“Someone try to run your lock?”
“No, siree! None o’ that with me. It was the rafters.”
“Have a jam?”
“Nope. They don’t jam no lock of mine. This was a four-horser from Wampsville way. Fence rails for Spencer’s Basin. Creepers. Mile an hour and they consider they’re doin’ fine.”
Horace nodded. “I saw them going through town.”
“Mebbe you seen the Jolly Roger, too.”
“What’s that? Is Silverhorn Ramsey here?”
“Reckon he went right on through. He was here, sure-ly.” The lock-keeper chuckled. “The first section of the rails was just edgin’ in towards my lock when I heard his bugle. I looked up and here comes the Jolly Roger, doin’ all of five mile, the hoggee whalin’ hell outa his hosses and Silverhorn standin’ in the bow tootin’ for a clear way.”
Horace quoted a canal saw. “Back of a raft, you might as well take Sunday off and go to church.”
“You don’t know Silverhorn. In all my born days,” said Jim with relish, “I never heard handsomer cussin’. Even my old woman kivered her ears, and she’s used to towpath talk. And the Jolly Roger’s deck passenger, she ducked below like a rabbit. The double team bein’ off at the side eatin’ the grass, the Jolly Roger hosses came right along, the boat followin’ till it like to shove the fence rails clean through the berm. Out pops the raft-boss howlin’ for blood. Silverhorn makes a leap like a stag, fifteen foot across open water, and damn me if he didn’t walk the big rafter right off’n the path. I opened up for him and he went through cockadoodlin’ on his instrooment. Tossed me a handful of segars like they was so much stinkweed. A right freehanded gentleman, Captain Ramsey.”
“Has Silverhorn gone into the passenger trade?”
“Not ginrally.” The lock-keeper winked. “I don’t reckon this passenger paid much fare.”
“No?” Horace looked at him hard.
“No. Some folks would be supprised to know how she was travelin’. Special her pa-pa.”
Horace did not pursue the topic. He would sound out Dinty in the morning.
Dinty was not present when he awoke. The titillant aroma of grilled pork kidneys apprised him that she had taken over from Unk Zeb, for this was a dainty which she always prepared with her own skilled hands. As he swung to the floor, he heard from below her happy lilt in a familiar measure.
Lavender’s blue, diddle-diddle.
Lavender’s green.
When I am King, diddle-diddle,
You shall be Queen.
Horace dressed thoughtfully and with some apprehension. Experience had taught him that the gay ditty upon his wife’s lips was a song before action, presaging some project which might or might not contribute to domestic tranquillity—generally not. His first glance at the animated countenance back of the coffee urn put him further on guard. Deep beneath Dinty’s wifely amiability lurked an ineradicable imp, jocund, perverse and unpredictable. Her first remark after her “Good morning” apprised him that the sprite was in temporary possession.
“How are Dr. Horace Amlie’s standards of professional conduct holding up?”
A cautious grunt from Horace.
“You have solemnly sworn,” she pursued, “that you ‘will honestly, virtuously and chastely conduct’ yourself in the high profession to which you are privileged. Darling, are you honest and virtuous? And chaste? You’d better be, except with me,” she added savagely.
“I’m a notorious rakehell,” asserted Horace. “In fact, a second Silverhorn Ramsey.”
“What made you think of him?” demanded Dinty with narrowed scrutiny.
“He had a woman passenger coming in from the eastward day before yesterday. Isn’t that the day that Wealthia got back?”
“Yes.”
“In my opinion,” said he magisterially, “the sooner that young lady is safely married, the better for all concerned.”
His wife offered no comment.
“Well, are you finished catechizing me?”
She came back from a sojourn in the realm of thought. “I’ve been figuring on something.”
“Anything that’s proper for an honest, virtuous and chaste husband’s ears?”
“Doc, we’ve got a lovely spare chamber, real pompously furnished, that’s never even been slept in.”
“Well, we can sleep in it if you’ve a taste for travel.”
“Don’t be so dumb. I don’t mean us. It’s Kinsey Hayne.”
