AN OLD DAGUERREOTYPE
CALEB SPEED pushed back his chair from the dinner-table with anger anddisgust in his face. The door had just banged behind a big, hearty boyof seventeen, whom he could still see through the narrow window trudgingoff toward the barn.
The lively whistle that sounded through the closed windows seemed toaggravate the man's ill-temper. He walked over to the fireplace, andkicked the smouldering logs with his heavy boot.
"If there's any one thing that riles me all over," he exclaimed,angrily, "it's having that boy always setting himself up to be in theright, and everybody else in the wrong!"
"Well, he 'most generally is in the right," answered Caleb's wife,clearing the table. "It's remarkable what a memory Jerry has, 'speciallyfor dates. At the quilting here last week the women folks were trying tosettle when 'twas old Mis' Lockett died, and Jerry knew to the day. Hesaid 'twas two days after Deacon Stone's cows were killed by lightning,and that happened on the thirteenth of September, just a hundred yearsto the very day after Wolfe captured Quebec. You can't trip Jerry up inhistory."
"Well," answered her husband, impatiently, "he needn't be so sassy aboutit. We had a dispute over them same cows. I was telling the new ministerabout the storm, and I happened to say they was standing under apine-tree. He chipped in, 'Why, no, it wasn't, uncle; it was an oak.''It was a pine!' says I. 'No, it wasn't; it was an oak,' says he.
"Just then Hiram Stone came by, and Jerry yelled to know which 'twas.Hiram said, 'Oak.' Then Jerry grinned as malicious, and said, 'I toldyou so! I knew I was right!' If he hadn't been my dead sister's onlychild and the minister looking on--" Caleb stopped in anger.
Mrs. Speed made no comment. She was fond of her husband's nephew. He hadgrown to be almost like a son in the five years he had lived with them.They were not old--not many years older than Jerry; for Caleb's sisterhad been older than he.
Mrs. Speed only laughed at the patronizing manners which he sometimesassumed, to the great annoyance of his young uncle. But Caleb Speed wastoo dogmatic himself to tolerate such a spirit in any one else.
"He sha'n't sit up and contradict me at my own table!" Caleb declared."I'll thrash him first! He's got to show me proper respect. He needn'tthink because I've given him advantages that I couldn't have myself,that he knows it all, and I don't know anything!"
"Now, Caleb, what's the use? It's only Jerry's way," said Mrs. Speed,soothingly.
"Dear me!" she sighed, as Caleb went to his work. "It's a pity theycan't get along as they used to. Caleb's so touchy he can't standanything. I must tell Jerry to be more careful."
But when Jerry came in to supper and began his lively joking, she forgotthe little lecture she had planned.
"The Spencers are going to move West next week," remarked Mr. Speed."Land's cheap, and I guess they need more elbow-room for such a bigfamily. Greenville is a mighty thriving place, they say."
"You mean Grandville, don't you, uncle?" suggested Jerry.
"I generally say what I mean, young man!" was the curt reply.
"Well, it's Grandville, anyway!" persisted Jerry, feeling in hispockets. "Jack Spencer is out there now. I got a letter from himyesterday begging me to go out there to him. Oh, here it is! Look at thepostmark. It _is_ Grandville! I knew I was right about it."
Nettled by the tone and his own mistake, Mr. Speed finished his supperin moody silence. The boy had no idea how his habit had grown, or howsensitive his uncle had become in regard to it. "Why, Aunt Lucy," heinsisted, when she remonstrated with him, "I never contradict peopleunless I know positively that they are wrong!"
"Maybe," she answered. "But what real difference does it make whetherthe weasels killed five chickens or six, or that it was the black pigand not the spotted one that rooted up the garden? Those are such littlethings to bicker about, just for the satisfaction of saying, 'I told youso!'"
She imitated Jerry's tone and manner so well that he laughed a littlesheepishly.
"Well, I'll turn over a new leaf," he promised, "just to please you."
Caleb Speed's farm was in southern Maine, near the coast. Jerry hadgrown up with the sound of the sea in his ears. It had long sung only ameaningless monotone to the boy, but it had begun to fill him withsomething of its own restless spirit. And about this time the Spencerboys were urging him to go West.
"No," he answered; "I owe it to Uncle Caleb to stay here. He was toogood to me when I was a little shaver for me to leave him now when heneeds me. He shall have the best service I can give him until I amtwenty-one; then I'll be free to follow you."
But there came a crisis. Uncle Caleb gave Jerry a sum of money to pay abill in town. There was a five-dollar piece in a roll of bills, and thegold-piece had disappeared.
Jerry insisted that he could not have had the money. "I _know_, AuntLucy. Uncle Cale handed me the roll of bills, and I put it down in thispocket, and never touched it till I got to town. When I took it outthere were the bills just as he had handed them to me, and not a thingmore."
"Maybe there's a hole in your pocket," she suggested.
She turned it wrong side out, but found no place where a coin could haveslipped through.
"Well, it's a mystery where it went," she said. "I can't understand it."
