Chapter 18
I ought to say that I have had and shall have to chronicle herein muchthat would seem to indicate a mighty conceit of myself. Unfortunatelythe little word 'I' throws a big shadow in this history. It looms up alltoo frequently in every page for the sign of a modest man. But, indeed,I cannot help it, for he was the only observer of all there is to tell.Now there is much, for example, in the very marrow of my history--thingsthat never would have happened, things that never would have been said,but for my fame as a scholar. My learning was of small account, for,it must be remembered, I am writing of a time when any degree ofscholarship was counted remarkable among the simple folk of Faraway.
Hope took singing lessons and sang in church every Sunday. David orUncle Eb came down for us often of a Saturday and brought us back beforeservice in the morning. One may find in that town today many who willlove to tell him of the voice and beauty and sweetness of Hope Browerthose days, and of what they expected regarding her and me. We wentout a good deal evenings to concerts, lectures at the churches or thecollege, or to visit some of the many people who invited us to theirhomes.
We had a recess of two weeks at the winter holidays and David Browercame after us the day the term ended. O, the great happiness of thatday before Christmas when we came flying home in the sleigh behind a newteam of greys and felt the intoxication of the frosty air, and drove inat dusk after the lamps were lit and we could see mother and Uncle Eband Grandma Bisnette looking out of the window, and a steaming dinner onthe table! I declare! it is long since then, but I cannot ever think ofthat time without wiping my glasses and taking a moment off. Tip Taylortook the horses and we all came in where the kettle was singing on thestove and loving hands helped us out of our wraps. The supper was amerry feast, the like of which one may find only by returning to hisboyhood. Mack! that is a long journey for some of us.
Supper over and the dishes out of the way we gathered about the stovewith cider and butternuts.
'Well,' said Hope, 'I've got some news to tell you--this boy is the bestscholar of his age in this county.'
'Thet so?' said David.
Uncle Eb stopped his hmnmer that was lifted to crack a butternut andpulled his chair close to Hope's. Elizabeth looked at her daughter andthen at me, a smile and a protest in her face.
'True as you live,' said Hope. 'The master told me so. He's first ineverything, and in the Town Hall the other night he spelt everybodydown.'
'What! In Hillsborough?' Uncle Eb asked incredulously.
'Yes, in Hillsborough,' said Hope, 'and there were doctors and lawyersand college students and I don't know who all in the match.'
'Most reemarkable!' said David Brower.
'Treemenjious!' exclaimed Uncle Eb.
'I heard about it over at the mills t'day,' said Tip Taylor.
'Merd Dieu!' exclaimed Grandma Bisnette, crossing herself.
Elizabeth Brower was unable to stem this tide of enthusiasm. I had triedto stop it, but, instantly, it had gone beyond my control. If I could behurt by praise the mischief had been done.
'It's very nice, indeed,' said she soberly. 'I do hope it won't make himconceited. He should remember that people do not always mean what theysay.'
'He's too sensible for that, mother,' said David.
'Shucks!' said Uncle Eb, 'he ain' no fool if he is a good speller--notby a dum sight!'
'Tip,' said David, 'you'll find a box in the sleigh 'at come by express.I wish ye'd go'n git it.'
We all stood looking while Tip brought it in and pried off the topboards with a hatchet.
'Careful, now!' Uncle Eb cautioned him. 'Might spile sumthin'.'
The top off, Uncle Eb removed a layer of pasteboard. Then he pulled outa lot of coloured tissue paper, and under that was a package, wrappedand tied. Something was written on it. He held it up and tried to readthe writing.
'Can't see without my spectacles,' he said, handing it to me.
'For Hope,' I read, as I passed it to her.
'Hooray!' said Uncle Eb, as he lifted another, and the last package,from the box.
'For Mrs Brower,' were the words I read upon that one.
The strings were cut, the wrappers torn away, and two big rolls of shinysilk loosened their coils on the table. Hope uttered a cry of delight. Amurmur of surprise and admiration passed from one to another. Elizabethlifted a rustling fold and held it to the lamplight We passed our handsover the smooth sheen of the silk.
