University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
MR. DON CALLS UPON MR. PARMENTER, ON
BUSINESS.

Near the top of one of the most eminent hills, and
just in the middle of Eastham, commanding a wide
view in all directions, was a large and very architectural-looking
house, which, as any one could tell you, was Mr.
Parmenter's. This gentleman our readers have already
met; and to this house we shift for a while the scene
of our story, because Mr. Parmenter is not only a great
man in Eastham, and has a good deal to say and do in
town affairs, but also, as has been seen, carries great
weight in the affairs of St. Bart's School, and influences,
moreover, the fortunes of our Antony Brade. It is in
the forenoon of one of those fine days that make the
fall in New England the loveliest season of the world's
year.

A flag-staff went up from the top of the roof into
upper air, from which was commonly flying, in the latter
part of the day, a red flag, with an angular device
of some sort, which the neighbors differently explained.
“Old Uncle Nat Burrows,” at the foot of the hill (very
often to be found, in pleasant weather, leaning on his
stick, at his front gate), would say that “Tom Parmenter
was jes' like a boy about that: 's quick 's ever he got
home from his store, he set to work an' histed that

thingumy, to let folks know he was there, — the way
they did at the State House;” but what device it bore
neither he nor any one near him would pretend to say,
with certainty, — most of the neighbors having settled
it that “it was some nonsense;” and Mr. Chambers, the
carpenter, who had done “a sight of work in that house,
first and last,” saying that he “didn't know, but had
always thought it was a square.”

A short way went straight and steeply up — in some
places by stone steps let into the sod — to a little flat,
in front of the house; while a carriage-road wound
up, with easy and leisurely bend, to the same place.
The house had a great arch-way through the middle,
from front to back, and had plenty of windows in front,
and chimneys atop.

On both sides of the archway were verandas whose
floors were continuous with opposite platforms inside
the arch, on each of which opened handsome doors, —
one from its size and style, evidently, the main
entrance.

Up the side-path to this house, that day, the reader's
friend, Mr. Don, had climbed, with some loss of breath
and weariness of legs, if one might interpret his attitude
and gait, as he stooped over, with his hand at
his side, after getting to the gravelled flat before the
house.

he uttered, as he could catch breath.

“Allow me to correct you, sir,” said Mr. Parmenter,
who was opportunely in front of his archway, at the
moment: “`The height where Fame's proud temple

shines afar.' I'm familiar with that stanza, for I print
a very large edition of it every year, you know.”

“No: you surprise me, sir,” answered Mr. Don, recovering
his wind, and speaking a little like books of
the last century. “I wasn't aware of it, sir. I remembered
the verse (or stanza), from the girls speaking it,
at school, when I was a boy. You publish, then?”

“Yes, in connection with my business, I publish a
large edition of “Standard Selections from the Poets.”

“Certainly a very desirable thing, sir, to have your
productions associated with the flower of our literature.
As I frequently say, I can compare your situation
here to nothing but a lord of the manor; that is,
just about my ideal of what a lord of the manor would
be.”

Mr. Parmenter loked very modest at this compliment,
and, turning, instinctively glanced over the front
of his house, architectural and capacious, and answered,
with befitting self-depreciation: —

“In a small way, only, sir, I'm afraid. We can't
have the reality, here.”

Mr. Don had followed the direction of the owner's
eyes, and in looking upward caught the slow waving
of the emblematic flag (of which, indeed, if he had
known or remembered the habits of great families
abroad, he might have made good use in the carrying-out
of his comparison of Mr. Parmenter's position to
theirs), and found in it matter for conversation and
compliment.

“That flag is a great convenience. I had a little
business, and I knew I should find you at home. One
of your neighbors, sir, with whom I was talking as I
came, asked me what that figure was on it. I couldn't

tell him. It had never occurred to me to ask. If you
were a druggist, I should say a hand and a pestle, sir.
Connected with `Melitrech'? A very good device (or
whatever it's called): `Melitrech' helped to build the
house, I suppose?”

“No: that comes from a different source,” said Mr.
Parmenter, seriously. “My relation to my neighbors
— and the town — and Saint Bartholomew's School —
is such that there may be a little curiosity to know some
circumstances about my family, — a little more than
just `he lived and died!' There has been a proposition
to secure my portrait by Rose, the eminent artist, for
the Town Hall” (“I'm not surprised at it, sir,” said
Mr. Don), “and,” continued Mr. Parmenter, “I suppose
I shall be obliged to yield to the pressure, ultimately.
That's the result generally, I believe, in such cases. I
believe we generally yield.”

This plural pronoun which he turned off so lightly
might represent the human race at large, or that upper
rank of it, — the heroic, — a sight of whom or of whose
photographs so many long to see.

