“Well, if you want to, Winthrop,” said his father.
The boy swung himself lightly out of the room on his crutches, and his father turned to her. “Well, how does Hatboro’ strike you, anyway, Annie? You needn’t mind being honest with me, you know.”
He did not give her a chance to say, and she was willing to let him talk on, and tell her what he thought of Hatboro’ himself. “Well, it’s like every other place in the world, at every moment of history — it’s in a transition state. The theory is, you know, that most places are at a standstill the greatest part of the time; they haven’t begun to move, or they’ve stopped moving; but I guess that’s a mistake; they’re moving all the while. I suppose Rome itself was in a transition state when you left?”
“Oh, very decidedly. It had ceased to be old and was becoming new.”
“Well, that’s just the way with Hatboro’. There is no old Hatboro’ any more; and there never was, as your father and mine could tell us if they were here. They lived in a painfully transitional period, poor old fellows! But, for all that, there is a difference. They lived in what was really a New England village, and we live now in a sprawling American town; and by American of course I mean a town where at least one-third of the people are raw foreigners or rawly extracted natives. The old New England ideal characterises them all, up to a certain point, socially; it puts a decent outside on most of ‘em; it makes ’em keep Sunday, and drink on the sly. We got in the Irish long ago, and now they’re part of the conservative element. We got in the French Canadians, and some of them are our best mechanics and citizens. We’re getting in the Italians, and as soon as they want something better than bread and vinegar to eat, they’ll begin going to Congress and boycotting and striking and forming pools and trusts just like any other class of law-abiding Americans. There used to be some talk of the Chinese, but I guess they’ve pretty much blown over. We’ve got Ah Lee and Sam Lung here, just as they have everywhere, but their laundries don’t seem to increase. The Irish are spreading out into the country and scooping in the farms that are not picturesque enough for the summer folks. You can buy a farm anywhere round Hatboro’ for less than the buildings on it cost. I’d rather the Irish would have the land than the summer folks. They make an honest living off it, and the other fellows that come out to roost here from June till October simply keep somebody else from making a living off it, and corrupt all the poor people in sight by their idleness and luxury. That’s what I tell ’em at South Hatboro’. They don’t like it, but I guess they believe it; anyhow they have to hear it. They’ll tell you in self-defence that J. Milton Northwick is a practical farmer, and sells his butter for a dollar a pound. He’s done more than anybody else to improve the breeds of cattle and horses; and he spends fifteen thousand a year on his place. It can’t return him five; and that’s the reason he’s a curse and a fraud.”
“Who is Mr. Northwick, Ralph?” Annie interposed. “Everybody at South Hatboro’ asked me if I’d met the Northwicks.”
“He’s a very great and good man,” said Putney. “He’s worth a million, and he runs a big manufacturing company at Ponkwasset Falls, and he owns a fancy farm just beyond South Hatboro’. He lives in Boston, but he comes out here early enough to dodge his tax there, and let poorer people pay it. He’s got miles of cut stone wall round his place, and conservatories and gardens and villas and drives inside of it, and he keeps up the town roads outside at his own expense. Yes, we feel it such an honour and advantage to have J. Milton in Hatboro’ that our assessors practically allow him to fix the amount of tax here himself. People who can pay only a little at the highest valuation are assessed to the last dollar of their property and income; but the assessors know that this wouldn’t do with Mr. Northwick. They make a guess at his income, and he always pays their bills without asking for abatement; they think themselves wise and public-spirited men for doing it, and most of their fellow-citizens think so too. You see it’s not only difficult for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven, Annie, but he makes it hard for other people.
