University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE GUEST OF THE OLD GARRISON.

“Be you ready, ma'am? If you be, I be.”

It was Jacob's voice; and Beatrice, raising
her eyes from the ground, discovered that she
had returned in a circle to the point whence
she had started, and was just entering the
clearing when met by Jacob, who had set out
to look for her.

“What! have you loaded your sled already?”
asked she, in some surprise.

“Sartain I have, and didn't work so dreadful
smart, neither. Now, be you going to ride
on the load?”

“Oh! yes. That was what I came for, you
know.”

“Well, I've driven the steers out into the
road, and fixed the buffalo on as well as I
could. The box we'll leave up here till another
time. Strange if we get home before the
rain comes on.”

“I am afraid I have kept you waiting.”

“Oh! that a'n't of no account if you don't
mind the resk of a wetting. I am sorry we
haven't got no umberill. There, set your foot
right in there; I left a kind of a step on purpose,
and—there you be!—you're spry on your
feet, any way, ma'am.”

“All right, Jacob. This is a very nice seat,
and I can see the whole country around.”

“Yes, it's ekil to being on top of a stage-coach,
and some folks won't never go inside if
they can help it.”

“I am one of those folks, Jacob. I always
ride over from Bloom on the top of the coach
when they will let me.”

“Do! Well, I've heerd so, but I didn't
know. They say they'll lay the railroad from
Bloom to Milvorhaven some time, and then
there won't be no stage-coach travel.”

“Oh! I hope not! I hope no railway will
ever come nearer to the Old Garrison House
than now,” said Beatrice, with energy.

“Waal now; why not?”

“Oh! because there are driving, growing
places enough all over the country; and Milvor
is just as it has always been, and just as I
should like to have it always remain. I don't
want the march of improvement to trample
down the quiet old ways, and slow, sleepy
fashions of the place.”

Jacob considered the point in silence for
several moments, and then, with a comical
twist of his dry face, slowly said:

“That reminds me of something I read in
a book Miss Rachel loaned me a while ago.
It was the History of England, I believe, and
it told about a king that liked every thing
just as it always was; and so he turned a lot
of folks out of their housen, and pulled up
their improvements, and put the whole deestric'

back into wild land, as nigh as he could
get it; and had a lot of deer and varmint
turned in, and then he used to go in and hunt
them, just as folks has to in a wild country to
clear the way for a settlement. Your idee
about not letting the railroad come through
Milvor is suthin' like that king's, a'n't it?”

“No; he was a revolutionist, and I am a
conservative—two quite opposite creatures.
However, I do not imagine that my fancies or
wishes will have much effect upon the progress
of civilization and the iron-horse. You
will have your railway, I don't doubt.”

“Hi, Calvin! Gee, Luther! Gee! There's
a team coming up behind, and they think they
must swerve out to make room for it. I never
see critters think as quick as this yoke o'
steers—never. There! now that feller can
pass if he's handy with his horse.”

The jingle of sleigh-bells, which for some
moments had been growing louder and louder
as the swift horse overtook the ox-team,
suddenly ceased, and a voice close behind the
load called out pleasantly enough:

“Can I pass there, my man?”

“Yes, I reckon you can,” replied Jacob,
with slightly surly independence; and Beatrice,
startled at the voice, looked down from
her elevation to meet the wondering eyes of
Mr. Monckton.

“Miss Wansted!”

“Yes, Mr. Monckton, it is really I.”

“You should have invited your friends to
your coronation—or rather to your enthronement.”

“I am afraid Milvor would not have contained
them.”

“What you say sarcastically we should say
seriously; but having asserted yourself, won't
you descend and accept a share of my humble
equipage?”

“Oh! no, thank you. I don't believe in
descending when one can remain elevated.
Will you pass us?”

“Why, no, thank you, I will follow—that
is, if you will permit me to accompany you
home. I was on my way to call upon you.”

“We shall be most happy, certainly. Drive
on, if you please, Jacob.”

And Beatrice, not attempting to conceal her
dissatisfaction, turned her head away from the
self-invited guest, and fixed her attention upon
the oxen.

Mr. Monckton, too much a man of the world
to be discomfited, or to appear conscious of any
annoyance, entered into an animated conversation
with the youth who drove him; and
nothing further passed between the lately familiar
friends, until both equipages stopped in
the open space at the southern front of the
old house.

