Canal Town

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

  “Sarvint, ma’am,” said he.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hinch.” Dinty made it a point to be courteous to the least of her husband’s patients. “The doctor is away.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m here.”

  “He won’t be back before Monday.”

  The visitor scrutinized the lay of the land. “I can bivouac under the bush yonder.”

  “Bivouac? Here? What for?”

  “Sentry duty, ma’am. Capting’s orders.” He had taken to regarding Dr. Amlie as his superior officer.

  “Very well.” It was thoughtful of Horace to provide her with a guard. Unk Zeb was not much protection. And the streets were full of rough characters from the canal on pay night. “I can fix the pallet in the woodshed for you.”

  “I’m used to outdoors, thank ye kindly, ma’am.” He picked up a musty blanket, near which his musket leaned against the wall.

  Dinty felt a little better over this evidence of husbandly care. Maybe Horace wasn’t growing tired of her, after all. Why, then, did he permit this irksome separation to continue?

  To mitigate her deserted child’s loneliness, Mrs. Jerrold paid her a daily visit with which she could well have dispensed. Horace’s absence was duly sniffed over.

  “Only once in ten years did my husband quit me overnight,” said the mother. “I knew better than to let him. Men!”

  “Horace was specially summoned as an expert,” said Dinty with pride.

  “Expert! Smff! Does it take four days to discover a fever?”

  “He plans to stop in Rochester to consult with the great Dr. Vought.”

  “Four days! Hmph! And four nights as well, I doubt. Has he separated your beds yet?” The young wife looked so glum that the maternal tormentor added triumphantly, “I warrant he has.”

  Each day she produced a new variation upon husbandly errancies. The evening of the fifth day brought Horace home. Dinty’s welcome was carefully cordial. She was determined to play her cards cannily. Mr. Latham being away again on some banking errand, Dinty had endeavored to persuade Wealthia to remain for the night, which would have automatically precipitated a solution of the bed problem. But her chum manifested that strange, new awkwardness toward Horace which she had already noticed. It being after nightfall, Horace assigned the Teapot as a military escort to the departing guest. As soon as they had left, Dinty turned brightly to her husband.

  “What did you do in Brockport?”

  “Poked my long nose into all their nasty corners,” he answered with his amiable grin.

  “Did you get into rows?”

  “Some of ’em don’t exactly love me,” he admitted.

  “Was the fever bad?”

  “It’ll be worse.”

  “Then you really didn’t get anything done.”

  “Nothing but give ’em some good advice which they won’t take.”

  “And you left me for five whole days on a wasted errand,” she pouted.

  “Four,” he corrected. “You were safe enough with Dad Hinch watching over you in case you were plotting any more nocturnal excursions.”

  “So that is what you put him here for!” returned Dinty, nose in air. “I could slip him like a weasel.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” he advised her. “Dad was a scout in the war.”

  “Suppose I put a watch over you,” said Dinty. “Would you like that? What were you doing all that time in Rochester?”

  “Taking in wisdom and encouragement from old Vought. We talked the night away.”

  “And neglecting your patients,” said she severely. “You’ve got slathers of calls waiting. There’s an erysipelas, and four boils, one of them malignant, and Mr. Pardee’s deep rheumatism is going deeper. Little Simeon Daggett has been bitten by a dog. Freegrace Barnes tried to wait for you, but couldn’t and Old Murch birthed her baby and it nearly died. There’s a smallpox thrown off the Buttery Maid that they put into the jail-house because there wasn’t any other place for him. David Stone has his rupture tied in with twine where his off ox gored him, and Mr. Sneed got a sprained wrist trying to handle the ox. T. Lay burned his eye with a flying cinder from the smithy forge and says he’ll sue Silas Bewar if he loses the sight. There’s a list of baby-colics on your desk. And I’ve put away seventeen dollars, two shillings and thruppence from the barter since you’ve been off gallivanting. And that’s all and I’m perishing for sleep.” She yawned elaborately.

