithstanding some capital doubts upon the legality of the
sufficiently interested to hear further, and I so intimated.
“Yes, I thought,” Mr. Bill continued with a smile, “that may be
you mout wish to hear some more about his carrins on. That man
ar a book, Philyermon Pearch — a far book. Well then, to perceed
on with the perceedences of that awful and ontimely night, Mr. Lively
he have no candle more'n a inch long. Outen that same trunk he tuck
out another box. I never see sich a man for boxes; he have more
boxes than clothes, certin. I see two or three more boxes in that
trunk. What war in 'em Mr. Lively know — I don't; but in that other
box what I'm a speakin about now I see at least fifteen little pieces o'
candle about a inch long. Mr. Lively have tuck out one o' them
candles and lit it for to see better how to go to bed by. He have
a fire; but he want more light, it appear like. That candle it can't
last so mighty powerful long; but it have got to last jest so long
for him. I never see jest sich a man befo'. Interestin as he war a
smokin, it war nothin to his goin to bed. Arfter he put up his pipe,
and fix his boxes back and lock up his trunk, he begin to fix hisself
for goin to bed. And which it, in cose, ar a single bed, as by good
rights, accordin to all human, reasonable understandin, it ought to be.”
Mr. Bill regarded me in silence for a moment with an expression
which I understood to be perfectly serious.
“I should say, Philerimon Pearch, that bed of Jonas Lively by
good rights it ought to be a single bed. Ef Mr. Lively was to ever
have to sleep with anybody, and — well — I don't know. It's a ontimely
world, and they aint no tellin what people will do; and you
can't alter 'em, and it aint worth while to try. But that's neither here
nor thar. At the present Mr. Lively certinly do occupy a single bed,
and which I say by good rights he ought to.”
These parenthetical remarks sounded very mysteriously to my ear,
and seemed to convey, I suspected, an admonition to some person in
particular, or perhaps to the world in general.
“It war a monstous plain bedstead, and which I have heerd Cousin
Malviny say, when she used to laugh at him, and didn't seem to look
up to him like she do here lately, which she used to say he made it
hisself. It have a shuck mattress, with one blanket and one quilt;
but nary piller, nor nary sheet. That ar a bed which it ar monstous
easy to make it up, and which Mr. Lively, he say, Cousin Malviny
used to say, he didn't wish nobody to pester it and rather make up
go to bed, ef a body mout call sich a thing a bed. The first thing he
do, it ar to pull his little table up agin to the foot of his bed. Then
he pull off his boots. That ar perfectly natral, of cose: yit I sposen
he war goin to pull off his hat first; which it war the onliest thing I
mostly wanted to see, and was a waitin too see. But no hat off yit.
And what do you think he do with them boots?”
I ventured to guess that he put them under the bed or against
the wall.
“Not a bit of nary one. No, Sir. Make a piller of 'em. Yes,
Sir, he twist 'em up and wrap 'em up in a old newspaper, and put
'em under his mattress for a piller. Some people mout be called
extravigant; but it wouldn't be Jonas Lively. Then what you sposen
that man pull off next?”
“His coat. No, his hat!”
“Never!” answered Mr. Bill emphatically, “nary one. It was his
briches! And now about them briches. I always thought, Cousin
Malviny thought, everybody in Dukesborough, includin the surroundin
country and the whole neighborhood, we all thought that Mr.
Lively have two par of briches, one black and one gray. Well,
Philipmon Pearch, I ar now prepard to say, ef I mout so speak, that
Mr. Lively have not got but one par of briches: leastways exceptin
you mout call it two par when one par is linded with t'other par, and
t'other par is linded with them par. For that's jest the fact o' the
case: they ar linded with one another. He have 'em made so.
People that lives in town, my honest friend, they sees a heap o' things.
That man ar a book — a far book. And now thar stand Mr. Lively in
his prisent and ontimely sitovation; and he do look lively, I tell you.”
Mr. Bill chuckled, and winked and rubbed his hands at this remark,
and evidently felt that none other than an inhabitant of Dukesborough,
or some other equally extensive and densely populated place,
could have perpetrated so brilliant a pun. It was the first I had
ever heard, and I could but remark how much Mr. Bill had improved.
“And now I'm goin to tell you another thing. I tell you, Philip, I
aint near done with Jonas Lively. He ar a book — a far book. You
mout think now, and specially in cold weather, that Mr. Lively mout
war draws. It look reasonable. But no draw! But I tell you what
he do war. He war the longest shirt that I ever see to a man person
of his highth. It come plum down below the bone of his knees. I
was his legs, speakin comparative. Yit don't you blieve I ezactly
sees Mr. Lively's legs. And becase why? Does you give it up?”
Of course I did.
Mr. Bill looked at me with an expression partly humorous and
partly compassionate, and then ejaculated:
“Stockens!! Yes, Sir, stockens! The onliest tiem I ever
knowed a man person to war stockens, exceptin in a show, where
them that wars 'em wars 'em for you to laugh at him fur warin 'em.
And them stockens comes up ezactly perpendicler to the very pint
whar his long shirt retches down to, and they fits him tight. As for
Mr. Lively's legs, I wouldn't wish to do injestice to no man's legs, but
they're the littlest and spindlest legs that ever I see to car what they
have to car. Them legs mout a had calves to 'em, but I never see
'em. I don't say he never had calves; I merily say I never see 'em.
“When Mr. Lively take off his briches he turned 'em wrong side
outerds and thar is another par, and then he lay 'em keerful on the
table with the top part todes the bed; and then arfter he take out of
his pocket his big red pocket-hankercher, he take his coat off and lay
it keerful on top o' his briches, collar fomost. And now he ar ready
to take off his hat, and I perceed to the interestin part o' the
subjick.”
Mr. Bill rubbed his hands afresh and his dull eyes almost watered
while he was describing this operation.
“When he ar ready to take off his hat he sit down on the bed,
poke his hands under his har like he war goin to scratch, and it appear
like he war onfastenin somethin on top o' his ears; and then he bob
down his head, give a sudding jerk, and lo and behold! here come
Mr. Lively's hat carrin with it every har upon the top o' Mr. Lively's
head! Oh, Philip, I war satisfied. I always spicioned he war a wig,
and now I knowed it, becase thar I seed his har in his hat, and his
round, slick, ontimely old head a shinin befo' me. And oh, ef it
don't shine, and ef it don't do him good to rub it!”
And Mr. Bill laughed, and shed tears and laughed, making the
grove ring. He wiped his eyes and resumed.
“But, jest like his smokin, he ar mighty soon through that operation
also. And then he tie his head in that pocket-hankercher, and
slip his hat and its con-tents under the bed. So thar stand Mr.
Lively ready for bed; and ef you didn't know it war him, but some
couldn't say, ef it was to save your life, whether it war Mr. Lively, or
Miss Lively, or the old lady Lively. If it warn't for his westcoat you
would say it war a woman person, becase thar's his long shirt, which
it looks like a gowen; and notwithstandin his legs is oncommon
small, thar's his stockens. And ef it warn't for his long shirt and his
stockens you would say it war a man person, becase thar's his westcoat.
As it ar, your mind ar in a confusion and a state o' hesitatin
doubt which ar highly amusin. I don't speak o' myself, becase I
knowed him, and seed him as he shucked hisself, and I follered him
thoo and thoo the varous — ah — tranmogifications — so to speak — o'
that blessed and ontimely evenin.”
“But didn't he take off his waistcoat?” I inquired.
“Yes, indeed: but whot for? Jest to turn her over and put her on
agin, which dinged ef she aint jest like his briches in bein linded with
itself. I tell you, Phlinimon, a little more and that man would a
been linded with hisself.”
Mr. Bill again laughed and shed tears.
“But what makes him sleep in it?”
“Thar now! becase westcoats is cheaper'n blankets. Leastways
westcoats by theirselves is cheaper than westcoats and blankets put
together.”
Mr. Bill announced this with as much emphasis and gravity as if it
had been a newly discovered principle of political economy.
“And now Mr. Lively ar ready for bed, as I war a sayin; and he
know he got to go quick, becase his little piece o' candle are most
gone. So he take up his walkin-stick, and liftin up the kiver creep in
slow and gradyul.”
“His walking-stick?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Mr. Bill with immense firmness, “his walkin-stick,
and which he have a use for it. Didn't I tell you he war a
book? With that stick he smoove down his shirt in the first place,
and then he tuck that blanket and that quilt under hisself good,
turnin hisself about, and he poke here and pull thar on top o' hisself,
under hisself, on both sides o' hisself, till he look snug and tight as a
sassenge. When he ar done with that business, lo and behold! he
retch down that stick and hook it on to his coat under the collar,
which thar it ar a waitin for him, and he pull it up slow and gradyul,
lettin the tails hang jest immegeantly over his toes. You say prehaps,
And sich it ar. But I now ax the question whar's his briches? Don't
you forgit, my honest friend, whar I told you he put them briches,
which I mout call 'em the double briches — don't you forgit whar I told
you he put 'em when he pulled 'em off o' them interestin and ontimely
legs o' his'n. With that same hooked stick he retch down, he lift up
them briches, he fetch them briches up, he turn and wrap them briches
in more ways than you could tie a rope, all about his arms and his
neck and his jaws. And then finnally he ar the snuggest man person,
take him up and down, by and large, over and under — he ar the snuggest
person, man person I say, that ever I went anywar and see, be
it — I takes the responsibility to say it — be it wheresomever or
whomsoever or whatsomever it mout. Mr. Lively are a good calkerlater.
It warn't more'n fifteen seconds arfter he had fixed hisself when
his little piece o' candle gin out and he war a snorin, and I tell you
he knocked it off perpendickler. By this time I war tolerable cool,
and I crope back to the house and went to bed. And I thinks I to
myself, Mr. Lively, you are one of e'm. You ar a book, Mr. Lively —
a far book. We ar even now, Mr. Lively; and which I laid thar a long
time a meditatin on this interestin and ontimely case. I ax myself, ar
this the lot o' them which has no wife and gits old in them conditions,
and has no har on the top o' thar head? Is it sich in all the circumsances
of sich a awful and ontimely sitovation? Ef so, fair be it
from William Williams!”
