# Moosemeadows/Chapter 3

pp. 7–9.

### III

A WIND had come up from the west to meet the sun; and now it and the level sunshine washed over the dark forests and somber clearings and struck a white glimmer off racing brown waters. The air was chilly, but the sky was blue and silver. Crows flapped up, cawing, into the windy sunshine. The air had a tang of buds, wet driftwood, rotted leaves and rising sap. White-throats sang from the gilded spires of tall spruces. But I felt lonely and deserted. I shivered, feeling in my bones that I had done an unwise thing in accepting the invitation of Thomas Deblore. The adoption of a defensive and explanatory attitude toward my personal and family connections was a new and unpleasant experience for me. That I had associated myself with a name that was not only hated by the rough and ignorant people of this countryside, but was heartily despised by them, was a nasty lump for my pride to swallow.
"I'll show them!" I said; and, leaving my dunnage where it lay, I ascended the steep, path between the alders and willows and cedars.
Immediately upon topping the bank I obtained a full front view of the house and farmstead of Moosemeadows Park sprawled about three hundred yards distant, beyond an extensive clearing, with its back set against high multi-tinted woods. The house faced the stream, with the forest and the morning looking over its shoulders. It was simply designed, and the effect was dignified and satisfactory to the eye. The main section was between fifty and sixty feet long, and two and a half stories high, with four small gables in the slope of the roof. There were two parallel wings, one with a pitched roof, the other a lean-to. The main house had two big square chimneys, the pitched-roofed wing one. The walls of the main house were of gray stone, the walls of the wings were of weathered gray shingles, as were all the roofs; and the shingles showed irregular patches of various tints which told of repairs of several dates. Wooden shutters that had once been green sagged at the windows, some open, others closed like ancient eyelids across tired eyes. Smoke went up from the chimney of the northeastern wing. Gray barns with red doors, sheds squatting slightly awry, a partially demolished stack of straw and a great pile of round timber clustered within fences of gray cedar rails to the southwest ward and slightly in rear of the house. I glimpsed red and white cattle and gray sheep in the yards. The big clearing itself, which must have contained fully sixty acres, showed areas of reviving green, patches of rusty buckwheat stubble and bleached oat stubble and expanses of newly-turned brown furrows, but not a sign of human life.
I advanced along the rough track which led from the stream to the farmstead, looking out anxiously for some simple sign or subtle portend that might indicate the nature of my reception, I doubted the wisdom of my invasion of Moosemeadows, and longed to hear or see something that would dispel my doubts. I had not gone a quarter of the distance before I was sighted by three dogs who issued from an open door of one of the stables. Two of them came toward me at full speed and the third advanced at a dignified walk. The larger of the running dogs was black, the smaller black and white. The first ran silently, the second barked furiously, the third stalked forward without sound.
Here was a sign, evidently. I did not like the silence and unswerving speed of the big black dog. As evidently as the little fellow's duty was to broadcast warning, his was to do something else. His duty, I suspected, called for qualities of tooth and jaw rather than of voice; and I had an unpleasant suspicion that the great tawny beast stalking stiff-legged in the rear usually arrived in time to finish anything that was started. It is against both my nature and my experience to be afraid of dogs; so I continued to advance on my course, without altering my pace. But a chill of misgiving crept under my ribs, and I regretted the absence of a stout cudgel in my strong right hand. The black dog sprang, launching straight and without hesitation from the full run. I side-stepped, and he missed me clean. Before he could turn, a shrill whistle sounded from the direction of the house. He cocked an ear, cocked an eye at me and trotted off, his hackles flat and his air indifferent. The little black-and-white ceased his ferocious barking. The big tawny fellow turned and stalked barnward without changing his pace. I resumed my advance upon the house. I saw a man approaching from the farmstead. He was short, but he walked with long steps. His shoulders were wide and square. He was as erect as a sergeant-major, and his chest stuck out. The black dog met him, turned and followed him.
