Obed Probasco’s hobbling entrance for supper and a new study of the weather saved Touchtone’s answer to a statement that it struck him came peculiarly near to the truth, and to a very common state of matters between near relatives.
They rambled over the old farm-house, the wind roaring and the rain dashing about the eaves and windows. Philip possesses to-day a substantial reminder of this exploring, in the shape of a bright copper warming-pan, one of two that had belonged to “Grandmother Probasco,” which now hangs in restored glory in a place far from that dusky nook it occupied for so many years. The discovery of a rat in the wainscot of the kitchen, within convenient range of the dresser where Mrs. Probasco was accustomed to stand her hot bread and pies, gave occupation to all the household, including Towzer (“You will call that dog Towzer when you know his real name’s Jock,” frequently remonstrated Mrs. Probasco) for a while the second afternoon. In the evening Obed took to telling tales of a certain uncle of his who had been “a seafaring man of oncommon eddication,” and that chronicle whiled away the hours till bed-time, and sent them to bed sleepy into the bargain; the history recounted being of a mild and long-winded sort, and chiefly connected with the efforts of the nautical ancestor to induce “a widow that lived on Cape Ann” to exchange a little piece of ground she owned for a big fishing-smack that she didn’t want, a wedding being part of the proposed transaction. They became, by hearsay, quite familiar with the quaint Chantico people and their characters and ways. For, although Mr. and Mrs. Probasco were so aloof from the little port, several of their kith and kin lived thereabouts, and household supplies and queer chapters of gossip came thence to the island. Philip remembers in these after years, as one sometimes does things heard in a dream, the anecdotes and homely annals that he listened to (or rather half-listened to) during those days. Sometimes a curious name that happens to be read or mentioned will bring back the scenes of that week, and even the wearisome, hoarse noise of sea and storm from hour to hour.
By mutual consent, all questions of how far their detention from Chantico might affect their plans were pushed aside, unless Gerald was out of ear-shot. And, in any case, what could they determine?
But it does not seldom occur in this conversational world that when every subject seems exhausted people hit upon one that is to turn out the most important. This experience of “talking against time,” as it might be called, with the friendly Probascos gave Touchtone an instance of the fact which he has always thought satisfactory enough. It was Gerald Saxton who, in the evening of the last day of the gale, unintentionally set the ball in motion by a careless remark.
Obed happened to be out of the room for the sake of his efficacious bottle of “lineament.” They had been speaking of the island-farm—how fertile it was, how easily cultivated by Obed and by the extra help he employed at certain times of the year; of the commodious old dwelling that the couple had so long occupied that it was only at the days of rent-paying that they realized themselves still tenants and not owners.
“You see,” said Mrs. Obed, holding up her darning-needle to re-thread it (making a very wry face in the process), “we’d ’a’ bought the island long ago, Obed and me—though there’s a pretty steep price for it, disadvantages considered—but there’s incumbrances as to the title; an’, besides, when Gran’f’ther Probasco dies (that’s my gran’f’ther over to Peanut Point)—he’s feeble, very feeble—Obed an’ me’ll have to take his farm and live there. It’s a real sightly place, an’ the land’s splendid. But it’ll be a hard pull for us to leave the island after spendin’ so much of our lives here.”
“I should think so,” assented Gerald. “I don’t see why that Mr. Jennison you speak of—the one who partly owns the old place still—don’t come over to take a look at it now and then, in the summers. I should think he would like to.”
The face of the farmer’s wife changed.
“Mr. Jennison isn’t the sort of man to care about that,” she replied. “He does come—sometimes. As it happens, husband kind o’ expected him this very month, on some errand he wrote about last July. There’s a hull roomful of his things up-stairs.”