Mr. Bill delivered this reflection with becoming seriousness. Indeed
he looked a little sad, but whether in contemplation of possible
bachelorhood or possible baldness I could not say.
“The next mornin we was all up good and soon. When we went
to breakfast I felt sorter mean when I look at the old man, and a
little sort o' skeerd to boot. But he look like he have got a good
night's rest, and I have owed him somethin, becase I have ax him a
civil question; and so I thinks I, Mr. Lively, you and me's about
even — only I mout have a leetle the advantage. When I told 'em all
good-bye, I told the old man that I'm a thinkin I'll go to old North
Calliner some o' these days and see them old people; and which I
tell you he look at me mighty hard. But what struck me war to see
how Cousin Malviny look up to him. But wimming's wimming,
Philiminon. You can't alter 'em, and it aint worth while to try.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
Mrs. Melvina Hodge being destined for a more distinguished
part in the Lively Investigations than might have been supposed
at first, I feel as if I ought to mention a few of her antecedents.
She resided near Rocky Creek, about a mile from Dukesborough.
Some years before the occurrence I am now narrating she was
Miss Melvina Perkins, or rather Miss Malviny Perkins, as she preferred
to be called. Judging from what she was now, she must
have been good-looking in those early years. She had been married
first to a Mr. Simmons, who, as we have heard Mr. Bill Williams
say, was related to his family. Some five or six summers had passed
since this first marriage when Mr. Simmons died. However ardently
this gentleman may have been beloved in his life-time, the grief which
his departure produced did not seem to be incurable. It yielded to
Time the comforter, and in about another year her name was again
changed, and she became Mrs. Malviny Hodge.
Persons familiar with her history used to remark upon the different
appearances which this lady exhibited according as she was or was
not in the married estate. As Miss Perkins and as the widow
Simmons, she was neat in her person and cheerful in her spirits to a
degree that might be called quite gay; whereas in the marriage relation
she was often spoken of as negligent both in her dress and her housekeeping,
and was generally regarded as being hard to please, especially
by him whose business it was and whose pleasure it ought to
have been to please her the most. Mr. Daniel Hodge had frequently
noticed her with her first husband, and apparently had not seen very
much to admire. The truth was he had rather pitied poor Simmons,
or thought he had. But when about three or four months after the
latter's death he happened to meet his widow, Mr. Hodge saw such
remarkable changes that he concluded he must have grossly misjudged
her. A more extended acquaintance, in which she grew more and
more affable and sprightly and generally taking in her ways, tended
to raise a suspicion in his mind that so far as his previous judgment
of her was concerned it was about as good as if during all that time
he had been a fool. Mrs. Malviny Simmons had a way of arranging
a white cape around her neck and shoulders, which with her black
frock had a fine effect upon Mr. Hodge. This is a great art. I have
feel that I am not insensible to the charm of such a contrast in
dressing among women, who having been in great affliction for losses,
have grown to indulge some desire to repair them in ways that are
innocent.
This new appreciation of Mrs. Simmons increased with a rapidity
that actually astonished Mr. Hodge; the more because he had frequently
said that if he ever should marry it certainly would not be to
a widow. But we all know what such talk as that amounts to. In
the case of Mr. Hodge it was not long before he began to consider
with himself whether the best thing he could do for himself might not
be to hint his admiration of that white cape and black frock in such
a way as might lead to other conversation after a while; for he had a
house of his own, a hundred acres of land, and three or four negroes;
and he was about thirty years old. I say he began to consider; he
had not fully made up his mind. True, he needed a housekeeper.
But he remembered that the housekeeping at Simmons's in his life-time
was not as it ought to have been. His memory on this point, however,
became less and less distinct; and when he thought upon it at
all he was getting into the habit of late of laying all the blame upon
Simmons. To be sure, poor Simmons was in his grave, and it
wouldn't look right to talk much about his defects, either of character
or general domestic management. Mr. Hodge was a prudent man
about such matters generally, and always wished to do as he would
be done by. But he could but reflect that Simmons, though a good
enough fellow in his way, was not only rather a poor manager, but
not the sort of a man to inspire a woman, especially such a one as
Mrs. Malviny Simmons now evidently appeared to be, to exert her
full powers whether in housekeeping or anything else. In thinking
upon the case Mr. Hodge believed that justice should be done to the
living as well as the dead, and that in the married life much depended
upon the man. This view of the case gradually grew to be very
satisfactory, and even right sweet to take. Not that he would think
of doing injustice to Simmons, even in his grave; but facts were
facts, and justice was justice; and it was now certainly too late to
think about altering the former in the case of Simmons. So poor
Simmons had to lie where he was, and be held to responsibilities that
probably he had not anticipated.
So Mr. Hodge began to consider. He knew there was no harm in
and generally accurate in his judgments. But it was his boast,
and always had been, that whenever he was convinced that he was
wrong he would give it up like a man. This had actually occurred;
not very often, it is true, but sometimes; and he had given it up in
such a way as to confirm him more and more in the assurance that
he was a person who, though little liable to delusion, was remarkably
free from prejudice and obstinacy. Probably the most notable
instance of such freedom that his life had hitherto afforded was the
readiness with which he gave up the erroneous opinions he had
previously formed of Mrs. Malviny Simmons, and put the blame of
what seemed her shortcomings where it belonged.
Mr. Hodge was thus considering the possibility of what he might
propose to do some of these days, say a year hence, when Mrs. Simmons
might reasonably be expected, young as she was, to be taking
other views of life besides those which contemplated merely the past.
Mr. Hodge knew that there was plenty of time for the exercise of the
most matured deliberation. But somehow it happened that he began
to meet the lady much more frequently than heretofore. Mr. Simmons
having left his wife in very limited circumstances, she resided
alternately with one and another of her own and his relations. These
people, though kind, yet seemed all to be more than willing that Mr.
Hodge should have the benefit of any amount of her society. The
consequence was that Mr. Hodge, having such opportunities, was
enabled the sooner to bring all his thoughts to a head; not that he
contemplated immediate action, but was becoming more and more
fond of musing upon future possibilities. But one day he had looked
upon the white cape and the black frock until he was led to express
himself in terms that implied admiration. It was intended merely as
a hint of what might come some of these days. One word brought
on another. It would be impossible to describe how Mrs. Malviny
Simmons looked and how she talked. Mr. Hodge was not a man of
many words, and it gratified him when she assisted and accelerated
his thoughts, and even almost put into his mouth the very words
which, though not intending such a thing just then, he had been considering
that he might employ some of these days. Things went on
with such rapidity that before Mr. Hodge knew what he was about he
had the cape in his arms, and was assured that it and the person it
belonged to were his now and forever, “yea, if it might be for a
thousand year.”
Surely, thought Mr. Hodge, no man since the days of Adam in the
garden had ever made so tremendous an impression upon a woman.
He did not know that it was in him to make such an impression.
However, we don't know ourselves, he reflected; and there is a difference
in men just as in everything else.
One week from that day Mr. Hodge succeeded to Mr. Simmons,
and Mrs. Malviny went to keep house for Mr. Hodge on Rocky Creek.
There was little in the married life of Mr. and Mrs. Hodge that
would be very interesting to relate. I before intimated that Mrs.
Malviny was most interesting in those seasons when she was
unmarried. The beginning was splendid, but the splendor was
evanescent. Mr. Hodge was surprised to notice how soon his wife
relapsed into the old ways and the old looks. He never should have
expected to see that woman down at the heels. But the laying aside
the black frock and putting on colors seemed to have had a depressing
influence upon her tastes. As for the housekeeping, Mr. Hodge
had to admit to himself that plain as things were when old Aunt
Dilcy, his negro woman, attended to them, they were not as
well ordered now. Then Mr. Hodge found that, in spite of his
conscious superiority to her former husband, he had apparently no
greater success in his efforts to please. At this Mr. Hodge gradually
began to feel somewhat disgusted. He never had thought much
about Simmons in his life-time; now his mind would frequently revert
to him, and he began to suspect that Simmons was a cleverer man
than he had credit for. It seemed strange and somewhat pitiful
generally that he should have died so young.
But Mr. Hodge knew as well as anybody that matters could
not be altered now, and he determined to do the best he could.
He worked away at his farm, and in spite of difficulties made and
laid up a little something every year. No children were born of the
marriage; but he did not complain. They had been married several
years when the parents of Susan Temple having died and left her with
nothing, the relatives generally thought that as Mr. Hodge, who was
as near akin to her as any, and who had no children of his own,
ought to give her a home. Susan was just grown up, and though
plain was a very industrious girl. Mr. Hodge suggested to his wife
that as the business of housekeeping seemed rather troublesome they
might take Susan for that business, giving her board and clothes as
compensation. At first Mrs. Hodge came out violently against it.
of her husband. He was, therefore, not surprised; and indeed was
not seriously disappointed, as he was acting mostly for the purpose
of satisfying his conscience regarding his orphaned relative. He
said nothing more upon the subject then; indeed, he had been ever
a man of but few words, and since his marriage he had grown more
so. Mr. Hodge had seemed to find from experience that the more
talking he did the less influence he had. Words, he found, were not
the things to employ when he wanted her to do even necessary offices.
After all his previous disclaimers to that end, Mr. Hodge was suspected
by more persons than one of having some obstinacy; and it grew with
the lapse of time. He kept his pocket-book in his pocket, and his
own fingers opened and shut it. Mrs. Hodge maintained to his face
that he was hard-headed as a mule and too stingy to live. He
appeared to her most obstinate when she would labor in vain to lead
him into discussions upon the justice of her causes of complaint
against him generally. One day she did a thing which Mr. Hodge
had been once as far from foreseeing as any man who ever married
another's widow. Mr. Simmons, with all his imperfections, was a
man who would sometimes allow to his wife the satisfaction of leading
him into a little domestic quarrel, and to make it interesting would
try to give back as good as he got, so to speak. I am well aware
that such an expression is not warranted by good usage; but I cannot
stop now to look for a better. Besides, I think that some liberty of
expression ought to be allowed to a man at my time of life.