"You must be cousin Gidwicke," he said.
"I am Gidwicke Swayton," I answered, trying to look cordial and delighted and all that sort of thing.
His mouth and lower face were hidden by white hair—mustaches, beard and whiskers. He had a beak of a nose and protruding blue eyes. He thrust out a hand.
"Welcome to Moosemeadows Park!" he exclaimed.
We shook hands, smiling, eye to eye. He had steady eyes. His smile was suggested by a slight movement of mustaches and whiskers.
"I've been on the lookout for you for some time," he continued. "Where is your baggage?"
I told him; and we turned and walked back toward the bank of the creek. With his long legs, short body, pouter chest and beak of a nose, he suggested a fighting-cock. The suggestion was striking, despite the benevolent whiskers. He halted halfway down the bank and laid a hand on my arm and stared up at me.
"You look good-natured," he said. "Well, I fear your good nature will be sorely tried for a little while. Not for long. I'll think up some way of getting rid of him. It is most unfortunate! The fellow came about a week ago—walked right in with his bag, without so much as 'if you please'—and is very much at home. We'll have to make the best of him—until we strike on some plan of getting rid of him. We'll think of some way."
"Who is he?" I asked.
"Old Ruben Glashner, father of the late Mrs. Henry—and as witless as she was, and a presumptuous and vulgar old ignoramus into the bargain. He will be poison to a man of your tastes and breeding. Even I find him exceedingly trying."
"I have met all sorts and conditions."
"It is very considerate of you to say so."
He eyed my dunnage, then glanced up and down stream.
"Where is your canoe?" he asked. "And did you come alone?"
I told him about Stack Glashner. He plucked at his whiskers as he listened, and nodded and wagged his head.
"Stack's the best of them—but that's not saying a great deal," he said. "Stack's honest, I believe—and not devoid of courage—but they are a low breed. This old fellow Ruben has not a single admirable quality, and is less than half-witted into the bargain."
I regarded him thoughtfully, wondering if he knew of the scorn and hate in which apparently his own family was held. He evidently read something of my thought.
"We are not popular with our neighbors, as you may have gathered from Stack Glashner," he said. "Quite natural. Envy and malice. Their own astounding ignorance is at fault." The expression in his full eyes altered slightly, took on a look of doubt and inquiry. "I'll venture to say that you never heard anything of a disparaging nature concerning the Deblores before you met young Glashner," he added.
I was silent. I shifted my glance to the flooded creek and beyond it to the dark woods rising against the blue.
"Well?" he queried, with a touch of impatience.
Still I was silent, staring at three crows flapping low over the crowded spires of the forest.
"You were always taught by your mother to be proud of your connection with the family of Deblore," he said.
"I can only dimly remember having heard the Deblores spoken of at all," I replied. "You see, I was very small. To be quite frank with you, I hadn't the ghost of a suspicion that I was connected with the family in any way until I received your letter."
He lowered his eyes and humped his shoulders slightly and stared at the ground and plucked at his whiskers. I felt sorry for him; and I hoped he would leave it at that. He cleared his throat, as if about to speak—but nothing came of it. He sighed, still gazing at the ground. I produced my cigarette case, opened it and held it under his nose. He started as if he had been poked in the ribs, shot a quick glance at me, then helped himself to a cigarette with fumbling fingers.
"Thank you, thank you," he murmured. "I most always—usually—smoke a pipe. Used to smoke cigars, before I came home. Very good ones for a penny, in Brazil. But there is no doubt of the relationship."
"None whatever," I said. "I looked it up."
He brightened a little at that.
"We must tote this stuff up to the house ourselves," he said. "Sol is plowing back on the ridge. It's no more than a lad's load, anyhow."
He stooped and swung the largest piece to his shoulder with ease.
The big black dog and the small black-and-white, who had been looking me over and sniffing my legs for several minutes, were now on friendly terms with me. Tom remarked it as he went up the path with our loads. It seemed to please him.