A VISIT TO MRS. PUTNAM.
It must not be supposed that Alice's story was written out by Quincy in one or even two days. The oldest inhabitants will tell you that the great snowstorm lasted three days and three nights, and it was not till the fourth day thereafter that the roads were broken out, so that safe travel between Eastborough Centre and Mason's Corner became possible.
The day after the storm the sad intelligence came to Quincy and Alice that old Mr. Putnam had passed quietly away on the last day of the storm. Quincy attended the funeral, and he could not help acknowledging to himself that Lindy Putnam never looked more beautiful than in her dress of plain black. The only ornament upon her was a pair of beautiful diamond earrings, but she always wore them, and consequently they were not obtrusive.
Quincy bore an urgent request from Mrs. Putnam that Alice should come to see her. As the story was finished and copied on the seventh day after the storm, Quincy had the old-fashioned sleigh brought out and lined with robes. Taking the horse Old Bill, that sleigh bells or snow slides could not startle from his equanimity, Alice was driven to Mrs. Putnam's, and in a few minutes was clasped to Mrs. Putnam's bosom, the old lady crying and laughing by turns.
Quincy thought it best, to leave them alone, and descending the stairs he entered the parlor, the door being halfway open. He started back as he saw a form dressed in black, seated by the window.
"Come in, Mr. Sawyer," said Lindy. "I knew you were here. I saw you when you drove up with Miss Pettengill. What a beautiful girl she is, and what a pity that she is blind. I hope with all my heart that she will recover her sight."
"She would be pleased to hear you say that," remarked Quincy.
"We were never intimate," said Lindy. "You can tell her from me, you are quite the gallant chevalier, Mr. Sawyer, and what you say to her will sound sweeter than if it came from other lips. Are you going to marry her, Mr. Sawyer?"
"I do not think that our acquaintance is of such long standing that you are warranted in asking me so personal a question," replied Quincy.
"Perhaps not," said Lindy, "but as I happened to know, though not from your telling, that she is to be my mother's heiress, I had a little curiosity to learn whether you had already proposed or were going—"
"Miss Putnam," said Quincy sternly, "do not complete your sentence. Do not make me think worse of you than I already do. I beg your pardon for intruding upon you. I certainly should not have done so had I anticipated such an interview."
Lindy burst into a flood of tears. Her grief seemed uncontrollable. Quincy closed the parlor door, thinking that if her cries and sobs were heard upstairs it would require a double explanation, which it might be hard for him to give.
He stood and looked at the weeping girl. She had evidently known all along who her mother's heiress was. She had been fooling him, but for what reason? Was she in love with him? No, he did not think so; if she had been she would have confided in him rather than have sought to force him to confide in her. What could be the motive for her action? Quincy was nonplussed. He had had considerable experience with society girls, but they either relied upon languid grace or light repartee. They never used tears either for offence or defence.
A surprise was in store for Quincy. Lindy rose from her chair and came towards him, her eyes red with weeping.
"Why do you hate me so, Mr. Sawyer?" she asked. "Why will you not be a friend to me, when I need one so much? What first turned you against me?"
Quincy replied, "I will tell you, Miss Putnam. They told me you were ashamed of your father and mother because they were old-fashioned country people and did not dress as well or talk as good English as you did."
"Who told you so?" asked Lindy.
"It was common talk in the village," he replied.
"I should think you had suffered enough from village gossip, Mr. Sawyer, not to believe that all that is said is true."
Quincy winced and colored. It was a keen thrust and went home.
"Where there is so much smoke there must be some fire," he answered, rather lamely, as he thought, even to himself.
"Mr. Sawyer, when I asked you to tell me a little secret you had in your possession, you refused. I wanted a friend, but I also wanted a proven friend. No doubt I took the wrong way to win your friendship, but I am going to tell you something, Mr. Sawyer, if you will listen to me, that will at least secure your pity for one who is rich in wealth but poor in that she has no friends to whom she can confide her troubles."
Quincy saw that he was in for it, and like a gentleman, determined to make the best of it, so he said, "Miss Putnam, I will listen to your story, and if, after hearing it, I can honorably aid you I will do so with pleasure."
Lindy took his hand, which he had half extended, and said, "Come, sit down, Mr. Sawyer. It is a long story, and I am nervous and tired," and she looked down at her black dress.
They sat upon the sofa, he at one end, she at the other.
"Mr. Sawyer," she began abruptly, "I am not a natural-born child of Mr. and Mrs. Putnam. I was adopted by them when but two years of age. I do not know who my father and mother were. I am sure Mrs. Putnam knows, but she will not tell me."