However, to return to Mrs. Hodge. One day when Mr. Hodge
was about finishing his dinner, his wife, who had finished hers some
time ago, having but a poor appetite on that occasion, was complaining
in general terms of her own hard lot. Mr. Hodge ate away and
said nothing. Once he did look up towards her as he reached his
hand to break another piece of bread; and as he contemplated his
wife's head for a moment, he thought to himself if she would give it a
good combing the probability was that she would feel better. But he
said nothing. The lady did expect from his looks that he was going
for one time to join in the striving which had hitherto been altogether
on one side. Finding herself disappointed, she brought forth a sigh
quite audible, and evidently hinted a more tender regret for the late
Mr. Simmons than she had exhibited even in the first period of her
affliction for his loss. She did not exactly name Mr. Simmons, but
'em and be good to 'em; and that some people used to have 'em, but
they was dead and gone now; and people didn't have 'em in these
days — no, not even to talk to 'em. And then Mrs. Hodge gently
declined her head, gave a melancholy sniff with her nose, and looked
into her plate as if it were a grave and she were hopelessly endeavoring
to hold conversation with its occupant. Mr. Hodge was on his
last mouthful. He stopped chewing for a moment and looked at his
wife, then he gave a swallow and thus answered:
“Oh! you speakin about Simmons. Yes, Simmons war a right
good feller; pity he died so young. Ef Simmons had not a died so
young, some people might a been better off.”
And then Mr. Hodge rose, put on his hat, and walked to Dukesborough
and back. When he returned, Mrs. Hodge was in better
humor than she had been for weeks and weeks.
5. CHAPTER V.
On the night immediately succeeding this little misunderstanding, Mr.
and Mrs. Hodge happened to meet upon a subject on which they
agreed. It was perhaps a lucky thing that the subject was broached
that night. It would be difficult to say in whose mind the idea first
occurred of having a little bit of a store in one of the little shed-rooms.
It was so convenient, in the first place. Their house was within only
a few steps of the road, on the top of the first hill just this side of the
creek; and the little shed-rooms were in front, with little windows
opening towards the road. On the night aforesaid Mr. Hodge and
his wife seemed disposed to be chatty. Mr. Hodge was gratified that
the allusions to his predecessor had so soothing an effect. They
talked a while about their having no children, and both agreed that
it seemed to be the lot of some families not to have them. And then
it occurred to them that it was a pity that the two little shed-rooms
could not be put to some use. True, they had been keeping a sign-board
which promised “Entertainment for man and horse;” but the
stand was too near Dukesborough, where the great Mr. Spouter lived
and reigned. Besides, Mrs. Hodge had sometimes had her feelings
hurt by occasional side remarks of what few guests they did have
generally speaking, seemed high when compared with the supper, the
bed, and the breakfast. This business, therefore, for some time had
seemed to be discouraging.
On the night aforesaid, however, it seemed a fortunate accident that
the conversation gradually drifted about Dukesborough, its rapid
growth, and the probability that in time it would grow to be an
important place. Already people were coming to the stores from six
or seven miles around; and it was believed that the store-keepers,
especially Bland & Jones, were making great profits. Threats had
been made that unless they would fall in their charges they might
hear of opposition. While talking together upon these things, Mr.
and Mrs. Hodge seemed almost simultaneously to think that it might
be well, in all the circumstances, to convert one of the little shed-rooms
into a little store. The more they turned this idea over the
more it seemed good, especially to Mrs. Hodge. She was for going
into it immediately. Mr. Hodge thought he wanted a little more
time for reflection. He did have a few hundred dollars which he had
accumulated by honest work and good economy; but he was without
mercantile experience, and people had told him that merchants sometimes
break like other people. Besides, he should not think it
prudent to neglect the farm, and that required most of his attention.
But Mrs. Hodge suggested that she could attend to the store her own
self. She could do it, she knew she could. He could go on and attend
to the farm, and spend what time he could spare from that in the
store. Mrs. Hodge reasoned that her husband had sometimes complained
that she invested too heavily even in the purchase of necessary
articles; and here was an opportunity of getting all such things
at home and not have to pay out one cent for them, except of course
what little was paid out for them in the beginning, and that would be
lost sight of in the general profits of the concern.
Mr. Hodge reflected.
What about the housekeeping?
Mrs. Hodge in her turn reflected.
Where was Susan Temple?
There now! If ever one question was well answered by propounding
another, it was in this case. Mr. Hodge admitted this to
himself. It was a matter he had himself proposed once to do, to
take Susan to keep house. The truth was, the house ought to be
neat and orderly and industrious, and understood even most of the
things about a kitchen. Mr. Hodge thought to himself that as his
wife's talent did not seem to be in housekeeping, it might not be
wrong to let it make a small effort in the mercantile line. And so
they agreed.
This was all right. Susan was so thankful for a home that she did
her best, and any sensible and honest person would have been
obliged to see and admit that the housekeeping improved. Everything
was kept clean and nice. Mrs. Hodge, however, thought that
if she gave Susan too much credit for this change it might spoil her.
It was the way with all such people, she thought. So she took all the
credit to herself, and would occasionally remind Susan of what would
have become of her if they had not taken her and put clothes upon
her back. Susan ought to be very thankful, more so than she seemed
to be in fact, that she had not been left to the cold charities of an
unfeeling world. To make things under this head perfectly safe,
Mrs. Hodge sometimes insisted that Susan ought to be ashamed of
herself for not doing more than she did, considering what was done
for her. Susan, doing everything as it was, would seem to look about
as if to find something else to do. Not being able to find it, she
would get very much confused, and seem to conclude that she must
be a very incompetent person.
But the store. Mr. Hodge went all the way to Augusta. Mrs.
Hodge would have liked to go too; but it was thought not necessary
for both to go. So Mr. Hodge went alone, and laid in his stock. A
hundred dollars well laid out would buy something in those times.
Such a sum goes a precious little way these days. He brought home
with him some pieces of calico and skeins of silk, a few hats, a
smart box of shoes, nails, a barrel of molasses, and one of sugar;
some coffee in a keg, two or three jars of candy, mostly peppermint;
some papers of cinnamon, a reasonable number of red pocket-handkerchiefs,
any quantity of pins and needles, a good supply of tobacco
and snuff, and one side-saddle. Mrs. Hodge had urged and rather
insisted upon the last article. Mr. Hodge hesitated, and seemed to
think it not a perfectly safe investment; but he yielded. In addition
to this stock Susan made ginger-cakes and spruce-beer. These sat
on a shelf outside the window, except in rainy weather. Mr. Bill
Williams once brought me one of these cakes, and I thought it was as
good as I ever ate.
Mr. Hodge, being a man somewhat adroit in the use of tools, made
his own counter and desk and shelves. It was a great time the night
on which the goods arrived. It was after dark when they came, but
there was no going to bed until those goods were opened and set in
their places. And oh, how particular they were in handling! Susan
must positively be more particlar, and quit bein so keerless, because
them things cost money. Susan got to be so particular that she even
handled the tobacco-box and the coffee-keg as if they were all cut
glass. When she took the pieces of calico one by one into her
hands and put them on the shelves, you would have thought every one
was a very young baby that she was lifting from the cradle and laying
upon its mother's breast. When the box of shoes was opened Susan
declared that they actilly smelt sweet, that they smelt the sweetest of
anything in that sto' exceptin the cinnamon. Mrs. Hodge's feelings
were too deep to allow very many words; but she let Susan go on.
Much as Mrs. Hodge admired everything, she was most deeply affected
by the side-saddle. The seat had a heart quilted into it of red stuff.
This was so becoming that Mrs. Hodge declared, and made Susan
admit, that it was the loveliest picter that ever was seen. She said
that that picter wer the picter of her own heart, and which it had been
on a new side-saddle for she didn't know how long. But still — Mrs.
Hodge didn't say any more about it then. She merely kept caressing
the heart softly with her hand until Mr. Hodge placed it on a small
board-horse which he had made for the purpose, and set it in a corner.
When all was finished they took a good look at everything, and it
was the unanimous opinion that nobody could have had any reason to
expect that that shed-room could have been made to look like it did
then. If that store wasn't carefully locked and bolted that night,
there never was one that was. Susan, who lodged in the other shed-room,
lay awake for hours — she declared she did — a thinking on it
all; but as for her part, she owned it was mostly about the shoes
and the cinnamon.
There was some talk about the store in the neighborhood for a
while. Some were for it and some against it. The Dukesborough
merchants were all of the latter party. Mr. Bland asked, if Hodge
wanted to set up in opposition, why didn't he come into town like a
man? It didn't look fair to be having a store away out there and be
a farming at the same time. But when he heard what the stock
consisted in he pretended to laugh, and people said that it would
a little in tobacco and shoes.
A person in going along the road and looking upon this store,
might have imagined that, apart from the cake and spruce-beer, it had
been established mainly for the purpose of supplying country people
with such little things as they would be likely to forget while in town.
Indeed, after the novelty had passed away it gradually relapsed into
such a state of things. It was seldom that a customer stopped while
on his way into town. Mrs. Hodge's hopes and reliance were mainly
on the outward bound. When any of these would call, she was wont
to meet them with an expression of countenance which seemed to
ask, “Well, what is it that you have forgotten to-day?” Like other
merchants, Mrs. Hodge, who gradually became the principal person
in the concern, studied the chances and possibilities of trade; and
her husband at her suggestion laid in his stock in the fall,
principally of such articles as a person might be expected to overlook
while making purchases of other more important things. He added
largely to his stock of pins, and went very extensively upon combs
and buttons.
The side-siddle seemed hard to get off. But Mrs. Hodge at the
very start, on learning the cost, had declared that it was entirely too
cheap; and she asked for the pricing of that herself, and she thought
she was warranted in putting it at a high figure. She had offers for
it. The heart in the seat had attracted several ladies, and once it
was within a half-dollar of going. But Mrs. Hodge, so far from falling,
intimated an intention upon reflection of rising, and that drove the
customer away.
Upon the whole, things went on right well. Mrs. Hodge certainly
improved in spirits; but of course she never could attain to that
state of contentment which Mr. Hodge could have wished, and which
at first he did fondly anticipate. In the matter of dressing herself
she looked up a little, and there was about her person not unfrequently
the odor of mingled cinnamon and peppermint. And it
must be remarked that the displeasure that it seemed inevitable for
her to indulge at intervals was now divided between Mr. Hodge and
Susan Temple, with the greater share to the latter. Susan did not
reflect nigh as often as she ought what it was to her to have a home
and clothes upon her back. The girl knew she ought to do it, and
was everlastingly trying to do it, and filled herself with reproaches
express any opinion upon the subject, but seemed to be satisfied with
taking care of himself the best he could. His attention lately had
been restored mostly to his farm.
