Novel Notes Read online

  Another time he showed us how to make coffee―according to the Arabian method. Arabia must be a very untidy country if they made coffee often over there. He dirtied two saucepans, three jugs, one tablecloth, one nutmeg-grater, one hearthrug, three cups, and himself. This made coffee for two―what would have been necessary in the case of a party, one dares not think.

  That we did not like the coffee when made, MacShaughnassy attributed to our debased taste―the result of long indulgence in an inferior article. He drank both cups himself, and afterwards went home in a cab.

  He had an aunt in those days, I remember, a mysterious old lady, who lived in some secluded retreat from where she wrought incalculable mischief upon MacShaughnassy's friends. What he did not know―the one or two things that he was NOT an authority upon―this aunt of his knew. "No," he would say with engaging candour―"no, that is a thing I cannot advise you about myself. But," he would add, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to my aunt and ask her." And a day or two afterwards he would call again, bringing his aunt's advice with him; and, if you were young and inexperienced, or a natural born fool, you might possibly follow it.

  She sent us a recipe on one occasion, through MacShaughnassy, for the extermination of blackbeetles. We occupied a very picturesque old house; but, as with most picturesque old houses, its advantages were chiefly external. There were many holes and cracks and crevices within its creaking framework. Frogs, who had lost their way and taken the wrong turning, would suddenly discover themselves in the middle of our dining-room, apparently quite as much to their own surprise and annoyance as to ours. A numerous company of rats and mice, remarkably fond of physical exercise, had fitted the place up as a gymnasium for themselves; and our kitchen, after ten o'clock, was turned into a blackbeetles' club. They came up through the floor and out through the walls, and gambolled there in their light-hearted, reckless way till daylight.

  The rats and mice Amenda did not object to. She said she liked to watch them. But against the blackbeetles she was prejudiced. Therefore, when my wife informed her that MacShaughnassy's aunt had given us an infallible recipe for their annihilation, she rejoiced.

  We purchased the materials, manufactured the mixture, and put it about. The beetles came and ate it. They seemed to like it. They finished it all up, and were evidently vexed that there was not more. But they did not die.

  We told these facts to MacShaughnassy. He smiled, a very grim smile, and said in a low tone, full of meaning, "Let them eat!"

  It appeared that this was one of those slow, insidious poisons. It did not kill the beetle off immediately, but it undermined his constitution. Day by day he would sink and droop without being able to tell what was the matter with himself, until one morning we should enter the kitchen to find him lying cold and very still.

  So we made more stuff and laid it round each night, and the blackbeetles from all about the parish swarmed to it. Each night they came in greater quantities. They fetched up all their friends and relations. Strange beetles―beetles from other families, with no claim on us whatever―got to hear about the thing, and came in hordes, and tried to rob our blackbeetles of it. By the end of a week we had lured into our kitchen every beetle that wasn't lame for miles round.

  MacShaughnassy said it was a good thing. We should clear the suburb at one swoop. The beetles had now been eating this poison steadily for ten days, and he said that the end could not be far off. I was glad to hear it, because I was beginning to find this unlimited hospitality expensive. It was a dear poison that we were giving them, and they were hearty eaters.

  We went downstairs to see how they were getting on. MacShaughnassy thought they seemed queer, and was of opinion that they were breaking up. Speaking for myself, I can only say that a healthier-looking lot of beetles I never wish to see.

  One, it is true, did die that very evening. He was detected in the act of trying to make off with an unfairly large portion of the poison, and three or four of the others set upon him savagely and killed him.

  But he was the only one, so far as I could ever discover, to whom MacShaughnassy's recipe proved fatal. As for the others, they grew fat and sleek upon it. Some of them, indeed, began to acquire quite a figure. We lessened their numbers eventually by the help of some common oil-shop stuff. But such vast numbers, attracted by MacShaughnassy's poison, had settled in the house, that to finally exterminate them now was hopeless.