“Hullo! A handsome young blade about the house? I shall be jealous.”
The quip did not even bring a smile to her grave eyes. “I think he’s cruel miserable, darling. I’ve had a letter from him. A very respectful letter.”
“I should hope so, indeed! Strange young men writing to my wife! Unk Zeb, oil up my musket.”
“Don’t tease me, Doc. I’m truly worried over Wealthy.”
“Have him, of course, my sweet. Have anybody you like. I dare warrant you find life dull at times.”
“Dull?” said Dinty. “With you? I never knew what living was before.”
“When shall we have him?”
“He’s to be in New York the middle of April to place his plantation’s indigo crop. We might ask him then. Wealthy hasn’t done anything at all about him. Don’t you think that’s funny, Doc?”
“How should I interpret that willful young lady’s whims? I can’t even keep pace with yours.”
“You don’t really like Wealthy, do you?” It was a statement rather than a query.
“I do. But she expects the earth and all that’s in it, as of her natural right.”
“Why not? She was brought up that way. I’ll write Kinsey, then.”
Wealthia received information of the project with an inscrutable countenance. She had been a smiling observer of the Amlies’ glowing happiness, sometimes amused, sometimes wistful.
The grave and handsome young Carolinian proved a charming guest. He brought to Dinty, on his arrival from the metropolis late in April, sweetmeats, scents and the latest perfumed soaps, and to Horace, a box of choice segars. On acquaintance he proved himself not only an ornament to local society, but a sportsman, a master of horsemanship and a crack shot. Driving Fleetfoot to the gig at the weekly races, he handled her so cleverly that the Amlie stone-house fund, as Dinty called it, was the richer by fifty dollars. To Wealthia he was the ever assiduous swain, full of all courtesies and observances, and, Dinty thought, too much humility toward the imperious temper of his enchantress.
Wealthia accepted all the homage as her queenly right. That she was proud of her conquest was evident. She paraded him blatantly, for all her pretense of indifference. They were everywhere together. Was it pride alone that she felt? Dinty could not be sure about it. At times the beauty was in gay, even wild spirits. Again, she would shut herself away from her adorer for several days at a time. Whether she was happy was a question in the mind of her crony.
Those were the days of long visits. Urgent business calling Kinsey back to New York after a fortnight; the Amlies pressed him to return and stay a month, at least. Taking his hostess aside, he said,
“If Wealthia seconds the invitation, I’ll be infinitely delighted to accept.”
“Isn’t anything settled?”
“Nothing. At times I suspect there is someone else.”
“I’m sure there isn’t. She finds more pleasure in your company than in anyone’s. She told me so.”
He brightened. “Then I shall hold to my hopes. But she refuses to give me any definite promise.”
Wealthia wrote kindly to her suitor in New York, a letter which brought him back to Palmyra before the set time. She was in one of her accesses of feverish gayety. Any merrymaking within a ten-mile radius she must attend. Young Hayne was only too happy to be the preferred escort.
Spring was now warm over the valley. There were barn-bees and roof-tree raisings every other evening. To one of these at Manchester, the local belle and her Southern beau were bidden. There was
a strawload of the young folk going over, but Wealthia petulantly declared that she couldn’t endure being mussed up and jolted, and her suitor was more than ready for the long intimacy of the drive alone with her. He called for her in a smart, light wagon with borrowed Fleetfoot between the thills. At five o’clock Dinty, a little wistful, saw them from her gate and waved to them as they approached.
“Won’t you bear us company?” asked Kinsey, the ever-courteous.
“No, thank you,” said Dinty. “Be good children and don’t stay too late. I fear it is going to storm.”
A distant note rose and soared and was stilled. Wealthia quivered.
“What’s that?” asked her escort.
“Nothing,” said she hastily.
“Some canaller signaling the lock,” supplemented Dinty.
“He blows a right pretty note,” remarked Kinsey.