In one of his trips to Augusta he brought back with him Mr.
Lively. He had made his acquaintance some time before, and had
mentioned the fact that the gentleman had talked about coming to
take board with them, and even went so far as to propose, in such an
event, to pay as much as five dollars a month. This sounded well.
Mrs. Hodge had an idea that the having a boarder might make the
house come to be regarded more as a public place; and so she said that,
as for herself, she was willing. So Mr. Lively came. When he did
come, she thought he was certainly the queerest person that she had
ever seen. She looked at his hair and then at his nose and legs, and
then at his hair again, from which he never removed his hat, not even
at meals. But he was a boarder, she knew, and was entitled to
privileges. She tried to pick him; but Mr. Lively was a man of
some experience and would not be picked. Mrs. Hodge being
satisfied that it was best for Mr. Lively to know at once that she was
a person of consideration, berated Susan the very first night of his
arrival for her carelessness and general worthlessness.
Messrs. Hodge and Lively seemed to get along together very well.
The latter, like the former, was a man of few words; and as time
lapsed they seemed to have something of a friendship for each other.
On the contrary, Mrs. Hodge seemed to have less and less regard for
her boarder according as he and her husband seemed to like each other
the more, and was often heard to say that in her opinion there was
nothing in Mr. Lively. Whatever estimate Mr. Lively placed upon her
he never told to anybody; but he went along and acted as if Mrs.
Hodge and whatever might be her thoughts about him were not at all
in his way. As time passed Mr. Hodge would often sit with Mr.
Lively, and talk with him with some freedom of his business and
other matters. Small as was Mr. Hodge's business comparatively,
he was careful of his papers and always kept them locked up in his
desk.
On one of his return trips from Augusta Mr. Hodge spent a little
more time than usual at his desk in looking over his papers and one
thing and another; but when he came out he seemed to be very well
satisfied. The next day he was taken sick. Little was thought of it
his time was coming. Mr. Hodge himself did not seem to be aware
of the state of the case until it was too late to leave any special
directions about anything. At the last he did rouse himself a little,
looked very hard at Mr. Lively, and muttered a few unintelligible
words about “my desk,” and Mr. Lively's being “mighty particular,”
and such things. But at last he had to give it up, and then Mr.
Hodge carried his succession of Mr. Simmons to extremes.
6. CHAPTER VI.
So now here was Mrs. Malviny a widow for the second time. The
late Mr. Hodge was mourned becomingly by all the household.
Even Mr. Lively was seen to brush away a tear or two at the funeral;
but Mrs. Hodge and Susan did the most of the actual crying, and
they cried heartily. Both felt that Mr. Hodge's continued absence
from that house was obliged to make a difference.
The question now was what must be done. Mr. Lively seemed to
think that Mr. Hodge must have left a will, so he and Mrs. Hodge
in a day or two went together and looked carefully over the papers;
and although Mr. Lively followed Mr. Hodge's last confused directions,
nothing could be found. Mrs. Hodge had nothing to do but to heir
the property; and as there were no debts, it was considered not
worth while to take out letters of administration. Seeing that she
was obliged to take the responsibility of all this business, she submitted,
and was very meek, remarking that now she was nothing but a lone
woman in the world, property was no great things in her mind. But
she thought she could be kind to Susan Temple. Of course Susan
was nothing to her, and it was an expense to feed her and put clothes
on her back; still she might stay there on the same terms as before.
People should never say that she had the heart to turn off a poor
orphan on the cold charities of the world. Susan was very thankful,
perfectly overcome with gratitude indeed, and continued to do everything;
and, like Alexander the Great, would almost weep that there
was nothing more to do. As for Mr. Lively, he somehow had got
used to the place and didn't feel like going away at his time of life
to seek a new home. Mrs. Hodge also disliked the idea of turning
with all the business upon her hands, it did look like that one who
was nobody but a poor lone woman in the world should have some
friend near enough to go to sometimes for advice, instead of being
everlastingly running to a lawyer and they a charging all that a poor
lone woman could make. Mr. Lively seemed gratified, and thus
matters settled down; but all seemed to miss poor Mr. Hodge.
And now many years had elapsed since Mrs. Hodge had been a
widow before. She reflected upon it. Yet she was thankful that she
could bear up under this repeated infliction as well as she did, and
that she was as strong and active as any person who was a mere lone
woman in the world could be expected to be. The amount of business
now upon her hands would require as much strength and activity as
could be commanded. Her looking-glass had somehow got broken
some time since, all but one little piece in the corner of the frame.
Mrs. Hodge gave what was left to Susan, remarking that as for herself
she had very little use for such things. Some time afterwards,
however, she reflected that even the lonely and desolate should go
neatly, and that it always did require more pains to dress in black.
Even Susan admitted this to be true, and she fully justified her Aunt
Malviny in the purchase of a new dress.
Weeks passed, and then some months. Mrs. Hodge's strength
and activity grew so that she began to feel as if they might be as
good as ever. Mr. Bill Williams and others, including Mr. Lively, had
heard her say that, although she knew it must be so, yet she did not
feel any older than she did when she married Mr. Hodge. It was
perfectly plain to see that Mrs. Hodge was not willing to be considered
one day older than she really was, notwithstanding what
she had been through; and that if she had to grow old she intended
to do so by degrees. Mrs. Hodge's face certainly did look somewhat
thinner than it did in those former years; but it began to participate
in the general recovery, and to have a peachiness which occasionally
extended over the whole jaw. Remarks had been made about that
peachiness, the various directions it took, and the varying amount of
surface it overspread at different times. She heard of some of these
remarks once; they made her very mad, and she said that the color
of her cheeks was nobody else's business.
The rest of Mrs. Hodge was entirely satisfactory. She had always
been a very good figure of a woman, and even now, from her neck
was in her walk! In this respect she could not be beat. I do think
that when she was walking rapidly, her usual gait, and had to pass
any unpleasant obstruction, she would lift her skirts as adroitly as any
lady I ever knew. And then she rode a horse remarkably well, for
now she had laid aside the old side-saddle and took the one with the
heart in the seat. The new one would not sell at the price demanded,
and the old one was not comfortable.
This restoration of her youth seemed to do away with the melancholy
in which her married life had been too prone to indulge. She even
became somewhat gay. I do not mean wild; there was not a
particle of what might be called wildness about her. But apparently
she had made up her mind not to yield herself up to useless regrets
for what could not be helped, to do the best she could as long as she
was in the world, and to stay in it as long as she could. When
persons come to these conclusions they can afford to be cheerful,
and sometimes even a little gay. Mrs. Hodge had lost one husband.
Many a woman does the same and then gives up; and although some
of them reconsider and take back, yet others give up for good. Mrs.
Hodge had put herself right on this point in the beginning. She
refused to give up at Mr. Simmons's departure; and then, when
another man who was at least as good, and even better, presented
himself, she had nothing to take back, and we saw how it all ended.
People said, as they always do, that it was heartless; but this gave
her no concern. And if it had, there was Mr. Hodge to help her
bear it. This experience seemed to be of value to her in this second
bereavement. The course she had pursued in that first extremity
was so judicious and turned out so well that the fact is, Mrs. Hodge
began to ask herself what she might do provided another person of
the opposite sex should make a remark similar to that which Mr.
Hodge had made, and which had so momentous consequences.
But now, here was the difference. Men are more slow to make
remarks of that sort to ladies of forty or thereabouts who have
already had two husbands, than to those of five-and-twenty who have
had but one. Mrs. Hodge noticed this, and it made the peachiness
of her cheeks increase at times to such a degree that it extended up
to her very eyes. Yet the more she thought upon the probability that
another person might succeed to the position which Mr. Simmons
first and Mr. Hodge afterwards had vacated, the more she believed
to all parties. She thought to herself that she had experience, and
with sensible persons that was worth at least as much as youth.
I have often heard it remarked, and indeed my own observation,
I rather think, affirms, that when a lady who has been married,
especially one who has been married more than once, is making up
her mind to do so again, she makes it up with some rapidity. We
remember of Queen Dido, who was a very respectable widow for her
day and generation. By-the-bye, she was one who gave up when her
first husband died. Yet, after listening to another man talk nearly
all night long, mainly about himself, she began to make up her mind
on the very next day; and about nine o'clock, or at any rate soon
after breakfast on the day after, she was married — or what she called
married. He did not, it seemed; and acted very badly, I always
thought, for in no long time after he ran away and left her, and
then she did give up for good.
But to return to Mrs. Hodge. Knowing that she did not have as
much time as before she began to cast about, and her ears were
opened to pertinent remarks which any single gentleman might be
disposed to make. But both widowers and bachelors were scarce;
and what few there were either were young or had their thoughts
upon younger ladies, or possibly did not understand the nature of
Mrs. Hodge's feelings.
At first she had not thought much about Mr. Jonas Lively. True,
he stayed there and looked somewhat after out-door business, and
even advised occasionally about the store. For Mrs. Hodge still
thought it best to keep up the store, though upon a scale somewhat
more limited than before; and in the multitude of the business matters
now devolved upon her, she could not give her undivided attention as
before to this single one. Susan Temple, therefore, who had been
anxious, as we have seen, to find additional work, looked after the store,
and Mr. Lively gave a helping hand sometimes. Useful as Mr.
Lively was, he had not been thought of at first except as a mere
boarder and friend of the family. Besides his general want of
attractiveness, Mrs. Hodge knew too much about him. I am satisfied
that a too long and intimate acquaintance between two persons of
opposite sexes is not favorable to marriage connections. You seldom
know a girl to marry her next door neighbor's son. A notable
instance, I admit, was that of Pyramus and Thisbe. They did make
but for a very hasty and fatally erroneous conclusion of the gentleman
touching a matter of fact. But even taking this to be a true history
and not a mere fable, I have been inclined frequently, while contemplating
this peculiar case, to maintain that the strong attachment of
these young persons to each other, residing as they did in contiguous
houses, was owing mainly to the fact that their respective families so
assiduously kept them apart, and thus they were able to court each
other only through a comparatively small hole in the dividing wall.
