Some people in the village (but they were the spiteful ones) used to say
that Bethesda Pool might e'en so well be a dummy and done with it, if
she never could open her mouth when a person spoke to her. But there
were always others who were ready to respond that "it was a comfort
there was one woman who knew enough to hold her tongue when she had
nothing to say!" This retort was apt to provoke the reply churlish; and
many a pretty quarrel had been hatched up over the silence of Bethesda
Pool, who never quarrelled herself, because it entailed talking.
She was the Lady of the Inn, Miss Bethesda. Her mother, the late Mrs.
Pool, had married the inn-keeper, and led a sad life of it. She was a
woman of a lively fancy, and had been in the habit of saying that if
she had been fool enough to get drownded in a pool, she meant to get all
the good she could out of the name! So she named her eldest daughter
Siloama (pronounced Silo-amy), her second Bethesda, and the son, who
came just after her husband had drowned himself in his special pool of
whiskey, Heshbon. The neighbours thought this triflin' with Scriptur',
and had their own opinion of Ma'am Pool's eccentricities; but the good
lady cared little for anybody's opinion; indeed, if she had had any such
care, she would not have married Father Pool, whose failings were well
known. All that was long ago, however; Father and Mother Pool were gone
to their places, the pensive Silo-amy and the fishy Heshbon had
followed, and Miss Bethesda was Queen of the Inn.
The Inn was the only one in the village. Perhaps there was little need
even of this; but it had always been there since the old stage-coach
days, when the village was a favourite stopping-place for gay parties of
travellers, and when old Gran'ther Pool kept open house, and smiled over
his bar on all comers, like a rising sun a little the worse for wear. It
was a quaint old house, with a stone veranda in front, and mossy roofs
pitching this way and that. Inside was maze upon maze of long, narrow
corridors, with queer little rooms opening out of them,—some square,
some long; all low of ceiling and wavy of floor, with curious
dolphin-shaped latches, and doors set as if the builder had thrown them
at the wall and made the opening wherever they happened to strike. Few
of these doors were on a level with the floor; they might be two steps
above it, or three steps below; it was a matter of fancy, purely. There
was one room that could only be entered through the closet, unless you
preferred to get in at the window; but you could easily do that, as it
opened on the balcony. Then there was a square chamber containing a
trap-door; the Kidderminster carpet fitted the trap perfectly, and it
was a dangerous room for strangers to enter. Here the Freemasons used,
in old times, to hold their meetings, and carry on their mystic rites.
Later, it was the favourite playroom of the Pool children, and they and
their playmates were never tired of popping up and down the "Tumplety
Hole," as they called it.
In the middle of the second story was a long ballroom, where in old days
merry dances had been held, and young feet jigged it to the tune of
"Money Musk" or "Hull's Victory."
This room, with its wonderful wall-paper, representing the Carnival at
Rome, and its curious clock, was an object of wonder to the whole
village; and strangers or visitors were pretty sure to present
themselves at the Inn door, sometimes begging to be taken in for a few
days, sometimes merely asking the privilege of going over the quaint
old house. The reception of these visitors was apparently a matter of
caprice with the Lady of the Inn; one never could tell how she would
take it. Sometimes an eager statement that "We heard of your beautiful
house, and we have driven over from South Tupham, ten miles, on purpose
to see it!" would be met by the monosyllable "Have!" delivered in Miss
Bethesda's mildest tone, and the door would be softly but firmly shut in
the travellers' faces. Or the visitor might try another tack, and begin
with the bold assumption that the Inn was a place of public
entertainment, and that man and beast were welcome there, as a matter of
course.
"I should like two bedrooms and a sitting-room, please! And will you
send someone to look out for my horses? And—I should like supper,
something hot, as soon as convenient!" To which Miss Bethesda might
reply, "Should you?" and smile, and again shut the door.
But there were other times when something in the asking face or voice
touched one knew not what chord in the good lady's breast. On these
occasions she could be very gracious, and would say, perhaps, that she
really didn't know, she didn't take boarders—mebbe—just this
once—if't would accommodate—she didn't know—but she might compass it
somehow, and the door would be opened wide; and, once inside, the guest
was sure to be made so comfortable that he was loth to go away again.
The fact was, that being clothed with means, as they say in the village,
the Lady of the Inn felt that it was merely a matter of personal fancy,
the taking in of guests, and that if she were not in the mood for
visitors there was no manner of reason why she should be bothered with
them.
She had one servant, a grim elder, by name Ira Goodwin. The spiteful
people before alluded to said that Ira—or Iry, to give the name its
actual pronunciation—and his mistress never spoke to each other, but
communicated by means of signs. That could not be true, however, for
Mrs. Peake, next door, had been shaking a carpet in her yard one day,
close by the fence, and had heard Iry say, in a growling manner, "Guess
I can hold my tongue as well as others!" To which Miss Bethesda's crisp
tones replied: "You'd better, for the outside of your head does you more
credit than the inside!"
Thus Miss Bethesda Pool lived in solitude for the most part, and content
with her lot; and no breeze ruffled the still waters of her life.
It was very peaceful to be alone there in the great rambling Inn, and
hear no sound save the purring of the yellow cat, and the drip of the
water from the roofs. The roofs all leaked in the Inn, whenever there
was a possible chance for leaking, and the walls were covered with
strange patterns and hieroglyphics that were not included in the design
of the wall-paper.