They drove away. Dinty went in to direct Unk Zeb. After supper, the night turned thunderous and by bedtime there was a wild wind from the black southwest. Always a lighter sleeper than her husband, Dinty was up several times to bar windows, look to latches, make fast a slatting blind. She was sure that their guest was not abed when the clock struck three. Long after she thought that she heard him moving cautiously along the hall. She glanced toward the window. Stormy dawn was glowering in the east.
Thereafter she slept only fitfully. Earlier than her wonted hour she was up, set Unk Zeb in motion for breakfast, and slipped down to the stable. Dad Hinch, the Human Teapot, was on guard and saluted her in military style. She spoke to Fleetfoot, who appeared jaded, examined the wagon, and returned to rouse guest and husband. The former made his entry, a few minutes late for breakfast, which was contrary to his usual punctilious custom, freshly shaved and pomaded as always, but heavy-eyed. Only force majeure on the hostess’s part kept the table talk from bogging down. After the meal, she followed Horace into the office, closing the door after them.
“Something has happened, Doc.”
“Right! Your damned cat has been fishing in my leech jar again.”
“I hope she caught ’em. I hate the wriggly things. But that isn’t it.”
“What is?”
“Kinsey—and Wealthy.”
“What about ’em? Have they finally hit it off? High time.”
“Do you know what hour he came in last night?”
“No. I go to bed to sleep, not to snoop.”
“Well, it was daylight.”
“What of it? There’s no curfew in this house, is there?”
“Horace Amlie, I hate you! You don’t even pretend to be interested. I don’t believe they ever went to the barn-bee.”
“Of course they did. What fairy-tale are you making up for yourself, now?”
“Then they went farther. Go and look at the wagon. There’s dark red mud on the spokes. There’s no such soil between here and Manchester.”
“That’s true. It begins farther along the Canandaigua Road,” said Horace who had more than once been stalled in it. “I’ve got a clever wife. But what would they be doing in Canandaigua?”
“The Marrying Parson. Five dollars and secrecy.”
There was no lack of interest in his face now. “Why, it’s crazy! Why should Wealthia do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. Once she made up her mind, she might do anything. She’s like that.”
“I shall ask Kinsey,” said Horace. He frowned. “No, I can’t do that. I can’t cross-question a guest. Maybe you can get it out of Wealthia.”
“I’m going straight up there,” said his wife.
Although it was almost nine o’clock when she arrived, Wealthia was still abed. Dinty yoo-hooed from the garden path. A slumber-heavy face appeared at the window.
“Ah-h-h-h-h!” yawned the slugabed. “Oh, dear! Why did you wake me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, come on up.”
She was washing the sleep out of her languorous eyes when the caller appeared. “What time is it?”
Dinty told her.
“Did you hear Kinsey when he came back?”
“Yes.”
“We didn’t mean to stay so late.” She laughed artificially. “We had a spat.”
“A quarrel? You and Kinsey?”
“Yes. Oh, I expect I did most of the quarreling. I hate to be questioned,” she added querulously.
Dinty approached her. “Stand still a minute. Let me get that out.” She loosed a small object embedded in the glossy hair above the nape of the neck.
“Ouch! What is it?”
“It’s a windlestraw. Look.”
Wealthia’s face underwent a change. It became subtle and secret. “I went to our barn when we got home to have a look at the filly,” she said. “She’s been ailing.”
“Oh,” said Dinty.
“What do you mean by ‘Oh’?”
“Nothing.”
“Where’s Kinsey?”
“Gone for a walk.”
“Have you seen him this morning?”
“Yes. At breakfast.”
“How did he seem?”
“I don’t know. Jumpy, I think.”
“Did he say anything about last night?”
“Not to me.”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t. It’s part of what he calls his code, whatever he means by that.”
Dinty resented the touch of callousness. “D’you know what I think, Wealthia Latham?” she broke out. “I think you ought to be peacock-proud to have as fine a young man as Kinsey Hayne in love with you. I think you ought to take shame to yourself, the way you treat him.”
“Pooh!” returned Wealthia calmly. “I’m never ashamed. If it’s done, it’s done. Why waste time pining over it?” She poked at the floor with the tip of her bed slipper. “Dinty, has anybody said anything about the party last night?”
