Читать книгу Further Adventures of Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason Corner Folks - Charles Felton Pidgin - Страница 14

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Alice had a delightful day at Mandy Maxwell's. The twins, Abraham Mason and Obadiah Strout, sturdy little fellows of the same age as Ezekiel's boy, were full of fun and frolic. Swiss, Uncle Ike's dog, had grown old in the past five years, but the antics of the youngsters overcame at times both age and its accompanying dignity, or love of repose, and he was often as frisky as in his younger days.

Mrs. Crowley told Alice, in confidence, that she “was most dead” with the noise of them, and that, some day, she would be “kilt intirely” by falling over them.

Alice held the little girl for hours, and, remembering Mrs. Hawkins' complaint, called her “Martha” instead of “Mattie.”

After the death of Capt. Obed Putnam, his companion, Uncle Ike came down from his attic and had the room that Quincy occupied when he boarded with Ezekiel Pettingill. He was now eighty-one years of age, and too feeble to go up and down stairs, so his meals were taken to his room.

He was greatly pleased to see Alice and to learn that there had been no return of the trouble with her eyes.

“If we had known as much then as we do now, you wouldn't have needed any doctor, Alice.”

“Why, how's that?” she asked.

“Because the mind governs the body; as we think we are—we are.”

“Well, Uncle Ike, why don't you think you are able to go down stairs and walk back again?”

“I was referring to disease, not the infirmities of old age.”

“What's the difference, Uncle?”

“I can't explain it, but there's a mighty sight of difference. I've been trying to get Mandy to let me live on sour milk, because a great doctor in Europe says we'll live longer if we do.”

“How long would you care to live?”

“As long as I could. I've been reading up on all the religions and all the substitutes, and it's going to take me some time to decide which is best—for me, I mean. I don't presume to dictate to others.”

“Which do you favour so far?”

“I was brought up on theology—great, big doses of it. I was taught that God was everything and man was nothing. Now I'm willing to give the Almighty credit for all his wonderful works, but I can't help thinking that man deserves some credit for his thousands of years of labour. There's a man out in Chicago who has got up a religion that he calls Manology. There's some good points in it, but he goes too far to suit me. I've read about ghosts and spirits, but I've got to see one before I take stock in them.”

“I understand how you feel, Uncle. You have lost the two anchors which make this life bearable. They are Faith and Hope. For them you have substituted Reason—not the reason of others, or of the ages, but your own personal opinion. Until you are satisfied, every one else is wrong.”

“Perhaps you're right, Alice. I can see now that my life has been misspent. I should have remained at home and made my wife and children happy. Instead, I became, virtually, a hermit, and for more than twenty years I have thought only of myself and done nothing for humanity, that has done everything for me.”

Alice was deeply touched by her Uncle's self-accusation. He had been good to her, and not unkind to others. But he was drifting in a sea of doubt, and really wishing to live his life over again. She felt sorry, but what could she say to give his mind peace? She would begin on the material plane.

“Uncle, how much money have you?”

“That's what troubles me, Alice. When I left home”—his voice lingered on the word—“I gave my wife and children two-thirds of what I had. The rest I put into an annuity, which dies with me. That will do nothing for those I love and who love me.”

To Alice, the case seemed almost hopeless. Here was a man who, owning his past life had been self-reliant, independent, impatient as regarded advice and control—was now weaker than a child, for, in youth, Faith is triumphant.

“You must have a talk with Quincy, Uncle. Perhaps he can help you.” She went down stairs with a sinking heart. She loved her uncle, but love, powerful as it is, cannot always cast out unbelief.

“Where can your husband be, Alice?” asked Mandy. “Half-past six, and supper's ready. I remember how I used to call out 'supper's ready' when you and he were in the parlour singing. I hope you'll sing some to-night.”

Mrs. Crowley rushed into the dining room. “He's coming, but he's got a woman with him.”

“Who can she be?” thought Alice as they followed Mrs. Crowley to the front door.

“Hello, Alice,” cried Maude. “I've brought him back with me.”

Quincy told Ambrose, Mandy's boy-of-all-work, to drive the team to the Hawkins' House and tell Mrs. Hawkins that he wished a room that night for his sister. Ambrose's hand clutched the half-dollar tightly as he repeated the message to Quincy's satisfaction. Mrs. Crowley gazed admiringly at the Governor until he disappeared from view. Alone, in the kitchen, she gave vent to her feelings.

“The foine gintleman that he is. 'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' sez he, and he shakes me hand as jintly as if I was a born lady. And the pretty sister that he has, an' the beautiful wife. An' he's the President of the State, an' sez he, 'Mrs. Crowley, how do you do, an' it's delighted I am to see you again.'”

