Part 8 (2/2)

Heman often felt that he had reached a state of mind where nothing could surprise him, but this point of view was really unexpected. He decided, however, with some scorn, that the present misunderstanding might arise from a confusion of terms in the feminine mind.

”This ain't the concert,” he replied, much as if she had proposed going to the polls. ”It's the rehearsal. That means where you play the tunes over. The concert ain't comin' off for a month.”

And now the Widder Poll spoke with the air of one injured almost beyond reparation.

”I'd like to know what difference that makes! If a man's goin' where he can't take his womenfolks, I say he'd better stay to home! an' if there's things goin' on there't you don't want me to git hold of, I tell you, Heman Blaisdell, you'd better by half stop shavin' you now, an' take yourself off to bed at seven o'clock! Traipsin' round playin'

the fiddle at your age! Ain't I fond o' music?”

”No, you ain't!” burst forth Heman, roused to brief revolt where his beloved instrument was concerned. ”You don't know Old Hunderd from Yankee Doodle!”

The Widder walked round the table and confronted him as he was turning away from the gla.s.s, shaving-mug in hand.

”You answer me one question! I know who's goin' to be there, an' set in the chorus an' sing alto. Brad Freeman told me, as innercent as a lamb.

Heman Blaisdell, you answer me? Be you goin' to bring anybody here to this house, an' set her in poor Mary's place? If you be, I ought to be the fust one to know it.”

Heman looked at the shaving-mug for a moment, as if he contemplated das.h.i.+ng it to the floor. Then he tightened his grasp on it, like one putting the devil behind him.

”No, I ain't,” he said, doggedly, adding under his breath, ”not unless I'm drove to 't.”

”I dunno who could ha' done more,” said the Widder, so patently with the air of continuing for an indefinite period that Heman reached up for his hat. ”Where you goin'? Mercy sakes alive! don't you mean to eat no supper, now I've got it all ready?”

But Heman pushed his way past her and escaped, muttering something about ”feedin' the critters.” Perhaps the ”critters” under his care were fed oftener than those on farms where the ingle-nook was at least as cosey as the barn.

These slight skirmishes always left Heman with an uneasy sense that somehow he also must be to blame, though he never got beyond wondering what could have been done to avert the squall. When he went back into the kitchen, however,--the ”critters” fed, and his own nerves soothed by pitchforking the haymow with the vigor of one who a.s.saults a citadel,--he was much relieved at finding the atmosphere as clear as usual; and as the early twilight drew on, he became almost happy at thought of; the vivid pleasure before him. Never, since his wife died, had he played his ba.s.s-viol in public; but he had long been in the habit of ”slying off” upstairs to it, as to a tryst with lover or friend whom the world denied. The Widder Poll, though she heard it wailing and droning thence, never seriously objected to it; the practice was undoubtedly ”shaller,” but it kept him in the house.

They ate supper in silence; and then, while she washed the dishes, Heman changed his clothes, and went to the barn to harness. He stood for a moment, irresolute, when the horse was ready, and then backed him into the old blue pung. A queer little smile lurked at the corners of his mouth.

”I guess the shoe'll go once more,” he muttered. ”No, I ain't goin' to marry ag'in! I said I ain't, an' I ain't. But I guess I can give a neighbor a lift, if I want to!”

Brad Freeman was waiting near the tack door when Heman led the horse out of the barn. He was lank and lean, and his thick red hair strayed low over the forehead. His army overcoat was rent here and there beyond the salvation which lay in his wife's patient mending, and his old fur cap showed the skin in moth-eaten patches; yet Heman thought, with a wondering protest, how young he looked, how free from care.

”Hullo, Heman!” called Brad.

”How are ye?” responded Heman, with a cordiality Brad never failed to elicit from his brother man.

Heman left the horse standing, and opened the back door.

He stopped short. An awful vision confronted him,--the Widder Poll, clad not only in the Tyc.o.o.n rep, but her best palm-leaf shawl, her fitch tippet, and pumpkin hood; her face was still bandaged, and her head-gear had been enwound by a green _barege_ veil. She stepped forward with an alertness quite unusual in one so accustomed to remembering her weight of mortal flesh.

”Here!” she called, ”you kind o' help me climb in. I ain't so spry as I was once. You better give me a real boost. But, land! I mustn't talk. I wouldn't git a mite of air into that tooth for a dollar bill.”

Heman stepped into the house for his ba.s.s-viol, and brought it out with an extremity of tender care; he placed it, enveloped in its green baize covering, in the bottom of the pung. Some ludicrous a.s.sociation between the baize and the green _barege_ veil struck Brad so forcibly that he gave vent to a chuckle, sliding cleverly into a cough. He tried to meet Heman's eye, but Heman only motioned him to get in, and took his own place without a word. Brad wondered if he could be ill; his face had grown yellowish in its pallor, and he seemed to breathe heavily.

Midway in their drive to the vestry, they pa.s.sed a woman walking briskly along in the snowy track. She was carrying her singing-books under one arm, and holding her head high with that proud lift which had seemed, more than anything else, to keep alive her girlhood's charm.

”There's Roxy,” said Brad. ”Here, Heman, you let me jump out, an' you give her a lift.” But Heman looked straight before him, and drove on.

By the time they entered Tiverton Street, the vestry was full of chattering groups. Heman was the last to arrive. He made a long job of covering the horse, inside the shed, resolved that nothing should tempt him to face the general mirth at the Widder's entrance. For he could not deceive himself as to the world's amused estimate of her guardians.h.i.+p and his submission. He had even withdrawn from the School Board, where he had once been proud to figure, because, entering the schoolroom one day at recess, he had seen, on a confiscated slate at the teacher's desk, a rough caricature representing ”Heman and his Ma.”

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