Quincy Adams Sawyer And Mason's Corner Folks Part 26

"Music never troubles me," said Quincy, "I play and sing myself."

"Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good time with the piano,"

remarked 'Zekiel as he left the room.

Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to a friend in Boston, asking him to get a certified copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout, Corporal --th Ma.s.s. Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its destination.

He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of the piano fell upon his ear.

She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and melodious, and it was in perfect tone.

He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah!

Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a "valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown composer. "She is a cla.s.sical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular songs," thought Quincy.

As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure, sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.

Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.

Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter, no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.

But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished. Alice played a short prelude that seemed familiar to him, and then her voice rang out the words of that beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam at the singing-master's concert. Yes, it was Jewell's "Over the Bridge."

This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly down the stairs and looked in at the parlor door, which was wide open. Alice was seated at the piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward course, shone in at the window, and lighted up her crown of golden hair. This time she had reversed the colors which she evidently knew became her so well, and wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue knitted shawl, similar to its pink companion, lay upon the chair beside her.

When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to control himself any further, but joined in with her, and they sang the piece together to the end.

Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door and clapped her hands.

"That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn't know that you sang so well. In fact, I didn't know that you sang at all."

"How did you know it was I?" said Quincy, as he advanced towards her.

"It is a little cool here, Miss Pettengill. Allow me to place your shawl about you;" and, suiting the action to the word, he put it gently over her shoulders.

"Yes," said Alice, "I put it on when I first came down. It interfered with my playing and I threw it into the chair."

"May I take the chair, now that it is unoccupied?" he asked.

"Yes," said Alice, "if you will give me your word of honor that you did not try to make me think it was cold: here, so that you could get the chair."

Quincy replied with a laugh, "If I did my reward is a great return for my power of invention, but I a.s.sure you I was thinking of your health and not of the chair, when I tendered my services."

"You are an adept in sweet speeches, Mr. Sawyer. You city young men all are; but our country youth, who are just as true and honest, are at a great disadvantage, because they cannot say what they think in so pleasing a way."

"I hope you do not think I am insincere," remarked Quincy, gravely.

"Not at all," said Alice, "but I have not answered your question. How did I know that it was you? You must remember, Mr. Sawyer, that those who cannot see have their hearing accentuated, and the ear kindly sends those pictures to the brain which unfortunately the eye cannot supply."

"I have enjoyed your playing and singing immensely," said Quincy. "Let us try that duet again."

They sang it again, and then they went from piece to piece, each suggesting her or his favorite, and it was not till Mandy's shrill voice once more called out with more than usual force and sharpness, "Supper's ready," that the piano was closed and Quincy, for the first time taking Alice's hand in his, led her from the parlor, which was almost shrouded in darkness, into the bright light of the dining-room, where they took their accustomed seats. They ate but little, their hearts were full of the melody that each had enjoyed so much.

CHAPTER XXI

SOME MORE NEW IDEAS.

When Ezekiel and Cobb's twins returned from West Eastborough, they said the air felt like snow. Mandy had kept some supper for them. Ezekiel said they had supper over to Eastborough Centre, but the home cooking smelled so good that all three sat down in the kitchen and disposed of what Mandy had provided.

The other members of the Pettengill household were in their respective rooms. Uncle Ike was reading a magazine. Alice had not retired, for Mandy always came to her room before she did so to see that her fire was all right for the night. Alice was a great lover of music and she had enjoyed the afternoon almost as much as Quincy had. She could not help thinking what musical treats might be in store for them, and then the thought came to her how she would miss him when he went back to Boston.

In the next room, Quincy was pursuing a similar line of thought. He was thinking of the nice times that Alice and he could have singing together. To be sure he wished to do nothing to make his father angry, for Quincy appreciated the power of money. He knew that with his mother's third deducted, his fathers estate would give him between two and three hundred thousand dollars. He had some money in his own right left him by a fond aunt, his father's sister, the income from which gave him a good living without calling upon his father.

He knew his father wished him to become a lawyer, and keep up the old firm which was so well known in legal and business circles, but Quincy in his heart realized that he was not equal to it, and the future had little attraction for him, if it were to be pa.s.sed in the law offices of Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence. At any rate his health was not fully restored and he determined to stay at Mason's Corner as long as he could do so without causing a break in the friendly relations existing between his father and himself. His present income was enough for his personal needs, but it was not sufficient to also support a Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer.

What Ezekiel had prophesied came true. No one knew just when the storm began, but the picture that greeted Mandy Skinner's eyes when she came down to get breakfast was a great contrast to that of the previous day.

The snow had fallen steadily in large, heavy flakes, the road and the fields showed an even, unbroken surface of white; the tops of the taller fences were yet above the snow line, each post wearing a white cap. As the morning advanced the storm increased, the wind blew, and great drifts were indications of its power. The thick clouds of white flakes were thrown in every direction, and only dire necessity, it seemed, would be a sufficient reason for leaving a comfortable fireside.

Mandy and Mrs. Crowley were busily engaged in preparing the morning meal, when a loud scratching at a door, which led into a large room that was used as an addition to the kitchen, attracted their attention. In bounded Swiss, the big St. Bernard dog belonging to Uncle Ike. At Uncle Ike's special request Swiss had not been banished to the barn or the wood-shed, but had been allowed to sleep on a pallet in the corner of the large room referred to.

Swiss was a great favorite with Mandy, and he was a great friend of hers, for Swiss was very particular about his food, and he had found Mandy to be a much better cook than Uncle Ike had been; besides the fare was more bounteous at the Pettengill homestead than down at the chicken coop, and Swiss had gained in weight and strength since his change of quarters.

After breakfast Uncle Ike came into the kitchen and received a warm welcome from Swiss. Uncle Ike told Mandy and Mrs. Crowley the well-known story of the rescues of lost travellers made by the St. Bernard dogs on the snow-clad mountains of Switzerland. When Mrs. Crowley learned that Swiss had come from a country a great many miles farther away from America than Ireland was, he rose greatly in her estimation and she made no objection to his occupying a warm corner of the kitchen.

About noon, when the storm was at its very worst, Mandy, who was looking out of the kitchen window, espied something black in the road about halfway between Deacon Mason's and the Pettengill house. She called Mrs.

Crowley to the window and asked her what she thought it was.

"That's aisy," said Mrs. Crowley, "It's a man coming down the road."

"What can bring a man out in such a storm as this?" asked Mandy.

"Perhaps he is going for the docther," remarked Mrs. Crowley.

"Then he would be going the other way," a.s.serted Mandy.

"He's a plucky little divil anyway," said Mrs. Crowley.

"That's so," said Mandy. "He is all right as long as he keeps on his feet, but if he should fall down--"

At that moment the man did fall down or disappear from sight. Mandy pressed her face against the window pane and looked with strained eyes.

He was up again, she could see the dark clothing above the top of the snow.

What was that! A cry? The sound was repeated.

"I do believe the man is calling for help," cried Mandy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MRS. PUTNAM'S ANGER, UPON DISCOVERY OF LINDY'S PARENTAGE." (ACT III.)]