The Queen of the Waters was next in line, followed by a jostling fleet of small and various craft. Bringing up the rear, an honorable position, swept the dainty pleasure boat, Genesee Rover, which Deacon Dillard had presented to his son and heir, Marcus. On her raised deck sat a group of young females in ladylike attitudes, forming a court circle about Miss Wealthia Latham and Miss Araminta Jerrold, elegantly arrayed.
They honored Horace Amlie, who had a reserved place on the bridge across the waterway, with painfully social smiles. He saluted with becoming gravity. Being on the Arrangements Committee, he was committed to attendance upon the formal speechifying of the afternoon and the brief banquet at four o’clock, and so did not encounter them again until the evening festivities.
These were of extreme magnificence. Not only were the youth, beauty, culture and fashion of Palmyra there, but representatives of Rochester, Geneva, Phelps, Geneseo, Canandaigua, Lennox, Jerusalem, Auburn, Utica and Lock Port were present. The canallers turned out in full nautical garb, and well-behaved to the last degree. Caution, not choice, dictated their urbanity. The commissioners wielded autocratic power over water, berm and towpath; a breach of decorum might involve painful penalties. Some of the captains even brought their wives as guarantee of correct deportment.
Lavish refreshments were provided. There were three varieties of brandied punch and one milder brew for the ladies. In the floral decoration there was nothing mean or common such as the vulgar bloom of garden or field; the flowers being all hand facture of artistic design and high cost. Cloth butterflies added a touch of realism. From the fiddler’s rest resounded the basic harmonies of Tom Daw’s lap-organ, the sawings of Manchester’s dance-fiddler, and the zoom-zoom of Carlisle Sneed’s double bass, paced by Decker Jessup’s snare drum, as they dispensed the latest measures.
Early on the festive scene, Horace made an official inspection and was well satisfied. He led the two commissioners to the dais of honor. Presently Wealthia Latham entered, attended by her usual court of youth. But when Dinty Jerrold followed, Horace got a surprise. An even larger following than Wealthia’s surrounded her. Horace found himself frowning. Why? He would have been hard put to it for an explanation of his displeasure. As between his two young protégées he had always been partisan to the junior. Yet, for some undefinable reason, he was not pleased with her too manifest popularity. Possibly this had something to do with her gown, which he deemed much too old for her, though he was bound to admit that she filled it quite satisfactorily. She tripped across the floor to him.
“Oh, Uncle Horace! Isn’t it exciting!”
“Apparently it is for you,” he replied, noting the roseflush of her cheeks and the butterfly poise of the morocco-shod feet.
“Have you seen Wealthy’s new spark?”
Horace nodded. He had observed the dark, high-spirited, serious young South Carolinian who, in the course of the now fashionable Northern Summer Tour, had stopped over at Palmyra, met Miss Latham, and straightway canceled the balance of the trip. Dinty bubbled,
“He calls Wealthia and me ‘ma’am.’ Isn’t that dicty!”
“You don’t seem to lack for admirers of your own,” observed Horace.
“Why should you be cross about it? Aren’t you going to ask me to dance? Or are committeemen too important to dance? But perhaps you’re not a dancing man.”
“That’s an absurd supposition,” he returned tartly.
His pride was touched. Why should she doubt his possessing the commonest accomplishment of a gentleman? That one brought up in the civilized County of Oneida, a graduate of cultured and elegant Hamilton College, should be ignorant of the art Terpsichorean (unless, of course, he were a Quaker or a Methodist)—absurd, indeed!
“How could I tell?” said she defensively. “You’re so solemn. You’re solemner than ever this evening. Has anything happened?”
“No.”
The denial failed to convince her. She cocked her head at him shrewdly.
“You’ve seen Captain Ramsey here and you don’t like it,” she guessed.
“No, I haven’t. Where is he?”
“Over yonder, half behind that curtain, watching Wealthy. He’s never taken his eyes off her.”
“That won’t do,” declared Horace with decision. He left Dinty without so much as an excuse-me (Still treating me like a child, thought poor Dinty) and walked across the floor to touch Silverhorn’s shoulder. The face that was turned to him startled him, so haggard and lined it was. Could it be possible that the profligate young rake was genuinely in love with the girl? That would only make matters worse.
“Good evening, Captain Ramsey,” said Horace formally.
The canaller’s features twitched, then swiftly composed themselves to their customary expression of insouciance.
“Hullo, Æsculapius.”
“Is Mrs. Ramsey with you?” inquired Horace meaningfully.
“Mrs. Ram … Oh! We’re not married yet. The lady has been ailing.”
“Will you take a bit of friendly advice, Ramsey?”
Silverhorn twinkled at him. “Advice from my guardian of morals is sure to be sound. That doesn’t say I’ll follow it.”
“I’m not your guardian. But I’m on the Ball Committee. Will you take a bit of official advice?”
“I’ll take a drink, if you offer one.”
“That, also, can be arranged. Come to the bar.”
The navigator ordered and sipped a sangaree, bowing in courteous if faintly ironical acknowledgment. He had put on his best manners with his best clothes. Both were unsurpassable.