  I have not heard of MacShaughnassy's aunt lately. Possibly, one of MacShaughnassy's bosom friends has found out her address and has gone down and murdered her. If so, I should like to thank him.

  I tried a little while ago to cure MacShaughnassy of his fatal passion for advice-giving, by repeating to him a very sad story that was told to me by a gentleman I met in an American railway car. I was travelling from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to me that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars at Albany and completing the distance by water. But I did not know how the boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me. I glanced about for some one to question. A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the next window reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me. I deemed him to be intelligent, and approached him.

  "I beg your pardon for interrupting you," I said, sitting down opposite to him, "but could you give me any information about the boats between Albany and New York?"

  "Well," he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, "there are three lines of boats altogether. There is the Heggarty line, but they only go as far as Catskill. Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go every other day. Or there is what we call the canal boat."

  "Oh," I said. "Well now, which would you advise me to―"

  He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.

  "You villain!" he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, "so that's your game, is it? I'll give you something that you'll want advice about," and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.

  I felt hurt. I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might feel even more hurt. So I left him without a word, and drifted over to the other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady and the door.

  I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my elderly friend making towards me. I rose and laid my hand upon the door-knob. He should not find me unprepared. He smiled, reassuringly, however, and held out his hand.

  "I've been thinking," he said, "that maybe I was a little rude just now. I should like, if you will let me, to explain. I think, when you have heard my story, you will understand, and forgive me."

  There was that about him which made me trust him. We found a quiet corner in the smoking-car. I had a "whiskey sour," and he prescribed for himself a strange thing of his own invention. Then we lighted our cigars, and he talked.

  "Thirty years ago," said he, "I was a young man with a healthy belief in myself, and a desire to do good to others. I did not imagine myself a genius. I did not even consider myself exceptionally brilliant or talented. But it did seem to me, and the more I noted the doings of my fellow-men and women, the more assured did I become of it, that I possessed plain, practical common sense to an unusual and remarkable degree. Conscious of this, I wrote a little book, which I entitled How to be Happy, Wealthy, and Wise, and published it at my own expense. I did not seek for profit. I merely wished to be useful.

  The book did not make the stir that I had anticipated. Some two or three hundred copies went off, and then the sale practically ceased.

  I confess that at first I was disappointed. But after a while, I reflected that, if people would not take my advice, it was more their loss than mine, and I dismissed the matter from my mind.

  One morning, about a twelvemonth afterwards, I was sitting in my study, when the servant entered to say that there was a man downstairs who wanted very much to see me.

  "I gave instructions that he should be sent up, and up acco
rdingly he came.

  "He was a common man, but he had an open, intelligent countenance, and his manner was most respectful. I motioned him to be seated. He selected a chair, and sat down on the extreme edge of it.

  "'I hope you'll pard'n this intrusion, sir,' he began, speaking deliberately, and twirling his hat the while; 'but I've come more'n two hundred miles to see you, sir.'

  "I expressed myself as pleased, and he continued: 'They tell me, sir, as you're the gentleman as wrote that little book, How to be Happy, Wealthy, and Wise."

  He enumerated the three items slowly, dwelling lovingly on each. I admitted the fact.

  "'Ah, that's a wonderful book, sir,' he went on. 'I ain't one of them as has got brains of their own―not to speak of―but I know enough to know them as has; and when I read that little book, I says to myself, Josiah Hackett (that's my name, sir), when you're in doubt don't you get addling that thick head o' yours, as will only tell you all wrong; you go to the gentleman as wrote that little book and ask him for his advice. He is a kind-hearted gentleman, as any one can tell, and he'll give it you; and WHEN you've got it, you go straight ahead, full steam, and don't you stop for nothing, 'cause he'll know what's best for you, same as he knows what's best for everybody. That's what I says, sir; and that's what I'm here for.'

  "He paused, and wiped his brow with a green cotton handkerchief. I prayed him to proceed.