“I'm assured that the name is of some note: French,
I think, in very early times, — Parlementer. You see
the French, — `parley,' `parlez-vous,' `Parliament,' `Parmenter.'
Mr. Merritt knows French, and has taken
some trouble about it: I haven't given much time to
those things.”

Mr. Don's face had assumed an expression of good-natured
amusement, which gained strength, and became
more and more pronounced, as the speaker went on;
but when Mr. Parmenter stopped, and looked inquiringly
at his smiling visitant, Mr. Don hastened to remove
any thought of incivility: —

“Pardon me, sir,” he said. “I was thinking you
might well say your pennon (if that's the word) was
not `pestle-lential;'” and it was evident that it was
only the fun of this joke, within him, which had put
him into such merry humor, in spite of himself.

His host accepted the explanation, pleasantly, explaining
that the device was one which Dr. Farwell
had found in a book, and was a hand flourishing a
scroll; and this gave Mr. Don an opportunity to use
that vein of ready wit and compliment which is seldom
at a loss in this world: —

“Every thing flourishes with you, sir, I believe,” said
he.

“That might be a little too much to say, perhaps,”
answered Mr. Parmenter, modestly; and here, like a
man of business, he left off his dissertation on the
probable eminence of his family, among the early
French, and turned to other things: —

“Oh! I see,” he said, “about the flag. Yes: I didn't
go to the city. I was contriving a little improvement
here.” (“I think you're never satisfied without
perfection,” said Mr. Don.) “I want,” continued Mr.
Parmenter, “to put something in the style of a platform-balance
here, that will throw up a draw-bridge,
under the arch, when a carriage comes upon it.” (“Very
ingenious, truly,” said Mr. Don: “we can always learn
something, by coming up to Mount Fairfield.”) “Then,
you see, with my draw-bridge down, anybody can walk
across from one side to the other, without being obliged
to touch the ground at all. Then, when a carriage
drives up, it comes upon the platform; the draw-bridge
is lifted and caught by a self-acting hold, or spring. —
Walk in, sir,” and, leading his visitor up stone steps

under the arch-way, he ushered that polite person, who
made several bows, and uttered several compliments,
in undergoing the treatment, into the chief door of
what the proprietor called, as he opened it, “Fairfield
House.”

“It wants a lady of the manor, sir, does it not, to
make it complete?” said Mr. Don, modestly, though
possibly not for the first time. “There are some
charming housekeepers, I understand, in Eastham, and
of course plenty of them in other places. I did hear
that Mrs. Osborn was likely to be the favored one.”

“Perhaps they wouldn't come,” said Mr. Parmenter,
smiling serenely around upon the furnishing of his
house.

“I've no fear of that, sir,” said Mr. Don. “You have
but to ask, I think.” Then, without impatience to press
the “business” which he had mentioned, he left the
subject of a lady for the house. “I believe, sir, I never
come into this room without thinking of some of the
apartments in the noble mansions abroad. This was
always a particular favorite of mine,” he said, setting
himself before a picture on the wall, in which was a
hooded face, with a good deal of blue and some darkred
drapery. “It may not be finer than many others
in your — gallery, I call it, sir, I don't know whether
I am technically right, — but there's a religious repose,
to my eye, about this” —

“That's counted very fine, sir; though I have several
as fine, or finer,” said the owner, letting his eyes wander
over the richly framed treasures on his walls. “I think
I've often called your attention to this,” waving with
his hand, and leading up to a corner of the room, where
heavy silken cords and tassels were arranged, as he

showed, to draw and draw back a heavy silk-demask
curtain, so as to let in more or less light upon a fresh-hued
painting in which some pretty beings — nymphs,
or sylphs, or fairies, — merry and roguish-looking —
were blowing, with fanciful and be-ribboned bellows,
on rosebuds and buds of morning-glories, which were
opening, at the breath. A good deal of really life-like
and comely drawing and coloring had been put into
this fanciful extravagance.

“A very happy conceit, sir, you observe, It's called
`The Blowing of the Flowers.'”

“And yet I think (if you'll allow me, sir) you're not
conceited,” said Mr. Don, emphasizing just so much,
and smiling just so much as was becoming to a man
who felt that he could, and wanted others to feel that
he could, make a very neat joke without any appearance
of effort. “I have often admired this painting,
sir. I think, with you, that it's a very happy conceit, all
but the word `blowing,' which strikes me as a little
ordinary. Doesn't it strike you so?”

“Worcester, sir, I believe,” said Mr. Parmenter,
like one who could quote authorities.

“I should suppose `bloom' was the more elegant
English,” said Mr. Don, like one who, for his part, had a
choice in such things, and knew how to use our tongue.

“It's Worcester, sir. Mr. Merritt objected a little,
too; but I satisfied him.”

