by Twain, Mark
His good Presbyterian wife was as steady as an anvil. She was not a creature of change. When she gave shelter to an opinion she did not make a transient guest of it, but a permanency. She was fond and proud of her husband, and believed he would have been great if he had had a proper chance—if he had lived in a metropolis, instead of a village; if his merits had been exposed to the world instead of being hidden under a bushel. She was patient with his excursions after the truth. She expected him to be saved—thought she knew that that would happen, in fact. It could only be as a Presbyterian, of course, but that would come—come of a certainty. All the signs indicated it. He had often been a Presbyterian; he was periodically a Presbyterian, and she had noticed with comfort that his period was almost astronomically regular. She could take the almanac and calculate its return with nearly as much confidence as other astronomers calculated an eclipse. His Mohammedan period, his Methodist period, his Buddhist period, his Baptist period, his Parsi period, his Roman Catholic period, his Atheistic period—these were all similarly regular, but she cared nothing for that. She knew there was a patient and compassionate Providence watching over him that would see to it that he died in his Presbyterian period. The latest thing in religions was the Fox-girl Rochester rappings; so he was a Spiritualist for the present.
Hannah Hotchkiss exulted in the wonders brought by the visitors, and the more they brought the happier she was in the possession of that boy; but she was very human in her make-up, and she felt a little aggravated over the fact that the news had to come from the outside; that these people should know these things about her lodger before she knew them herself; that she must sit and do the wondering and exclaiming when in all fairness she ought to be doing the telling and they the applauding; that they should be able to contribute all the marvels and she none. Finally the widow Dawson remarked upon the circumstance that all the information was being furnished from the one side; and added—
“Didn’t he do anything out of the common here, sister* Hotchkiss—last night or this morning?”
Hannah was ashamed of her poverty. The only thing she was able to offer was colorless compared with the matters which she had been listening to.
“Well, no—I can’t say that he did; unless you consider that we couldn’t understand his language but did understand his signs about as easy as if they had been talk. We were astonished at it, and spoke of it afterwards.”
Her young niece, Annie Fleming, spoke up and said—
“Why, auntie, that wasn’t all. The dog doesn’t allow a stranger to come to the door at night, but he didn’t bark at the boy; he acted as if he was ever so glad to see him. You said, yourself, that that never happened with a stranger before.”
“It’s true, as sure as I live; it had passed out of my mind, child.”
She was happier, now. Then her husband made a contribution—
“I call to mind, now, that just as we stepped into his room to show him its arrangements I knocked my elbow against the wardrobe and the candle fell and went out, and—”
“Certainly!” exclaimed Hannah, “and the next moment he had struck a match and was lighting—”
“Not the stub I had dropped,” cried Hotchkiss, “but a whole candle! Now the marvel is that there was only one whole candle in the room—”
“And it was clear on the other side of the room,” interrupted Hannah, “and moreover only just the end of it was showing, where it lay on the top of the bookcase, and he had noticed it with that lightning eye of his—”
“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the company, with admiration.
“—and gone right to it in the dark without disturbing a chair. Why, sister Dawson, a cat couldn’t have done it any quicker or better or surer! Just think of it!”
A chorus of rewarding astonishment broke out which made Hannah’s whole constitution throb with pleasure; and when sister Dawson laid her hand impressively upon Hannah’s hand, and then walled her eyes toward the ceiling, as much as to say, “it’s beyond words, beyond words!” the pleasure rose to ecstasy.
“Wait!” said Mr. Hotchkiss, breaking out with the kind of laugh which in the back settlements gives notice that something humorous is coming, “I can tell you a wonder that beats that to pieces—beats anything and everything that has been told about him up to date. He paid four weeks’ board in advance—cash down! Petersburg can believe the rest, but you’ll never catch it taking that statement at par.”
The joke had immense success; the laugh was hearty all around. Then Hotchkiss issued another notifying laugh, and added—
“And there’s another wonder on top of that; I tell you a little at a time, so as not to overstrain you. He didn’t pay in wildcat at twenty-five discount, but in a currency you’ve forgotten the look of—minted gold! Four yellow eagle-birds—and here they are, if you don’t believe me.”