“Well, as I was saying, socially, the old New England element is at the top of the heap here. That’s so everywhere. The people that are on the ground first, it don’t matter much who they are, have to manage pretty badly not to leave their descendants in social ascendency over all newer comers for ever. Why, I can see it in my own case. I can see that I was a sort of fetich to the bedevilled fancy of the people here when I was seen drunk in the streets every day, just because I was one of the old Hatboro’ Putneys; and when I began to hold up, there wasn’t a man in the community that wasn’t proud and flattered to help me. Curious, isn’t it? It made me sick of myself and ashamed of them, and I just made up my mind, as soon as I got straight again, I’d give all my help to the men that hadn’t a tradition. That’s what I’ve done, Annie. There isn’t any low, friendless rapscallion in this town that hasn’t got me for his friend — and Ellen. We’ve been in all the strikes with the men, and all their fool boycottings and kicking over the traces generally. Anybody else would have been turned out of respectable society for one-half that I’ve done, but it tolerates me because I’m one of the old Hatboro’ Putneys. You’re one of the old Hatboro’ Kilburns, and if you want to have a mind of your own and a heart of your own, all you’ve got to do is to have it. They’ll like it; they’ll think it’s original. That’s the reason South Hatboro’ got after you with that Social Union scheme. They were right in thinking you would have a great deal of influence. I was sorry you had to throw it against Brother Peck.”
Annie felt herself jump at this climax, as if she had been touched on an exposed nerve. She grew red, and tried to be angry, but she was only ashamed and tempted to lie out of the part she had taken. “Mrs. Munger,” she said, “gave that a very unfair turn. I didn’t mean to ridicule Mr. Peck. I think he was perfectly sincere. The scheme of the invited dance and supper has been entirely given up. And I don’t care for the project of the Social Union at all.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” said Putney, indifferently, and he resumed his analysis of Hatboro’ —
“We’ve got all the modern improvements here, Annie. I suppose you’d find the modern improvements, most of ‘em, in Sheol: electric light, Bell telephone, asphalt sidewalks, and city water — though I don’t know about the water; and I presume they haven’t got a public library or an opera-house — perhaps they have got an opera-house in Sheol: you see I use the Revised Version, it don’t sound so much like swearing. But, as I was saying—”
Mrs. Putney came in, and he stopped with the laugh of a man who knows that his wife will find it necessary to account for him and apologise for him.
The ladies kissed each other. Mrs. Putney was dressed in the black silk of a woman who has one silk; she was red from the kitchen, but all was neat and orderly in the hasty toilet which she must have made since leaving the cook-stove. A faint, mixed perfume of violet sachet and fricasseed chicken attended her.
“Well, as you were saying, Ralph?” she suggested.
“Oh, I was just tracing a little parallel between Hatboro’ and Sheol,” replied her husband.
Mrs. Putney made a tchk of humorous patience, and laughed toward Annie for sympathy. “Well, then, I guess you needn’t go on. Tea’s ready. Shall we wait for the doctor?”
“No; doctors are too uncertain. We’ll wait for him while we’re eating. That’s what fetches him the soonest. I’m hungry. Ain’t you, Win?”
“Not so very,” said the boy, with his queer promptness. He stood resting himself on his crutches at the door, and he now wheeled about, and led the way out to the living-room, swinging himself actively forward. It seemed that his haste was to get to the dumb-waiter in the little china closet opening off the dining-room, which was like the papered inside of a square box. He called to the girl below, and helped pull it up, as Annie could tell by the creaking of the rope, and the light jar of the finally arriving crockery. A half-grown girl then appeared, and put the dishes on at the place
s indicated with nods and looks by Mrs. Putney, who had taken her place at the table. There was a platter of stewed fowl, and a plate of high-piled waffles, sweltering in successive courses of butter and sugar. In cut-glass dishes, one at each end of the table, there were canned cherries and pine-apple. There was a square of old-fashioned soda biscuit, not broken apart, which sent up a pleasant smell; in the centre of the table was a shallow vase of strawberries.
It was all very good and appetising; but to Annie it was pathetically old-fashioned, and helped her to realise how wholly out of the world was the life which her friends led.
“Winthrop,” said Putney, and the father and mother bowed their heads.
The boy dropped his over his folded hands, and piped up clearly: “Our Father, which art in heaven, help us to remember those who have nothing to eat. Amen!”
“That’s a grace that Win got up himself,” his father explained, beginning to heap a plate with chicken and mashed potato, which he then handed to Annie, passing her the biscuit and the butter. “We think it suits the Almighty about as well as anything.”