"Pooh! It's no mystery," answered Jerry, contemptuously. "Uncle simplydidn't give it to me. He thought he had rolled it up in the bills, butwas mistaken. That's all!"
"What do you mean by that?" cried Caleb, jumping up white with anger. "Itell you it _was_ wrapped up in the bills, and if you can't account forit, you've either lost it or spent it!"
Jerry bounded up-stairs to his room, stuffed his best suit of clothesinto a little brown carpet-bag, and then poured out the contents of anold, long-necked blue vase. He had thirty dollars saved toward buying ahorse of his own. Then he marched defiantly down-stairs to his uncle.
"I never saw or touched your gold-piece," he declared, "but I'll not goaway leaving you to say that I took any of your money!"
He threw down a five-dollar bill and started to the door. As he turnedthe knob, he looked back at the woman by the fireplace, with her face inher apron.
"Good-bye, Aunt Lucy," he said, with a choke in his voice. "You've beenawful good to me--I'll never forget that!"
Then he shut the door abruptly, and went out into the night. It lackedonly five minutes of train-time when he reached the station, determinedto go to a cousin of his father's who lived in Vermont, and write fromthere to Jack Spencer that he would work his way out West as soon as hecould.
Tingling with the recollection of his uncle's reproaches, the boy sat upvery straight and wide-awake in the train for a long time. Then histension relaxed, and for lack of something else to do, he felt in hispocket for Jack Spencer's letter. As he pulled it from its envelopesomething else fell into his hand. It was a gold-piece.
He could scarcely believe his eyes as he sat dropping it from one handinto another. How had the coin got into the letter. For a time he couldnot guess; then the truth suddenly became clear to him.
The letter had been in his breast-pocket when he stuffed the roll ofbills into it, and the coin must have slipped into the open end of theenvelope as he pushed the bills down. When he began to search for themoney he had changed the letter to another pocket, never dreaming thatit contained anything except Jack's glowing description of prairie-life.
Jerry had been keeping his anger warm all the way by telling himselfthat his uncle had been harsh and unjust. He had even pictured tohimself with grim satisfaction how shamefaced Caleb would look sometimewhen he should come across the coin among his own possessions. And nowhe had to think of himself as the blunderer and the unjust, foolishperson.
But now no apology could be too humble. He would get off at the nextstation and take the first train home. The case called for an immediatereconciliation.
Then he reasoned that as he had paid for his ticket, he might as well goon to his journey's end and have a short visit. It would be easier,perhaps, to write than to speak hi
s apology.
Jerry soon found his elderly cousin, Tim Bailey, who happened to beworking just then in a new store--a combination of a book-store and anold-fashioned daguerreotype gallery; not old-fashioned then, for it wasbefore the photograph had penetrated to the rural regions. Tim'srigorous cross-questioning soon drew the whole story from the boy.
"Well, that's easily settled," said Tim. "Just you write to 'em and ownup, and say you're going to stop with me over Christmas, but that you'llbe along about New Year to turn over a new leaf. They'll bring out thefatted calf when you get back. I know Caleb like a book. He can't holdspite."
Jerry settled himself to write the letter. But he found himself hard toplease, and tore up several drafts. Writing apologies was not such easywork, after all! Then Tim put his grizzled head in at the door, with abeaming smile.
"Look here, boy, I've got an idee! The picture business is dull thismorning. Go up and get yours took. You can send it along for a Christmasgift. Sha'n't cost you a cent, either. I get all my work done gratis,for sending him so much trade."
Three days after, Jerry dropped into the post-office a little packageaddressed to his uncle, containing, besides a letter, an excellentlikeness of himself. Jerry made in the letter a straightforwardacknowledgment of his mistake, and accompanied this manly apology withan earnest request to be allowed to return home.
He had grown so homesick for a sight of the old place that he couldscarcely see the lines on his paper. And Aunt Lucy--well, he almostbroke down at the thought of all her motherly kindness to him.
"Now I'll surely get an answer by Wednesday," he thought, but Wednesdaywent by, and another week passed, and although he called regularly atthe post-office, no word came.
"Well, I've done all I could," he said. "It's plain they don't want meback."
Tim's sympathetic old heart ached for the boy's distress. He evenoffered to go up to the farm and intercede in his behalf.
"No indeed!" Jerry answered, defiantly. "I'll never beg my way back. I'mnot the kind to go where I'm not wanted."
"Maybe they never got your letter."
Jerry hooted at the idea. "No, they don't want to make up. That's thelong and the short of it."
When he finally started West, Tim Bailey went with him. Out on the farWestern prairies, Jerry struck deep root in the favourable soil, and asthe years passed on, became as much of a fixture as the new town thatbore his name. Year after year he worked on, widening his fields,improving his buildings, working early and late, solely for the pleasureof accumulating.
Tim Bailey had grown old and rheumatic, almost childish, but he stillassumed a sort of guardianship over Jerry. One day he put down hisnewspaper, wiped his spectacles, and scanned the rough, burly-lookingman on the other side of the stove, as if he had been a stranger.