  "It appeared that the worthy fellow wanted to marry, but could not make up his mind WHOM he wanted to marry. He had his eye―so he expressed it―upon two young women, and they, he had reason to believe, regarded him in return with more than usual favour. His difficulty was to decide which of the two―both of them excellent and deserving young persons―would make him the best wife. The one, Juliana, the only daughter of a retired sea-captain, he described as a winsome lassie. The other, Hannah, was an older and altogether more womanly girl. She was the eldest of a large family. Her father, he said, was a God-fearing man, and was doing well in the timber trade. He asked me which of them I should advise him to marry.

  "I was flattered. What man in my position would not have been? This Josiah Hackett had come from afar to hear my wisdom. He was willing―nay, anxious―to entrust his whole life's happiness to my discretion. That he was wise in so doing, I entertained no doubt. The choice of a wife I had always held to be a matter needing a calm, unbiassed judgment, such as no lover could possibly bring to bear upon the subject. In such a case, I should not have hesitated to offer advice to the wisest of men. To this poor, simple-minded fellow, I felt it would be cruel to refuse it.

  "He handed me photographs of both the young persons under consideration. I jotted down on the back of each such particulars as I deemed would assist me in estimating their respective fitness for the vacancy in question, and promised to carefully consider the problem, and write him in a day or two.

  "His gratitude was touching. 'Don't you trouble to write no letters, sir,' he said; 'you just stick down "Julia" or "Hannah" on a bit of paper, and put it in an envelope. I shall know what it means, and that's the one as I shall marry.'

  "Then he gripped me by the hand and left me.

  "I gave a good deal of thought to the selection of Josiah's wife. I wanted him to be happy.

  "Juliana was certainly very pretty. There was a lurking playfulness about the corners of Juliana's mouth which conjured up the sound of rippling laughter. Had I acted on impulse, I should have clasped Juliana in Josiah's arms.

  "But, I reflected, more sterling qualities than mere playfulness and prettiness are needed for a wife. Hannah, though not so charming, clearly possessed both energy and sense―qualities highly necessary to a poor man's wife. Hannah's father was a pious man, and was 'doing well'―a thrifty, saving man, no doubt. He would have instilled into her lessons of economy and virtue; and, later on, she might possibly come in for a little something. She was the eldest of a large family. She was sure to have had to help her mother a good deal. She would be experienced in household matters, and would understand the bringing up of children.

  "Julia's father, on the other hand, was a retired sea-captain. Seafaring folk are generally loose sort of fish. He had probably been in the habit of going about the house, using language and expressing views, the hearing of which could not but have exercised an injurious effect upon the formation of a growing girl's character. Juliana was his only child. Only children generally make bad men and women. They are allowed to have their own way too much. The pretty daughter of a retired sea-captain would be certain to be spoilt.

  "Josiah, I had also to remember, was a man evidently of weak character. He would need management. Now, there was something about Hannah's eye that eminently suggested management.

  "At the end of two days my mind was made up. I wrote 'Hannah' on a slip of paper, and posted it.

  "A fortnight afterwards I received a letter from Josiah. He thanked me for my advice, but added, incidentally, that he wished I could have made it Julia. However, he said, he felt sure I knew best, and by the time I received the letter he and Hannah would be one.

  "That letter worried me. I began to wonder if, after all, I had chosen the right girl. Suppose Hannah was not all I thought her! What a terrible thing it would be for Josiah. What data, sufficient to reason upon, had I possessed? How did I know that Hannah was not a lazy, ill-tempered girl, a continual thorn in the side of her poor, overworked mother, and a perpetual blister to her younger brothers and sisters? How did I know she had been well brought up? Her father might be a precious old fraud: most seemingly pious men are. She may have learned from him only hypocrisy.