It happened one day that Miss Bethesda Pool was sitting in her own
comfortable room, toeing off a stocking, and thinking of many things,
when she heard a knock at the door. She took no notice of the first
summons, for she found that in many cases the knocker, after one, or at
most two, trials, was apt to go away, which saved a world of trouble,
and showed that he had no business that amounted to anything, anyhow.
But this was a persistent knocker, who kept on with a timid yet steady
"rat-tat-tat—" till Miss Bethesda concluded that, whoever it was, he
had not sense enough to know when he wasn't wanted, and that she must
answer the knock.
She folded her knitting deliberately, and after examining the draughts
of the stove, and stroking the yellow cat two or three times, she went
to the door, holding her chin a little high, and looking, if the truth
must be told, rather uncompromising.
When she opened the door, however, the lines of her face softened and
her chin went down. A bright-faced girl stood there, with a shawl
wrapped round her, for the day was cold. She was trying to smile, but
there were tears in her brown eyes, and her lip was quivering.
"Miss Pool," she said, "I don't suppose I can come in, can I? I'd like
ever so much to speak to you, if you wouldn't mind!"
Miss Bethesda opened the door wide, and without wasting breath, led the
shivering child in, and closed the door after her with a bang. That bang
carried defiance across the way, and gave Miss Bethesda as much comfort
as if she had let loose a torrent of angry words. There is great comfort
in a door sometimes. Still in silence, she led the girl into the
sitting-room, drew a chair near the stove for her, and motioned her to
sit down. Then resuming her own seat, she took up her knitting again,
and gazing calmly on her visitor, evidently felt that she had done her
part.
"It's Father, Miss Pool!" said the pretty girl, whose name was Nan
Bradford. Miss Pool nodded comprehension, and set her lips more firmly.
"Father, he's going on dreadful!" said Nan. "You know Will Newell has
been—well, he has thought a sight of me, and I of him, these two years
past.
"It came about while I was staying to grandma's, over to Cyrus, and
grandma knew all his folks, and there aint any better folks in the
country, grandma said. And yet—Father—he acts as though Will was one
thief and I was another. He won't let him come to the house, nor he
won't let me write to him, nor he won't do anything—'cept just be ugly!
There! I hadn't ought to say it, I know,—my own father, and just as
good a father as ever a girl has in the wide world, I do believe, till
this come up. But he won't hear of my marrying anybody,—that is the
plain truth, Miss Pool, not if it was a seraph with six wings!
And—and—what am I to do, I should like to know? I come to you, 'cause
you've always been good to me, and I seem to know you better than anyone
else, now grandma's dead. And I wouldn't complain of Father to anyone
else in the village, so I wouldn't!"
She paused for breath; Miss Pool looked at her and nodded. It was an
expressive nod, and the girl seemed to feel better for it. She began to
cry softly, wiping her pretty eyes with the corner of her shawl. "I'm
just beat out!" she said, plaintively. "Be!" said Miss Bethesda,
soothingly; she went to the cupboard and brought out some of the famous
cookies which a few privileged children were allowed to taste from time
to time, but seldom anyone who had passed the boundary of childhood.
Nan, who was still a child in some ways, brightened at sight of the
cookies, and was soon nibbling them in comparative comfort, sighing
from time to time, and glancing up under her long eyelashes at Miss
Bethesda, who sat knitting as if her life depended upon it, her lips set
very tight, and apparently taking no notice of her guest. But Nan
Bradford knew Miss Pool, and was content to wait. She would not have
been let in, she knew, if the Lady of the Inn had not been in a good
mood. So, she nibbled the cookies, and thought of Will, and was as
comfortable as a lovelorn and persecuted damsel could be.
Miss Bethesda kept her eyes fixed on her work, but she did not see it.
Instead of the gray wool and shining needles, a stalwart figure stood
before her, the figure of Buckstone Bradford. He had been her neighbour
for all the years of their life; he was four years her senior, and they
had been playmates in childhood. A breezy, rosy-cheeked boy he had been,
and her sworn ally. The children were apt to divide into two parties:
Bethesda and Buckstone on one side, Siloama and Heshbon on the other.
Thus arrayed, they were wont to do battle around the yawning gulf of the
Tumplety Hole, shouting their respective war-cries, which alluded, in an
unfriendly spirit, to the qualities of the enemy.
"Gruff and Grum!
Deaf and Dumb!"
Siloama and Heshbon would pipe shrilly; to which Bethesda and Buckstone
would reply, in deeper tones,
"Snivelly, Sneaky,
Wobbly, Weaky!"
A general combat would ensue, in the course of which both parties were
apt to fall down the trap-door into the basement room below, and be
rescued by Mother Pool, and summarily dealt with by her slipper.
Then came the days of youth, when Buckstone courted her, and might have
won her if he had gone to work in the right way. But he was headstrong,
and she was obstinate; and he didn't get on with Siloama, and he was
hard on Heshbon, and so it had all blown over; he had married another
wife, and lost her while Nan was a baby. Miss Bethesda had forgotten all
about Nan by this time: before her stood the man of her choice, with his
feet apart and his chin stuck out, much as her own sometimes was; his
brows were knit, his eyes gleamed with sombre fire.
"Bethesda," he said, and the words seemed to force the way through his
strong white teeth, "Bethesda, I'm going to marry you, anyway, and I'd
like to see you get out of it! Mind that!"
