University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
IN WHICH JIM GETS THE FURNITURE INTO HIS HOUSE, AND MIKE
CONLIN GETS ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF ADVICE INTO JIM.

Jim had a weary winter. He was obliged to hire and to
board a number of workmen, whom it was necessary to bring
in from Sevenoaks, to effect the finishing of his house. His money
ran low at last, and Mr. Benedict was called upon to write
a letter to Mr. Balfour on his behalf, accepting that gentleman's
offer of pecuniary assistance. This was a humiliating
trial to Jim, for he had hoped to enter upon his new life free
from the burden of debt; but Mr. Balfour assured him that
he did not regard his contribution to the building-fund as a
loan—it was only the payment for his board in advance.

Jim was astonished to learn the extent of Miss Butterworth's
resources. She proposed to furnish the house from the
savings of her years of active industry. She had studied it
so thoroughly during its progress, though she had never seen
it, that she could have found every door and gone through
every apartment of it in the dark. She had received from
Mr. Benedict the plan and dimensions of every room. Carpets
were made, matting was purchased, sets of furniture were
procured, crockery, glass, linen, mirrors, curtains, kitchen-utensils,
everything necessary to housekeeping, were bought
and placed in store, so that, when the spring came, all that
remained necessary was to give her order to forward them,
and write her directions for their bestowal in the house.

The long-looked for time came at last. The freshets of
spring had passed away; the woods were filling with birds;
the shad-blossoms were reaching their flat sprays out over the
river, and looking at themselves in the sunny waters; and the

thrush, standing on the deck of the New Year, had piped all
hands from below, and sent them into the rigging to spread
the sails

Jim's heart was glad. His house was finished, and nothing
remained but to fill it with the means and appliances of life,
and with that precious life to which they were to be devoted.
The enterprise by which it was to be supported lay before
him, and was a burden upon him; but he believed in himself,
and was not afraid.

One morning, after he had gone over his house for the
thousandth time, and mounted to the cupola for a final
survey, he started for Sevenoaks to make his arrangements for
the transportation of the furniture. Two new boats had been
placed on the river by men who proposed to act as guides to
the summer visitors, and these he engaged to aid in the water
transportation of the articles that had been provided by “the
little woman.”

After his arrival in Sevenoaks, he was in consultation with
her every day; and every day he was more impressed by the
method which she had pursued in the work of furnishing his
little hotel.

“I knowed you was smarter nor lightnin',” he said to her;
“but I didn't know you was smarter nor a man.”

In his journeys, Jim was necessarily thrown into the company
of Mike Conlin, who was officiously desirous to place
at his disposal the wisdom which had been acquired by long
years of intimate association with the feminine element of
domestic life, and the duties and practices of housekeeping.
When the last load of furniture was on its way to Number
Nine, and Jim had stopped at Mike's house to refresh his
weary team, Mike saw that his last opportunity for giving
advice had come, and he determined to avail himself of it.

“Jim,” he said, “ye're jist nothing but a babby, an' ye
must ax me some quistions. I'm an owld housekaper, an' I
kin tell ye everything, Jim.”

Jim was tired with his work, and tired of Mike. The great

event of his life stood so closely before him, and he was so
much absorbed by it, that Mike's talk and a harsher effect
upon his sensibilities than the grating of a saw-mill.

“Ah! Mike! shut up, shut up!” he said. “Ye mean well,
but ye're the ignorantest ramus I ever seen. Ye know how to
run a shanty an' a pig-pen, but what do ye know about keepin'
a hotel?”

“Bedad, if that's where ye are, what do ye know about
kapin' a hotel yersilf? Ye'll see the time, Jim, when ye'll
be sorry ye turned the cold shoolder to the honest tongue of
Mike Conlin.”

“Well, Mike, ye understand a pig-pen better nor I do. I
gi'en it up,” said Jim, with a sigh that showed how painfully
Mike was boring him.

