Phoebe Deane (32 page)

That afternoon Phoebe went back to her brother's house, the light of health and happiness beginning to glow in her face. It was hard to go back, but Phoebe was happy in the thought that these friends were true, who would continue even in the midst of daily trials.

Everybody had urged her to stay longer, but Phoebe felt that she had already stayed longer than she should have done, and insisted that she must begin life again, that it was not right to lie idle.

The truth was, Phoebe had in mind a little plan which she wanted to think about and talk over with Albert. This stay with the Spaffords had brought to a climax a great longing she had had in her heart to go to school somewhere for a little while. She had a great thirst for knowledge, and she began to think that perhaps it might be possible to gratify it, for there was that money of hers lying idle in the bank. She might take some of it and go away for a year to a good school if Albert thought so, and she almost believed he would if only he could be persuaded before Emmeline heard of it.

Phoebe had felt her own deficiencies more and more by reason of her delightful correspondence with Nathaniel Graham. She wished to make herself more his equal, that she might really be able to write letters worthy of his perusal. She little dreamed of the trouble that was swiftly descending.

In modern war we sow our harbors and coasts thick with hidden mines ready to explode should the enemy venture within our borders. In much the same fashion that morning Hiram Green started out to lay his mines in readiness for the sweet young life that was unwarily drifting his way.

He had dressed himself soberly, as befitted the part he was to play. He harnessed his horse and chaise, and taking a wide berth of country in his circuit for the day, he drove first to the home of an old aunt of his to whom he had never been bound by many loving ties, yet who served his purpose, for she had a tongue that wagged well, and reached far.

After the greetings had been exchanged Hiram sat down with a funereal air in the big chair his relative had brought out of the parlor in honor of his coming, and prepared to bring forth his errand.

" Aunt Keziah," he began, in a voice which indicated momentous things to come, " I'm in deep trouble! "

" You don't say, Hiram! What's up now ? Any of the children dead or sick ? "

" No, I ain't afflicted in that manner this time," said Hiram. It's somethin' deeper than that, deeper than sickness er death. It's fear o' disgrace."

" What! Hiram! You ain't ben stealin' er forgin' anybody's name, surely ?" The old lady sat up as if she had been shot and fixed her eyes—little eyes like Hiram's, with the glitter of steel beads—on her downcast nephew's face.

" No, Aunt, I'm thankful to say I've been kep' from pussonel disgrace," murmured Hiram, piously, with a roll of his eyes indicating that his trust was in a power beyond his own.

" Well, what is it, then ? Speak up quick. I'm too old to be kep' in hot water." The aunt spoke snappishly. Hiram perceived that he had made his impression.

" Well, you see it's this way, Aunt. You must uv heard I was takin' notice again."

" That was to be expected, Hiram, you so young an' with childern to look after. I hope you picked out a good worker."

" Yes," admitted Hiram, with satisfaction, " she's a right smart worker, an' I thought she was 'bout as near perfect all through as you could find 'em, an' I kinder got my heart sot on her. I've done everythin' she wanted that I knowed, even to buildin' a new house down on the knoll fer her, which wan't necessary 't all, bein' as the old house is much better'n the one she's ben brung up in. Yet I done it fer her, an' I ben courtin' her fer quite a spell back now; ben to see her every night reg'lar, an' home from meetin' an' singin'-school whenever she took the notion she wanted to go."

Hiram drew a long sigh, got out a big red and white cotton handkerchief and blew his nose resoundingly. The old lady eyed him suspiciously to gauge his emotion with exactness.