This was too grand and fine to be humorous; it was impressive, almost awe-inspiring. The gold pieces were passed from hand to hand and contemplated in mute reverence. Aunt Rachel, elderly slave woman, was passing cracked nuts and cider. She offered a contribution, now.
“Now, den, dat ’splain it! I uz a wonderin’ ’bout dat cannel. You is right, Miss Hannah, dey uz only one in de room, en she uz on top er de bookcase. Well, she dah yit—she hain’t been tetched.”
“Not been touched?”
“No, m’am; she hain’t been tetched. A ornery po’ yaller taller cannel, ain’t she?”
“Of course.”
“Yes’m. I mould’ dat cannel myself. Kin we ’ford wax cannels—half a dollar a pound?”
“Wax! The idea!”
“Dat new cannel’s wax!”
“Oh, come!”
“Fo’ Gawd she is. White as Miss Guthrie’s store-teeth.”
A delicate flattery-shot, neatly put. The widow Guthrie, 56 and dressed for 25, was pleased, and exhibited a girlish embarrassment that was very pretty. She was excusably vain of her false teeth, the only ones in the town; a costly luxury, and a fine and showy contrast with the prevailing mouth-equipment of both old and young—the kind of sharp contrast which white-washed palings make with a charred stump-fence.
Everybody wanted to see the wax candle; Annie Fleming was hurried away to fetch it, and aunt Rachel resumed—
“Miss Hannah, dey’s sump’n pow’ful odd ’bout our young gentman. In de fust place, he ain’t got no baggage. Ain’t dat so?”
“It hasn’t come yet, but I reckon it’s coming. I’ve been expecting it all day, of course.”
“Well, don’t you give yourself no mo’ trouble ’bout it, honey. In my opinion he ain’t got no baggage, en none ain’t a-coming.”
“What makes you think that, Rachel?”
“Caze he ain’t got no use for it, Miss Hannah.”
“Why?”
“I’s gwyne tell you. Warn’t he dress’ beautiful when he come?”
“Yes.” Then she added—to the company: “Plain, but of finer materials than anybody here is used to. Nicely made, too, and spick and span new.”
“You’s got it down ’cording to de facts. Now den, I went to his room dis mawnin to fetch his clo’es so Jeff could bresh ’em en black his boots, en dey warn’t no clo’es dah. Nary a rag. En no boots en no socks, nuther. He uz soun’ asleep, en I search de place all over. Tuck his breakfus after you-all uz done—didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Prim en slick en combed up nice as a cat, warn’t he?”
“Yes. I think so. I had only a glimpse of him.”
“Well, he was; en dey ain’t no comb ner bresh ner nothing in dat room. How you reckon he done it?”
“I don’t know.”
“En I don’t. But dem is de facts. Did you notice his clo’es, honey?”
“No. Only that they were neat and handsome.”
“Now den, I did. Dey warn’t de same dat he come in.”
“Why, Rachel—”
“Nemmine, I knows what I’s a talkin’ ’bout. Dey warn’t de same. E
very rag of ’em jist a little diffunt; not much, but diffunt. His overcoat uz on a cheer by him, en it uz entirely diffunt. Las’ night it uz long en brown, dis mawnin’ it uz short en blue; en dah he sot, wid shoes on, not boots—I swah to it!”
The explosions of astonishment that followed this charmed Mrs. Hotchkiss’s ear; the family’s shares in the wonder-market were accumulating satisfactorily.
“Now, den, Miss Hannah, dat ain’t all. I fotch him some mo’ batter-cakes, en whilst I uz a butterin’ ’em for him I happens to look around, en dah uz ole Sanctified Sal, as Marse Oliver calls her, a loafin’ along in, perfeckly comfortable. When I see dat, I says to myself, By jimminy dey’s bewitchment here som’ers, en it’s time for me to light out, en I done it. En I tole Jeff, en he didn’t b’lieve me, so me en him slip back en peep, for to see what uz gwyne to happen. En Jeff uz a sayin’ ‘She’ll tah de livers en lights outer him, dat’s what she’ll do; she ain’t friendly to no stranger any time, en now she’s got kittens, she won’t stan’ ’em nohow.’ ”
“Rachel, it was shame of you to leave her there; you knew perfectly well what could happen.”