But such cases are very uncommon, even in extraordinary circumstances.
My opinion is that, as a general thing, persons who desire
to marry well, and have no great things to go upon (if I may be
allowed to use such an expression), do best by striking out at some
distance from home.
But I must positively try to stick closer to Mr. Lively and Mrs.
Hodge. I hope I shall be pardoned for these digressions. The fact
is, that a man of my time of life has seen so much of the world, to say
nothing of what he has read in books, if like myself he have been a
reading man, that he has picked up some useful experience and observation
which it may be his duty to communicate even in such narrations as
I am now writing, although the occasions for such communication may
sometimes appear to be inopportune. We do not know always what
is best to do in such matters. That is a remark, I am aware, that
might be applied to very many other matters of various sorts. That
man does well who, whether in writing or speaking, succeeds in
avoiding both extremes, the one of having too many words and the
other of having too few. While I have never had any great apprehension
of falling into the latter, I think that I may say that few men
of my age have coasted around the former more assiduously than I
have. And thus I can easily return from this digression to Pyramus
and Thisbe, and the reflections their case induced, to Mr. Jonas Lively
and Mrs. Malviny Hodge.
I repeat that, besides his general want of attractiveness, Mrs. Hodge
knew too much about Mr. Lively to be capable of entertaining a very
hasty and violent thought of raising him to the succession of the
couple of gentlemen who had gone before. For two long years and
more they had lived in the same house, and long before this period
Mrs. Hodge had contended that, with the exception of his hair, she
already knew all about Mr. Lively that was worth knowing. Except
both she and Mr. Lively had failed to find each other out in all this
time. We never knew much of his opinion respecting her, but we
know that hers respecting him fell far short of extreme admiration.
But time was moving on, and in spite of Mrs. Hodge's own youthful
gaiety and activity, she had learned to give up some of that ardent
appreciation which, in her younger days, she had set upon mere
external appearances. It had come to be generally understood that
Mr. Lively had property somewhere or other to the amount of several
thousand dollars. He was neither young nor handsome. But Mrs.
Hodge reasoned with herself. She remembered that she had had
already two young and rather good-looking husbands; and even if she
had been younger herself, she could not be expected to go on at this
rate and marry an unlimited number of such men. So, to be plain
with herself, she thought she ought to be satisfied with what she had
already enjoyed of these blessings; and to be yet plainer, she thought
she might go further and fare worse. It has always been a matter of
remark with me what an amount of prudence some women can exert
under the cover of unlimited frivolity. But I have no idea of pursuing
this thought any further now.
Such was the state of things at the period when I first introduced
Mr. Lively to the reader. Mr. Bill Williams had noticed, as he
thought, that his cousin Malviny was beginning to look up to Mr.
Lively.
Nobody knew Mr. Lively's views, either of Mrs. Hodge or of the
general subject of marriage. He had never been heard to say
whether he would or would not marry in certain or in any contingencies.
But if he intended ever to marry, it was high time he was
thinking about making arrangements. This was all that people
had to say about it. When Mrs. Hodge began to collect her scattered
thoughts, they converged upon him with the strength and
rapidity usual in such cases. She had no doubt that this would be an
easy conquest. Indeed her shrewd mind had guessed that this was
what Mr. Lively had been staying there for all this while. But she
charged him in her mind with being rather slow to take a hint, after
having several times pointedly driven Susan out of the room, and with
her looks invited Mr. Lively to tell what she knew must be on his
mind. Mr. Lively at first seemed slow to notice all this, and he was
equally slow to notice how much the character of the breakfasts had
by his plate every morning. This was for the most part some small
fish, a string of which Mrs. Hodge would frequently purchase from a
negro or poor white boy who had caught them the night before from
the creek. These would usually just be enough for Mr. Lively. Mrs.
Hodge and Susan would never accept of any, and the former thought
that Mr. Lively ought not to have misunderstood the glance and the
smile with which she would decline. Sometimes there would be also
beside his plate a little sprig of something or other, mostly cedar.
But he would forget to take it up and fix it in his button-hole.
Women do not like for such favors and attentions to pass unregarded.
Mrs. Hodge began to be vexed, and speak sharply to Mr. Lively and
Susan alternately about her opinions of both. She would say to Mr.
Lively that in her opinion Susan was the most good-for-nothing hussy
that anybody was ever troubled with; and she told Susan more than
once that Jonas Lively was the blindest old fool that ever lived, and
that he didn't have sense enough to ask for what he wanted, and what
he ought to know he could get for the asking.
Mr. Lively, never or seldom having been the object of any woman's
pursuit, was slow to understand Mrs. Hodge. The truth was he had
become warmly attached to the place, and he was very anxious to stay
there and make it his home. At first he did not clearly see Mrs.
Hodge's plans. But there are some things which even the dullest
understandings may be forced to take in after a while. By degrees he
began to open his eyes, to look around him, and to appear to be
pleased. The single attachment of such a woman as Mrs. Malviny
Hodge ought not to be a thing that could be rudely cast aside by such
a man as Jonas Lively. When, therefore, Mrs. Hodge began to press
matters a little, Mr. Lively showed very plainly that he was not a fool.
And Mrs. Hodge had began to press matters. She had even gone to
expense. She sat down one night and counted up what she had spent
upon him in strings of fish and other luxuries, and found that it
amounted to eight dollars and something. Extravagant as this was,
she determined to go further, especially as her instincts had taught
her that there were some signs of intelligence and reciprocation.
Mr. Lively had lately gone upon his yearly trip to Augusta and had
returned earlier than usual with some improvement in his dress.
This was an excellent sign. Besides, he was growing more communicative
with his hostess, and occasionally had a kind word even for
undivided family, or ought to be and would be.
7. CHAPTER VII.
The cordial relations in the household of Mrs. Malviny Hodge
became much more decided after a little incident that occurred
one morning before breakfast. Mrs. Hodge had not yet risen
from her couch; she had always contended that too early rising
was not good for the complexion. Susan, who had other things to
think about besides complexion, always rose betimes and went to her
work. On this morning, at about sunrise, she was sweeping the store
and readjusting things there generally. Susan was an inveterate
sweeper; she had made a little broom of turkey-quills, and was brushing
out the desk with it. One of the quills being a little sharpened at the
end by constant use, had intruded itself into a crack and forced out
the corner of a paper which had been lodged there. She drew the
whole out, and seeing that it was one of Mr. Lively's letters, as it was
addressed to him, at once handed it to that gentleman, who happened
to be standing by the window outside and had just remarked what a
fine morning it was. Mr. Lively took the letter, wondering how he
could have been so careless as to leave it there. He opened it, looked
at the beginning for a moment, and then at the end; then remarking
that it was all right, and that he was much obliged to Susan, he went
to his office. At breakfast Mr. Lively said that he believed he would
ride to the court-house that day, as he had not been there in some
time, but that he would surely return at night. Mrs. Hodge merely
remarked that she had given orders for a chicken-pie for dinner; but
to-morrow would do as well, she supposed. Oh yes, certainly; or
Mrs. Hodge and Susan might have it all to themselves. Oh no, no;
they could have it to-morrow.
That night when Mr. Lively returned and came into supper, there
was a sight for the eyes of a man who had ridden twenty miles and
gone without his dinner, except a couple of biscuits which Mrs. Hodge
had put with her own hands into his coat-pocket in the morning. On
that supper-table were not only fried eggs, but two sorts of fish, perch
and horny-heads. Mr. Lively had an appetite, and these dishes
had been made to quit his work for the afternoon for the express
purpose of having those fish for supper. Mrs. Hodge looked at them
and at Mr. Lively. She said nothing, but there was expression in
her countenance.
“Ah, indeed?” inquired Mr. Lively, as he took his seat.
“Yes, indeed,” answered Mrs. Hodge.
Even Susan looked gratified; she had fried them every one. In
spite of his intense satisfaction, Mr. Lively was a little pained that
the ladies should compel him to eat more than as an honest man he
considered his proper share. He insisted and insisted, not only that
Mrs. Hodge, but that Susan should take some; and at last he declared
that if they didn't, he would stop eating himself. He maintained
that people oughtn't to try to kill a person that liked them as well as
he did the present company, by trying to make him eat himself
to death, and that, as for his part, that he wasn't going to do it,
because he felt more like living on in this little world now than he
had ever done. Being thus pressed, she compromised. She agreed
that she would take an egg and a horny-head, or maybe two horny-heads;
but she declared that she wouldn't tech a pearch: they was
for Mr. Lively, and him alone. Susan had to come in that far
also; Mr. Lively insisted upon it. She tried to get off with one
very small little bit of a horny-head; but it was no go. Mr. Lively
maintained that there was enough perch for all, and he made them
both come squarely up.
Oh it was all so nice! Mr. Lively was quite chatty for him. His
visit to the county-town, the ride and the supper, had all enlivened
him up smartly; but after all, he didn't see that the county-town had
any very great advantage over Dukesborough. Dukesborough was
coming along; there was no doubt about that. As for himself, he
would rather live where he was living now than at the county-town, or
indeed any other place he knew of; he hoped to end his days right where
he was. It would have been too indelicate for Mr. Lively to look at
Mrs. Hodge after these words, and so he looked at Susan. Both the
ladies looked down; but it was all so pleasant.
By the time supper was over, as it had been delayed for Mr. Lively's
return, it was getting to be his bed-time; but it didn't look right to be
hurrying off after such a supper as that. Besides, Mr. Lively of late
had been in the habit of lingering in the house a little longer of
occasion it might have been foreseen that he was not going to rush
right away from that society.
“Well,” said Mr. Lively, when he and Mrs. Hodge had taken their
seats before the fireplace, and Susan was clearing away the things,
“Well, they ware fine! I pity them that don't live on any sort of
water-course. Fish air blessings, certain, even when they air small.
Indeed, the little ones air about the best, I believe; because they air
as a general thing always fried brown, and then a person don't have
to be always stopping to pull out the bones. Those we had for
supper ware fried ex-zactly right.”