Now Mr. Don saw a favorable opening for his business,
and mentioned it again. Mr. Parmenter accordingly
led the way to a smaller room, which he pronounced
to be his `Study.' He did not, however, omit to say,
as he passed a tall rosewood stand, on which, in the
middle of a purple-velvet cushion, lay a very black and

somewhat odd-looking fiddle. “This is probably the
gem of my collection, — a genuine Stradivarius, —
a Cremona of the sixteenth century, one of the only
five known to exist in the world.”

“I'm aware, sir; but it's all lost upon me, I'm sorry
to say. I've no music in my soul, sir. Somehow, it was
left out. — The business on which I came,” continued
Mr. Don, as they seated themselves near a large desk in
Mr. Parmenter's “study,” in the presence of an inkstand,
a broad, open dictionary, an illustrated almanac, a
Prayer-book, and a Bible, which gave a literary cast to
the room, “is partly public, and partly personal to yourself.
— You mentioned, if you remember, the custom of
having some public recognition of those who have made
great endowments; and you thought it might be as well,
in your case, to wait for the future, — till after your demise.
I found myself unable to agree with you, sir;
and the more I have reflected on it, the more it seems
to me eminently appropriate that it should be done
now. The living example, sir, to my mind, is a great
thing; and I think you should be willing to waive personal
feelings for the sake of principle, as I make no
doubt you would.”

“I'll do any thing that's thought best, if I approve
of it,” said Mr. Parmenter, in a business-like tone; and
he looked into the blaze of the fire. Then he turned to
Mr. Don, with a smile, and added: —

“I won't do any thing I don't approve of.”

“What I should propose — and I think it would meet
the views of the other Trustees — would be to have a
celebration by the School, on some particular day, —
your birthday, for example” —

Mr. Parmenter sat, not as if taken by surprise, although

it seems always possible, in such cases, to take great
men by surprise.

“How does the suggestion strike you, sir?” asked
Mr. Don, after waiting for some expression.

Mr. Parmenter left his abstraction.

“I think,” said he, “a proposition of that sort will
keep;” and he smiled pleasantly. “There's no hurry
about doing me honor;” and he stroked his face with
his broad hand.

Mr. Don was not to be easily moved from his purpose.

“That's your way of looking at it, sir: I must take
leave to differ. It isn't every day that a man gives
five thousand dollars to endow tutorships in a school,
— at any rate, our school has never had any such benefactions.
The question of a proper name, or title, has
been raised,” he went on, as if the first point was by
this time pretty well disposed of: “how would `Patron'
do?”

“Oh, no!” answered Mr. Parmenter, decidedly: “I
should object to that name, as unpopular and invidious.”

Mr. Don was embarrassed, but not long. He made
another proposition: —

“It's proposed to call that fund `The Sustentation
Fund:' how would `Sustentator' do? A little too
unusual?”

“Too Latiny, ain't it?” asked Mr. Parmenter, who
occasionally fell to plain English. “How do you spell
it?” and he drew the open dictionary to himself.
“There is no such word in `Worcester,'” he added,
after searching.

“An idea occurs to me, which might need further
development,” said Mr. Don, by no means at the end

of his resources. “We have an American word —
suggested to me by the circumstances of your position”
— and here, sitting up straight, and looking earnestly
into the fire, he thought vigorously.

The idea was, perhaps, a little crude as yet; for
Mr. Don's active mind labored with it in silence for
a moment, and then put it forth diffidently: —

“`Patroon' was the word which I had in my mind,
sir. Your position, here, makes it natural. A patroon,
as I understand it, is the chief man in the neighborhood,
and owns most of the land there. That corresponds
very well with your case, sir, I think.”

“We never had any thing of that sort in this part
of the country,” said Mr. Parmenter, rising, but not as
if he must absolutely reject it on that score: “do you
think it would go down?”

“I put it forth as a suggestion: we can take it into
consideration,” said Mr. Don, rising too; “and I shall
feel it my duty to bring up that subject of a demonstration
on your birthday, at the next meeting of the
Trustees. You haven't heard any thing more, I suppose,
about our mysterious boy, since the Stranger's
visit, the other day? You were going to make inquiry
at Weston, sir.”

“Yes: there was such a man there, with a letter.
He'd been at Wale, Leavett, & Co.'s. Mr. Wale read his
letter; but couldn't recollect his name. He said it was
some sort of a jaw-breaking name” —

“Has he got the letter?”

“No; and he can't remember who it was from,
whether it was from the Governor, or Lieutenant-Governor,
or President of the Senate, or Speaker of
the House, or who. All he can remember is, it was
from some `big bug,' as he said.”

“We might inquire of every one of those, if it was
important; but they wouldn't be likely to remember.”

“No, sir; and we shouldn't want to make the matter
too public by pushing it too hard. I wouldn't
recommend being apathetic, like Rector Warren, — he
made it almost a personal matter, you know, sir, —
but I think we can afford to wait;” and, after this
hopeful forestalment of the future, he took his leave, as
courteously as he had entered.