Dinty nudged her bench-neighbor, Freegrace Fairlie. She sensed possibilities in this. It combined good works, variety and adventure in pleasing prospect.
The speaker would now, gratis and at no charge, individually examine each little pupil. The examination was brief. The good physician cast a sapient glance at the protruded tongue, felt the pulse, with his head cocked to one side like a thoughtful blackbird, asked one question about digestive processes which brought a resentful flush to Dinty’s cheek. She considered her intestinal timetable a distinctly personal matter. The speaker made entry in a ledger, adjured one and all to be good little boys and girls and to mind their kind teachers, and withdrew.
Dinty would have liked to consult him as to methods of charitable visitation but lacked opportunity. Her immediate concern was so to impress the master and mistress of the school with her smartness that she might have the same lessons as Wealthia, which they would study together. As she was precocious in all that concerned books, whereas her older friend took only a languid and mechanistic interest in learning, her preference being for dress and amusements, this was not difficult. Prof, and Mrs. Larrabee congratulated themselves upon these newest accessions, on the grounds of Wealthia’s prettiness and popularity and Araminta’s manifest cleverness. They added to the bon ton of the establishment, said Mrs. Larrabee who taught the higher aspirants French.
Hours were from eight-thirty to noon, and from one to four. At recess Dinty was so full of excitement that she could hardly eat her dinner. Assuming that this was the stimulus of the school, her parents questioned her at length. Do what she would to satisfy the parental interest, the child’s mind was on a higher, starrier world. She did not dare broach the dangerous topic of the evening’s theatrical entertainment as yet. First, Wealthia must see whether she could prevail upon her saturnine father to include the small friend in the evening festivity.
Happily Mr. Genter Latham was in fine humor that afternoon. Through a combination of business acumen and political influence, he had taken over a contract to excavate ten miles of the Erie Canal, on the Western Section, and it was now progressing so rapidly that he was able to estimate a minimum profit of fifteen thousand dollars. The usual chilly gray of his deep-set eyes warmed when they rested on his daughter.
“Ask Araminta Jerrold?” he repeated. “Why not?”
“Oh, Pa! Aren’t you sweet! I do love you! But I’m so scared they won’t let her go.”
“Pooh! Stuff and nonsense! Why shouldn’t they? I’ll go there with you and put it to them. There’s a matter which I wish to talk over with Squire Jerrold anyway.”
To give importance to the mission, Mr. Latham ordered out his gig, to which he drove his pair of roans, tandem. In any other resident this would have been regarded as hifalutin, but with Genter Latham, nobody had the temerity to remark upon it. People respected his wealth, his power, and, above these, his black temper. He brooked no impertinence, as one corner wit who had ventured a derisive commentary upon “nose-to-tail drivin’ ” learned at the cost of having a well-directed whiplash cut a weal across his cheek from a distance of seven yards.
The Jerrolds welcomed the Lathams with polite warmth. Inwardly Archibald Jerrold considered them as one of the very few—possibly half a dozen—families of the township entitled to social equality with himself. Apart from this, he felt no special attraction to Genter Latham. Few did. The visitor, over a hospitable glass of genuine French brandy, came at once to the point.
“How would you like to undertake a further transaction with me, Squire?”
“I might consider it,” was the cautious reply. Transactions entered into with Mr. Latham were not invariably profitable to the party of the second part. The Squire was beginning to doubt whether he would come clear on his present canal project.
The younger man knew that the Jerrold fortune was waning. Wool-raising was less assured than it had been in the days when Archibald Jerrold had founded his fortunes upon the high prices occasioned by the depredations of the swarming wolves, now pretty well killed off. Furthermore, the hard times of 1817 had hit him, whereas Genter Latham, having funds set apart and waiting opportunity, turned the crisis to good account, buying up rich bottom lands at seventy-five cents an acre, selling the timber, and planting the clearings to hemp, mint and grain. Men said with awe that he must be worth close on to one hundred thousand dollars, that there was no time when he could not, at need, touch as much as ten thousand dollars, cash. Of no other in all that region could as much be said, except of the Geneseo magnates, Squire Wadsworth and Col. Hopkins. Secured loans at twelve percent and conservative investments at ten kept the Latham income at a high level.