Mrs. Crowley wiped her eyes with her apron and resumed her household duties, occasionally repeating, “'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' When Dan comes to-night I'll tell him what the Governor said.”

Hiram soon joined the party, it being his night off. As of old, he stammered, or stuttered, when excited, and the sight of Quincy and Alice was enough to entirely disorganize his speaking apparatus.

“Ain't this jolly?” said he. “Just like old times. I heerd you was at Miss Hawkinses, but I didn't think as how you'd git round here so quick. But we're mighty glad to see 'em, ain't we, Mandy? I hope you're all as hungry as I am.” He went to the kitchen door and called, “Mrs. Crowley, we're waiting for the supper.”

“How I wish Uncle Ike could be with us,” said Alice.

“Why can't you call him?” asked Quincy.

“He's too weak in his legs to come down,” said Mandy.

“I'll fetch him,” and Quincy bounded up stairs, while Mandy got a place ready for him.

Quincy soon returned with Uncle Ike in his arms and placed him in a big arm-chair at the head of the table.

Alice looked up and smiled at her husband.

“Now it is much more like old times,” she said, softly.

Maude, who had been an interested listener and spectator, finally exclaimed, “I'm not surprised that you stayed down here four months, Quincy, but we used to wonder, until we saw Alice, what the great attraction was.”

Maude's explosive remark caused a general laugh in which Uncle Ike joined. Alice, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon her, blushed prettily, “As my husband's residence here brought good to others as well as to myself, I am glad that a poor, blind girl, such as I was, proved an attraction strong enough to keep him here.”

She stopped, somewhat abashed at making so long a speech, which Maude might think indicated that she was offended at her sister-in-law's reference to herself.

“Bravo, Alice,” cried Uncle Ike, “so say we all of us.”

After supper all adjourned to the parlour. Quincy offered to carry Uncle Ike.

“No, young man. I'm all right on an even floor. It's these up and down stairs that tire my loose joints”—and he made his way, without assistance, to an easy chair in a farther corner. Quincy looked about the room. Five years had made little change. The old square piano was in its accustomed place, as well as the music stand. He looked over the pieces—the same ones that he and Alice had sung together years ago.

“Let's have some music,” said Hiram. “We haven't heard any singers, except Dan, since you folks went away. Guess that pianner's out of tune by this time.”

It certainly was, but their hearts were in tune, and it mattered little if some of the keys refused to move, or the sounds emitted were more discordant than melodious.

“Is this Dan a good singer?” asked Quincy.

“Fine!” exclaimed Hiram. “He's great on Irish songs.”

“They are always humourous or pathetic,” remarked Alice. “Some of them remind me of a person trying to laugh with a heart full of sorrow, and their love songs are so sweet.”

“Can't we have him in?” asked Maude.

“I'll go and see if he's come,” said Mandy. “He often drops in and helps Mrs. Crowley clear up after supper.”

Maude laughed. “A sure sign he's in love. I hope I'll get such a helpful husband.”

“Your life will be on different lines,” remarked Uncle Ike. “You will not be obliged to do your own housework.”

“I don't know about that. I've loafed all my life and I'd really like to know what work is.”

Mandy came back with smiling face. “Yes, he's there, and they're putting the dishes in the closet. He's coming in, and, of course, Mrs. Crowley will come too.”

“While we are waiting, play something, Maude,” said Quincy.

“I only took three quarters,” she said roguishly, as she seated herself and dashed off “Waves of Ocean” in strident style.

“I always liked that,” said Hiram.

“So do I, with my bathing-dress on,” and Maude acknowledged the applause that greeted her efforts with a low bow.

The door was opened, and Mrs. Crowley entered followed by Mr. Daniel Sweeney. Mrs. Crowley with her neat calico dress and white apron, did not look her forty-five years, and Mr. Sweeney, although five years her senior, was a young appearing man.

“I haven't the music with me,” said Mr. Sweeney to Maude, who offered to play the accompaniment.

“Give me the key—I guess I can vamp it.”

Mr. Sweeney struck a note.

“What's the title?” asked Maude.

“Widow Mahan's Pig.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Maude. “It's one of my favourites. I often sing it to my sister Florence. She just adores it.”

“Why, Maude,” cried Alice, “how can you tell such stories?” But Quincy was laughing quietly. But few people understood Maude as he did.

Mr. Sweeney had a fine baritone voice; he sang with great expression, and, what is particularly desirable in a comic song, the words could be heard and understood.