Beasleys Christmas Party | Page 9

heard her talk about it!--'I couldn't bear it another day,' she
said, 'I couldn't STAND it! In all the time I've known him I don't
believe he's ever asked me a single question--except when he asked if
I'd marry him. He never says ANYTHING--never speaks at ALL!' she
said. 'You don't know a blessing when you see it,' I told her. 'Blessing!'
she said. 'There's nothing IN the man! He has no DEPTHS! He hasn't
any more imagination than the chair he sits and sits and sits in! Half the
time he answers what I say to him by nodding and saying 'um-hum,'
with that same old foolish, contented smile of his. I'd have gone MAD
if it had lasted any longer!' I asked her if she thought married life
consisted very largely of conversations between husband and wife; and
she answered that even married life ought to have some POETRY in it.
'Some romance,' she said, 'some soul! And he just comes and sits,' she
said, 'and sits and sits and sits and sits! And I can't bear it any longer,
and I've told him so.'"
"Poor Mr. Beasley," I said.
"I think, 'Poor Ann Apperthwaite!'" retorted my cousin. "I'd like to
know if there's anything NICER than just to sit and sit and sit and sit
with as lovely a man as that--a man who understands things, and thinks
and listens and smiles--instead of everlastingly talking!"
"As it happens," I remarked, "I've heard Mr. Beasley talk."
"Why, of course he talks," she returned, "when there's any real use in it.
And he talks to children; he's THAT kind of man."
"I meant a particular instance," I began; meaning to see if she could

give me any clew to Bill Hammersley and Simpledoria, but at that
moment the gate clicked under the hand of another caller. My cousin
rose to greet him; and presently I took my leave without having been
able to get back upon the subject of Beasley.
Thus, once more baffled, I returned to Mrs. Apperthwaite's--and within
the hour came into full possession of the very heart of that dark and
subtle mystery which overhung the house next door and so perplexed
my soul.

IV
Finding that I had still some leisure before me, I got a book from my
room and repaired to the bench in the garden. But I did not read; I had
but opened the book when my attention was arrested by sounds from
the other side of the high fence--low and tremulous croonings of
distinctly African derivation:
"Ah met mah sistuh in a-mawnin', She 'uz a-waggin' up de hill SO slow!
'Sistuh, you mus' git a rastle in doo time, B'fo de hevumly do's
cloze--iz!'"
It was the voice of an aged negro; and the simultaneous slight creaking
of a small hub and axle seemed to indicate that he was pushing or
pulling a child's wagon or perambulator up and down the walk from the
kitchen door to the stable. Whiles, he proffered soothing music: over
and over he repeated the chant, though with variations; encountering in
turn his brother, his daughter, each of his parents, his uncle, his cousin,
and his second-cousin, one after the other ascending the same slope
with the same perilous leisure.
"Lay still, honey." He interrupted his injunctions to the second-cousin.
"Des keep on a-nappin' an' a-breavin' de f'esh air. Dass wha's go' mek
you good an' well agin."
Then there spoke the strangest voice that ever fell upon my ear; it was
not like a child's, neither was it like a very old person's voice; it might
have been a grasshopper's, it was so thin and little, and made of such
tiny wavers and quavers and creakings.
"I--want--" said this elfin voice, "I--want--Bill--Hammersley!"
The shabby phaeton which had passed my cousin's house was drawing
up to the curb near Beasley's gate. Evidently the old negro saw it.
"Hi dar!" he exclaimed. "Look at dat! Hain' Bill a comin' yonnah des

edzacly on de dot an' to de vey spot an' instink when you 'quiah fo' 'im,
honey? Dar come Mist' Dave, right on de minute, an' you kin bet yo' las
hunnud dollahs he got dat Bill Hammersley wif 'im! Come along,
honey-chile! Ah's go' to pull you 'roun in de side yod fo' to meet 'em."
The small wagon creaked away, the chant resuming as it went.
Mr. Dowden jumped out of the phaeton with a wave of his hand to the
driver, Beasley himself, who clucked to the horse and drove through
his open carriage-gates and down the drive on the other side of the
house, where he was lost to my view.
Dowden, entering our own gate, nodded in a friendly fashion to me,
and I advanced to meet him.
"Some day I