"Well, it's likely, then, you know something yourself of what's happened—though 'course you hain't lived here to see it all. First, ye know, there was his son's marriage. And that cut the old man all up—runaway, and not what the family wanted at all. You know that, of course. But they made the best of it, apparently, after a while, and young Denby took hold first-rate at the Works. Right down to the beginnin' he went, too,—overalls and day wages. And he done well—first-rate!—but it must 'a' galled some. Why, once, fur a spell, he worked under my son—he did. The men liked him, too, when they got over their grinnin' and nonsense, and see he was in earnest. You know what a likely chap young Denby can be, when he wants to."
"None better!" smiled the doctor.
"Yes. Well, to resume and go on. Somethin' happened one day—in his domestic affairs, I mean. The pretty young wife and kid lit out for parts unknown. And the son went back to his dad. (He and his dad always was more like pals than anythin' else.) Some says he sent her away—the wife, I mean. Some says she runned away herself. Like enough you know the rights of it."
There was a suggestion of a pause, and a sly, half-questioning glance; but at the absolute non-committalism of the other's face, the narrator went on hastily.
"Well, whatever was the rights or wrongs of it, she went, and hain't been seen in these 'ere parts since, as I know of. Not that I should know her if I did see her, howsomever! Well, that was a dozen—yes, fourteen years ago, I guess, and the old man hain't been the same since. He hain't been the same since the boy's marriage, for that matter.
"Well, at first, after she went, the Denbys went kitin' off on one o' them trips o' theirn, that they're always takin'; then they come home and opened up the old house, and things went on about as they used to 'fore young Denby was married. But the old man fell sick—first on the trip, then afterwards, once or twice. He wa'n't well; but that didn't hinder his goin' off again. This time they went with one of their bridges. Always, before, they'd let Henry or Grosset manage the job; but this time they went themselves. After that they went lots—to South America, Africa, Australia, and I don't know where. They seemed restless and uneasy—both of 'em.
"Then they begun ter bring folks home with 'em: chaps who wore purple silk socks and neckties, and looked as if they'd never done a stroke of work in their lives; and women with high heels and false hair. My, but there was gay doin's there! Winters there was balls and parties and swell feeds with nigger waiters from Boston, and even the dishes and what they et come from there, too, sometimes, they say. Summers they rode in hayracks and autymobiles, and danced outdoors on the grass—shows, you know. And they was a show with the women barefooted and barearmed, and—and not much on generally. My wife seen 'em once, and she was that shocked she didn't get over it for a month. She said she was brought up to keep a modest dress on her that had a decent waist and skirt to it. But my Bill (he's been in Boston two years now) says it's a pageant and Art, and all right. That you can do it in pageants when you can't just walkin' along the street, runnin' into the neighbors'. See?"
"I see," nodded the doctor gravely.
"Oh, well, of course they didn't go 'round like that all the time. They played that thing lots where they have them little balls and queer-looking sticks to knock 'em with. They played it all over Pike's Hill and the Durgin pasture in Old Dalton; and they got my grandson to be a—a—"
"Caddie?" hazarded the doctor.