Ah, well, that was all men knew! She had got out of it,—was it a sigh
that came at the thought, or a sniff of triumph, or a combination of the
two? And Buckstone had married a pindlin' soul that hadn't no more life
in her than a November chicken—and—that was all there was to it, Miss
Bethesda reckoned.
And now, here he was hectoring this little girl of his, that always
favoured him, and had no look of her mother—hectoring and bullying,
just as he used; and Miss Bethesda wondered if the child was a-going to
stand it. She wouldn't have stood it, not a day, for her part, if she
was his daughter, let alone his—his—wife! And then she found herself
wondering whether he would have been so hectoring if she had been—and
brought herself up again with an indignant start. Why in Tunkett should
she be fretting herself about Buck Bradford's girl, she wanted to know!
And yet,—she had got the better of Buckstone Bradford once; it would
beat the world if she could put him down again, wouldn't it?
While these thoughts were passing through her mind, the Lady of the Inn
sat, to all appearance, absorbed in her work, never dropping a stitch,
never failing to count with the regularity of a self-respecting clock;
and Nan Bradford watched her anxiously over the edge of her cooky.
"Miss Pool asks the pleasure of your company at a social dance, on
Thursday evening, at seven o'clock.
"Yours truly,
"Bethesda Pool."
This was the bomb-shell that fell into every respectable household in
the village two days after Nan Bradford's visit. Such a sensation had
never been known since old man Pool rode a saw-horse across the common
and into meeting the Sunday before he died; and, indeed, that was
nothing to be compared to this. Bethesdy Pool! Bethesdy Pool give a
party!! Well, what next? everybody wanted to know. Half-an-hour after
the notes had been delivered by Iry Goodwin (who carried them round in a
basket and handed them out as if they were death warrants), every woman
in the village, with two exceptions, was in another house than her own.
"Have you got one?" "Have you?" "Let me see!" "Lemme see if 'tis like
mine?" "Yes, they're all the same!" "Well, I do declare! don't you?" "Is
the mile-ennion coming, or what, do you s'pose?" "A social dance!
Bethesdy Pool, as hasn't set down to a table, nor yet asked a soul to
set down to hers these fifteen years,—well of all! but so't is! You
can't tell where to have some folks, even though you've had 'em all your
life, as you may say!"
The general verdict was that the Pools were all "streaky," and Bethesda
the most streakèd of any of them; and that most likely she was going
clean out of her mind this time, and there would be an end of it.
However, the unanimity on this point was equalled by the determination
of everybody, old and young, rich and poor, to go to the party. In fact,
it seemed probable that every house in the village would be deserted on
the eventful evening; for not a soul was willing to lose the sight of a
party in the old Inn.
Report said, as the day came nearer and nearer, that great preparations
were going on. Every woman who had any skill in cookery had offered her
services eagerly, hoping to have some share in the great doings; Mrs.
Fullby had "presumed likely" that Bethesda would have more'n she could
manage with her own two hands, and had assured her that she, Mrs.
Fullby, would jis lives's not bring her apurn and eggbeater and put
right in on the cake and frostin'! while Miss Virginia Sharpe hinted
delicately that there was "a certain twist" in the making of pastry
that was considered peculiar to the Sharpe family, and that no
festivity would be complete without "Sharpe tarts;" but Miss Bethesda
was of the opinion that she and Iry could do what was necessary, and
just as much obleeged to them! and in point of fact, not a soul, with
the exception of Nan Bradford, who was seen to emerge once from the Inn,
looking rather frightened but very happy, was permitted to set foot
within the mysterious doors. Mrs. Peake said that she saw Nan coming
home, looking as if she had seen a ghost and lost her heart to it; but
Mrs. Peake had a poetic way with her, and her remarks were not much
heeded in the village.
It was thought more likely that Nan had been poking her nose in where
her betters wouldn't ha' thought of poking theirs, and got it taken off
for her pains, and served her right! But it happened that Mrs. Peake was
right this time.
Thursday evening came! The moon was full, the sleighing perfect; Nature
was evidently in league with Miss Bethesda Pool, and meant to do her
share in making the party a success. Miss Pool, standing in state at the
end of the ballroom, waiting for her guests to arrive, made a pleasant
picture in her old-fashioned flowered brocade, one of the
self-supporting kind, little beholden to any figure inside it. Her hair
was still brown, still pretty, with its crinkles that caught the light,
and gave her a wonderful look of youth, well carried out by her bright
hazel eyes, and trim figure. In truth, she was not old, Miss Bethesda;
her fortieth birthday was only just past, and she was straight as a
dart, and strong as a tree; but when one has played old woman for
fifteen years, one gets to think the play a reality, and one's
neighbours are not slow to adopt the view. On looking in the glass, this
evening, Miss Bethesda experienced a slight shock, and a decided
impression of good looks. She wondered if Buckstone Bradford would find
her much changed; she regretted that she had worn her old "punkin" hood
quite so uniformly for the last ten years, and meditated on the
attractions of a certain sky-blue "fascinator," which had been lying in
her top-drawer ever since Siloama died. Fond of bright colours Siloama
always was, and dressy to the day of her death. Anyhow, the brocade was
handsome enough to please any one! Miss Bethesda smoothed down the
shining folds, examined her white silk mitts carefully, and glanced up
at the clock, to see how much longer she had to wait. Nearly seven!