“Yes, Jim, an' ye think a pig-pen is benathe ye, forgittin'
a pig is the purtiest thing in life. Ah, Jim! whin ye git up
in the marnin', a falin' shtewed, an' niver a bit o' breakfast
in ye, an' go out in the djew barefut, as ye was borrn, lavin'
yer coat kapin' company wid yer ugly owld hat, waitin' for
yer pork and pertaties, an' see yer pig wid his two paws an' his
dirty nose rachin' oover the pin, an sayin' `good-marnin' to
ye,' an' squalin' away wid his big v'ice for his porridge, ye'll
remimber what I say. An', Jim, whin ye fade 'im, ah! whin
ye fade 'im! an' he jist lays down continted, wid his belly
full, an' ye laugh to hear 'im a groontin' an' a shwearin' to
'imself to think he can't ate inny more, an' yer owld woman
calls ye to breakfast, ye'll go in jist happy—jist happy, now.
Ah, ye can't tell me! I'm an owld housekaper, Jim.”

“Ye're an old pig-keeper; that's what you be,” said Jim.
“Ye're a reg'lar Paddy, Mike Ye're a good fellow, but I'd
sooner hearn a loon nor a pig.”

“Divil a bit o' raison have ye got in ye, Jim. Ye can't
ate a loon no more nor ye can ate a boot.”

Mike was getting impatient with the incorrigible character
of Jim's prejudices, and Jim saw that he was grieving him.

“Well, I persume I sh'll have to keep pigs, Mike,” he

said, in a compromising tone; “but I shan't dress 'em in
calliker, nor larn 'em to sing Old Hundred. I sh'll jest let
'em rampage around the woods, an' when I want one on 'em,
I'll shoot 'im.”

“Yis, bedad, an' thin ye'll shkin 'im, an' throw the rist
of 'im intil the river,” responded Mike, contemptuously.

“No, Mike; I'll send for ye to cut 'im up an' pack 'im.”

“Now ye talk,” said Mike; and this little overture of
friendly confidence became a door through which he could
enter a subject more profoundly interesting to him than that
which related to his favorite quadruped.

“What kind of an owld woman have ye got, Jim? Jist
open yer heart like a box o' tobacky, Jim, an' lit me hilp ye.
There's no man as knows more about a woman nor Mike Conlin.
Ah, Jim! ye ought to 'ave seed me wid the girrls in the
owld counthry! They jist rin afther me as if I'd been stalin'
their little hearrts. There was a twilve-month whin they tore
the very coat tails aff me back. Be gorry I could 'ave married
me whole neighborhood, an' I jist had to marry the firrst one
I could lay me honest hands on, an' take mesilf away wid her
to Ameriky.”

This was too much for Jim. His face broadened into his
old smile.

“Mike,” said he, “ye haven't got an old towel or a hoss-blanket
about ye, have ye? I feel as if I was a goin' to cry.”

“An' what the divil be ye goin' to cry for?”

“Well, Mike, this is a world o' sorrer, an' when a feller
comes to think of a lot o' women as is so hard pushed that
they hanker arter Mike Conlin, it fetches me. It's worse nor
bein' without victuals, an' beats the cholery out o' sight.”

“Oh, ye blaggard! Can't ye talk sinse whin yer betthers
is thryin' to hilp ye? What kind of an owld woman have ye
got, now?”

“Mike,” said Jim, solemnly, “ye don't know what ye're
talkin' about. If ye did, ye wouldn't call her an old woman.
She's a lady, Mike. She isn't one o' your kind, an' I ain't

one o' your kind, Mike. Can't ye see there's the difference
of a pig atween us? Don't ye know that if I was to go hazin'
round in the mornin' without no clo'es to speak on, an' takin'
comfort in a howlin' pig, that I shouldn't be up to keepin' a
hotel? Don't be unreasomble; and, Mike, don't ye never
speak to me about my old woman. That's a sort o' thing
that won't set on her.”

Mike shook his head in lofty pity.

“Ah, Jim, I can see what ye're comin' to.”

Then, as if afraid that his “owld woman” might overhear
his confession, he bent toward Jim, and half whispered:

“The women is all smarter nor the men, Jim; but ye
mustn't let 'em know that ye think it. Ye've got to call 'em
yer owld women, or ye can't keep 'em where ye want 'em.
Be gorry! I wouldn't let me owld woman know what I think
of 'er fur fifty dollars. I couldn't kape me house over me
head inny time at all at all, if I should whishper it. She's jist
as much of a leddy as there is in Sivenoaks, bedad, an' I have
to put on me big airs, an' thrash around wid me two hands in
me breeches pockets, an' shtick out me lips like a lorrd, an'
promise to raise the divil wid her whiniver she gits a fit o'
high flyin', an' ye'll have to do the same, Jim, or jist lay
down an' let 'er shtep on ye. Git a good shtart, Jim. Don't
ye gin 'er the bit for five minutes. She'll rin away wid ye.
Ye can't till me anything about women.”