Jerrold asked, with affected indifference, “What is the nature of this venture?”
“A sizable contract east of here is in the market. The present contractor is in embarrassments. You and I might pick up a pretty penny there.”
“I’m sickening of the damned canal,” said the Squire gloomily. “There’s nothing but worry in it. What does it bring to any locality that it invades? Fever and disease. Lawlessness and rapine and immorality. Conflict between the respectable citizenry and the wild Irish. Corruption of the lower classes and unsettlement of trade.”
“And money,” grinned the financier. “Don’t forget the money, Squire.”
Drawing to him a sheet of paper and a pencil, he began to cipher. Men said (and often with rueful conviction) that Genter Latham could make figures perform the magic of Mesmer. With fascinated eyes, the Squire watched the swift development of the proof.
So many units of labor at fifty cents per day per man, or twelve dollars and found by the month, to remove so many cubic yards of soil. Log houses for shelter to be cut from ownerless timberland. Provender? Flour, potatoes and all vegetables were at bottom prices, while for meat there was pork, pickled fish and game. Wild fowl and venison could be had almost at the price of the powder. With a quart allowance of whisky on Sundays the working force could be kept hearty and happy on one dollar-and-a-quarter or less per week. Get a good, rough-and-tumble overseer at three dollars a day and the backer could sleep through the contract while the balances piled up in his favor.
Squire Jerrold had heard it all before. Nevertheless he could not help but be impressed by the confident voice, the slick array of numerals.
“Ah, well,” said the tempter, tossing aside his pencil, “give it your leisurely consideration, Squire. I leave it to your recognized business judgment. Tasty brandy, this. Excellent!”
They took another glass, lightly tempered with water, after which they joined the ladies. Genter Latham brought up the matter of the play. Jerrold’s eyes lighted up.
“I might join you, myself,” he said.
“Very pleased,” said Mr. Latham politely.
“Oh, Archibald!” protested his consort in a dying voice.
Perceiving the prospect of tears, Squire Jerrold sighed. “Very well, very well, my dear. But there can be no objection to our daughter attending a performance endorsed by press and pulpit.”
Dinty danced out of the parlor on air, to dress up in her church-best.
That evening was an experience of more than mortal exaltation. Seated between Wealthia and Mr. Latham, the child clutched first one and then the other as if to preserve herself from being lifted bodily into the air and floated away upon the tumultuous tide of emotion. She sobbed over the woes of George Barnwell’s ill-fated lady-love; she shrieked aloud when the misguided young man’s dagger pierced the rich uncle’s heart; she shook from head to foot when the miscreant was led forth, exuding moral precepts at every step, to meet his gallows-doom. In vain did the sophisticated Wealthia, herself somewhat shaken, point out that it was not real. Dinty continued to shiver with horror long after the final curtain fell upon the last tidbit of moralization.
Then what an uplift to the stricken spirit! Part II was pure delight. Could this merry wight who sang so entrancingly the excruciatingly comic ditties of “Dame Durden” be the s
ame actor whom she had but now seen racked with his impending fate? Yes, there was the name: Mr. Archbold. And Mr. Clarendon, who was so pitifully old and feeble as the slain uncle, dancing like an amiable goblin as he convulsed his audience with the risible sayings promised in the program. Miss Gilbert, too, how gay, how arch, how bewitching she proved to be, all her woes forgotten! And another charmer, Miss Sylvia Sartie, whose genius had been all but smothered in the part of the maid, now enticed the hearts of all, as the program had truthfully foretold. “Dame Durden,” for Dinty’s money! She would have liked to see it all over again.
The clear treble of her delight rang infectiously. She seized every opportunity for furious and prolonged applause. Her enthusiasm brought an unforeseen and incredible reward. The dainty, the vivacious, the lovely nymph who played the soubrette part was singling her out for her nods and becks and wreathed smiles. (Dinty remembered that line from the hymn book. Or perhaps it wasn’t the hymn book. It didn’t seem quite hymnal.)
“Did you see?” she breathed ecstatically in the intermission. “She was singing right at us.”