Folks would most likely be on time, Miss Bethesda thought, with a grim
smile; curiosity could hurry the laziest folks that ever forgot to draw
their breath! She reckoned every old podogger in the village would turn
out to see Bethesdy Pool make a fool of herself; but let 'em come!
There'd be more than one fool to-night, if things went as they should!
'Twas strange, though, that she hadn't heard no word from—
Here her meditations were interrupted; for the door at the end of the
ballroom flew open and revealed a tall young man, wrapped to his eyes in
fur, who rushed forward and took her hand, and tried to say something,
and failed egregiously.
"Will Newell!" cried Miss Bethesda, "do you mean to tell me this is you?
For gracious sake, what do you want? Didn't you get my note?"
"Yes, ma'am, I did," cried the big fellow, drawing the sleeve of his fur
coat across his eyes. "I've done as you said; but I couldn't go farther
without thanking you, not if 'twas ever so! Miss Bethesda, I—I'd do
anything in the world for you, I believe. You don't know what a time
we've had,—Nan and me. We—I—well, I'm not one to talk, never was! but
I would do anything for you, now, I would!"
"Dance the Virginia Reel with me, then," said Miss Bethesda, smiling
grimly at her joke. "Or else, if you don't want to do that, take
yourself out of this as quick as you can, Will Newell, and get ready!
Hark! There's the bell this minute. You've fixed it all right with Nan?"
"All right!" panted Will. "I've got the team hid away where you said, in
the old cow-shed. Now I'll go and fix me; and maybe we will have the
reel, Miss Pool, if you'll have it early enough on the programme. I
won't promise to wait for you, though, more'n the first half of the
evening."
He ran out, his eyes shining with joy; and Miss Bethesda folded her
white mitts again, and waited calmly for the first guests.
The clock struck seven, and Miss Bethesda glanced up again. It was a
wonderful clock, this of the old Inn. More than a hundred years it had
hung there, having been brought over from England by Gran'ther Pool,
before he lost his money and took to keeping the Inn. Its dial and frame
were gayly painted with dancing figures, with garlands of flowers, from
which peeped laughing faces of loves and fairies. The great weights that
hung against the wall were curious, too,—dolphin-shaped, like the
door-latches, and shining with remnants of gilding. And now, following
closely on the seventh stroke, came notes of music, faint, rustling
notes, the very spirit of sound; a waltz, sweet and delicate as the tiny
faces that peeped from the painted garlands on its dial, faltered forth
from the old clock: "Tra-la-la, lira-la, la-la!—" and between the notes
of the swinging measure the wheels creaked and groaned, and the wires
wheezed, and the weights lamented as they slid up and down. "Just like
any other old fool," thought Miss Bethesda, "doing things she has no
business to!" and for a moment she felt as old as the clock, and
repented her of her purpose.
But the guests were here! They had been gathering for some time in the
cloak-room, and now one couple had been bold enough to make the first
break, and the narrow staircase was crowded with maids and matrons, sons
and fathers, all in their best. Every eye glistened with eager
curiosity, every mouth was open to whisper in the next ear at anything
singular that should meet the eye when they came into their hostess's
presence; but lo and behold! there stood Bethesda Pool, looking as if
she had a party every week of her life, and had nothing in the world to
do but stand there and look fine.
Very stately was the courtesy with which Miss Bethesda greeted her
guests. She was pleased to see them; hoped they would enjoy themselves,
and make themselves as much to home as if they was to home! This was
generally the extent of her conversation with any one group of eager
neighbours, before turning to welcome the next. But presently the colour
deepened a little in her still fresh cheek, and her eyes grew brighter;
for, coming up the ballroom, she saw the stalwart form of Buckstone
Bradford, with pretty Nan beside him, looking like roses and milk in her
white dress. "Knew he'd come!" Miss Bethesda said to herself; and
immediately discovered, by the flutter at her heart, that she had not
known, but only hoped it.
Truth to tell, Mr. Bradford had had a dozen minds about coming to
Bethesda Pool's party. He had never forgiven her for her treatment of
him twenty years before; his heart was of firm and tenacious fibre, and
retained the impression of affections and of injuries more than many a
softer organ. He considered Bethesda still the finest-looking woman in
the neighbourhood, and would have snorted with contempt if anyone had
told him that his daughter Nan, with her pink-and-white prettiness, was
fairer than ever his old sweetheart had been. But admiring was not
forgiving, and nothing would have brought Buckstone out to-night save
the dread of "goings-on" on the part of his girl and that
good-for-nothing Newell fellow.
There was something in the air,—Buckstone did not know what it
was,—something that made him uneasy. Nan had been so meek the last time
he scolded her, never once standing up for her favourite, as she was
wont to do; she had been so affectionate, and,—well, she was always a
good girl when she wasn't making a fool of herself about a noodle; but
there was more than usual, her father thought. He didn't dare to let her
go alone to the party; there was the plain truth of it; he was afraid,
he knew not of what. So he had had his hair cut, and had taken out and
brushed his wedding coat, not without angry and defiant thoughts of her
who should have stood up with him when he wore it; and, briefly, here he
was, standing before Bethesda Pool, grim and forbidding, but still a
fine-looking man, his hostess thought, and towering head and shoulders
above everyone else in the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Bradford! pleased to see you!"