  “Trot along, then. I’ll catch up with my work.”

  She lingered hopefully, awaiting a further move from him. Perhaps she wouldn’t insist on an apology. If he would simply assume that she was coming back! He only looked absently in her direction, as if wondering why she was still there. At least, so she inferred. If that was a grin tugging at his upper lip, if he was reading her mind—a detestable and wholly unreckonable habit of his—nothing was too bad for him!

  “Oh! A light,” he said.

  Taking out his pocket tinder-box, he flipped the wheel, expertly caught the spark, nursed it amidst the dry flax, and blew it to activity. With this he lighted the wick floating in the shallow pewter bowl half full of Seneca oil.

  “Go ahead,” he directed, and followed her up the stairs.

  The second-floor hallway to the left led between the two bedchambers. Dinty, her heart thrumming, stood aside for him to lead the way. He passed her and stopped between the doors, holding the light high, the better to see her face. His manner was casual, but his eyes were dancing, and wrinkles played at the corners of the generous mouth. She could read his mind without difficulty. He was saying silently, “You started this silliness; now you must finish it.” Why, darn him, he was laughing at her, damn him! So she was to come to heel like a chastised puppy. The Jerrold spirit rose, rampant. Not Dinty!

  “Thank you,” said she with a dignity so gracious that it was painful, as she took the lamp from his hand and opened the spare-room door.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Good night,” she echoed in a steady but faded voice.

  Inside, she sat down on the bed and bit the sheet. She would leave him. She would go back to her loving parents. She would turn Romanist and enter a nunnery. First, though, she would burn down the house. This it was which brought to her mind the Great Thought. That would bring him to his senses.

  Very quietly she removed the summer-and-winter mulberry coverlet from the bed, substituting a cheaper and rougher pine-tree design in blue. The pillows were extra-selected gosling down. These she tucked away in the linen press, bringing out an everyday pair. Her clothing she prudently disposed in a far corner, well out of range. There was always some Improving Reading on the bedstand. She settled back with the volume in her hand, but it could not be said that her selection, The Olive Branch, however great its intrinsic merits, improved its reader in any phase of temper or morality. It was little to her mood.

  After an interminable wait, during which she gritted her teeth and fortified her determination, she heard Horace’s quick tread mount the stairs and move along the hallway. There still remained a chance, short of her planned expedient of desperation. If he now showed an inclination to come half way by opening her door and bidding her good night again, she would be cool and reserved until—well, as long as she thought it safe. It was so hard to tell, with Horace.

  He did not pause for the fraction of a second, but lifted the other latch and entered their room—his room.

  Dinty waited three full minutes. She sat up, let her feet down cautiously upon a floor which could not be trusted not to squeak in loud betrayal, carefully drew her nightgown about her, and manipulated the light. She then uttered a thrilling shriek.

  “What’s the matter?” shouted Horace. She felt the impact of his weight shudder along the floor.

  “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

  With the presence of mind of one accustomed to face emergencies, Horace snatched his water ewer from the stand as he passed and ran across the hall. There was no doubt as to the fire. The oil which Dinty had ca
refully applied to the bed clothing was burning merrily. Horace dashed his burden upon the spot and Dinty, having darted across the room, contributed a second ewerful. The flame died down to a nasty smudge. There was no further danger, but the bed was as plainly unsleepable as Dinty had planned that it should be. Everything was going as plotted. Nevertheless, her housewifely spirit quailed as she reckoned that five dollars would scarcely repair the damage.

  “How did it happen?” asked Horace.

  “I must have fallen asleep over my book.”

  “So it would seem,” he said, staring hard at her.

  Dinty peered down beneath her garment. “Maybe I’m burned,” she said, adding in a tremulous whisper, “fatally.”

  Horace made the briefest of surveys. “Don’t see any signs of it.”

  “Internally,” she said, but he was busy with a vagrant spark which was trying to start something on its own account.

  “My nice bed!” mourned Dinty. “Where can I sleep now?”