"It could do no harm now that you are a woman grown," said Quincy.
"At first they both loved me," Lindy continued, "but a year after I came here to live their son was born, and from that time on all was changed. Mr. Putnam was never unkind to me but once, but Mrs. Putnam seemed to take delight in blaming me, and tormenting me, and nagging me, until it is a wonder that my disposition is as good as it is, and you know it is not very good," said she to Quincy with a little smile. She resumed her story: "I loved the little boy, Jones I always called him, and as we grew up together he learned to love me and took my part, although he was three years younger than myself. This fact made Mrs. Putnam hate me more than ever. He stayed at home until he was twenty-two, then he went to his father and mother and told them that he loved me and wished to marry me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Putnam flew into a great rage at this. The idea of a brother marrying his sister! They said it was a crime and a sacrilege, and the vengeance of God would surely fall upon us both. Jones told them he had written to a lawyer in Boston, and he had replied that there was no law prohibiting such a marriage. 'But the law of God shines before you like a flaming sword,' said Mrs. Putnam; and Mr. Putnam agreed with her, for she had all his property in her possession." Quincy smiled. "They packed Jones off to the city at once," said Lindy, "and his mother gave him five thousand dollars to go into business with. Jones began speculating, and he was successful from first to last. In three months he paid back the five thousand dollars his mother had given him, and he never took a dollar from them after that day. At twenty-six he was worth one hundred thousand dollars. When I went to Boston I always saw him, and he at last told me he could stand it no longer. Be wanted me to marry him and go to Europe with him. I told him I must have a week to think it over. If I decided to go I would be in Boston on a certain day. I would bring my trunk and would stop at a certain hotel and send word for him to come to me. I used all possible secrecy in getting my clothes ready, and packed them away, as I thought, unnoticed, in my trunk, which was in the attic. Mrs. Putnam must have suspected that I intended to leave home, and she knew that I would not go unless to meet her son. The day before I planned going to Boston, or rather the night before, she entered my room while I was asleep, took every particle of my clothing, with the exception of one house dress and a pair of slippers, and locked me in. They kept me there for a week, and I wished that I had died there, for when they came to me it was to tell me that Jones was dead, and I was the cause of it. I who loved him so!" And the girl's eyes filled with tears.
"What was the cause of his death?" asked Quincy.
"He was young, healthy, and careless," answered Lindy. "He took a bad cold and it developed into lung fever. Even then he claimed it was nothing and would not see a doctor. One morning he did not come to the office, his clerk went to his room, but when the doctor was called it was too late. It was very sad that he should die so, believing that I had refused to go with him, when I would have given my life for him. He loved me till death. He left me all his money, but in his will he expressed the wish that I would never accept a dollar from his parents. So now you see why Mrs. Putnam does not make me her heiress. You think I hate Miss Pettengill because she is going to give it to her, but truly I do not, Mr. Sawyer. What I said when you came in I really meant, and I hope you will be happy, Mr. Sawyer, even as I hoped to be years ago."
Quincy had been greatly interested in Lindy's story, and that feeling of sympathy for the unhappy and suffering that always shows itself in a true gentleman rose strongly in his breast.
"Miss Putnam," said he, "I have wronged you both in thought and action, but I never suspected what you have told me. Will you forgive me and allow me to be your friend? I will try to atone in the future for my misdoings in the past."
He extended his hand, and Lindy laid hers in his.
"I care not for the past," said she. "I will forget that. I have also to ask for forgiveness. I, too, have said and done many things which I would not have said or done, but for womanly spite and vanity. You see my excuse is not so good as yours," said she, as she smiled through her tears.
"In what way can I serve you?" asked Quincy. "Why do you not go to Boston and live? I could introduce you to many pleasant families."
"What!" cried Lindy. "Me, a waif and a stray! You are too kind-hearted, Mr. Sawyer. I shall not leave the woman every one but you thinks to be my mother. When she is dead I shall leave Eastborough never to return. My sole object in life from that day will be to find some trace of my parents or relatives. Now it may happen that through Mrs. Putnam or Miss Pettengill you may get some clew that will help me in my search. It is for this that I wish a friend, and I have a presentiment that some day you will be able to help me."
Quincy assured her that if it lay in his power any time to be of assistance to her, she could count upon him.
"By the way, Miss Putnam," said he, "how did your investment with Foss & Follansbee turn out? I heard a rumor that the stock fell, and you lost considerable money."
Lindy flushed painfully. "It did drop, Mr. Sawyer, but it rallied again, as you call it, and when they sold out for me I made nearly five thousand dollars; but," and she looked pleadingly up into Quincy's face, "you have forgiven me for that as well as for my other wrong doings."