"Your servant, Miss Pool!" and it was over, and the mist began to clear
from Miss Bethesda's eyes, as she turned aside to ask the fiddler if he
was ready. The fiddler was ready, of course. He had been tuning his
fiddle for the last fifteen minutes, and his fingers were itching to
begin. Was he not a pupil of old Jacques de Arthenay, the famous fiddler
of the last generation? And had he not been shelved for the past ten
years, just because folks were fools enough to prefer an organ and a
cornet to the only instrument ordained of Heaven to make people dance!
So with right good-will he mounted the stool in the corner, and struck
up the "Lady of the Lake."
How many years it was since that hall had rung to the sound of a fiddle!
Probably no one present knew; but many, and especially the older ones,
or those who were cast in a sentimental mould, felt that there was
something ghostly in this first dance. People were a little timid,
perhaps; and their hostess, standing silent and stately in her stiff
brocade, was not the one to set them at their ease. It seemed to Miss
Selina Leaf as if, when the dancers took their places in the two long
lines, she heard the rustle of many gowns that were not seen in the
room; as if old, forgotten perfumes were wafted through the air, and
soft, subdued voices whispered courtly greetings at her side. She was
"littery," Miss Selina, and had written many "sweet things" for the
county weekly.
But the "Lady of the Lake" is a robust and inspiring dance, and soon
banished all shadowy or sentimental thoughts from the minds of the
dancers. "Down the middle!" "Sashy to partners!" "Turn the same!" "Eight
hands round!"
Soon eyes were sparkling and cheeks glowing like flame, and the young
feet went flying up and down the long, low room, as young feet will fly
when the fiddle sounds and the blood courses freely through the veins.
Miss Bethesda Pool looked on with bright eyes, her foot (she had the
prettiest foot in the room, and knew it) tapping in time to the music.
She had refused several invitations to dance, without a word, simply a
sniff of denial; but it was good to see a dance again.
Will Newell was there, dancing with his cousin, the pasty-faced girl,
who would have money when her grandfather died: dancing dutifully, as if
the cousin were the only girl in the room, and not so much as glancing
toward where Nan Bradford, more rosy than ever, was footing it lightly
as a fairy, opposite young Jacob Flynt.
Jacob was her father's choice for her, as everybody knew; and it was no
wonder that Buckstone Bradford looked cheerful and contented as he
leaned against the wall with folded arms, watching the dancers.
Yes, Buckstone was contented for the moment; things were going just as
he wished to see them; and yet—so ungrateful a creature is man—he
could not help suspecting even his own satisfaction. What made Nan so
happy? When had anyone seen her look like this before when she had to
dance with Jacob Flynt? Was this duty or—or what?
The "Lady of the Lake" was followed by the "Portland Fancy;" that by the
splendid romp of the "Tempest."
Ah! these were dances! Happy the neighbourhood where the real dances,
the wreathing, linked garlands of grace and lightness and youth, still
form part of a ball! The waltz is pretty enough, when well done; but
who has not tired of the endless whirl of revolving couples, dual
teetotums, spinning round and round, till sight and brain are dizzy
alike? You shall not find, in painting or sculpture, any showing forth
of waltz or polka as Nature's expression of joy and motion. But what
Greek vase or tablet, what glowing canvas of Giorgione, or Veronese, but
might be glad to catch the rhythmic swing of the "Tempest," as the long
line wavers to and fro, and the bold dancers in the middle sweep down
the hall and back again,—to catch and fix it in immortal lines of
carving or of colour?
"Gents choose partners for 'Pop goes the Weasel!'"
There had been an intermission, during which the hall had hummed like a
hive of vari-coloured bees. People were thoroughly at ease now, and
speech flowed freely, as the couples promenaded up and down.
"A festive occasion, truly, Mr. Bumpus!" said Miss Selina Leaf, with
gentle dignity.
"Bustin'! bustin'!" replied Mr. Bumpus, with effusion. "Haven't seen
such goin's on in the village, I d'no when! Does a person good to
limber out the j'ints once in a while; dancin's better than bar's grease
any day in the week! Haw! haw!"
Miss Selina considered this remark vulgar, and bridled gently, but made
no reply.
"Surprisin' thing, too," Mr. Bumpus went on. "Bethesdy Pool—now, you'd
ha' said her dancin' days were over, if anyone had ha' asked you,
wouldn't you,—same as yours and mine?"
Miss Selina winced again, and looked toward a seat, but the bold Bumpus
went on, unconscious.
"We'd ha' said that, surely,—you and me; yet there she is, looking most
as young as the girls, I do maintain. Don't know as there's any manner
of use in gettin' old before you're obleeged ter; never enj'yed a 'Lady
of the Lake' more than I did that one with you, ma'am. What's that? 'Pop
goes the Weasel?' Now you don't mean to say! Why, I haint danced 'Pop
goes the Weasel!' since my Maria was a baby, and look at her dancin' it
with her husband! Reckon I must look up my woman and dance this with
her, or she'll be castin' up at you, Miss Selina; so if you'll excuse
me!—" and the good man bustled off, leaving Miss Selina rigid with
indignation.
"Pop goes the Weasel!" It was an old dance, and had not been seen in the
village for years. Indeed, many of the lads and lasses had never seen
it, and looked about them at a loss, as the lively strains struck up,
notes whose shrill gayety made even the "Tempest" seem quiet by
comparison. But the older men and women cast glances at each other,
half-shy, half-pleased. This was renewing old times with a vengeance!