" Long 'but six er eight weeks ago "—Hiram's voice grew husky now—" she took sick. 'Twas this 'ere way. We was comin' home from a barn raisin' over to Woodbury's, an' it was gettin' near dark, an' she took a notion she wanted to pick some vi'lets long the roads. I seen a storm was comin' up, an' I argued with her agin it, but she would hev her way, an' so I let her out an' tole her to hurry up. She got out an' run back o' the kerridge a piece an' begun pickin' an' in a minute all on a suddent somethin' hit the horse's hind leg. I can't tell what it was, mebbe a stone er it might 'a' ben a stick, but I never took no thought at the time. I grabbed fer them reins, an' jest as the horse started to run there come a big clap o' thunder that scared the horse worse'n ever. I hung on to them reins, an' lookin back I seen her standin' kind o' scared like an' white in the road a lookin' after me, an' I hollered back, ' You go to the Widder Duzen- berry's till I come back fer yeh. It's goin' to rain.' Then I bed to tend to that horse, fer he was runnin' like the very old scratch. Well, 'course I got him stopped and turned him round an' went back, but there wasn't a sign of her anywhere to be seen. The Widder Duzenberry said she hedn't seen her sence we druv by fust. I went back fer her brother, an' we searched everywhere, but we couldn't find her no place, an' will you 'blieve it, we couldn't find a sign of her all night. But the next mornin' she come sailin' in lookin' white an' scared and fainted away, an' went right to bed real sick. We couldn't make it all out, an' I never said much 'bout it, 'cause I didn't 'spicion nothin' at the time, but it all looked kinder queer afterward. An' what I'd like to know is, who threw that ar stone thet hit the horse ? You see, it's all come out now thet she's been cuttin' round the country with a strange young man from New York, she's met him off in the woods an' round. They say they used 'ter meet not far from here—right down on the timber lot back o' your barn was one place they used to meet. There's a holler tree where they'd hide their letters. You 'member that big tree taller than the rest, a big white oak, 't is, that has a squirrel harbour in it? Well, that's the one. They used to meet there. And once she started off on some errand fer her sister-in-law in the coach, an' he es bold es life went 'long. Nobody knows whar they went, some sez Albany, some sez Schenectady, but anyhow she never come back till late the next day, an' no countin' fer where she'd been.

" Her sister-in-law is a nice respectable woman, and they all come of a good family. They'll feel turrible 'bout this, fer they've never 'spicioned her any more'n I done. She's got a sweet purty face like she was a saint "

" Them is always the very kind that goes to the dogs," quoth Aunt Keziah, shaking her head and laying down her knitting.

" Well, Aunt Keziah," said Hiram, getting out his handkerchief again, " I come to ask your advice in this matter. What be I to do?"

"Do?" snapped Aunt Keziah. "Do, Hiram Green? Why be thankful you found out 'fore you got married. Ifs hard on you, 'course, but 'tain't near so hard es 'twould 'a' ben ef you'd 'a' found out after you was tied to 'er. An' you just havin' had such a hard time an' all with a sickly wife dyin'. I declare, Hiram Green, you suttin'ly hev been preserved!"

" But don't you think, mebbe, Aunt Keziah, I ought to stick to her ? She's such a purty little thing, an' everybody's down on her now, an' she's begged me so hard not to give her up when she's in disgrace. She's promised she'll never hev nothin' more to do with these other fellers "

There were actually some hypocritical tears being squeezed out of Hiram's little pig-eyes and rolling down in stinted quantities upon the ample kerchief. It would not do to wipe them away when they were so hard to manufacture, so Hiram waited till they were almost evaporated and then mopped his eyes vigorously.

" Well, Hiram Green, are you that soft-hearted! I declare to goodness, but you do need advice! Don't you trust in no sech promises. They ain't wuth the breath they're spoken in. Jest you hev nothin' more to do with the hussy. Thank goodness there's plenty more good workers in the world— healthy ones, too that won't up 'n die on ye jest in harvest."

" Well, Aunt Keziah!"—Hiram arose and cleared his throat as if a funeral ceremony had just been concluded— " I thank yeh fer yer good advice. I may see my way clear to foller it. Jest now I'm in doubt. I wanted to know what you thought, an' then I'll consider the matter. It ain't as though I hedn't been goin' with her pretty steady fer a year back. Yeh see what I'll do'll likely tell on how it goes with her from now on."

" Well, don't you go to be sentimental like, Hiram. That wouldn't set on you at your time o' life. Jest you stand by your rights an' be rid of her. It's what your ma would 'a' said ef she was alive. Now you remember what I say. Don't you be soft-hearted."

" I'll remember, Aunt," said Hiram, dutifully, and went out to his chaise.

He took his slow and doleful way winding up the road, and as soon as he was out of sight beyond the turn the alert old lady put on her sunbonnet and slipped up to her cousin's place half a mile away. She was out of breath with the tremendous news she had to tell, and marveling all the way that Hiram had forgotten to tell her not to speak of it. Of course he intended to do so, but then of course he wouldn't object to having Lucy Drake know. Lucy was his own cousin once removed, and it was a family affair in a way.