  “There’s the woodshed,” suggested Horace.

  “It’s buggy,” she whimpered.

  “Well, I’ll move the pallet into the big room.”

  “Way downstairs?” faltered she, almost choking.

  “Or, I can make you up a nice bed on the landing.”

  “You’re mean to me, Horace Amlie,” said Dinty, weeping.

  He picked her up then like a feather, and she snuggled into his neck with a bear-hug which he had to pry loose in order to deposit her in her proper, legal and wifely spot. Dinty’s last intelligible word for that night was a stifled murmur, “Just the same, I think you were awfly mean to me.”

  – 5 –

  Two crones hovered over gently simmering liquids in a kettle above a slow fire. About them hummed the night life of Poverty’s Pinch. Their heads, one gray-patched, the other bald with age, drew together.

  “Has she been to see you again?” asked the gray one.

  “Yes. This very day.”

  “For the same?”

  The aged one nodded.

  “Is it what you suspicioned?”

  “Who’s to say? She tells little and admits naught.”

  “What have you to complain of? Her money’s good.”

  The bald head nodded sagaciously. A clawed hand reached into the oven to pluck out a brand for the pipe which dangled from a mouth with but a single tooth. Rancid smoke, a blend of dock, cheap twist and the dried fiber of bitter-willow tainted the air. The crone spat.

  “She’s a kittle bitch to handle,” she croaked.

  Quaila Crego leaned closer. “Suppose it’s that. Who’s the spark that lit her?”

  “Wasn’t there a Southern gallant here a few months back?”

  “Seek further. She could marry him tomorrow.”

  The smoker took several meditative puffs. “Would it be the canaller?”

  “Silverhorn?”

  Satch Fammie smirked. “They’ve been seen together. But not in church.”

  “She’ll get no good by him.”

  “What she could get by him is already well gotten, for my guess.”

  “There’ll be blue hell and red murder when her father finds out.”

  “Don’t talk of that man to me.” Satch Fammie shivered. “I had his black look once and I want no more of him.”

  “For all her fix, you’ll see young Miss Uppity queening it, come Independence Day, with all the young blades at her feet,” said Quaila.

  Her prophecy was wrong. Gala plans had to be altered because Wealthia Latham, who was to have worn Liberty’s coronet in the pageant, had taken to her bed. All that her distressed father could get from her was that she was tired out and not feeling well. No, she didn’t want a doctor. She would be all right. Pa mustn’t fret himself over her.

  Genter Latham did fret. Over her protests he summoned Dr. Amlie. Wealthia received the physician, sitting up in bed. Languor had touched her darkly sensuous beauty with fragility. She looked quite saintly. Her temper did not support the appearance.

  “Why must you fuss over me?” she demanded with asperity. “There’s nothing the matter.”

  “Your father thinks there is. Why are you in bed?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Bristol Sulphur Springs is well thought of as a recuperative resort. The waters have a salutary effect …”

  “I don’t want to go to Bristol Springs. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be let alone.”

  Nevertheless Horace recommended to Mr. Latham a change of scene. The father shook his head.

  “She’s better at home. Do you know what I think, Amlie? I think it’s this marriage.”

  “Is anything amiss between Wealthia and Hayne?”

  “I think she doesn’t really want to marry him.”

  “That might account for her low spirits,” answered Horace cautiously. The explanation did not satisfy him. If Wealthia had changed her mind about her betrothed, she would have little hesitancy in jilting him. She always did as she pleased. The reluctance, he guessed, was Genter Latham’s.

  “She can’t abide the thought of leaving her home and me,” pursued the father. “Make no doubt of it; that is what is grieving her.”

  “Has she told you so?”

  “Not in so many words. But I know my daughter. She hasn’t a thought that I don’t share. I can read her like a book.”

  “What’s your objection to Hayne?” inquired Horace bluntly.

  “Mine? No objection except that he lives so far away.”

  “But you’d rather this marriage didn’t take place.”

