Queechy | Page 5

they have a disagreeable matter on hand that must be spoken of.
"Good-morning, sir! Fine day, Mr. Jolly."
"Beautiful day, sir! Splendid season! How do you do, Mr. Ringgan?"
"Why, sir, I never was better in my life, barring this lameness, that disables me very much. I can't go about and see to things any more as I used to. However--we must expect evils at my time of life. I don't complain. I have a great deal to be thankful for."
"Yes, sir,--we have a great deal to be thankful for," said Mr. Jolly rather abstractedly, and patting the old mare with kind attention.
"Have you seen that fellow McGowan?" said Mr. Ringgan abruptly, and in a lower tone.
"I have seen him," said Mr. Jolly, coming back from the old mare to business.
"He's a hard customer I guess, ain't he?"
"He's as ugly a cur as ever was whelped!"
"What does he say?"
"Says he must have it."
"Did you tell him what I told you?"
"I told him, sir, that you had not got the returns from your farm that you expected this year, owing to one thing and 'nother; and that you couldn't make up the cash for him all at once; and that he would have to wait a spell, but that he'd be sure to get it in the long run. Nobody ever suffered by Mr. Ringgan yet, as I told him."
"Well?"
"Well, sir,--he was altogether refractible--he's as pig-headed a fellow as I ever see."
"What did he say?"
"He gave me names, and swore he wouldn't wait a day longer--said he'd waited already six months."
"He has so. I couldn't meet the last payment. There's a year's rent due now. I can't help it. There needn't have been an hour,--if I could go about and attend to things myself. I have been altogether disappointed in that Didenhover."
"I expect you have."
"What do you suppose he'll do, Mr. Jolly?--McGowan, I mean."
"I expect he'll do what the law'll let him, Mr. Ringgan; I don't know what'll hinder him."
"It's a worse turn than I thought my infirmities would ever play me," said the old gentleman after a short pause,--"first to lose the property altogether, and then not to be permitted to wear out what is left of life in the old place--there won't be much."
"So I told him, Mr. Ringgan. I put it to him. Says I, 'Mr. McGowan, it's a cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town that wouldn't leave Mr. Ringgan the shelter of his own roof as long as he wants any, and think it a pleasure,--if the rent was anyhow.'"
"Well--well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of dignity and bitterness,--"it doesn't much matter. My head will find a shelter somehow, above ground or under it. The Lord will provide.--Whey! stand still, can't ye! what ails the fool? The creature's seen years enough to be steady," he added with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh.
Fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the lowered tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one too many in the company. But she could not help catching a few bits of the conversation, and a few bits were generally enough for Fleda's wit to work upon; she had a singular knack at putting loose ends of talk together. If more had been wanting, the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up every gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to her ear. Her heart sank fast as the dialogue went on, and she needed no commentary or explanation to interpret the bitter little laugh with which it closed. It was a chill upon all the rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful little nature.
The old mare was in motion again, but Fleda no longer cared or had the curiosity to ask where they were going. The bittersweet lay listlessly in her lap; her letter, clasped to her breast, was not thought of; and tears were quietly running one after the other down her cheeks and falling on her sleeve; she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. Her grandfather?--could it be possible that he must be turned out of his old home in his old age? could it be possible? Mr. Jolly seemed to think it might be, and her grandfather seemed to think it must. Leave the old house! But where would he go?--Son or daughter he had none left; resources be could have none, or this need not happen. Work he could not; be dependent upon the charity of any kin or friend she knew he would never; she remembered hearing him once say he could better bear to go to the almshouse than do any such thing. And then, if