“I noticed it, too,” agreed Wealthia, enraptured.
Mr. Latham’s Mephistophelian chuckle dispelled the roseate dream. “Not exactly, I fear,” said he.
“But, Father!” “But, Mr. Latham!” the two childish voices united in protest.
“I saw her,” said Dinty.
“I heard her,” said Wealthia.
“She almost winked,” said Dinty.
“Doubtless.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a handsome young man in the seat back of us,” he murmured. “I suspect him of being the object of the young lady’s attentions. Eyes front!” Mr. Latham had served in the militia.
The admonition came too late. Both children had twisted around. A soft-breathed “Oh!” of recognition came to their lips. It was the young gentleman of “serious asspeckt” whose arrival Dinty had entered in her diary.
Their disillusionment was assuaged by the chaste delights of Part III. They contorted themselves with mirth over the comic song, “Cherry-cheeked Patty.” They wept unashamedly at “Robin Adair,” rendered by Mr. Wilshire, the heavy, in a tremolo baritone that quivered in their heartstrings, and they went into final collapse over Mr. Archbold’s Scotch dialect in his inimitable double characterization of the two ridiculous lovers, “Watty and Maggy.” Finally it was over, and—crowning glory!—Mr. Latham was offering them sticky-sweet ebulum in the tavern parlor. As befitted so fine and public a place, they sat up, very ladylike, and conversed in esoteric references, intended to leave any eavesdropper unenlightened.
“Oh, Wealthy! Don’t you dote on Mr. C.?”
“I prefer Mr. A. He’s so romantic.”
“But Mr. C. is so witty.”
“What lovely whiskers Mr. W. has! And such a—a throbby voice.”
“Do you think they’re real? I’ve heard that they put them on.”
“So they do,” said the experienced Wealthia. “And they paint their faces. That’s what makes them so beautiful. I’m going to be an actress. Like Miss S.”
“I think she’s a bold hussy,” said Dinty. “Making eyes at gentlemen she doesn’t know.”
“You can’t tell,” said Wealthia sagely. “Maybe he frequents theatrical associations.”
“Oo-ooh!” breathed Dinty. “Could he be a desprit rakehell? Oh, look!”
The charmer and the stranger passed the door in close communion.
“Let’s peek,” whispered Dinty, shameless where her curiosity about the ever-interesting human race was enlisted.
Opportunely Mr. Latham had gone across the parlor to speak to acquaintances. The girls scuttled into the hallway, stopping before a small room near the outer door. A murmur of voices warned them to go carefully. Dinty was first to project a cautious head.
The fair Miss Sartie was seated in a chair, her face uplifted in invitation to the young man who gazed adoringly down into her eyes. Such, at least, was Dinty’s interpretation of the tableau. The immediate sequel dispelled it. The stranger opened a black bag, took out a bottle, poured a few careful drops of liquid into a small container and applied it, first to one, then the other of the lady’s lustrous eyes. The two small spies uttered a simultaneous squawk as a firm grip retracted them from their observation post. Mr. Latham was grimly amused.
“Taking private stock of our new doctor, I see.”
“Is that what he is?”
“Certainly. And an enterprising specimen, I judge. Did you think you were witnessing a Romeo-and-Juliet passage? Haven’t you had enough drama for one evening?” He rubbed his chin beard thoughtfully. “That young man loses no time,” he observed.
Dinty bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you, sir, for a pleasurable and instructive evening.”
The Lathams drove her home, then returned to their own large and gloomy mansion. Genter Latham was well pleased with his day. His cleverly devised appeal to the avarice which, by his theory of human nature, was the mainspring of men’s motives, was working favorably upon Archibald Jerrold. An honorable man, the Squire, but not over-keen in financial matters. If Jerrold took the bait, it was his partner’s plan to keep the stretches of hard soil and the lock locations for himself—there was good money in lock-building—and turn over to his neighbor such sections as might develop “soft” areas. Let Jerrold take the risks. If all went well, he would make a fair profit. If not, it was no skin off the predatory Latham nose.