Mrs. Hodge was a woman who liked appreciation even in small
things. “I'm glad you think so, Mr. Lively. I told Susan to be very
particler about 'em, because I thought you loved to have 'em brown.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Lively, with some emphasis; “always when they
air small and you don't have to stop to pull out the bones.”
“Yes, and you may well say bones,” replied Mrs. Hodge —“fish-bones
in particler. Fish-bones is troublesome, and even dangous
sometimes. My grandfather had a aunt that got one in her throat
outen one o' them big fish they used to have in them times, and it
come nigh killing her at the first offstart; and it never did git out
that anybody ever heerd of. And she used to have a heap of pains
for forty years arfter, and she said she knowed it was that fish-bone,
and that it run up and down all over her; and even when she was on
her dyin bed with the rheumatism, and I don't know how old she war
then, she declared that it was nothin but that fish-bone that was a
killin her.”
“My! my! your grandfather's aunt!” exclaimed Mr. Lively, and
he could not have looked more concerned if it had been his own
grandfather's aunt instead of Mrs. Hodge's who had come to such a
tragical end. But he reflected perhaps that for some time past that
relative had been relieved of her sufferings, and then he looked
towards the table where Susan was rapidly clearing away the things.
“Be in a hurry there, Susan,” said Mrs. Hodge, in a mild but
admonitory tone.
“Yes; fish and such-like's blessins; but yit —” Mrs. Hodge
couldn't quite make it out.
Susan hurried matters, I tell you.
“Oh yes, indeed,” suggested Mr. Lively.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hodge admitted; “but still fishes and — livin on
water-courses, and — everything o' that kind's not the onliest things
in this world.”
“Oh no, indeed,” hastily replied Mr. Lively. “But still — I
suppose, indeed I think — of course thair must be — and —” But
Mr. Lively at that moment couldn't think of what else there was in
the world.
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Hodge, having thus recovered, could proceed
a little further. “Fishes and such-like's blessins, I know; I don't
deny it. Of cose it is to them that loves 'em, and to them I spose it's
very well to live on water-courses. Yit them and everything else is
not all to every person.”
“Oh no, no; by no means.” Mr. Lively would not wish to be so
understood.
“Not all,” continued Mrs. Hodge; “particler that a person might
wish in a vain world. No, fair be it to them that has loved and lost,
and loved and lost again, and might love again once more, and that
forever and eternally!”
Pen cannot describe the touching solemnity with which these words
were uttered. Mr. Lively was extremely embarrassed. He had not
intended to go very far that night; matters were so recent. He looked
very much puzzled, and seemed to be trying to make out how an
innocent remark about water-courses could have led them away so
far into dry land.
“Susan,” he called out confusedly, and looked around. But
Susan had cleared off everything and gone to bed.
Mrs. Hodge waited a moment to see if Mr. Lively intended to avail
himself of this good opportunity of saying anything specially confidential;
but he was too confused to get it out. So she thought she
would venture a remark about the weather that might reassure him.
“It's right cool these nights, Mr. Lively.”
This made Mr. Lively almost jump out of his chair. He had been
remarking only a day before how warm it was for the season, and
according to his feelings there had been no change since that time.
He answered as well as he could:
“No, I don't — yes — it's right cool — that is, it's tolerable cool. I
suppose — that is, I expect it will be quite cool after a while. A —
yes — I think a good rain — and a pretty strong wind from the north-west
now — would — ah, help — and ah —”
“Yes, indeed,” assisted Mrs. Hodge; “and it's about time that
people war getting ready for winter. Thar isn't anything like people's
bein ready to keep theirselves warm and comfortable in the cold, cold
winter.”
Mrs. Hodge shrugged her shoulders as if winter was just at the
door, and then she hugged herself up nice and tight.
“Yes, oh yes,” answered Mr. Lively, somewhat circularly; “we
all don't know. But still comforts — yes — of course — and especially
in the winter-time.”
Mrs. Hodge looked down, her hands played with a corner of her
pocket-handkerchief, and she thought that she blushed. Mr. Lively,
concluding possibly that he had carried matters far enough for one
evening, rose up and broke away. That night he was more desirous
than ever to make that place his home as long as he lived, if he could;
and he rather believed he could.
Although matters did not advance with the rapidity that might have
been expected, yet it was very plain to Mrs. Hodge, and even to
Susan, that Mr. Lively saw and appreciated the whole situation. Mrs.
Hodge knew that he was a steady and rather a slow man, but persistent
in his purposes, and somewhat peculiar in his ways of compassing
them. He could neither be driven nor too violently pulled. His
growing cheerfulness and the new interest he took in everything about
the premises showed that his expectation was to make that his
permanent home. He even went so far one day as to say that the
house needed repairs, and that it must have them before very long.
Mrs. Hodge and Susan looked at each other and both smiled. Susan
seemed to be gratified about as much as anybody, poor thing; for
of late, Susan seemed to be on some little better ground with her
aunt. Thus it is that a new and very strong feeling towards one
dear object disposes us sometimes to feel kindly towards all.
It was delightful to see how pleasant and affable Mr. Lively could
be; slow as he might be, he was perfectly affable and pleasant. Mrs.
Hodge would have been pleased to see Mr. Lively more ardent; but
she knew that was not his way, and upon the whole she was very well
satisfied.
Matters grew more and more interesting every day. All parties
were perfectly sociable. Improvements were constantly going on in
Mr. Lively's dress. A great box came for him one day from Augusta,
and the next Sunday Mr. Lively came out in a new cloth suit. Both
younger; that pleased him highly. It seemed that thoughts upon
marriage had suggested to him the notion of going back to his youth
and living his life over again. But how would you suppose Mrs.
Hodge looked when, after breakfast, Mr. Lively brought in a long
paper bundle, laid it on the table, and then took out and handed to
her one of the finest black silk dress-patterns that had ever appeared
in that neighborhood? — and not only so, but bottons, hooks-and-eyes,
thread, lining, and binding! Nor had that kind-hearted man forgotten
Susan, for he handed her at the same time a very nice white muslin
pattern. “Oh my goodness gracious me, Mr. Lively!” exclaimed
Mrs. Hodge; “I knew it; but — but — still I — I didn't — expect
it.” Susan was overpowered too, but she couldn't express herself
like her Aunt Malviny. But she took the pattern, and blushed all the
way round to the back of her neck. It was Susan's first present.
And now those dresses had to be made up right away. Mr. Lively
required that in the tone of a master, and he intimated that there
were other things in that same box. Mr. Bill Williams was not so
very far wrong when he said that man was a book.
People now began to talk. Already Mr. Bill had hinted to several
persons how his Cousin Malviny appeared to look up to Mr. Lively.
This started inquiry, and the new clothes and youthful looks
convinced everybody that it was so. Mrs. Hodge began to be joked;
and without saying yea or nay, laughed and went on. Susan was
approached; but Susan was a girl, she said, that didn't meddle with
other people's business, and that if people wouldn't ask her any
questions they wouldn't get any lies — a form of denial which in old
times was considered almost as an affirmative. So here they had it.
Matters had come to this stand when Mr. Lively determined to
make a decisive move.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
It so happened that my parents had made a visit, taking me with
them, to my father's sister, who resided about a hundred miles distant.
We were gone about a couple of weeks, and returned on a Saturday
night. I wished that the next day might have been the one for the
reasons to see Mr. Bill and inquire about the parties on Rocky
Creek. The next afternoon I was walking alone in the grove, and
was surprised and pleased to see him coming up the road towards me.
I walked on to meet him.
“Why, Philip, my dear friend, you've got back, have you? I'm so
glad to see you. Mammy said you was all to git back last night, and
I thought I'd jest walk over this evenin like, and see if you had
come shore enough. And here, you are! In cose, you've heerd the
news?”
No; we had got back last night, and had seen no person but the
negroes. What news?
“About the old man Jonis. You haint heerd the news? Goodness
gracious! I'm so glad. Come along, Squire. I'm so glad.”
Mr. Bill did look even thankful. We went together to our tree.
“And you haint heerd it? Goodness gracious! I thought it would
a been all over Georgy before this. Let's set down here. Philip
Pearch, I think I told you that Jonis Lively war a book. I won't be
certing; but I think I did.”
He certainly did.
“Is it all over?” I asked.
Mr. Bill smiled at the very idea that I should have expected to get
it out of him in that style.
“Don't you forgit what I told you, Philip. Let every part have a
far chance to be interestin. Law me, law me! I'm so glad you
haint heerd it.”
Mr. Bill fixed himself as comfortably as possible among the roots
of the old tree, and thus began:—
“Well, you know, Squire, I told you that I seed that Cousin
Malviny war lookin up mighty to-wards the old man. Which I sposen
I oughtn't to say the old man now; but let that go. I seed that she
war lookin up to him, and I knowed that she war thinkin about
changin her conditions. I knowed that she had change 'em twice
already befo'; and I knowed that wimming, when they git in sich a
habit, you needn't try to alter 'em. When Cousin Malviny have made
up her mind, she take right arfter Mr. Lively. Mr. Lively, it seem,
war at first surprise, and he rather hold back. It appear like he war
hard to understand Cousin Malviny. But the more he hold back, the
more Cousin Malviny keep movin up. He see Cousin Malviny keep
widders, and he have no sich idee that she war sprusenin up so for
him. But byn-bye Mr. Lively begin to sprusen up himself, and to git
new clothes, you know; and he war monstous free and friendly like
with Cousin Malviny, and begin to talk about what ought to be done
about fixin up the house and things in ginilly; and it seem like he
and Cousin Malviny war movin up tolerble close: and I haint seed
Cousin Malviny so spry and active sense she war a widder befo',
and that war when I warn't nothin but a leetle bit of a boy.
“Well, things kept a goin on, and everybody see that they war
obleeged to come to a head, and that soon, because people knowed
they was both old enough to know thar own mind; and both of 'em a
livin in the same place, everything was so convenant like. Mr. Lively
begin to spend his money free. He have bought new clothes for
hisself, and he have bought a fine silk dress for Cousin Malviny, and
he even went so far as to give a right nice muslin to Susan. Oh he's
a book! The very day you all went away a man come thar from
Augusty and fotch a bran-new gig, and two fine bed-stids, and a
bureau, and cheers. And he never say a word to Cousin Malviny till
they got thar, and he have all the furnitoor put in the office; and
Cousin Malviny war delighted, and didn't ax him anything about it,
becase she know he war a man of mighty few words, and didn't do
things like t'other people nohow, and didn't keer about people axin
him too many questions — and which I could a told her the same.
