Chapter IV: The Country Tavern

About halfway between the old mill and the village in which Clara Anderson lived, stood an old-fashioned stone tavern, with a square stoop in front, a heavy stone chimney on the roof, and an orchard of patriarchal apple trees in the rear. Of course, this house stood directly on the highway, which was so narrow that a huge old willow that grew on the opposite side flung its pendent branches over the stoop and whipped the roof unmercifully when the winter storms began to toss and torture its drooping boughs. On one of the oldest of these branches swung a ponderous sign, on which a rampant lion had almost raved itself out of paint, and by the huge trunk a wooden horse-trough, separated into departments, gave the crowning proof that men and horses were alike welcome at the stone tavern.

Plenty of custom the old tavern had secured to itself in those good old days, when railroads were unknown, and men of all degrees travelled with their own horses and put up at night like Christians, saying their prayers before they went to bed, and asking grace decorously at breakfast, before they started on a momentous day’s journey of forty miles or so.

At the time of our story, revolutionary improvements had never come nearer than ten miles of the old tavern, which was within the distance of a dashing ride from New Haven, when the sleighing was good, and would be reached in another direction by travelling five miles from a village on the Housatonic, where Clara Anderson resided.

You can imagine that the stone tavern was a grand resort for the students of Yale College whenever they could break from their studies and steal off to make a night of it.

Of course the faculty set its face against these excursions, but almost every night, when the sleighing was good, parties would start for the old place in reckless defiance, amid a storm of sleigh-bells, the cracking of whips, and wild shouts of laughter, which grew loud and reckless, as the wind charged across the farms from the open country. On such nights there would be a tumult of bells and horses under that vast willow. The old tavern would blaze out in all its windows, and the enticing sounds of a violin would send joyous gushes of music through the noise of stamping feet and clamorous gayety that warmed the old building with jovial mirth.

At the time of the great freshet, this house was in the very flush of its popularity; scarcely an evening passed that its walls did not ring to the merriment of reckless voices, and the host must have acquired a habit of taking sleep for granted, as he seldom had an opportunity of getting an entire night’s quiet. But he was a good-natured specimen of a Boniface, and liked to see the young fellows enjoy themselves. They paid him well, and he bothered his round head very little about the condemnation bestowed upon him by the college faculty, or the staid and better order of his own townspeople.

The students did not always confine their visits to the stone tavern to sleighing time.

At all seasons of the year it was a favorite resort. No pleasanter boarding-place could be found for young gentlemen enduring the sentence of a short rustication, and in the summer time students ambitious to pursue their studies out of college found the old house sufficiently quiet for that purpose.

Thus it happened that the stone tavern was seldom without guests of more than ordinary position and intelligence. It was here that young Fletcher had taken up his quarters during his stay in the neighborhood, and here also a party of students, composed of the most rebellious spirits that ever defied the faculty of a college, had been kept over night by the flood and storm.

The next morning was brightly pleasant, but the flood was high, and these young men still chose to consider themselves weather-bound, and resolved to carry the revel of the last night deep into the beautiful day.

So the punch-bowl, which had been thrice emptied during the night, was replenished, and placed upon the table, about which several young men gathered noisily.

The leader of the revel was a young man of perhaps twenty-two, strikingly handsome, but with a reckless, dissipated expression about his face, which, in a measure, destroyed its charm. Of all these young men, his jests were the most frequent and careless. His companions seemed to regard him with that respect which reckless persons are apt to give the one among their number who is the most daring and readiest for frolic and misdoing.

Still, an acute observer would have perceived through all his gayety an illy subdued impatience which gave token of more sombre reflections than he would have been willing to betray, and which he strove in vain to silence.

He had drunk deeply, but seemed little affected by his potations—even the punch, which had proved somewhat too strong for the stoutest heads after all the wine taken during the night, appeared only to make him more reckless and excited.

“I say, Lane,” called out a young man, who had been for the last five minutes trying hard to light a cigar at an empty candlestick, and still persisted in his efforts in spite of his ill success; “I say, what are you g—going to do with yourself now?”

“Watch you struggle with that cigar,” replied the other, setting down his empty glass, and pointing the preoccupied youth out to his companions.

A shout went up that fairly shook the room, in which the subject of the jest joined heartily.

“Thought it was queer,” he said, throwing aside the cigar; “you see, old Hodgson keeps his brass polished so well, I mistook it for flame.”

Some one gave him a match here, and he subsided into silence.

“I think you are lucky to be rusticated just now, Lane,” said another student, renewing the conversation this ridiculous episode had broken off.

“I think so too,” answered Lane, “and mean to send back a vote of thanks to the faculty.”

“Ask them to extend the kindness,” said Morgan.

“Oh, you don’t need my help. No one has a fairer chance,” was the sharp reply.

“Just so,” faltered the young man, dropping the ladle, from which he had been making efforts to fill his glass. “Here, fill up for me, that’s a good fellow; my hand’s awful shaky.”

“I should think so; you have spilled any amount of punch, and scalded my hand.”

“Nothing of the kind,” answered the other, shaking his head solemnly. “Sting of remorse.”

“Don’t know the sensation. But what’s the matter with Waldon? Don’t drink? Take a glass, old fellow.”

Walking cautiously forward, as if treading on very uneven ground, the young man went toward a person sitting by the window, who seemed to be amusing himself by a comparison between the beautiful freshness of the morning and the reprehensible scene within doors.

He was an older man by some years than any of the revellers; and, though he seemed to know them all, kept scornfully aloof from their sources of enjoyment.

“I never drink in the morning. You ought to know that,” he said, waving the glass scornfully away.

“Don’t bother Waldon, he’s deep in a new poem. Never drinks when he’s inspired,” said Morgan.

“If you never drink only when inspired, that would be your last glass,” muttered Waldon, feeling too much contempt for a direct retort.

“There—there, don’t interfere. That man graduated when I was a freshman. He’s made a figure in the world since then, and looks down on us common fellows,” whispered Lane. “There’s no use trying to rope him in for a spree.”

“Lucky fellow; does what he pleases and accounts to nobody.”

“No cross governor to interfere, as some others have, eh, Lane?” returned Morgan.

“Oh, I’ve no fault to find with mine,” replied Lane. “He may bluster a little, but when he sees it is of no use, he’ll settle down as quiet as a kitten.”

“Are you going away from here?”

“Of course I am; you don’t think I mean to stay in this stupid hole when I can get out! I am off to-morrow morning, if we finish the punch before then. I shall run down to New York for a few weeks.”

“Then you are not going home?”

“Not at present, any way.”

“Home’s a delusion,” said Morgan.

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” sang the young man who had distinguished himself by his exploit with the cigar a few moments before.

“You’ve got a sweet voice,” said Lane, with a scornful laugh.

“Always been told so,” hiccuped the scapegrace, leaning heavily on the table.

“Did you ever hear me s-sing, ‘Oh, no, we n-never mention her?’”

“Don’t mention her now,” said Morgan.

“Sing it by all means,” cried the rest. “Don’t you be put down by Morgan.”

“I shant,” replied the young man valorously; “I’m not to be put down by anybody. I shall sing or I shall not sing, just as I see fit.”

The young man leaned back in his chair, and, forgetting his original idea, broke into “Captain Jenks of the Light Dragoons,” which was ended ignominiously with the first verse.

By this time the punch-bowl was empty, and the party dispersed—some going to their rooms to sleep, others gathering in the bar-room below.