Many a husband followed the example of Israel Bumpus, and led out the
choice of his youth, flattering himself that she "stood it as well as
any of 'em," while mature spinsters settled themselves elaborately in
their seats, with an air of never having heard of the old-fashioned
dance,—unless some one came to ask them for it, in which case memory
became suddenly refreshed, and they stood up with right good-will.
Now it happened that in happier days this had been the favourite dance
of Miss Bethesda Pool, and that her favourite partner in it had been
Buckstone Bradford. She could not keep back a start when the well-known
air was played with all its old fire; and for the life of her, it
seemed, she could not help looking across the hall at Buckstone, where
he stood, leaning stiffly against the wall. He was looking at her, of
course: somehow, she knew he would be. Their eyes met; and perhaps
neither of them knew exactly what happened next. Before Mr. Bradford had
time to collect his thoughts, he found himself bowing his stiff back
before Bethesda Pool. "My dance, I believe!" he said, shortly; and
though Miss Bethesda knew it was nothing of the kind, she could not find
breath to say so. She looked up, she looked down; and the next moment,
to the amazement of everybody, the two old sweethearts took their places
at the head of the line.
Now Will Newell had been growing uneasy during the last half-hour. He
had hardly had a chance to speak to Nan, yet had managed to make her
understand that all was ready, and that when he gave the word she was to
take her life in her hand and fly with him. But when could he give the
word? Bradford's eyes had hardly left his daughter's figure all the
evening; he followed her up and down the lines of dancers, frowning
heavily if Will happened to be near her in the dance, stolidly content
if her neighbour were young Jacob Flynt. What was Will to do? The horse
would be getting uneasy, and the moon would be setting before long. He
must get rid of old Bradford, somehow!
Suddenly, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his tormentor fairly
turn his back on Nan: saw him cross the room, saw him bend before Miss
Bethesda, saw him standing up to dance. Now! now was the chance! In an
instant Will had forced his way before Jacob Flynt, who was just about
to lead Nan out for the dance. "You're engaged to me for this, you know,
Nan," said this unblushing young fellow; and he drew her arm under his
with a quick, masterful gesture. "But—but—but she promised me!" cried
poor Jacob, who stammered a little.
"Oh, go to Tinkham!" said Will, alluding disrespectfully to the next
township; and he led off his trembling Nan in triumph.
"All around the cobbler's shop
The monkey chased the weasel;
That's the way the money goes,—
Pop! goes the weasel!"
The fiddle says "Pop!" as plainly as the ridiculous doggerel; and at the
word, two of the three who have been swinging round together lift their
arms, and the third goes "pop!" under and rises to confront the next
couple: more tiptoe swaying, balancing to this one, chassez-ing to that
one; then three hands round, and "pop!" goes the weasel again; and so
on down the whole room, in the prettiest, merriest, most enchanting
dance of them all. But this is engrossing, I would have you know. When
one is popping every third minute, and balancing and swinging during the
other two, it is difficult, it is impossible, to keep a sharp lookout on
two persons who are popping at the other end of the dance. Half of
Buckstone Bradford, the worst half, was having a sad time of it, trying
to see over his shoulder and behind his back; but the other half, the
one that had asked Miss Bethesda to dance, ah! that half was enjoying
itself as it had not done for years. How she danced! as pat to the
music as fiddle to bow! How small her hand looked, just as it used to
look, lying in his big brown palm! How—now, where in time were those
pesky young ones?
For lo! a thing had happened. At the last triumphant "pop!" of the
weasel, there had been another pop through the little door at the
farther end of the hall; and by this time, Miss Bethesda calculated,
Will and Nan must have reached the foot of the back stairs, and be
flying across the kitchen on their way to the outer door and safety. She
drew a long breath, and turned to her companion, trying to keep the
light of triumph out of her eyes. Bradford had stopped short, setting
the dancers all astray; he looked around the room, seeking the
delinquents; his heavy brows met, his face grew scarlet. Yes, Miss
Bethesda knew he would be proper mad! But now he turned, and fixed his
eyes on her with relentless scrutiny; another moment, and with a roar
like a wild animal, he darted in pursuit.
The fiddler, who had learned more things than fiddling from old De
Arthenay, put out his foot, hoping to trip up the angry man; but, heavy
as he was, Bradford leaped aside like a deer, and the next instant he
was in the outer hall, and Bethesda Pool after him.
"Buckstone," she cried, "wait just a minute, and I'll tell you!"
But he turned on her savagely.
"I'll see to you afterwards, Bethesda Pool!" he cried, furiously. "You
won't make me lose time, I can tell you! Think I don't remember the old
short cut? Stand out of the way, or I shall do ye a hurt, and I don't
want to do that!"
"Buckstone!" cried Miss Bethesda again; but this time the big man,
without another word, lifted her away from the doorway in which she had
placed herself, and rushed on.
"He's forgotten," said Miss Bethesda to herself; "he's forgotten, and I
didn't tell him. He might—" she caught her breath, for there came the
sound of a crash, and then a heavy fall. "Lord, forgive me!" she cried.
"He's found it, sure enough, and like t' ha' killed himself."