When all this got thar people know what was a comin: leastways
they think they do. As for me, I war lookin out every day for a
invite.
“And now, lo and behold! The next mornin I war woke up by daylight
by wheels a rattlin; and our nigger-boy, who war makin me and
Mr. Jones's fire, he went to the door, and he come back and he say
that it war Mr. Lively in a new gig, and he have a female in thar
along with him, and which she have on a white dress and a veil, but
which he know it war Cousin Malviny Hodge, and they went a scootin
on. Thinks I to myself, and I says to Mr. Jones, what's the reason
they can't git married at home like t'other people? And Mr. Jones he
say that considerin they war both tolerble old people they was in a
monstous hurry from the way the wheels was a rattlin; and which
they minded him of what old Mr. Wiggins said in his sarmints about
rushin along Gallio-like, a keerin for none o' these things. Shore
thar they git married.
“I have just git up from breakfast at Spouter's, when lo and
behold! here come that gig a driving up nigh and in and about as fast
as it come by the sto'. I know that they was in for a frolic that day,
and was bent on havin of it, and I laughed when I see 'em a comin.
When they got to the tavern door, Mr. Lively he hilt up his horse,
and it war nice to see how spry the old man hop outen the gig and
hand out his wife. And she, why she farly bounce out, and bounce
up and down two or three times arfter she lit! I says to myself,
Cousin Malviny she think now she about sixteen year old. She have
on her white veil till yit, and clean till she got in the house.
“`How do you do, Mr. Williams?' says he to me when I follered in.
`A very fine morning,' says Mr. Lively. Says I, `How do you do,
Mr. Lively; or mout I now say Cousin Jonis? A fine mornin indeed,
I sposen, to you, Sir, and 'specially for sich pleasant bizness. I
wishes you much joy, Mr. Lively, and also Cousin Malviny. But,'
says I, `I did spect a invite, and I wants to know what made you two
run away in that kind o' style; for I calls it nothin but runnin away?
Why didn't you have the frolic at home, Cousin Malviny?' says I.
And then she ansered me. I tell you, Philinipinimon, she ansered
me!”
Mr. Bill paused, and seemed waiting for me to question him
further. “Why didn't they marry at home, then?” I inquired.
“Ah, yes; well mout you ax that question, my friend of the
sunny hour. When you ax that question yur talkin sense. Well, I'll
tell you. One reason why they didn't was because they couldn't.”
“They couldn't?”
“Couldn't. Onpossible. Jest as onpossible as if it had been a
bresh-heap and it afire.”
“But why not?”
“Becase Cousin Malviny wouldn't a been willin.” This was
answered almost in a whisper.
“Well, that is funny.”
“Fun to some people and death to the t'others.”
“Why, I should think she would rather marry at home.”
“She, I think you said, Philip?”
“Yes. She.”
“Well, Philmon Pearch, will you jest be kind and condescendin
enough to tell me who it is you're speakin about at the present?”
“Why, Mrs. Hodge, of course!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Bill in apparently great surprise. “Oh yes;
Cousin Malviny. Yes. Well I sposen Cousin Malviny, reasonable
speakin, she mout ruther git married at home, providin in cose that
people has got homes to git married at. I should ruther suppose
that Cousin Malviny mout some ruther git married at home.”
“Well, why didn't she do it then?”
“Do what?” Mr. Bill seemed to be growing very much abstracted.
“Get married,” said I quite distinctly.
“Git married! Ah yes. Git married. To who, Philip?”
“To Mr. Lively. What's the matter with you, Mr. Bill?”
Mr. Bill slowly elevated his eyes until they looked into the zenith
for a moment, and then he lowered them again.
“Oh! Mr. Lively! Well, when Mr. Lively he got married, you see,
Philip; when Mr. Lively he got married, Cousin Malviny she warn't
thar.”
I could have put both my fists into Mr. Bill's mouth, and there still
would have been room.
“What!” I exclaimed. “Didn't Mr. Lively marry Mrs. Hodge?”
Mr. Bill rose upon his feet, bent his head and knees forward, and
roared:
“Na-ee-ii-o-oh-WOH!”
“What! Then they didn't get married after all?”
“Yes they did.”
“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Bill? Did Mr. Lively get married?”
“Certing he did. Ef any man ever got married, Mr. Jonis Lively
got married that same mornin.”
“Who did he marry then?”
“Se-oo-woo-woosen!”
“Who?”
“See-oo-woo-woosen, Tem-em-pem-pemple. Susan! Temple!”
“Susan Temple!”
“Yes, Sir, it war Susan Temple; and I didn't have not the slightest
concate of sich a thing tell she lift up her veil and I see her with my
own blessed eyes spread out in all her mornin glories, so to speak.
Didn't I tell you, Philerimon Pearch, that that blessed an ontimely
old feller war a book? I'm not so very certing, but I ruther think
I did.”
“But what about Mrs. Hodge? What did she say?”
“Ah now,” said Mr. Bill sadly, “now, Philip, yur axin sensible
questions, but monstous long ones. You must let me git over that
first awful and ontimely skene befo' I can anser sich long questions
as them about poor Cousin Malviny. Them questions is civil questions,
I know, and I shall anser 'em; but they're mighty long questions,
Philip, and a body got to have time. Ain't he a book? Come
now, Philippippimon, my honest friend, you ax me questions; and far
play, I axes you one. Ain't he a book?”
I could but admit that if ever man was, it was Mr. Lively.
9. CHAPTER IX.
I had to let Mr. Bill expatiate at length upon his surprise and that of
the public at this unexpected match before I could bring him to the
finale. Mr. Bill admitted that he was at first not only embarrassed,
but speechless. He never had expected to live to see the day when
he should be in that condition before Susan Temple. But such it
was. We never know what is before us. The longer a man lives to see
anything, the more he finds that it is a solemn fact that he can't tell
what he may live to see. He had never been so minded of that as at
the present; “leastways” on that blessed and “ontimely” morning.
Mr. Bill was very sorry that Miss Angeline Spouter had not been at
home to share in his astonishment; but she had gone the evening
before to spend the night with Miss Georgiana Pea, friendly and intimate
relations having been fully restored between these ladies.
“When I got so I could open my mouth,” said Mr. Bill, “in cose I
feel like I ought to say somethin, even ef it war but a few lines,
and — ah — some perliminary remarks — so to speak. So I goes up
to Mr. Lively, I does, and I says to him: `Mr. Lively,' says I, `you
has took us all by surprise. And you more so, Susan,' says I; `which
I sposen I ought to say Miss Lively, but which it ar so onexpected
that I begs you'll excuse me.' And then I ax 'em ef Cousin Malviny
know of all sich carrins on. Then Susan she looked skeered. And
I tell you, Philippimon, that gurl look right scrimptious with them fine
things on and them shoes. But Mr. Lively war cool as a summer
evenin like, and he said that he sposen not. Then he say that he
had stop to git his breakfast, him and Susan, and that arfter breakfast
Spouter to send Cousin Malviny word what had become of 'em, and that
they war all safe. And then I tells Mr. Lively that ef it suited him
I would go myself. I tell you, Philip, I wanted to car that news out
thar myself. Mr. Lively he sorter smile, and say he would be much
obleege ef I would. I hurries on to the sto', tells Mr. Jones what's
up, and gits leave to go to Cousin Malviny; and I mighty nigh run all
the way out thar.
“Cousin Malviny war standin at the gate. When I git about
twenty yards from her I stop to catch a little breath. Cousin
Malviny holler out to me: `Has you seen 'em, Cousin William?' I
tried to be calm and cool, and I ax Cousin Malviny to be calm and
cool. And I says, `What's the matter, Cousin Malviny? Ar anything
wrong out here? Seed who?' `Susan,' says Cousin Malviny,
`and Mr. Lively, and Uncle Moses.' `Uncle Moses!!' says I;
`have Uncle Moses gone too?' `Yes,' says Cousin Malviny; `I
sent Moses on John mule to look for 'em when I heerd they was
gone.' At the very minnit here come old Uncle Moses a trottin on up
on John mule; and I don't know which war the tiredest and solemest,
John or old Uncle Moses. Cousin Malviny ax Uncle Moses what
news. `Bad, Missis,' said Uncle Moses, `bad nuff. You see, Missis,
when you tole me git on top o' John an take arter 'em, Missis, I
thought fust they was gwine todes Agusty, for he did start off that
way; but, Missis, time I got to the creek and t'other side whar the
roads forks, I gits off, I does, offen John, and looks close to the
ground to find track of 'em an' which road they tuck. Day hit jest
begin to crack a leetle bit; and bless your soul, Missis, they hadn't
been thar. I rode on back tell I got to our cowpen right yonder; and
shore nuff they has been done got down, let down the draw-bars, gone
round the cowpen, let down the fence up yonder ontoo the road agin,
back up yonder and gone on todes Dukesborough. I tracks 'em in
that field thar same as Towser and Loud arter a possum.'
“Cousin Malviny tell Uncle Moses to let possums alone and go
on. `Yes, Missis. I war jest tellin how they let down our draw-bars
and went through behind the cowpen yonder, an got ontoo the road
agin an whipt on to town.' But, Philip, I couldn't stop for Uncle
Moses to tell his tale; it war always astonishin to me how long it do
take a nigger to tell anything. So I tells Uncle Moses to go 'long
and put up his mule, and feed him to boot, and hisself too, as I seed
it and would tell Cousin Malviny myself. And so I did tell her the
upshot of the whole business. And oh, my honest friend, ef you
ever see a person rip and rar, it war Cousin Malviny; she come nigh
and in an about as nigh cussin as she well could, not to say the very
words. But which you know Cousin Malviny ar a woming, and kin to
me — leastways we claims kin; and you musn't say anything about it.
