"I've never been able to make anything out of music, myself," confessed
Mr. Welles. "Perhaps you can convert me. I almost believe so."
"'Gene Powers sings!" cried Marise spiritedly. "And if he does . . ."
"Any relation to the lively old lady who brings our milk?"
"Her son. Haven't you seen him yet? A powerfully built granite rock of a
man. Silent as a granite rock too, as far as small talk goes. But he
turns out to have a bass voice that is my joy. It's done something for
him, too, I think, really and truly, without sentimental exaggeration at
all. He suffered a great injustice some six or seven years ago, that
turned him black and bitter, and it's only since he has been singing in
our winter choir that he has been willing to mix again with anyone."
She paused for a moment, and eyed them calculatingly. It occurred to her
that she had been talking about music and herself quite enough. She
would change the subject to something matter-of-fact. "See here, you'll
be sure to have to hear all that story from Mr. Bayweather in relentless
detail. It might be your salvation to be able to say that I had told
you, without mentioning that it was in a severely abridged form. He'd
want to start back in the eighteenth century, and tell you all about
that discreditable and unreconstructed Tory ancestor of mine who, when
he was exiled from Ashley, is said to have carried off part of the town
documents with him to Canada. Whether he did or not (Mr. Bayweather has
a theory, I believe, that he buried them in a copper kettle on Peg-Top
Hill), the fact remains that an important part of the records of Ashley
are missing and that has made a lot of trouble with titles to land
around here. Several times, unscrupulous land-grabbers have taken
advantage of the vagueness of the titles to cheat farmers out of their
inheritance. The Powers case is typical. There always have been Powerses
living right there, where they do now; that big pine that towers up so
over their house was planted by 'Gene's great-grandfather. And they
always owned an immense tract of wild mountain land, up beyond the Eagle
Rock range, along the side of the Red-Brook marsh. But after paying
taxes on it for generations all during the time when it was too far away
to make it profitable to lumber, it was snatched away from them, seven
years ago, just as modern methods and higher prices for spruce would
have made it very valuable. A lawyer from New Hampshire named Lowder
turned the trick. I won't bother you going into the legal details--a
question of a fake warranty deed, against 'Gene's quit-claim deed, which
was all he had in absence of those missing pages from the town records.
As a matter of fact, the lawyer hasn't dared to cut the lumber off it
yet, because his claim is pretty flimsy; but flimsy or not, the law
regards it as slightly better than 'Gene's. The result is that 'Gene
can't sell it and daren't cut it for fear of being involved in a
law-suit that he couldn't possibly pay for. So the Powers are poor
farmers, scratching a difficult living out of sterile soil, instead of
being well-to-do proprietors of a profitable estate of wood-land. And
when we see how very hard they all have to work, and how soured and
gloomy it has made 'Gene, and how many pleasures the Powers' children
are denied, we all join in when Mrs. Powers delivers herself of her
white-hot opinion of New Hampshire lawyers! I remember perfectly that
Mr. Lowder,--one of the smooth-shaven, thin-lipped, fish-mouthed
variety, with a pugnacious jaw and an intimidating habit of talking his
New Hampshire dialect out of the corner of his mouth. The poor Powers
were as helpless as rabbits before him."