“Let’s have your advice, my dear feller,” he drawled. “Though I know in advance what it will be.”
“There will be no trouble if you confine your attentions to other quarters,” Horace assured him.
“That’s a pretty strong hint.”
“Call it a request.”
“I’ve paid my four bits at the door. That should entitle me to equal privileges with the rest.”
“You know what I mean. Genter Latham is here. If he sees you with his daughter, he’ll throw you through the nearest window.”
Silverhorn smiled. “It’s never been done.”
“Have you heard what happened to Horgan?”
“That clumsy ape! By the way, I don’t see him here.”
“It’ll be quite as well if he doesn’t come.”
“Oh, he’s coming. I saw him at the Exchange bar. He’s beauing his sweetmeat, the buxom slewer from the Settlement.”
“He mustn’t bring her in here.”
“Tell it to him,” grinned Silverhorn, “but be ready with your fisties.”
Horace had no desire for an altercation. There was enough bad blood already between town and canal. Arlo Barnes, at the ticket-door was a stout enough young blade, but no match for the ruffling Horgan. Declining Silverhorn’s suggestion of another round, Horace hurried to the entrance and none too soon. The bulky captain, cash in hand and the much dressed-up Donie on his arm, was strutting down the hallway. At the door he proffered his four bits. Arlo Barnes looked around at Horace, who said civilly:
“I’m sorry, Captain Horgan. The doors are closed.”
Donie flushed unhappily. “I told you, Bull,” she muttered. “Come away.” She tugged at his arm.
He wrenched it away, thrusting forth his freshly shaven chin at Horace. “Closed, are they? Since when?”
By good fortune, it was a few minutes after the hour. Horace exhibited his silver turnip. “Since eight o’clock.”
“Ay-ah?” The big fellow smirked evilly at him. “How long do you figger they’d stay closed if I up-and-hollered ‘Lo-o-o-ow bridge!’ Huh?”
“Don’t do that,” said Horace quickly. The slogan, delivered with a certain prolongation of the first vowel, was a call to battle for the ever-willing canallers. Main Street, he knew, was full of them.
“Which’ll it be; money or fight?”
It was a time for diplomacy. “Excuse me if I have a word
with the lady,” said the committeeman with careful courtesy.
“What’s that for?” demanded the suspicious swain.
“Leave be, can’t you, Bull?” complained Donie. “I guess the gentleman can speak with me if he likes.”
The other growled but made no further objection. It was not the first meeting for the Settlement girl and the young doctor. Soon after her joining the household he had successfully treated her for a tetter which, owing to its location, was a commercial detriment. She was grateful and more than willing to listen to him. He came at once to the point.
“You don’t want to go in there, do you?”
“Not if they don’t want me,” answered the girl stoutly. “I got my pride.”
“Good for you! Can you handle your man?”
“Slick as a mink. I got him hawg-tied.”
“Take him away, then. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“With what?” Donie might be appreciative of past help; she was also practical.
“Five dollars,” said Horace recklessly. Peace came high, but surely the committee would be willing to reimburse him.
“Five dollars!” Donie was a four-bit girl; the amount named was princely. “Five dollars?”
“Cash,” affirmed Horace and produced the evidence of good faith. She clutched it.
“Come on, Bull, dear,” she called. “I don’t hanker after this rout. It’s got no sperrit. Dr. Amlie says I’m fevered. I wanna go to bed.”
Not having been born on the previous day, Captain Horgan was skeptical. He indicated it in a labial and definite manner. But the girl’s claim of her hold upon him was no idle boast. He glowered, cursed, argued, but weakened.
“I’ll go,” he grunted at last. “But not till we have a drink. And this young blood’ll pay for it,” he added in a tone which implied, “or I’ll know the reason why.”
“With pleasure,” assented Horace.
At the bar the mariner consumed two killdivvles in quick succession, and was lifting a third toward his capacious face when the long-drawn howl of a pent-up and resentful dog sounded from the mews below. He set down the drink.
“That’s a death sign, they say,” he observed.
“Not me!” said Donie. She averted the evil with two fingers to her forehead.
“Anyways, it’s a sign of trouble,” he grinned. “You be about your business, me lad,” he said to Horace, and, to the girl, “You wait here for me.”
“What are you goin’ to do, Bull?”
“Take the air for a bit.” He turned at the door with a flash of yellow teeth. “My gel and my money not good enough, huh? I’ll show’m,” he promised.
Every tavern kept a dog as a matter of course. The Eagle’s guardian was a small, chunky, senile mongrel of confiding disposition and so nearly blind that he must be tied up at night, the one cross in an otherwise satisfactory canine existence. Hearing strange footsteps approach, Bowser first growled, as in duty bound, then thumped the wooden walls of his house with a thick and strong tail which suggested pointer blood somewhere in an indeterminate ancestry. The man addressed him soothingly, drew a knife, and, to his intense delight, cut him free. This was a friend, indeed! Bowser came forth, gamboling and fawning. The stranger fondled him.
Instinct stirred within the canine brain, but too late. He was gripped and held. He snapped, caught the man by the wrist, but the place was protected by a bandage, and his teeth too feeble to hold. The powerful knees pressed him between them. He whimpered, then screamed as the keen knife did its work.