“I suppose you know Ralph of old, Annie?” said Mrs. Putney. “The only way he keeps within bounds at all is by letting himself perfectly loose.”
Putney laughed out his acquiescence, and they began to talk together about old times. Mrs. Putney and Annie recalled the childish plays and adventures they had together, and one dreadful quarrel. Putney told of the first time he saw Annie, when his father took him one day for a call on the old judge, and how the old judge put him through his paces in American history, and would not admit the theory that the battle of Bunker’s Hill could have been fought on Breed’s Hill. Putney said that it was years before it occurred to him that the judge must have been joking: he had always thought he was simply ignorant.
“I used to set a good deal by the battle of Bunker’s Hill,” he continued. “I thought the whole Revolution and subsequent history revolved round it, and that it gave us all liberty, equality, and fraternity at a clip. But the Lord always finds some odd jobs to look after next day, and I guess He didn’t clear ’em all up at Bunker’s Hill.”
Putney’s irony and piety were very much of a piece apparently, and Annie was not quite sure which this conclusion was. She glanced at his wife, who seemed satisfied with it in either case. She was waiting patiently for him to wake up to the fact that he had not yet given her anything to eat; after helping Annie and the boy, he helped himself, and pending his wife’s pre-occupation with the tea, he forgot her.
“Why didn’t you throw something at me,” he roared, in grief and self-reproach. “There wouldn’t have been a loose piece of crockery on this side of the table if I hadn’t got my tea in time.”
“Oh, I was listening to Annie’s share in the conversation,” said Mrs. Putney; and her husband was about to say something in retort of her thrust when a tap on the front door was heard.
“Come in, come in, Doc!” he shouted. “Mrs. Putney’s just been helped, and the tea is going to begin.”
Dr. Morrell’s chuckle made answer for him, and after time enough to put down his hat, he came in, rubbing his hands and smiling, and making short nods round the table. “How d’ye do, Mrs. Putney? How d’ye do, Miss Kilburn? Winthrop?” He passed his hand over the boy’s smooth hair and slipped into the chair beside him.
“You see, the reason why we always wait for the doctor in this formal way,” said Putney, “is that he isn’t in here more than seven nights of the week, and he rather stands on his dignity. Hand round the doctor’s plate, my son,” he added to the boy, and he took it from Annie, to whom the boy gave it, and began to heap it from the various dishes. “Think you can lift that much back to the doctor, Win?”
“I guess so,” said the boy coolly.
“What is flooring Win at present,” said his father, “and getting him down and rolling him over, is that problem of the robin that eats half a pint of grasshoppers and then doesn’t weigh a bit more than he did before.”
“When he gets a little older,” said the doctor, shaking over his plateful, “he’ll be interested to trace the processes of his father’s thought from a guest and half a peck of stewed chicken, to a robin and half a pint of—”
“Don’t, doctor!” pleaded Mrs. Putney. “He won’t have the least trouble if he’ll keep to the surface.”
Putney laughed impartially, and said: “Well, we’ll take the doctor out and weigh him when he gets done. We expected Brother Peck here this evening,” he explained to Dr. Morrell. “You’re our sober second thought — Well,” he broke off, looking across the table at his wife with mock anxiety. “Anything wrong about that, Ellen?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Putney,” interposed the doctor. “I’m glad to be here on any terms. Go on, Putney.”
“Oh, there isn’t anything more. You know how Miss Kilburn here has been round throwing ridicule on Brother Peck, because he wants the shop-hands treated with common decency, and my idea was to get the two together and see how she would feel.”
Dr. Morrell laughed at this with what Annie thought was unnecessary malice; but he stopped suddenly, after a glance at her, and Putney went on —
“Brother Peck pleaded another engagement. Said he had to go off into the country to see a sick woman that wasn’t expected to live. You don’t remember the Merrifields, do you, Annie? Well, it doesn’t matter. One of ’em married West, and her husband left her, and she came home here and got a divorce; I got it for her. She’s the one. As a consumptive, she had superior attractions for Brother Peck. It isn’t a case that admits of jealousy exactly, but it wouldn’t matter to Brother Peck anyway. If he saw a chance to do a good action, he’d wade through blood.”