“Now, ma'am, I'll help you down,” began
Jacob, pulling off his mittens, wiping his nose,
and settling his fur cap firmly upon his head.

“Permit me, Miss Wansted,” interposed Mr.
Monckton.

“Thank you, but Jacob is the cavalier of
this occasion,” said Beatrice, deftly placing one
foot in the interstices of the load, and resting
her little hands upon the shoulders of the
woodman, who, grasping her slender waist,
swung her lightly to the ground.

“I must congratulate Jacob both upon his
opportunities and his mode of improving them,”
laughed Mr. Monckton, meeting Beatrice, as
she regained her feet, with a hand so cordially
extended that she could not have refused it
had she tried.

“Yes, he is a capital escort. Jacob, I have
had a very nice drive and pleasant time. I
shall go with you again some time.”

“Any time that suits you, ma'am. It'll always
be agreeable to me,” said Jacob, with
grave courtesy; and Miss Wansted led the
way to the house.

In the east room, before the brightly-blazing
fire, sat the old people, while Rachel, just appearing
at the inner door, drew hastily back
at sight of a stranger.

“This is Mr. Monckton, grandfather, a
friend of Uncle Israel's; my grandfather,
Deacon Barstow, Mr. Monckton. My grandmother.”

“I am glad to see any friend of my son's.
Take off your coat, sir, and sit to the fire.
Beatrice, will you please tell Jacob to put up
the gentleman's horse?”

“Thank you, sir, thank you extremely, but
I do not think it worth while to put up the
horse for the little while I have to stay,” began
Mr. Monckton; but Mrs. Barstow broke
in upon his excuses with voluble hospitality.

“You must stay the night, sir—of course
you must stay the night. Nobody ever comes
to Milvor for less than one night, for it would
not be worth the journey, especially in wintertime.
Did you drive over from Bloom, Mr.
Monckton?”

“Yes, madam. Finding myself in this part
of the country, I thought I would run over

and see the Old Garrison House, of which I
have heard so much—make the acquaintance
of my friend Barstow's family, and call upon
Miss Wansted.”

“That's right, and I'm real glad you came,”
said the grandmother, glancing around to see
that Beatrice had left the room before she added:
“Nor I don't blame any body for wanting
to see our Trix, for she's just about as nice
a little girl as you'll find anywhere.”

To this expression of opinion, Mr. Monckton
was spared the perplexity of reply by the
entrance of Miss Barstow, who, like her parents,
welcomed the unexpected guest with a
cordial hospitality more often found, perhaps,
upon stage-routes than railroad-lines.

Mr. Monckton, well pleased, and equal to the
occasion, seated himself between the patriarch
and his wife; talked ethics, politics, traditions,
with the former; parried pleasantly enough
the downright questions of the latter upon his
personal affairs, and repaid them with bits of
gossip disguised as news. Miss Rachel, coming
and going upon her household affairs, felt
grateful in her heart to the guest who gave
“the old folks” so pleasant an hour with so
little apparent effort; and when Mr. Monckton
suddenly appealed to herself upon some
question of taste, she was ready to respond
with her most gracious smile.

Matters were in this prosperous condition
when the sound of the dinner-bell summoned
the family to the long low-ceiled room at the
back of the house, once used as a kitchen, but
converted by Miss Rachel into a dining-room.

“The Lord make us all truly thankful for
the bounty we are about to receive,” said the
deacon, reverently bowing his silvered head;
and then Mr. Monckton seated himself beside
Beatrice, who, somewhat paler and stiller than
her wont, awaited the family in the dining-room.

“Perhaps you don't like b'iled dish, Mr.
Monckton?” said Mrs. Barstow, hospitably
piling her guest's plate; “but it's our regular
Wednesday dinner, and has been for fifty
years. Beef and pork, and turnips, and potatoes,
and cabbage, and carrots, and onions—
we've had 'em all every Wednesday, the year
through, for fifty years, and I suppose we
shall every Wednesday—well, for as many
years as we have to live.”

“And may they be many,” replied Monckton,
receiving his loaded plate with an admiring
gesture. “Oh! yes,” added he, “I think
this is rather our national dish, after all—inherited,
to be sure, from English rural fashion;
but the English pot is never so generously
filled or so often replenished as ours.
I remember a story of my grandmother's,
about one of her own boiled dinners. My
grandfather was an ambitious sort of man,
whose whole heart was given to raising immense
crops, and carrying on more land than
his neighbors, so that he was rather apt to
neglect the smaller details of household management,
and leave to my grandmother and
her woman more than their share of labor.
One morning, just as he was setting off for
the fields with his laborers, my grandmother
called him back.