  “No, no! I don’t say that. I’ve offered the young man an advantageous position in my bank if he will settle here, but he doesn’t seem disposed to accept. A pigheaded young sprig,” he concluded gloomily. Anyone who did not fall in with the Latham pattern of life was, by that mark, a pighead.

  “See here, Mr. Latham,” said Horace. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “I never make mistakes, sir.”

  “You are trying to break off this match. That, in my opinion, is a mistake.”

  Genter Latham stiffened. “I pay you for medical opinion, not family advice.”

  “Take it for medical opinion, then.” Horace declined to be intimidated on his own ground. “Something is making your daughter unhappy and unsettling her state of health.”

  “As you’re taking so much on yourself,” glowered the father, “suppose you ask her whether she still wants to marry Hayne.”

  “Have I your authorization to do so?”

  “You have.”

  Horace remounted the stairs and put the question to her straitly. The result discomfited him. She hunched down beneath the sheet and sobbed convulsively. Only one response could he get out of her.

  “Go away! Please go away.”

  After preparing a soothing potion, he set the glass by the bedside and left.

  At home he found Dinty, her hands stained as with murder, going through the final process of making pokeberry ink for marking the linen.

  “Do you know anything about Kin Hayne?” he asked.

  She looked up from her skimming. “He’ll be in New York soon again.”

  “Did Wealthia tell you?”

  “No. I had a letter from him.”

  “Again?” For a second the treacherous thought flashed into his brain that Kinsey had fallen in love with Dinty and jilted his fiancée. “You didn’t mention it.”

  “It came last week. You weren’t being nice to me then,” said she blandly.

  “I see. You disapprove of my actions and take it out in carrying on a clandestine affair with your best friend’s young man. A nice wife! The law permits me to beat you, in case you don’t know it.”

  “So do,” said Dinty calmly. “And do you know what then? I’ll mix up your medicaments and all your patients will die instead of only part.”

  “What do you mean, ‘only part’?” retorted Horace, outraged in his professional sensibilities. “Except for old M
rs. Dobell who was over eighty, I’ve only lost …”

  “Never mind, darling,” she interrupted sweetly. “What did you want to know about Kinsey?”

  “When is he coming up?”

  “He doesn’t know. He hasn’t heard from Wealthy for the last three posts. I think she’s acting like a little slink.”

  “Wealthia is ill.”

  Dinty gave her refined rendition of the vulgar gardaloo. “She’s no more ill than I am. She’s after something.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to know. I’ll find out. I always do.”

  The beauty, however, had turned uncommunicative. The day after Horace’s call she rose, dressed and mooned around the garden for a time, but neither on that day nor for several days following did she visit the Amlie house. When, at length, she appeared late on a misty afternoon, Dinty, lifting an intent face from her rose vines, said,

  “Go in. I’ll be through in five minutes.”

  “I’ve come to see Horace.”

  “He’s busy with patients. Office hours.”

  “I’ll wait till they’ve gone.”

  She looked tired and depressed and, Dinty thought, as if she had been through a struggle to reach a determination. Instead of going in, she lingered, watching her friend.

  “How is Kinsey?” asked the housewife, fishing for clues.

  “All right, I guess.”

  “You guess! Don’t you know?”

  “Of course he’s all right. Why shouldn’t he be?”

  “Don’t be uppish with me,” Dinty admonished her. “What ails you lately, anyhow, Wealthy?”

  The beauty showed signs of impending tears. “You’ll be sorry when you know,” she faltered. “You’ll be sorry you treated me so brutishly. Maybe I’m going to die.”

  “Tara-de-diddle-de-dee!” said the other briskly. Nevertheless she was concerned. “I’m going to fix you a nice, cool raspberry shrub and then you can rest until the doctor is free.” In professional communications Dinty was particular always to refer to her husband as “the doctor.”

  It was a white and tremulous girl who was ushered into the private office.

  “Well, Wealthia, what is it?” asked Horace.

  She struggled for utterance. When the question came, it was barely audible.