“I knowed it warn’t right, Miss Hannah, but I couldn’t he’p it, I uz scairt to see de cat so ca’m. But don’t you worry, honey. You ’member ’bout de dog? De dog didn’t fly at him, de dog uz glad to see him. Jist de same wid de cat. Me en Jeff seen it. She jump’ up in his lap, en he stroke her, en she uz happy, en raise her back up en down comfortable, en wave her tail, en scrape her head along under his chin, en den jump on de table en set down, en den dey talk together.”
“Talk together!”
“Yes’m. I wisht I may die if it ain’t so.”
“The foreign talk that he began with, last night?”
“No’m. Cat-talk.”
“Nonsense!”
“Shore’s you born. Cat-talk. Bofe of ’em talked cat-talk—sof’ en petting—jist like a ole cat en a young cat—cats dat’s relations. Well, she tuck a chance at de vittles, en didn’t like ’em, so den he tuck truck outer his pocket en fed it to her—en you bet you she didn’t go back on dat! No’m—’deed she didn’t. She laid into it like she hain’t had nothin’ to eat for four years. He tuck it all outer de same pocket. Now, den, Miss Hannah, I reckon you knows how much Sanctified Sal kin hold? Well, he loaded her chock up to de chin—yes’m, till her eyes fairly bug out. She couldn’t wag her tail she’s so full. Look like she’d swallered a watermillion she uz dat crammed. Tuck it all outer dat one pocket. Now, den, Miss Hannah, dey ain’t no pocket, en dey ain’t no saddle-bags dat kin hold enough to load up Sanctified Sal, en you knows it. Well, he tuck it all outer de one pocket—I swah to it.”
Everybody was impressed; there was a crackling fire of ejaculations; sister Dawson walled her eyes again, and Dr. Wheelright, that imposing oracle, nodded his head slowly up and down, as one who could deliver a weighty thought an’ he would.
“Well, a mouse come a-running, en run up his leg en into his bosom, en Sanctified Sal was nodding, but she seen it en forgot she uz loaded, en made a jump for it en fell off the table, en laid there on her back a-waving her hands in the air, en waved a couple of times or so en went to sleep jist so—couldn’t keep her eyes open. Den he loaded up de mouse—outer dat same pocket; en put his head down en dey talked mouse-talk together.”
“Oh, stop—your imagination’s running away with you.”
“Fo’ Gawd it’s true. Me en Jeff heard ’em. Den he put de mouse down en started off, en de mouse was bound she’d foller him; so he put her in de cubberd en shet de do’; den he cler’d out de back way.”
“How does it come you didn’t tell us these things sooner, Rachel?”
“Me tell you! Hm! You reckon you’d a b’lieved me? You reckon you’d a b’lieved Jeff? We b’lieves in bewitchments, caze we knows dey’s so; but you-all only jist laughs at ’em. Does you reckon you’d a b’lieved me, Miss Hannah?—does you?”
“Well—no.”
“Den you’d a laughed at me. Does a po’ nigger want to git laughed at any mo’ d’n white folks? No, Miss Hannah, dey don’t. We’s got our feelins, same as you-all, alldough we’s ign’ant en black.”