'Wall, I swan!' said Uncle Eb. 'Jes' like a kitten's ear!'
'Eggzac'ly!' said David Brower.
Elizabeth lifted the silk and let it flow to her feet Then for a littleshe looked down, draping it to her skirt and moving her foot to make thesilk rustle. For the moment she was young again.
'David,' she said, still looking at the glory of glossy black thatcovered her plain dress.
'Well, mother,' he answered.
'Was you fool enough t' go'n buy this stuff fer me?'
'No, mother--it come from New York City,' he said.
'From New York City?' was the exclamation of all.
Elizabeth Brower looked thoughtfully at her husband.
'Clear from New York City?' she repeated.
'From New York City,' said he.
'Wall, of all things!' said Uncle Eb, looking over his spectacles fromone to another.
'It's from the Livingstone boy,' said Mrs Brower. 'I've heard he's theson of a rich man.'
''Fraid he took a great fancy t' Hope,' said David.
'Father,' said the girl, you've no right to say that. I'm sure he nevercared a straw for me.'
'I don't think we ought to keep it,' said Mrs Brower, looking upthoughtfully.
'Shucks and shavin's!' said Uncle Eb. 'Ye don't know but what I had itsent myself.'
Hope went over and put her arms around his neck.
'Did you, Uncle Eb?' she asked. 'Now you tell me the truth, Uncle Eb.'
'Wouldn't say 't I did,' he answered, 'but I don' want 'a see ye gosendin' uv it back. Ye dunno who sent it.'
'What'll I do with it?' Mrs Brower asked, laughing in a way that showeda sense of absurdity. 'I'd a been tickled with it thirty years ago, butnow-folks 'ud think I was crazy.'
'Never heard such fol de rol,' said Uncle Eb. 'If ye move t' the villageit'll come handy t' go t' meetin' in.'
That seemed to be unanswerable and conclusive, at least for the timebeing, and the silk was laid away. We sat talking until late bedtime,Hope and I, telling of our studies and of the many people we had met inHillsborough.
We hung up our stockings just as we had always done Christmas Eve, andwere up betimes in the morning to find them filled with many simple butdelightful things, and one which I treasure to this day--the locket andits picture of which I had been surreptitiously informed.
At two o'clock we had a fine dinner of roast turkey and chicken pie,with plenty of good cider, and the mince pie, of blessed memory, such asonly a daughter of New England may dare try to make.
Uncle Eb went upstairs after dinner and presently we heard himdescending with a slow and heavy foot. I opened the stair door and therehe stood with the old bass viol that had long lain neglected in a dustycorner of the attic. Many a night I had heard it groan as the stringsloosened, in the years it had lain on its back, helpless and forgotten.It was like a dreamer, snoring in his sleep, and murmuring of thathe saw in his dreams. Uncle Eb had dusted and strung it and glued itsweaker joints. He sat down with it, the severe look of old upon hisface, and set the strings roaring as he tuned them. Then he brought thesacred treasure to me and leaned it against my shoulder.
'There that's a Crissmus present fer ye, Willie,' said he. 'It may helpye t' pass away the time once in a while.'
I thanked him warmly.
''S a reel firs'-class instrument,' he said. 'Been a rip snorter 'n itsday.' He took from his bosom then the old heart pin of silver that hehad always worn of a Sunday.
'Goin' t' give ye thet, too,' he said. 'Dunno's ye'll ever care towear it, but I want y
e should hev sumthin' ye can carry'n yer pocket t'remember me by.'
I did not dare trust myself to speak, and I sat helplessly turning thatrelic of a better day in my fingers.
'It's genuwine silver,' said he proudly.
I took his old hand in mine and raised it reverently to my lips.
'Hear'n 'em tell 'bout goin' t' the village, an' I says t' myself,"Uncle Eb," says I, "we'll hev t' be goin'. 'Tain' no place fer you inthe village."'
'Holden,' said David Brower, 'don't ye never talk like that ag'in. Yerjust the same as married t' this family, an' ye can't ever git away fromus.'
And he never did until his help was needed in other and fairer fields, Iam sure, than those of Faraway--God knows where.