"For everything up to date," said Quincy, laughing.
At that instant a loud pounding was heard on the floor above.
"Mrs. Putnam is knocking for you," said Lindy. "Miss Pettengill must be ready to go home. Good-by, Mr. Sawyer, and do not forget your unhappy friend."
"I promise to remember her and her quest," said Quincy.
He gave the little hand extended to him, a slight pressure and ran up the stairs. As he did so he heard the parlor door close behind him.
As they were driving home, Alice several times took what appeared to be a letter from her muff and held it up as though trying to read it. Quincy glanced towards her.
"Mr. Sawyer, can you keep a secret?" asked Alice.
"I have a big one on my mind now," replied Quincy, "that I would like to confide to some one."
"Why don't you?" asked Alice.
"As soon as I can find a person whom I think can fully sympathize with me I shall do so, but for the present I must bear my burden in silence," said he.
"I hope you Will not have to wait long before finding that sympathetic friend," remarked Alice.
"I hope so, too," he replied. "But I have not answered your question, Miss Pettengill. If I can serve you by storing a secret with you, it shall be safe with me."
"Will you promise not to speak of it, not even to me?" she asked.
"If you wish it I will promise," he answered.
"Then please read to me what is written on that envelope."
Quincy looked at the envelope. "It is written in an old-fashioned, cramped hand," he said, "and the writing is 'confided to Miss Alice Pettengill, and to be destroyed without being read by her within twenty-four hours after my death. Hepsibeth Putnam.'"
"Thank you," said Alice simply, and she replaced the envelope in her muff.
Like a flash of lightning the thought came to Quincy that the letter to be destroyed had some connection with the strange story so recently told him by Lindy. He must take some action in the matter before it was too late. Turning to Alice he said, "Miss Pettengill, if I make a strange request of you, which you can easily grant, will you do it, and not ask me for any explanation until after you have complied?"
"You have worded your inquiry so carefully, Mr. Sawyer, that I am a little afraid you, you being a lawyer, but as you have so graciously consented to keep a secret with me, I will trust you and will promise to comply with your request."
"All I ask is," said Quincy, "that before you destroy that letter, you will let me read to you once more what is written upon the envelope."
"Why, certainly," said Alice, "how could I refuse so harmless a request as that?"
"I am greatly obliged for your kindness," said Quincy to her; but he thought to himself, "I will find out what is in that envelope, if there is any honorable way of doing so."
Hiram came over to see Mandy that evening, and Mrs. Crowley, who was in the best of spirits, sang several old-time Irish songs to them, Hiram and Mandy joining in the choruses. They were roasting big red apples on the top of the stove and chestnuts in the oven. Quincy, attracted by the singing, came downstairs to the kitchen, and was invited to join in the simple feast. He then asked Mrs. Crowley to sing for him, which she did, and he repaid her by singing, "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" so sweetly that tears coursed down the old woman's cheeks, and she said, "My poor boy Tom, that was killed in the charge at Balaklava, used to sing just like that."
Then the poor woman began weeping so violently that Mandy coaxed her off to bed and left the room with her.
When Hiram and Quincy were alone together, the latter said: "Any news, Hiram?"
"Not much," replied Hiram. "The snow is too deep, and it's too darned cold for the boys to travel 'round and do much gossipin' this weather. A notice is pasted up on Hill's grocery that it'll be sold by auction next Tuesday at three o'clock in the afternoon. And I got on to one bit of news. Strout and his friends are goin' to give Huldy Mason a surprise party. They have invited me and Mandy simply because they want you to hear all about it. But they don't propose to invite you, nor 'Zeke, nor his sister."
"Has Strout got anybody to back him up on buying the grocery store?" asked Quincy.
"Yes," said Hiram, "he has got two thousand dollars pledged, and I hear he wants five hundred dollars more. He don't think the whole thing will run over twenty-five hundred dollars."
"How much is to be paid in cash?" Quincy inquired.
"Five hundred dollars," said Hiram; "and that's what troubles Strout. His friends will endorse his notes and take a mortgage on the store, for they know it's a good payin' business. They expect to get their money back with good interest, but it comes kinder hard on them to plunk down five hundred dollars in cold cash."
Quincy Reading Alice's Letter To Her. (Act III.)
At that moment Mandy returned, and after asking her for a spoon and a plate upon which to take a roast apple and some chestnuts upstairs, Quincy left the young couple together. As he sat before the fire enjoying his lunch, he resolved that he would buy that grocery store, cost what it might, and that 'Zeke Pettengill, Alice, and himself would go to that surprise party.