“`Mr. Monckton,' said she, `I have no wood
to burn to-day. What shall I do?'

“`Oh! send Lois round to pick up some,'
said the good man, making a stride toward
the door.

“`But she has picked up all she can find.'

“`Then let her break up some old stuff.'

“`But she has broken up every thing already.'

“`Oh! well, then, do the next best thing—
I must be off,' said the farmer; and off he
was, whistling as he went, and no doubt wondering
in his heart what that next best thing
would turn out to be.

“Noon came, and with it came my grandfather
and his four hungry laborers. My
grandmother stood in the kitchen, spinning on
her great wheel, and singing a pleasant little
ditty; Lois was scouring tins in the backroom,
and the cat sat purring on the hearth,
before a black and fireless chimney, while the
table sat in the middle of the room, spread for
dinner, but with empty dishes.

“`Well, wife, here we are,' said my grandfather
cheerily.

“`So I see,' replied she placidly. `Have
you had a good morning in the corn-field?'

“`Why, yes, so-so. But where is the dinner?'

“`In the pot on the door-step. Won't you
see if it is done?'

“And on the door-step, to be sure, sat the
great iron pot, nicely covered, but not looking
particularly steamy. My grandfather raised
the cover, and there lay all the ingredients of
such a dinner as we have before us—every
thing prepared in the nicest manner, and the
pot filled with the clearest of water, and all as
raw as they had ever been. My grandfather

stared, and my grandmother joined another
roll to the yarn upon her distaff, and began
another verse of her song.

“`Why, woman, what does this mean?' began
my grandfather indignantly. `This dinner
isn't cooked at all!'

“`Dear me! is it not?' asked the good wife
in pretended astonishment. `Why, it has set
in the sun this four hours.'

“`Set in the sun!'

“`Yes, you told me to try the next best
thing to having a fire, and I thought setting
my dinner in the sun was about that.'

“My grandfather stood doubtful for a moment;
but finally his sense of humor overcame
his sense of injury, and he laughed
aloud. Then picking up his hat, he said:

“`Come, boys, we might as well start for
the woods. We shall have no dinner till
we've earned it, I perceive.'

“`Won't you have some bread and cheese
before you go?' asked my grandmother, generous
in her victory, as women almost always
are. And so she won the day.”

“So that was your grandfather and grandmother,
Mr. Monckton,” said Mrs. Barstow,
when the laugh which chorused the story
was over; “and they were farmers?”

“Yes, madam, I am proud to say so.”

“Then you think well of farming?”

“It was the condition of man next to Paradise,
madam.”

“But imposed upon man as a punishment
and a curse,” said the deacon dryly.

“Your grandmother was a real smart woman,”
pursued Mrs. Barstow opportunely.
“Can't you tell us some more of her doings?”

“One more anecdote of the same sort occurs
to me,” said Mr. Monckton, smiling complacently.

“The cellar-stairs in the old farm-house
had become broken and so unsafe that my
grandmother besieged her husband, early and
late, to repair them, lest some accident should
happen. He always promised to do so, and
always forgot to fulfil the promise. At last,
one day, my grandmother fell in going down,
and spilled the milk she was carrying.

“`Are you hurt?' asked my grandfather,
smoking his pipe beside the fire.

“`No matter whether I am or not,' returned
the angry housewife, reäppearing with her
empty pan. `That is the last time I carry
milk down those stairs until they are mended!'

“`Please yourself, and find the next best
way to get it down,' said the husband, a little
vexed at her tone.

“`I will,' said my grandmother, and was as
good as her word. The next evening, my
grandfather went down cellar to draw some
cider.

“`What in thunder!' exclaimed he—nothing
worse, I assure you, madam, for he was
not a profane man. `What in thunder is the
matter here? Why, woman, your milk is all
over the cellar-bottom!'

“`Is it?' replied my grandmother tranquilly.
`Well, I think that is likely enough, falling
so far.'

“`Falling so far! What do you mean?'

“`Why, you know I said I shouldn't carry
the milk over those broken stairs again, and
you told me to try the next best way of getting
it down, so I took up a board in the
kitchen-floor, threw down the pans, and then
strained the milk down into them.'

“The cellar-stairs were mended next day.”