Shriek upon shriek of uttermost animal anguish followed. The music coming through the open window a few feet above faltered and stopped. So did the measured feet of the dancers. The next moment their own outcries were added to the clamor, as the unfortunate creature hurtled through the window and darted in mad circles around the floor, spattering blood from the stump of his amputated tail upon the dresses of the ladies and the trousers of the gentlemen and snapping at the hands outstretched to intercept him.
One after another, a dozen susceptible fair ones crumpled to the floor. Others leapt upon chairs and benches, clutching for support at the shoulders of their escorts and crying hysterically. A light dragoon bethought him of his musket, fetched it in, and fired a shot, which, by God’s grace, hit nobody, least of all the dog. Around and around spun the agonized animal until he collapsed from loss of blood, and was mercifully dispatched with a club from the bar.
The drink-empurpled countenance of Bull Horgan appeared, triumphant, in the frame of the window.
“Shut me and my gel out, will yuh?” he bellowed, and went down under the weight of a wave of infuriated dancers.
The attempted war-cry of “Lo-o-o-ow bridge!” was stifled in his throat. It would hardly have saved him, in any case. Even the hardshell canallers were shocked at the brutality. There was no movement of protest when word came back that the battered perpetrator had been lodged in the new jail.
Urgent demands kept both Drs. Amlie and Murchison busy for a half-hour, reviving deflated femininity. The evening bade fair to be ruined and the town disgraced. Horace took a minute off to apologize to the guests of honor and to rally the musicians. With more tact than would have been expected, the captains paid their respects to the committee ladies and took a prompt departure. All but one.
Last of Horace’s charges to recover was Clarissa Van Wie, a high-strung little redhead who came belatedly out of her swoon only to lapse into hysterics. He had her taken to a chamber above stairs where he left her in the charge of two of the ladies. On the way back to the ballroom floor, he saw a door cautiously opening. Wealthia Latham was stealing out from a small parlor. She was alone. Her face was that of a person undispelled of a dream.
“Wealthia!” he called sharply.
She whirled about, both hands to her breast. “Oh!” she gasped. “You scared me so.”
“Where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“Who was with you?”
“Nobody.”
He held her under a skeptical regard.
Outside, fine and high and clear rang a bugle-note. The swift color flashed into the girl’s face. She said hastily,
“You haven’t asked Dinty to dance.”
“Dinty is well provided with partners of her own age.”
“Of course she is.” She added something under her breath which sounded to his incredulous ears much like “Ninny!”
“What did you say?” he demanded.
“Nothing. You’ll hurt her feelings if you don’t ask her.”
“Nonsense!”
“Oh, very well!” The velvety eyes regarded him with an expression highly unbefitting a child of her tender years toward a gentleman of his mature age. “If you won’t, plenty of others will.”
“I can see that for myself.”
“You needn’t be huffy at me.” She turned a shoulder to him with languid grace as she moved away, not without a Parthian shot. “Dinty’s right. You are dumb about some things.”
She lifted a smiling face toward young Hayne, the handsome Southerner who was hastening down the hallway to regain her.
Horace, his dignity somewhat ruffled, followed more slowly to the dancing floor. It was all folderol, what Wealthia had said, a patent subterfuge to divert him from the suspicion of her rendezvous with Ramsey. Still—if she was right about Dinty, certainly he did not wish to hurt the child’s feelings. She was queerly sensitive about some things, an attribute peculiar to her time of life, he surmised. Anyway, there could be no harm in his offering his arm for one number.
The music was taking a rest as he approached the group around her. She signaled him with a consciously coquettish flutter and smile, rose at once and, amidst a hum of protest from her swains, detached herself from her entourage and attached herself to his arm.
“I thought you were never coming.”
“You don’t appear to be suffering from lack of attention.”
“Oh, them!” She shrugged in
an adult manner. “They’re different.”
He did not press for a definition and she remarked mincingly that she would appreciate a refreshing drink. Once free of the crowd and seated at the table which he found in a secluded alcove, she abandoned her ballroom manners and reverted to type.
“You’re worried, aren’t you, Uncle Horace?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Don’t you think it would take your mind off things to dance with me just once?” she inquired with eyes of limpid candor.
“I was going to proffer that request.”
“And now you’ve made me do it. That’s very unladylike of me. D’you mind my being unladylike, Uncle Horace?”
“I can stand it.”
“You don’t know how much nicer you look when you smile,” she observed.
Carlisle Sneed, as caller-off, was announcing, “The next musical selection will be the slow and measured valse.”
“Do you elbow-valse, Uncle Horace?”
“Yes. Or, for that matter …”
“That’s all they allow here. The other isn’t considered proper by the fusty old Abigails. I like it better, though.”
She stood, billowing out her skirts, flexing her rounded arms. He cupped his hands beneath her elbows. They revolved solemnly.
“You do it very nicely,” she approved. She looked about. For the moment the room was deserted except for themselves. “I don’t care,” she murmured and slipped into his arms.
Canal Town Page 27