"It" meant the old trap-door in the room that was formerly used by the
Freemasons. Many and many a time had she and Buckstone explored it in
childish days, and played prisoner under it, and come up through it in
all manner of costume and disguise. He ought to have known the room as
well as he knew his own hand. Was it her fault that he had forgotten, in
his blind rage? But—but she had seen him rush into the room, and she
had not warned him.
"Buckstone, be you hurt?" she cried, leaning over the dark hole in the
floor. She listened, and heard strange sounds from below,—grunts and
groans, mingled with unscriptural language.
She drew a long breath. "I knew 'twasn't deep enough to hurt him real
bad," she said. "Provided he can cuss, I guess he's all right."
She listened again, inclining her ear this time toward the outer door,
and she heard the clear jingle of sleigh-bells and the swish of a
sleigh, as it swept out of the yard and away over the snowy road. Again
Miss Bethesda breathed deep. "That's a good hearin'," she murmured; "but
I am sorry for Buckstone!
"Be you hurt?" she asked again, bending once more over the hole.
"I'll let you know whether I'm hurt or not!" muttered Buckstone from
below. "Once let me get out of this, and I'll be even with you, Bethesda
Pool!"
"Will!" said Miss Bethesda, in her calmest tone. "Well, I must be going,
Mr. Bradford. I'll send Iry to help you out. I am surprised, though,
at you forgettin', after as many times as you've ben down that hole!"
Mr. Bradford's reply did little credit to him as a church-member, and
Miss Bethesda, after calling her man and giving him certain directions,
returned to her guests in the dancing-hall.
People were looking for her with some curiosity. The news of Will's
departure with Nan had spread, and when they saw Buckstone Bradford rush
from the room, followed closely by their hostess, there was a good deal
of suppressed excitement, but no one dared to follow; you might take
liberties with some folks, but Bethesda Pool was not one of them. And,
after all, she and Buck Bradford knew each other like two old shoes, if
they hadn't spoken for fifteen years; and what they—the guests—were
here for was a good time, so when the fiddler struck up the "Chorus
Jig," most of the dancers took the floor, leaving only a few of the most
curious to watch the door, and speculate what was going on behind it.
But now the little door opened, and here was Miss Pool again, calm and
unruffled, folding her mitted hands, and looking as if she had never
heard of such a thing as a runaway couple.
"Why, Bethesdy!" said Mrs. Minchin, taking the freedom of an old
schoolmate, "we thought you was lost, for sure, goin' off with Mr.
Bradford that way!"
"Did!" replied Miss Bethesda. "Please take your partners to go down to
supper!"
The guests, with one exception, were gone. The lights were out in the
long ballroom, and the old clock resumed its solitary sway, thankful
that the noisy scraping of the fiddle was over. As Miss Bethesda closed
the door behind her the clock struck two, and softly, timidly, stole
forth the notes of the fairy waltz, as elves, waiting for their forest
revels, might steal from their hiding-places when the clumsy foot of man
has ceased to echo in their sacred green places. "La-la-la, la-lira-la!"
and who could tell what gentle ghosts were now gliding forward in the
dance?
But Miss Bethesda never thought of ghosts. She had to lay a spirit, it
was true, but there was little of ghostly about it.
Perhaps she felt some trepidation at the thought of what was before her,
and as she listened to Iry's muttered words concerning the mental status
of the one guest remaining in the Inn. But she gave no sign, only told
Iry to go to bed, and leave his door open, in case she should want to
call him.
She took a tray, and covering it with one of her finest napkins,
proceeded to lay out a dainty supper, such as she well knew how to
prepare. What had Buckstone liked best, in the old times? She guessed a
little of that lobster salad would be about right, and half-a-dozen
rolls, feathery and unsubstantial as baked morning cloud; then a
whip,—he always liked a tall whip, with raspberry jam at the bottom!
and a slice of plum-cake, and,—well, a glass of cherry-brandy might do
no harm, if they were both temperance folks. He'd be some tired,
likely, raging and routing round the way he had been, from what Iry
said. And so Miss Bethesda, like the bold woman she was, unlocked the
sitting-room door, and entered the lion's den.
She expected a rush, and held her tray firmly; but no rush came. The
lion was sitting huddled up in a great chair, with his foot on another
chair before him. At first Miss Bethesda thought he was asleep; but
catching the sombre glare of his dark eyes, she set the tray down
carefully, and faced her guest with folded hands and apparent composure.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Bradford?" she asked, seeing, with some
compunction, how pale he was.
"My leg is broke!" was the grim reply, "and I'm injured some inside,
most probably bleeding; but otherwise I'm well, Miss Pool, and much
obleeged to you!"
"You're welcome!" said Bethesda, with a flash; and then she went down on
her knees, and manipulated him skilfully.
"Your leg isn't broke!" she announced, cheerfully; "but you have got a
leetle sprain into your ankle, Buck,—I should say Mr. Bradford,—and
it's some considerable swoll up. You'd better let me bathe it for ye,
and then have a bit of supper, and then you can lay right down on the
l'unge here, and rest ye till morning. You'll be all right by then, I
calc'late, and able to git you home,—with a stick!"
The last thrust was pure malice, and the big man winced; but not
altogether at thought of the stick or the sprained ankle.
"I've got no home," he said; "thanks to you, Bethesda Pool! You've seen
that my girl got off safe with that good-for-nothin' feller, and that's
the last of any home for me! I hope it's done ye good!"