“No, nor I don't want to. Now you jest shut up, Mike.
I'm tired a hearin' ye. This thing about women is one as has
half the fun of it in larnin' it as ye go along. Ye mean well
enough, Mike, but yer eddication is poor; an' if it's all the
same to ye, I'll take my pudden straight an' leave yer sarse
for them as likes it.”

Jim's utter rejection of the further good offices of Mike,
in the endeavor to instruct him in the management of his
future relations with the little woman, did not sink very deep
into the Irishman's sensibilities. Indeed, it could not have
done so, for their waters were shallow, and, as at this moment

Mike's “owld woman” called both to dinner, the difference
was forgotten in the sympathy of hunger and the satisfactions
of the table.

Jim felt that he was undergoing a change—had undergone
one, in fact. It had never revealed itself to him so fully as it
did during his conversation with Mike. The building of the
hotel, the study of the wants of another grade of civilization
than that to which he had been accustomed, the frequent conversations
with Miss Butterworth, the responsibilities he had
assumed, all had tended to lift him; and he felt that Mike
Conlin was no longer a tolerable companion. The shallowness
of the Irishman's mind and life disgusted him, and he
knew that the time would soon come when, by a process as
natural as the falling of the leaves in autumn, he should drop
a whole class of associations, and stand where he could look
down upon them—where they would look up to him. The
position of principal, the command of men, the conduct of,
and the personal responsibility for, a great enterprise, had
given him conscious growth. His old life and his old associations
were insufficient to contain him.

After dinner they started on, for the first time accompanied
by Mike's wife. Before her marriage she had lived the life
common to her class—that of cook and housemaid in the families
of gentlemen. She knew the duties connected with
the opening of a house, and could bring its machinery into
working order. She could do a thousand things that a man
either could not do, or would not think of doing; and Jim
had arranged that she should be housekeeper until the mistress
of the establishment should be installed in her office.

The sun had set before they arrived at the river, and the
boats of the two guides, with Jim's, which had been brought
down by Mr. Benedict, were speedily loaded with the furniture,
and Mike, picketing his horses for the night, embarked
with the rest, and all slept at Number Nine.

In three days Jim was to be married, and his cage was ready
for his bird. The stoop with its “settle,” the ladder for

posies, at the foot of which the morning-glories were already
planted, and the “cupalo,” had ceased to be dreams, and become
realities. Still, it all seemed a dream to Jim. He waked
in the morning in his own room, and wondered whether he
were not dreaming. He went out upon his piazza, and saw
the cabin in which he had spent so many nights in his old
simple life, then went off and looked up at his house or ranged
through the rooms, and experienced the emotion of regret so
common to those in similar circumstances, that he could
never again be what he had been, or be contented with what
he had been—that he had crossed a point in his life which
his retiring feet could never repass. It was the natural reaction
of the long strain of expectation which he had experienced,
and would pass away; but while it was upon him he
mourned over the death of his old self, and the hopeless
obliteration of his old circumstances.

Mr. Balfour had been written to, and would keep his promise
to be present at the wedding, with Mrs. Balfour and the boys.
Sam Yates, at Jim's request, had agreed to see to the preparation
of an appropriate outfit for the bridegroom. Such invitations
had been given out as Miss Butterworth dictated, and the Snow
family was in a flutter of expectation. Presents of a humble
and useful kind had been pouring in upon Miss Butterworth
for days, until, indeed, she was quite overwhelmed. It seemed
as if the whole village were in a conspiracy of beneficence.

In a final conference with Mrs. Snow, Miss Butterworth said:

“I don't know at all how he is going to behave, and I'm
not going to trouble myself about it; he shall do just as he
pleases. He has made his way with me, and if he is good
enough for me, he is good enough for other people. I'm not
going to badger him into nice manners, and I'm going to be
just as much amused with him as anybody is. He isn't like
other people, and if he tries to act like other people, it will just
spoil him. If there's anything that I do despise above board,
it's a woman trying to train a man who loves her. If I were
the man, I should hate her.”