Hiram's next visit was at the Widow Duzenberry's.

Now the Widow Duzenberry had often thought that her good daughter would make a wise choice for Hiram Green, and could rule well over the wild little Greens and be an ornament to the house and farm of Green. Therefore it seemed a special dispensation of Providence that Susanna had that afternoon donned her best sprigged chintz and done her hair up with her grandmother's high-backed comb. She looked proudly over at her daughter as Hiram sat down in the chair that Susanna had primly placed for him near her mother.

When the few preliminary remarks were concluded, and the atmosphere had become somewhat breathless with the excitement of wondering what he had come for, Hiram cleared his throat ominously and began:

" Mrs. Duzenberry," he said, and his countenance took on a deep sadness, " I called to-day on a very sad errand." The audience was attentive in the extreme. " I want to ask, did you take notice of me an' Phoebe Deane a ridin' by, the day of Woodbury's barn raisin' ? "

" Wai, yes," admitted old Mrs. Duzenberry, reluctantly. " Now 't you mention it, I b'lieve I did see you drivin' by, fer there was black clouds comin' up an' I says to Susanna, says I, ' Susanna, we mebbe ought to bring in that web o' cloth that's out to bleach. It mebbe might blow away.'"

" Well, I thought p'raps you did, Mis' Duzenberry, an' I want to ask, did you take notice of how we was sittin' clost to one 'nother, she with her head restin' on my shoulder like? I hate to speak of it, but Mis' Duzenberry, wouldn't you 'a' thought Phoebe Deane was real fond o' me!"

Mother Duzenberry's face darkened. What had the man come for?

" I certain should," she answered, severely; " I don't approve of sech doin's in open road."

" Well, Mis' Duzenberry, mebbe 'twas a little too sightly a place, but what I wanted to know from you, Mis' Duzenberry, was this. You saw what you saw. Now, won't you tell me when a man has gone that fur, in your 'pinion is there anything thet would justify him in turnin' back ? "

" There might be>" said the old lady, somewhat mollified.

"Well, what, fur instance?"

" Wai, he might 'a' found he thought more o' some one else," and her eyes wandered toward her daughter, who was modestly looking out of the window.

" Anything else ? " Hiram's voice had the husky note now as if he were deeply affected.

"Wai, I might think of somethin' else, gimme time."

" What ef he found out she wan't all he thought she was?"

Mother Duzenberry's face brightened.

" 'Course that might 'feet him some," she admitted.

" I see you don't understand me," sighed Hiram. " I take it you ain't heard the bad news 'bout Phoebe Deane."

" She ain't dead, is she ? I heard she was better," said Susanna, turning her sharp thin profile toward Hiram.

" No, my good friend," sighed Hiram, " it's worse'n death. It certainly is fer that poor girl. She's to be greatly pitied, however much she may have aired."

The two women were leaning forward now, eager for the news.

" I came to you in my trouble," said Hiram, mopping his face vigorously, " hopin' you would sympathize with me in my extremity, an' help me to jedge what to do. I wouldn't like to do the girl no wrong, but still, considerin' all that's come out the last two days—Say, Mis' Duzenberry, you didn't see no man hangin' round here that day little before we druv by, did you? No stranger, ner nuthin'."

" Why, yes, ma," said Susanna, excitedly. " There was a wagon come by a goin' toward the village, and there was two men, an' one of 'em jumped out an' took somethin' from the other, looked like a bundle er sumthin', an' he walked off towards the woods. He had butternut-colored trousers."

" That's him," said Hiram, frowning, " they say he always wore them trousers when anybody's seen him with her. You know the day they went off in the stage to Albany he was dressed that 'a' way! "

" Did they go off in the stage together in broad daylight ? That*s scandalous! " exclaimed the mother.

" You know most o' their goin's on happened over near Fundy Eoad. Aunt Keziah knows all 'bout it. Poor ole lady. She's all broke up. She always set a good store by me, her only livin' nephew. She'll be wantin' me to give up havin' anythin' more to do with Phoebe now, since all this is come out 'bout her goin's on, but I can't rightly make up my mind whether it's right fer me to desert her er not in her time o' trouble."