"It has so!" replied Miss Bethesda, rubbing the ankle briskly with her
favourite liniment. "A sight o' good it's done me, Mr. Bradford, and I
hope 'twill do you good, too, some day!"
"May I ask," Buckstone continued, grimly, glowering down on the little
woman, as she knelt beside him, "why you felt called to make or meddle
in my affairs, Miss Bethesda Pool?"
"You may!" said Miss Bethesda, looking up with fire in her eye. "Your
girl, pretty creetur, come cryin' to me the other day, and told me all
about how you was treating her, Buckstone Bradford; and 'twas a shame,
and you know it was! There's nothing in this world against Will Newell,
well you know! He's a church-member, and he's well thought of by all
that's acquainted with him. You didn't like his father, because you
thought I,—because you thought things about him that there was no
occasion for thinking, and he killed in the war afterwards and all; and
that's all the reason, save and except that you are a greedy grab-all,
Buckstone Bradford, and don't want your girl to do anything all her days
'cept wait on you! That's the living truth, and you know it as well as I
do! Hurt ye, did I? Well, I'm sorry for that, but if I could hurt your
mind instead of your ankle, I should be pleased to death! I can speak
when I've a mind to, if they do call me a dummy; and I'm speaking to you
now, Buckstone, and don't you forget it! You've been acting mean and
selfish and greedy, and every right-thinking person in this village is
disgusted with you, clean through to the ground! So, now! And I helped
them children off for pure pleasure, so I did, and for love of seeing
young things happy, if I aint ben happy myself! Not that that's here or
there. I planned this party for it, and laid out consid'able money, and
set every tongue in the village clacking till they e'enamost dropped
off, and a mighty good thing, too, if they had! and I sent for Will
Newell, and showed him where he could hitch his hoss, and how he could
git his girl off the quickest and the safest. You was pretty spry,
Buckstone, but you wouldn't ha' caught 'em, even if you hadn't—if you
hadn't have fell down the Tumplety Hole. And—and that's what I did, and
glad clean through to my back-comb that I done it, and would do it again
the fust time I got a chance!"
Miss Bethesda paused for breath, and bound up the lame ankle, wrapping
it in fold on fold of cool linen. She expected thunders of reply, but
Buckstone Bradford was silent.
There was a long pause, during which the coals tinkled in the grate and
the frost cracked and snapped outside.
At length,—"The Tumplety Hole!" he said, musingly. "Yes, that was it! I
was trying to think what we used to call it, and I couldn't bring the
name to mind. The Tumplety Hole, sure enough! And you come up through
it, one day, dressed in a white gown with silver trimmin's,—"
"That I found in the old trunk up garret!" put in Miss Bethesda.
"And flowers in your hair!" Bradford went on. "I thought you looked the
slickest of anything I ever saw, then, Bethesda; and—well, I don't know
but I think so still."
"Foolishness!" said Miss Bethesda, rising and wiping her hands. "Have a
bit o' supper, now, Buckstone, do!"
"No, I couldn't eat," said the big man, drawing his hand slowly across
his brow. "I couldn't eat your victuals, Bethesda, and have you thinkin'
of me the way you—you said. It's all true, it seems born in on me to
feel. I've done a good bit o' thinkin', sittin' here alone. I never
realized it before, but the fact seems to be that I've been a hog, and
bein' so, I can't sit down with no lady and eat her victuals, you see."
"Foolishness!" said Miss Bethesda again, looking rather discomposed.
"You mustn't think too much of what I said, Buckstone. Mebbe I spoke too
hash—"
"Oh, you spoke out!" said the man. "Needn't ever anybody tell me that
Bethesda Pool can't open her head. When them waters is troubled, there's
no mistake about their movin'; I knowed that before. You spoke out once
before to me, Bethesda, and the sound of it stays with me yet. There! I
guess I'll be goin'. You said you'd lend me a stick, did ye?"
"Good Isick!" cried Miss Bethesda, standing up to bar his way, in real
distress. "Buckstone, you can't go out in this cold in the middle of the
night, and with your ankle that way. You'll ketch your death. Stop where
you be, like a sensible man, and have some supper with me!"
"S'pose I do ketch my death!" said Buckstone; "aint no one to care, that
I know of. Nan's gone, and there's no one else, is there, Bethesda?"
"Good Isick!" cried Miss Bethesda again, and wrung her hands in sheer
desperation. Whither were they drifting?
"If I thought—" Buckstone Bradford was speaking again, slowly this
time, the anger clean gone out of him, but with an earnestness that
shook his deep voice, and made the brave little woman before him
tremble, and her cheek flush as it had not done for many a day—
"If I thought there was anyone that cared what become of me; if I
thought there was anyone that was willing to let bygones be bygones,
seeing that I've cared for that person all my life, since—since first
we knew there was a Tumplety Hole in that room; if I thought there was
anyone who knew she could fetch out all the good there was in me,—in
old "Gruff and Grum,"—and that knew best of anyone how much good there
was to be fetched—why—if there was any such person, I'd sit down to
that table the proudest man in the wide world, and the happiest!
But—but—I don't suppose there is, do you, Bethesda?"
"Oh, my gracious land of deliverance!" cried Miss Bethesda, fairly
beside herself. "I—I—don't know as there is, Buckstone, and—and
yet—I don't know but there is! But do, for gracious sake, sit down,
whatever way it is, and eat your supper like a Christian man!"
And Buckstone sat down.
