CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH WE TAKE A VACATION AND LOOK FOR DAVID DUTTON.
It was about noon of a very fair July day, in the next summer, whenEuphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take thestage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks' vacation andour minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before, andleft Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of RudderGrange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to makequite a respectable farm. Of course I could not attend to the manifoldduties on such a place, and my wife seldom had a happier thought thanwhen she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to comeand live with us. Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willingto run our farm. So arrangements were made, and the young couple wereestablished in apartments in our back building, and went to work as iftaking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of theirlives. Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble fromtree-man or lightning rodder during this absence.
Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from thepoint where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-range, and aboutsixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friendof ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country waslovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, andtried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers andwagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally aperson from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks inthe mountains.
So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just whatwe wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, I inquired forDavid Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agentdid not know of him.
"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'llset you down at the house."
So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that wewere to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip,although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightfulone. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods,but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave uslovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us.
But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found outafter we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settlethis matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would havebeen so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhereelse. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us togo and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality inwhich it was to be found.
Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing alongthe road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the otherway,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.
"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for thepassengers to take supper."
"Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge," said the driver; "westop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at PeteLowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the'Ridge House'?"
I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that itwas not on the other side of the ridge.
"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I'veonly been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved awayafore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge, arter yeleave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."
There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and whohad listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently,one of them turned around to me and said:
"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"
"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."
"Well, I think he's dead," said he.
At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared mytrouble.
Then the other farmer spoke up.
"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion "I heeredof him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' themountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heered, at any rate.But he don't live on this road any more," he continued, turning to us."He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stopfur supper--or else dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don'tkeep tavern on this road no more."
"Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a livin' over themountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."
I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Duttonhad left this part of the country.
"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping tavernhere two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, andstopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which."
It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house.There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now.My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so farwithout making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that aman who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.
"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested,for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost theirdestination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes."
But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, wherestage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.
"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to theman who had once taken either dinner or supper there.
"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fusthouse this side o' Lowry's."
"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.
"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it."
"An a long porch?"
"Yes."
"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in his seat. "I know allabout that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant thathouse. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, Ihave seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're soset on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye downat Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from whereDutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an'about everybody else, too, in this part o' the country, and if thereaint nobody livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's,and I'll stop an' take you back, to-morrow, when I come along."
We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and,late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--for wewere traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door. The stage wasrather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle ourown affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good lookoutfor us to-morrow.
Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhatsurprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her littleporch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an apron fullof chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soondiscovered.
"Jist so," said she, putting down the chips, and inviting us to seats ona bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farmon the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep thattavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his sonAl come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good dealo' furniter and things fur him, but Al's wife aint satisfied here, and,though they've been here, off an' on, the house is shet up most o' thetime. It's fur sale an' to rent, both, ef anybody wants it. I'm sorryabout you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it."
We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted womanshowed a great deal of sympathy.
"You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two couldsleep."
At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank. "But you could go up to thehouse and stay, jist as well as not," Mrs. Carson continued
. "There'splenty o' things there, an' I keep the key. For the matter o' that, yemight take the house for as long as ye want to stay; Dave 'd be gladenough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how to keep house, it wouldn'tbe no trouble at all, jist for you two. We could let ye have all thevictuals ye'd want, cheap, and there's plenty o' wood there, cut, andeverything handy."
We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare goodtime. It might be better, perhaps, than anything we had expected.
The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all thenecessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly satisfied withour trustworthiness, and when I paid on the spot the small sum shethought proper for two weeks' rent, she evidently considered she haddone a very good thing for Dave Dutton and herself.
"I'll jist put some bread, an' eggs, an' coffee, an' pork, an' things ina basket, an' I'll have 'em took up fur ye, with yer trunk, an' I'll gowith ye an' take some milk. Here, Danny!" she cried, and directly herhusband, a long, thin, sun-burnt, sandy-headed man, appeared, and tohim she told, in a few words, our story, and ordered him to hitch up thecart and be ready to take our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's oldhouse.