“Not to me.”
She laughed a little. “You’ll hear. But they don’t know what they’re talking about. Shall I give you a note for Kinsey?”
“You needn’t. Here he is.”
The Southerner was walking up the sidepath, his head bent, his carriage a slump of depression.
“Good morning to you,” Wealthia called in her throaty, caressing voice, leaning out of the window. He whirled and looked up, his face alight.
“Oh, Wealthia! Oh, my darl——”
“Dinty’s here. Were you coming to take me riding?” Her smile was carefree.
“I thought you said …”
“Never mind what I said. I never said it. And, if I did, I didn’t mean it. Will you fetch the horses?”
“Oh, yes,” he cried, radiant. “You won’t run away from me again, will you?”
“Hush!” she warned, arching her brows toward the third person who was pretending not to hear. “Anyway, you found me, didn’t you?” Again she laughed. To Dinty, who was growing more and more puzzled, the laughter seemed unmirthful, almost cruel.
Across the fields from the high garden they could see a squad of the Palmyra Horse Artillery gathering for a drill. A metallic blare from the bugle came harshly to the ear. With that sound, the embryo of thought in Dinty’s brain took on definite form. She drew her friend aside.
“Wealthy,” she said, “was Captain Ramsey there last night?”
“At the party?” Wealthia’s eyes shifted. “No, he wasn’t at the party.”
Later Dinty verified this. But she was still perturbed.
It was barter day for the young housewife. Followed by Unk Zeb and the two-wheeled cart, she went along Main Street. Several of the young married women were in a group around Tom Daw.
“Gone a good two hour, they were,” said he with relish.
“In all that storm?” asked someone.
“Wealthy and her Southerner,” explained Amelia Barnes for the benefit of the late arrival. “Didn’t anyone see them leave?” she asked the hunchback.
“That’s the funny part. They didn’t leave together. Folks missed Wealthy first and somebo
dy asked Mr. Hayne and he harnessed up and druv, licketty-split, and after a while they come back together in the rig. She wa’nt wet, neither.” He leered about him. “I dunno where they mought-a been, outa the weather.”
“You’d better be careful what you say, Tom Daw,” warned Dinty hotly. “If Mr. Latham hears about your loose tongue, you’ll be in a pretty kittle.”
“I didn’t say nothin’,” he disclaimed hastily.
Dinty quit the group and sauntered down to the waterfront. Snugged up against the Evernghim wharf, with Silverhorn Ramsey directing operations from his foredeck, the Jolly Roger was taking on the last of a mixed cargo of pork, whisky and pickled eels in kegs.
It was a vast relief to her mind when, two days later, Wealthia told her that she had decided to marry Kinsey Hayne.
“When?” asked Dinty eagerly.
“Oh, not till fall. Pa doesn’t want me to.”
Six months was an exorbitantly long period for an engagement of marriage.
“I think it’s fustian,” declared Dinty. “You act as if you didn’t want to get married,” she said.
“South Carolina is so far away.”
“I’d go to Europe with Horace and never think twice of it.”
“Pa is going to miss me cruelly.”
“So are we all. But think of Kinsey.”
“I do think of him. Who could help it? He’s so kind and heedful,” said Wealthia with more warmth. She sighed. “South Carolina is so distant from Palmyra,” she echoed herself. “When shall I ever see you or—or anybody again.”
“There ought not to be ‘anybody,’ ” said downright Dinty.
“I mean everybody,” was the listless reply.
During his return visit to the Amlies’, Hayne had no cause for complaint in his fiancée’s attitude. Gone were her former coquetries with any attractive male who came within eyeshot. All her time and interests were his. Indeed, the pair were so constantly and intimately together, and often at such untimely hours, that the “sharp-clawed Abigails” as Dinty termed them, pursed their lips over the association and darkly whispered that if Genter Latham knew what was going on or the half of it, he might accelerate rather than retard the marriage.
Canal Town Page 33