"Look here, Jerry," he said presently, "you're getting to look old, andyour hair's all a-turning gray. Now you've got to quit pegging away sohard and take a holiday, before you get like me, so stiff and rheumaticyou can't get away. Why don't you go to the World's Fair? It 'ud be aburning shame for the richest man in Trigg County to miss such a show."
Thus it came about that one day Jerry rubbed his eyes in a bewilderedway to find himself in the midst of a surging crowd that thronged theentrances of the Fair.
He plodded along the Midway Plaisance, his umbrella under his arm andhis hands in his pockets; he walked and stared till late in theafternoon. It was late in May, the spring ploughing had been a goodpreparation in pedestrianism, but the long furrows, enlivened only bythe pipe of a quail or the cry of a catbird, had never brought suchweariness as Jerry felt now.
He did not realize he was so tired until he dropped into a seat in oneof the gondolas on the lagoon, and remarked confidentially to thegondolier that he was "clean beat out."
It was the first time Jerry had spoken since he entered the grounds. Theman made no reply.
He studied the fellow keenly a moment, and then turned to the crowds,surging along the banks in every direction. Not a soul in all thatmultitude even knew his name.
A feeling of utter loneliness crept over him, and when the boat landedhe was saying to himself that he would give the finest colt in hispastures for the sight of a familiar face.
A few steps farther, and he saw one. It was in the government building,where an amused crowd was exclaiming over the Dead Letter Exhibit. Jerryedged along in front of the case, wondering at the variety ofshipwrecked cargoes that had drifted into this government haven.
A vague pity stirred in him for all the hopes that had gone into thegrave of the dead letter office--rings that had never found the fingersthey were to have clasped, gifts that might have unlocked long silences,tokens of friendship that were never received, never acknowledged--allcaught in this snarled web that no human skill could possibly unravel.
Then he saw the familiar face. It smiled out at him from the case of anold daguerreotype, till his heart began to beat so hard that he glancedguiltily around, to see if any one else heard it. The blood rushed tohis head, and he felt dizzy.
It was that picture of himself, taken so long ago up in Vermont! He wasnot likely to be mistaken in it--the only picture he had ever had takenin his life.
He chuckled as he recalled the anxious oiling he had given the curlyhair to make it lie flat, the harrowing hesitation over his necktie, theborrowing of the watch-chain that stood out in such bold relief againsthis brocaded vest. How quaint and old-fashioned it looked!
He passed his hand over his grizzled beard with a sigh, for the smooth,boyish face was not all he saw. It brought back the whole faded past sooverwhelmingly that for awhile he forgot where he was.
Thirty-three years since he had dropped that little package in theoffice! He did not question why the letter had gone astray. He had losthis boyish faith in his own infallibility. He had probably mailed itwith only half the address, perhaps none.
Now he was a boy again, back in Maine. Aunt Lucy's knitting-needlesclicked in the firelight. Uncle Caleb was making him a sled. How warmand comfortable the kitchen felt, and how good Aunt Lucy's doughnutstasted!
The crowds jostled him. He stood as if grown to the spot, until asharp-nosed woman elbowed her way in front of him, to see whatinterested him. She looked inquisitively from the picture to theweather-beaten face above her, and passed on, none the wiser. There waslittle likeness between the two.
Her penetrating glances aroused him. He came to himself with a start,looked hastily around, and then set out from the building, heedless ofdirection. A keen, raw wind struck him as he strode along the lakeshore. He shivered and turned up his coat collar.
A drizzling mist of rain began to fall. People going by with theirumbrellas up looked at him curiously as he plodded along with his ownumbrella under his arm.
Soon a heavy dash of rain aroused him to the necessity of findingimmediate shelter. A group of State buildings was just ahead. Glancingup he saw the name of his native State on one, and hurried in.
A great log heap blazed and crackled in the huge fireplace, filling theroom with a glowing comfort that warmed him, soul and body. He drew achair close up to it, and spread his chilly fingers to the flames.
The sticks against the forelog burnt to embers and fell into the ashes.The crane seemed to swing backward like a great finger, pointing to thepast, as he sat and stared into the fire.
People passing through the room saw only a rough old farmer, his clumsyboots stretched out on the hearth. They never dreamed of the scenes thatpassed before him in the fire. There were glimpses of snow-covered pinewoods, of sparkling trout-streams gurgling in the June sunshine, of longstretches of level sea-sands where the tide crawled in.
The old homesickness waked again. What had they thought of him throughall these silent years? He wondered how they would receive hislong-delayed apology. He must write as soon as he got back to the hotel.
The rain had stopped. He stood up and shook himself, then wentout-doors again, pulling his beard meditatively, as he walked towar
d thegate. It seemed a week since he had entered it.
Outside, while he waited for a car, he kept poking the end of hisumbrella savagely into a crack in the pavement. As he swung himself tothe platform of a passing car, he turned back for another look at thedomes and towers inside the gates.
It was his last look. He had seen enough. He was going back to UncleCaleb and Aunt Lucy.
THE END.
Aunt 'Liza's Hero, and Other Stories Page 8