When all was ready, we walked up the hill, followed by Danny andthe cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farm-house,standing near the road with a long piazza in front, and a magnificentview of mountain-tops in the rear. Within, the lower rooms were largeand low, with quite a good deal of furniture in them. There was noearthly reason why we should not be perfectly jolly and comfortablehere. The more we saw, the more delighted we were at the odd experiencewe were about to have. Mrs. Carson busied herself in getting things inorder for our supper and general accommodation. She made Danny carryour trunk to a bedroom in the second story, and then set him to workbuilding a fire in a great fire-place, with a crane for the kettle.
When she had done all she could, it was nearly dark, and after lightinga couple of candles, she left us, to go home and get supper for her ownfamily.
As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart, she ran back to askus if we would like to borrow a dog.
"There aint nuthin to be afeard of," she said; "for nobody hardly evertakes the trouble to lock the doors in these parts, but bein' cityfolks, I thought ye might feel better if ye had a dog."
We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks, but declined thedog. Indeed, Euphemia remarked that she would be much more afraid of astrange dog than of robbers.
After supper, which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in ourlives, we each took a candle, and after arranging our bedroom for thenight, we explored the old house. There were lots of curious thingseverywhere,--things that were apparently so "old timey," as my wiferemarked, that David Dutton did not care to take them with him to hisnew farm, and so left them for his son, who probably cared for them evenless than his father did. There was a garret extending over the wholehouse, and filled with old spinning-wheels, and strings of onions, andall sorts of antiquated bric-a-brac, which was so fascinating to methat I could scarcely tear myself away from it; but Euphemia, who wasdreadfully afraid that I would set the whole place on fire, at lengthprevailed on me to come down.
We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom ofthe house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on aperiod of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be truewhen we went down to get breakfast. I made the fire, Euphemia made thecoffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs. The goodwoman was in high spirits. She was evidently pleased at the idea ofhaving neighbors, temporary though they were, and it had probably beena long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs andsundries. It was almost the same as opening a country store. We boughtgroceries and everything of her.
We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for amountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip.
"Hello!" he called out. "Want to go back this morning?"
"Not a bit of it," I cried. "We wont go back for a couple of weeks.We've settled here for the present."
The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly, but he wasevidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time to stopand have the matter explained to him, he would probably have been bettersatisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us and drove on. He was agood fellow.
We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunchwith us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home.Mrs. Carson with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and wasmaking the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to try and repayher in some way. After a splendid supper we went to bed happy.
The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after itrained. So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged abouteverywhere. I visited the garret again, and we went to the old barn,with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times climbing about there.We were delighted that it happened to rain. In a wood-shed, near thehouse, I saw a big square board with letters on it. I examined theboard, and found it was a sign,--a hanging sign,--and on it was paintedin letters that were yet quite plain:
"FARMERS' AND MECHANICS' HOTEL."
I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign.She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.
"Soldiers and sailors!" she exclaimed; "that's funny."
I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was theinscription:
"SOLDIERS AND SAILORS' HOUSE."
"They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town," I said."Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern likethis. But I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house would look morelike what it ought to be with its sign hanging before it."
"Well, then," said Euphemia, "let's put it up." I agreed instantly tothis proposition, and we went to look for a ladder. We found one in thewagon-house, and carried it out to the sign-post in the front of thehouse. It was raining, gently, during these performances, but we had onour old clothes, and were so much interested in our work that we did notcare for a little rain. I carried the sign to the post, and then, at theimminent risk of breaking my neck, I hung it on its appropriate hooks onthe transverse beam of the sign-post. Now our tavern was really what itpretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and content.
"Do you think we had better keep it up all the time?" I asked of mywife.
"Certainly," said she. "It's a part of the house. The place isn'tcomplete without it."
"But suppose some one should come along and want to be entertained?"
"But no one will. And if people do come, I'll take care of the soldiersand sailors, if you will attend to the farmers and mechanics."
I consented to this, and we went in-doors to prepare dinner.