  "Then also, how did I know that Juliana's merry childishness would not ripen into sweet, cheerful womanliness? Her father, for all I knew to the contrary, might be the model of what a retired sea-captain should be; with possibly a snug little sum safely invested somewhere. And Juliana was his only child. What reason had I for rejecting this fair young creature's love for Josiah?

  "I took her photo from my desk. I seemed to detect a reproachful look in the big eyes. I saw before me the scene in the little far-away home when the first tidings of Josiah's marriage fell like a cruel stone into the hitherto placid waters of her life. I saw her kneeling by her father's chair, while the white-haired, bronzed old man gently stroked the golden head, shaking with silent sobs against his breast. My remorse was almost more than I could bear.

  "I put her aside and took up Hannah―my chosen one. She seemed to be regarding me with a smile of heartless triumph. There began to take possession of me a feeling of positive dislike to Hannah.

  "I fought against the feeling. I told myself it was prejudice. But the more I reasoned against it the stronger it became. I could tell that, as the days went by, it would grow from dislike to loathing, from loathing to hate. And this was the woman I had deliberately selected as a life companion for Josiah!

  "For weeks I knew no peace of mind. Every letter that arrived I dreaded to open, fearing it might be from Josiah. At every knock I started up, and looked about for a hiding-place. Every time I came across the heading, 'Domestic Tragedy,' in the newspapers, I broke into a cold perspiration. I expected to read that Josiah and Hannah had murdered each other, and died cursing me.

  "As the time went by, however, and I heard nothing, my fears began to assuage, and my belief in my own intuitive good judgment to return. Maybe, I had done a good thing for Josiah and Hannah, and they were blessing me. Three years passed peacefully away, and I was beginning to forget the existence of the Hacketts.

  "Then he came again. I returned home from business one evening to find him waiting for me in the hall. The moment I saw him I knew that my worst fears had fallen short of the truth. I motioned him to follow me to my study. He did so, and seated himself in the identical chair on which he had sat three years ago. The change in him was remarkable; he looked old and careworn. His manner was that of resigned hopelessness.

  "We remained for a while without speaking, he twirling his hat as at our first interview, I
making a show of arranging papers on my desk. At length, feeling that anything would be more bearable than this silence, I turned to him.

  "'Things have not been going well with you, I'm afraid, Josiah?' I said.

  "'No, sir,' he replied quietly; 'I can't say as they have, altogether. That Hannah of yours has turned out a bit of a teaser.'

  "There was no touch of reproach in his tones. He simply stated a melancholy fact.

  "'But she is a good wife to you in other ways,' I urged. 'She has her faults, of course. We all have. But she is energetic. Come now, you will admit she's energetic.'

  "I owed it to myself to find some good in Hannah, and this was the only thing I could think of at that moment.

  "'Oh yes, she's that,' he assented. 'A little too much so for our sized house, I sometimes think.'

  "'You see,' he went on, 'she's a bit cornery in her temper, Hannah is; and then her mother's a bit trying, at times.'

  "'Her mother!' I exclaimed, 'but what's SHE got to do with you?'

  "'Well, you see, sir,' he answered, 'she's living with us now―ever since the old man went off.'

  "'Hannah's father! Is he dead, then?'

  "'Well, not exactly, sir,' he replied. 'He ran off about a twelvemonth ago with one of the young women who used to teach in the Sunday School, and joined the Mormons. It came as a great surprise to every one.'

  "I groaned. 'And his business,' I inquired―'the timber business, who carries that on?'

  "'Oh, that!' answered Josiah. 'Oh, that had to be sold to pay his debts―leastways, to go towards 'em.'

  "I remarked what a terrible thing it was for his family. I supposed the home was broken up, and they were all scattered.

  "'No, sir,' he replied simply, 'they ain't scattered much. They're all living with us.'

  "'But there,' he continued, seeing the look upon my face; 'of course, all this has nothing to do with you sir. You've got troubles of your own, I daresay, sir. I didn't come here to worry you with mine. That would be a poor return for all your kindness to me.'