Her tongue was hung in the middle and was easier to start than to stop. It would have gone on wagging, now, but that the wax candle had long ago been waiting for exhibition. Annie Fleming sat with it in her hand, with one ear drinking in aunt Rachel’s fairytales, and the other one listening for the click of the gate-latch; for she had lost her tender little inexperienced heart to the new boy without suspecting it; awake and asleep she had been dreaming of his beautiful face ever since she had had her first glimpse of it and she was longing to see it again and feel that enchanting and mysterious ecstasy which it had inspired in her before. She was a dear and sweet and pretty and guileless creature, she was just turned eighteen, she did not know she was in love, she only knew that she worshiped—worshiped as the fire-worshipers worship the sun, content to see his face and feel his warmth, unworthy of a nearer intimacy, unequal to it, unfitted for it, and not requiring it or aspiring to it. Why didn’t he come? Why had he not come to dinner? The hours were so slow, the day so tedious; the longest she had known in her eighteen years. All were growing more and more impatient for his coming, but their impatience was pale beside hers; and besides, they could express it, and did, but she could not have that relief, she must hide her secret, she must put on the lie of indifference and act it the best she could.
The candle was passed from hand to hand, now, and its material admired and verified; then Annie carried it away.
It was well past mid-afternoon, and the days were short. Annie and her aunt were to sup and spend the night with sister Guthrie on the hill, a good mile distant. What should be done? Was it worth while to wait longer for the boy? The company were reluctant to go without seeing him; sister Guthrie hoped she might have the distinction of his presence in her house with the niece and the aunt, and would like to wait a little longer and invite him; so it was agreed to hold on a while.
Annie returned, now, and there was disappointment in her face and a pain at her heart, though no one detected the one nor suspected the other. She said—
“Aunty, he has been here, and is gone again.”
“Then he must have come the back way. It’s too bad. But are you sure? How do you know?”
“Because he has changed his clothes.”
“Are there clothes there?”
“Yes; and not the ones he had this morning, nor the ones he wore last night.”
“Dah, now, what I tell you? En dat baggage not come yit!”
“Can we see them?”
“Can’t we see them?”
“Do let us go and look at them!”
Everybody wanted to see the clothes, everybody begged. So, sentries were posted to look out for the boy’s approach and give notice—Annie to watch the front door and Rachel the back one—and the rest went up to Forty-four’s chamber. The clothes were there, new and handsome. The coat lay spread upon the bed. Mrs. Hotchkiss took it by the skirts and held it up to display it—a flood of gold and silver coin began to pour out of the inverted pockets; the woman stood aghast and helpless; the coin piled higher and higher on the floor—
“Put it down!” shouted her husband; “drop it, can’t you!” But she was paralysed; he snatched the coat and threw it on the bed, and the flood ceased. “Now we are in a fine fix; he can come at any moment and catch us; and we’ll have to explain, if we can, how we happen to be here. Quick, all you accessories after the fact and before it—turn to; we must gather it up and put it back.”
So all those chief citizens got down on their hands and knees and scrambled all around and everywhere for the coins, raking under the bed and the sofa and the wardrobe for estrays, a most undignified spectacle. The work was presently finished, but that did not restore happiness, for there was a new trouble, now: after the coat’s pockets had been stuffed there was still half a peck of coin left. It was a shameful pred
icament. Nobody could get command of his wits for a moment or two; then sister Dawson made a suggestion—
“No real harm is done, when you come to look at it. It is natural that we should have some curiosity about the belongings of such a wonderful stranger, and if we try to satisfy it, not meaning any harm or disrespect—”
“Right,” interrupted Miss Pomeroy, the schoolm’am; “he’s only a boy, and he wouldn’t mind, and he wouldn’t think it anything odd if people as old as we are should take a little liberty which he mightn’t like in younger folks.”
“And besides,” said Judge Taylor the magistrate, “he hasn’t suffered any loss, and isn’t going to suffer any. Let us put the whole of the money in his table drawer and close it, and lock the room door; and when he comes we will all tell him just how it was, and apologise. It will come out all right; I think we don’t need to worry.”
It was agreed that this was probably as good a plan as could be contrived in the difficult circumstances of the case; so the company took all the comfort from it they could, and were glad to get out of the place and clear for their homes without waiting longer for the boy, in case he shouldn’t arrive before they got their wraps on. They said Hotchkiss could do the explaining and apologising, and depend upon them to indorse and stand by all his statements.