Mr. Jerrold was smoking and reading in his library when Dinty danced in, eager to tell him all about the wonderful evening. He could be relied upon to be a sympathetic and amused listener. First she pulled off her network mitts and breathed tenderly on her hands. He smiled at her.
“Sore paws again, little daughter?”
“That’s from clapping so hard.” She examined the palms. “The blisters are almost healed.” She launched into excited panegyrics of the evening’s entertainment and the actors for five uninterrupted minutes, after which she considered her hands again. “Pa,” she said confidentially, “do you believe that treasure is always found on a south slope?”
“Which hill?”
“Sampson Farm rise.”
“That’s a good three miles from here. A long distance for a little girl alone at night,” said he gravely.
“I wasn’t alone. Tip Crego took me.”
“That halfbreed!” said Squire Jerrold with displeasure.
“Tip isn’t a halfbreed,” returned Dinty warmly. “Not even a quarter. There’s only a teeny bit of Indian in him. Just enough to make him Chief of our tribe.”
“Tribe? What tribe?”
“The gold hunters. They’re all from Poverty’s Pinch but me. They dig in the dark of the moon. Tip’s been promising to take me ever so long, but I wasn’t to tell anyone. So you mustn’t peach on us, Pa.”
“I won’t. But I don’t like you to associate with those ragamuffins and cheapjacks from the Pinch.”
“I don’t believe Tip is a cheapjack. He wants to find gold so he can go to college and be a learned scholar of the sciences.”
“Indeed! Well, little daughter, you go to bed and don’t dream about treasure. We shall dredge our new fortunes out of Mr. Clinton’s ditch, not out of a hillside. Nobody’s found gold there yet.”
“Maybe I’ll be the one,” she said brightly. She added with an effect of profound conviction, “You never can tell till you try. That’s my motto. I write it every day at the top of my exercise.”
“People who take that for their guiding principle get into plenty of trouble,” warned her father, smiling.
“I don’t care,” said the child stoutly. “They have fun. And how else are you going to find out about everything?”
“I don’t know,” admitted the Squire.
He drew her to him and kissed her good night, a manifestation of affection generally frowned upon as tending to spoil the young.
– 4 –
A Beautiful and Tender Girl full of the Purest Sensabil
ities and Holiest Feelings of which our Nature is Susseptable. That is what we should Strive to be. It must be Awfle.
(DINTY’S DIARY)
Young Dr. Amlie slept over his decision and, in the morning, found it good. His first patient, the little, blowzy, coquettish soubrette who had so enchanted the two small girls, had paid him sixpence (“Discount to the profession,” she coyly murmured) after a winning smile and a sidelong shot from the eased eyes which suggested that there might be other and less commercial reward for his services. Dr. Amlie brought to mind with an effort the grave admonition of the State Board of Medical Examiners.
“A physician’s personal character should therefore be that of a perfect gentleman and above all be exempt from vulgarity of associations, depravity of manners, habitual swearing, drunkenness, gambling, profligacy, or any breach of decorum and from contempt for moral rectitude and religious practice.”
At the moment it struck him as an infringement of personal liberty. Caution intervened; he must consider his professional reputation. He took his sixpence, gave the fair patient a healing lotion, and retired to virtuous if not untroubled slumbers. Undoubtedly his proper course of conduct, he decided, would be to marry and settle down when a suitable match presented itself. Any irregular relation with one of the raffish calling of the stage would be a false start.
After a leisurely breakfast he strolled around to inspect his prospective quarters. The pleasant front room would serve him as an office. There was a closet for his skeleton, a professional extravagance which had cost him a cool eighty dollars, a convenient corner for his cabinet, a dusty carpet on the floor, two splitwood chairs, and a semi-alcove with a day couch where he could make shift to sleep. Upon receipt of a month’s rent in advance, Mrs. Harte was agreeable to his putting in shelves for his equipment, which he had brought carefully packed in his wagon.
Having unloaded, he drove to Main Street, bought some planed whitewood boards, a hammer, a saw and nails, and exhumed from his piled-up library a second-hand copy of that invaluable sixpenny guide, “The Carpenter’s Assistant, or Simple Instruction with Saw and Hammer.” Opening all the windows, he set resolutely to work.
Canal Town Page 5