“Now look here, Ralph,” said Mrs. Putney, “there’s such a thing as letting yourself too loose.”
“Well, gore, then,” said Putney, buttering himself a biscuit.
The boy, who had kept quiet till now, seemed reached by this last touch, and broke into a high, crowing laugh, in which they all joined except his father.
“Gore suits Winthy, anyway,” he said, beginning to eat his biscuit. “I met one of the deacons from Brother Peck’s last parish, in Boston, yesterday. He asked me if we considered Brother Peck anyways peculiar in Hatboro’, and when I said we thought he was a little too luxurious, the deacon came out with a lot of things. The way Brother Peck behaved toward the needy in that last parish of his made it simply uninhabitable to the standard Christian. They had to get rid of him somehow — send him away or kill him. Of course the deacon said they didn’t want to kill him.”
“Where was his last parish?” asked the doctor.
“Down on the Maine coast somewhere. Penobscotport, I believe.”
“And was he indigenous there?”
“No, I believe not; he’s from Massachusetts. Farm-boy and then mill-hand, I understand. Self-helped to an education; divinity student with summer intervals of waiting at table in the mountain hotels probably. Drifted down Maine way on his first call and stuck; but I guess he won’t stick here very long. Annie’s friend Mr. Gerrish is going to look after Brother Peck before a great while.” He laughed, to see her blush, and went on. “You see, Brother Gerrish has got a high ideal of what a Christian minister ought to be; he hasn’t said much about it, but I can see that Brother Peck doesn’t come up to it. Well, Brother Gerrish has got a good many ideals. He likes to get anybody he can by the throat, and squeeze the difference of opinion out of ‘em.”
“There, now, Ralph,” his wife interposed, “you let Mr. Gerrish alone. You don’t like people to differ with you, either. Is your cup out, doctor?”
“Thank you,” said the doctor, handing it up to her. “And you mean Mr. Gerrish doesn’t like Mr. Peck’s doctrine?” he asked of Putney.
“Oh, I don’t know that he objects to his doctrine; he can’t very well; it’s ‘between the leds of the Bible,’ as the Hard-shell Baptist said. But he objects to Brother Peck’s walk and conversation. He thinks h
e walks too much with the poor, and converses too much with the lowly. He says he thinks that the pew-owners in Mr. Peck’s church and the people who pay his salary have some rights to his company that he’s bound to respect.”
The doctor relished the irony, but he asked, “Isn’t there something to say on that side?”
“Oh yes, a good deal. There’s always something to say on both sides, even when one’s a wrong side. That’s what makes it all so tiresome — makes you wish you were dead.” He looked up, and caught his boy’s eye fixed with melancholy intensity upon him. “I hope you’ll never look at both sides when you grow up, Win. It’s mighty uncomfortable. You take the right side, and stick to that. Brother Gerrish,” he resumed, to the doctor, “goes round taking the credit of Brother Peck’s call here; but the fact is he opposed it. He didn’t like his being so indifferent about the salary. Brother Gerrish held that the labourer was worthy of his hire, and if he didn’t inquire what his wages were going to be, it was a pretty good sign that he wasn’t going to earn them.”
“Well, there was some logic in that,” said the doctor, smiling as before.
“Plenty. And now it worries Brother Gerrish to see Brother Peck going round in the same old suit of clothes he came here in, and dressing his child like a shabby little Irish girl. He says that he who provideth not for those of his own household is worse than a heathen. That’s perfectly true. And he would like to know what Brother Peck does with his money, anyway. He would like to insinuate that he loses it at poker, I guess; at any rate, he can’t find out whom he gives it to, and he certainly doesn’t spend it on himself.”
“From your account of Mr. Peck.” said the doctor, “I should think Brother Gerrish might safely object to him as a certain kind of sentimentalist.”
“Well, yes, he might, looking at him from the outside. But when you come to talk with Brother Peck, you find yourself sort of frozen out with a most unexpected, hard-headed cold-bloodedness. Brother Peck is plain common-sense itself. He seems to be a man without an illusion, without an emotion.”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 332