When I told her they was comin back arfter a little, she declared on
her soul that they shouldn't nary one of 'em put their foot into her
house ef she could keep 'em from it; and it look like, she said, she
ought to be mistiss of her own house. Well, I war nately sorry for
Cousin Malviny, an I ax her ef Mr. Lively have promise to marry
her. Cousin Malviny say that no, he didn't in ezactly them words;
but he have bought furnitoor, an' talk in sich a way about the place an'
everything on it as ef he spected to own it hisself; and she war
spectin him to cote her, and then she war goin to think about it
when he did ax: not that she keerd anything about him no way; and
now sense he had done gone and made a fool o' hisself, and took up
with that poor, good-for-nothin Susan Temple, he mout go; and as
for comin into her house, she would set old Towser and Loud arfter
him first. Now I knowed that war all foolishness; and specially
about them dogs, which I knowed they was bitin dogs, and which I
wouldn't a gone out o' that house that night I stayed thar ef I hadn't
knew that Uncle Moses have went possum-huntin; but which I told
Cousin Malviny that them dogs warn't goin to pester Mr. Lively nor
Susan, becase they knowed 'em both as well as they knowed her.
We was inside the gate, and we was jest a startin to go to the house
when here drive up Mr. Lively and Susan. `Here, Towser, here,
Loud!' hollers out Cousin Malviny, `here! here!' Says I to Cousin
Malviny, `Cousin Malviny, ef them dogs bites anybody here to-day,
it's agoin to be me; and I hopes you will stop callin 'em.' But bless
your soul, my friend Philipiminon, them dogs was round by the
kitchen, and they heerd Cousin Malviny and they come a tarin and
a yellin. As soon as they turned the corner o' the house, I seed they
thought I was the person they was to git arfter. I jumps back, I does,
and runs through the gate and shets it. `Sich 'em, Towser! Sich
'em, my boys,' says Cousin Malviny — the foolishest that I think I ever
see any sensible person ever do sense I war born; but Cousin
Malviny, all the eyes she had war upon Mr. Lively, and he war a
hold. `Sich 'em, my boys!' kept hollerin Cousin Malviny, outen all
reason. Well, Sir, lo and behold! while old Towser war at the gate
a rippin and a roarin to git out, Loud he run down about thirty steps
whar thar war a rail off the yard fence, and he lit over and he come a
chargin. I says to myself, ef here aint a responsibility nobody ever
had one, and the only way I has to git outen it is to clime that gate-post.
So I hops up, one foot on a rail of the fence, hands on the
gate-post, and t'other foot on one of the palins o' the gate. I war
climbin with all that bein in a hurry that you mout sposen a man in
my present sitooation would know he have no time to lose. I has
done got one foot on top o' the fence, and war about to jerk the
t'other from between the gate palins, when old Towser he grab my
shoe by the toe, inside the yard, and the next minute Loud he have
me by my coat-tails outside.
“At this very minute Mr. Lively have farly got down from the
gig; and when he seed Loud have me by my last coat-tail (for he have
done tore off t'other), he rush up, gin him a lick with his hickory-stick,
and speak to Towser, and they let me go. Bless your soul, Philip!
I war too mad to see all what follered. Both o' my coat-tails was tore
pretty well off; and hadn't been for my shoes bein so thick, and tacks
in 'em to boot, I should a lost one of my toes, and maybe two. When
I got sorter cool I see Mr. Lively tryin to show Cousin Malviny a
paper, and call her Aunty. When she hear Mr. Lively call her Aunty,
Cousin Malviny, who have been a ravin all this time, she say that
war too much; and then she go in the house, and sink in a chair and
call for her smellin vial, and tell 'em to put her anywhar they wants
to, ef it even war her grave. She give up farly and squarly.
“Come to find out, Mr. Lively, while I war gittin back my temper
and bein sorter cool — for I tell you, boy, I war never madder in my
life — Mr. Lively have been a tellin Cousin Malviny what I'm now a
telling you, that that place and everything on it belong to him now as
the husband o' Susan; and which they have jest t'other day found
Hodge's will, which he have hid away in that desk; and which Hodge
he give everything thar to Susan and Cousin Malviny jintly, for
Cousin Malviny's death, and arfterwards the whole to Susan; and
which he have pinted Mr. Lively his Ezecketer; and which that ar a
law word, Philipip — a meanin that somebody arfter a man dies have
got to tend to the business in ginerly.
“And now, Philip, I tell you that Mr. Lively ar a right clever old
man arfter all. He ar from old North Calliner, shore nuff; and
away long time ago he have a plantation thar, and he war goin to
marry a gurl over thar, long time ago, but she took sick and died.
And then Mr. Lively, he got low sperited like, and sell out and move
to Augusty and buy propty, and make more money and buy more
propty, tel he got to be worth twenty thousand dollars at least
calclation. Did you ever see such a man?
“Well, he got tired livin in sich a big place, and he want to git
back in the country. But somehow he don't feel like goin back to old
North Calliner; and then he git acquainted with Hodge, and he heern
about Dukesborough, and so he come here. Well, arfter Hodge he
died, Cousin Malviny, you see, she think about changin her conditions
again, and they aint no doubt but she take arfter Mr. Lively. She
deny it now; but wimming can't fool me. Well, Mr. Lively he git
somehow to like the place and don't want to go away from it; but he
see somethin's obleeged to be done; and he have always like Susan,
becase he see Cousin Malviny sorter put on her so much. Hodge
war sorry for Susan too, and he use to talk to Mr. Lively about her;
and he tell Mr. Lively that ef he died he war goin to 'member her
in his will. But shore enough they couldn't find no will, and Mr.
Lively he sposen that Hodge done forgit Susan; and so Mr. Lively
he make up his mind to cote Susan, and ef she'd have him he mean
to buy out the propty even ef he have to pay too much for it. So he
go to cotin Susan the first chance he git; and Susan, not spectin she
war ever goin to be coted by anybody, think she better say yes, and
she say yes. It war a quick cotin and a quick anser. But lo and
behold! Susan found in the sto' one day a paper, and she give it to
Mr. Lively; and Mr. Lively see it war Hodge's will, as I tell you. But
this didn't alter Susan; for when the old man told her about it, and
say he'd let her off ef she wanted to, Susan say she don't want to
be let off; and you now behold the conshequenches.
“And now, Philip, what make I tell you he ar a right clever old
feller ar this: when Cousin Malviny ar sorter come too, and understan
herself and the sitooation she war in, Mr. Lively call Susan in; for I
tell you that gurl war not for gittin out o' that gig till matters got
cooler. And then Mr. Lively tell Cousin Malviny that she mout stay
right whar she war, and that he war goin to fix up her house, and she
mout keep her same room, only it should have new furnitoor, and he
everything hisself, and she shouldn't be at no expense; and ef she
got married he would give her more'n the will give her in money, and
she mout will away her intrust into the bargin and he would pay it in
money; only Mr. Lively say that sto' must be broke up, and he will
pay her down in cash twice what the stock war worth. Arfter all this,
Cousin Malviny gin up for good and call for Susan. Susan went to
her, and they hugged; and Cousin Malviny she laughed, and Susan
she cried. I could but notice them two wimming. One of 'em was
a laughin and one was a cryin; and which I couldn't see the use nor
the sense of nary one. But wimming's wimming, and you can't alter
'em.
“But it war time I war leavin and goin back to my business. Thar
business war not mine. I bids them wimming good-bye; and I axes
Mr. Lively, ef it war not too much trouble, to see me throo the gate
and safe from them dogs; becase I told Mr. Lively I didn't want to
hurt them dogs, but I wanted 'em not to be pesterin o' me no more.
Mr. Lively he go with me about a hundred yards; and as I war about
to tell him good-bye, I says to Mr. Lively, says I, `Mr. Lively, it 'pear
like you has plenty o' money; and I don't sposen that you think
people ought to lose anything by 'tendin to your business, when it's
none o' theirn. Well, Mr. Lively, it seem like somebody by good
rights, reasonable speakin, somebody ought to pay for my coat-tails;
for you can see for yourself, Mr. Lively, that ef this coat ar to be of
any more use to me, it ar got to be as a round jacket; and all this
bizness whar it got tore — and I come monstous nigh gittin dog-bit —
war none o' mine, but t'other people's; and it seem like I ought to git
paid by somebody.' Mr. Lively smile and say `of cose,' and ax me
about what I sposen them coat-tails was worth; and I tells him I don't
think two dollars and a half was high. And then, Philip, ef he didn't
pull out a five-dollar bill and give me, I wish I may be dinged!
“And then, Philip, what do you sposen that blessed and ontimely
old man said to me? Says he, `Mr. Williams, you did lose your coat-tails,
and come very nigh bein badly dog-bit while lookin on at business
which, as you say, was not yourn. You've got paid for it. When
you war out here before, Mr. Williams, you took occasion to look at
some other business — oh, Mr. Williams, I saw your tracks, and you
told on yourself next mornin at breakfast. Towser and Loud war
then gone with Uncle Moses possum-hunting. Sup-pose they had
Williams? Don't say anything, Mr. Williams; but let this be a
lesson to you, my young friend. There's more ways than one of
paying for things. I advise you, Mr. Williams, not to talk about
what you saw that night to any more people than you can help. I
am not anxious to fool people, Mr. Williams, and haven't done it;
but I would ruther people wouldn't dog me about. You see how unpleasant
it ar to be dogged, and what Loud got for meddlin with your
coat-tails. But he didn't know any better. You do, or ought to.
Let Loud's be a example to you, Mr. Williams. Good-day, Mr.
Williams.' And he left me befo' I could say a single word.
“Now, Philip, I war never so much nonplushed in all my born
days; and which when he talk about how Loud mout be an ezample,
I knowed what he mean, becase which I don't have to be knock
down stairs befo' I can take a hint. But you see, Philip, under all
the circumsances I thinks it's maybe best not to say anything about
the old man's har. Not as I keer for Mr. Lively's old hickory-stick,
becase thar's plenty o' hickories in the woods; but, Philip, it mout
git you into dif-ficulties; and ef it was to do that, I should jest feel
like I ought to take the responsibility, and I should do it. So let's
keep still. I haint told nobody but you and Mr. Jones; and he ar a
man of mighty few words anyhow, and he aint goin to talk. So less
let the old man go, and not interrupt him, and wish him much joy of
his young wife. Poor Cousin Malviny! But she look peert as ever.
I see her yistiday, and she look peert as ever. But wimming's wimming,
Philip, and you can't alter 'em.”
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