“Oh, Mother,” was the boy’s impatient answer, “of course you wouldn’t think any girl was good enough for your boy! I can see that. If an angel from heaven came down after me you’d find flaws in her.”
“Easy, Mart,” cautioned the father. “Better put on the brakes a bit. Your mom and I think about the same, I guess, that the girl’s a likely enough lady and she surely is easy to look at, but she ain’t what we’d pick out for you if we had the say. It’s like some of these here fancy ridin’ horses people buy. They’re all right for ridin’ but no good for hitchin’ to a plow. You don’t just want a wife that you can play around with and dress pretty and amuse yourself with. You need a wife that’ll work with you and be a partner and not fail you when trouble comes. Think that over, Mart.”
“Gosh, you talk as though I had asked her to marry me. We are just good friends. I enjoy visiting her and hearing her play.”
“Yes, Martin, I know, but life ain’t all piano playin’ after you get married, is it, Mom?”
Mrs. Landis laughed. “No, it’s often other kinds of music! But I’m not sorry I’m married.” “Me neither,” confirmed her husband. “And that, Mart, is what you want to watch for when you pick a wife. Pick one so that after you been livin’ together thirty years you can both say you’re not sorry you married. That’s the test!”
“Oh, some test!” the boy said drearily. “I--I guess you’re right, both of you. I guess it isn’t a thing to rush into. But you don’t know Isabel. She’s really a lovely, sweet girl.”
“Of course she is,” said his mother. “You just hold on to her and go see her as often as you like. Perhaps when you’ve been at the bank a while longer and can afford to get married you’ll find she’s the very one you want. Any one you pick we’ll like.”
“Yes, of course, yes,” said Mr. Landis. Wise parents! They knew that direct opposition to the choice of the son would frustrate their hopes for him. Let him go on seeing the butterfly and perhaps the sooner he’d outgrow her charms, they thought.
But later, as Mr. Landis unlaced his shoes and his wife took off her white Mennonite cap and combed her hair for the night, that mild man sputtered and stormed. All the gentle acquiescence was fallen from him. “That empty-headed doll has got our Mart just wrapped round her finger! All she can say is ‘Delicious, lovely, darling!’”
Mrs. Landis laughed at his imitation of the affected Isabel.
“Good guns, Mom, if any of our boys tie up with a doll like that it’ll break our hearts. Why couldn’t Mart pick a sensible girl that can cook and ain’t too tony nor lazy to do it? A girl like Amanda Reist, now, would be more suited to him. Poor Mart, he’s bamboozled if he gets this one! But if we told him that he’d be so mad he’d run to-morrow and marry her. We got to be a little careful, I guess.”
“Ach, yes, he’ll get over it. He’s a whole lot like you and I don’t believe he’d marry a girl like that.”
“Well, let’s hope he shows as good taste when he picks a wife as I did, ain’t, Mom?”
That summer Aunt Rebecca became ill. Millie volunteered to take care of her.
“She ain’t got no child to do for her,” said the hired girl, “and abody feels forlorn when you’re sick. I’ll go tend her if you want.”
“Oh, Millie, I’d be so glad if you’d go! Strangers might be ugly to her, for she’s a little hard to get along with. And I can’t do it to take care of her.”
“You--well, I guess you ain’t strong enough to do work like that. If she gets real sick she’ll have to be lifted around and she ain’t too light, neither. If you and Amanda can shift here I’ll just pack my telescope and go right over to Landisville.”
So Millie packed and strapped her old gray telescope and went to wait on the sick woman.
She found Aunt Rebecca in bed, very ill, with a kind neighbor ministering to her.
“My goodness, Millie,” she greeted the newcomer, “I never was so glad to see anybody like I am you! You pay this lady for her trouble. My money is in the wash-stand drawer. Lock the drawer open and get it out”
After the neighbor had been paid and departed Millie and the sick woman were left alone. “Millie,” said Aunt Rebecca, “you stay with me till I go. Ach, you needn’t tell me I’ll get well. I know I’m done for. I don’t want a lot o’ strangers pokin’ round in my things and takin’ care of me. I’m crabbit and they don’t have no patience.”
“Ach, you’ll be around again in no time,” said Millie cheerfully. “Don’t you worry. I’ll run everything just like it ought to be. I’ll tend you so good you’ll be up and about before you know it.”
“I’m not so easy fooled. I won’t get out of this room till I’m carried out, I know. My goodness, abody thinks back over a lot o’ things when you get right sick once! I made a will, Millie, and a pretty good one,” the sick woman laughed as if in enjoyment of a pleasant secret. Her nurse attributed the laughter to delirium. But Aunt Rebecca went on, astonishing the other woman more and deepening the conviction that the strange talk was due to flightiness.
“Yes, I made a will! Some people’ll say I was crazy, but you tell them for me I’m as sane as any one. My goodness, can’t abody do what abody wants with your own money? Didn’t I slave and scratch and skimp like everything all my life! And you bet I’m goin’ to give that there money just where I want!”
“Ach, people always fuss about wills. It gives them something to talk about,” said Millie, thinking argument useless.
“Yes, it won’t worry me. I won’t hear it. I have it all fixed where and how I want to be buried, and all about the funeral. I want to have a nice funeral, eat in the meeting-house, and have enough to eat, too. I was to a funeral once and everything got all before all the people had eaten. I was close livin’, but I ain’t goin’ to be close dead.”
“Now you go to sleep,” ordered Millie. “You can tell me the rest some other time.”
That evening as Millie sat on a low rocker by the bedside, the dim flare of an oil lamp flickering on the faces of the two women, Aunt Rebecca told more of the things she was so eager to detail while strength lasted.
“Jonas always thought that if I lived longest half of what I have should go back to the Miller people, his side of the family. But I tell you, Millie, none of them ever come to see me except one or two who come just for the money. They was wishin’ long a’ready I’d die and they’d get it. But Jonas didn’t put that in the will. He left me everything and he did say once I could do with it what I want. So I made a will and I’m givin’ them Millers five thousand dollars in all and the rest--well, you’ll find out what I done with the rest after I’m gone. I never had much good out my money and I’m havin’ a lot of pleasure lyin’ here and thinkin’ what some people will do with what I leave them in my will. I had a lot of good that way a’ready since I’m sick. People will have something to talk about once when I die.”
And so the sick woman rambled on, while Millie thought the fever caused the strange words and paid little attention to their import. But, several weeks later, when the querulous old woman closed her eyes in her long, last sleep, Millie, who had nursed her so faithfully, remembered each detail of the funeral as Aunt Rebecca had told her and saw to it that every one was carried out.
According to her wishes, Aunt Rebecca was robed in white for burial. The cashmere dress was fashioned, of course, after the garb she had worn so many years, and was complete with apron, pointed cape, all in white. Her hair was parted and folded under a white cap as it had been in her lifetime. She looked peaceful and happy as she lay in the parlor of her little home in Landisville. A smile seemed to have fixed itself about her lips as though the pleasant thoughts her will had occasioned lingered with her to the very last.
She had stipulated that short services be held at the house, then the body taken to the church and a public service held and after interment in the old Mennonite graveyard at Landisville, a public dinner to be served in the basement of the meeting-house, as is frequently the custom in that community.
The service of the burial of the dead is considered by the plain sects as a sacred obligation to attend whenever possible. Relatives, friends, and members of the deceased’s religious sect, drive many miles to pay their last respects to departed ones. The innate hospitality of the Pennsylvania Dutch calls for the serving of a light lunch after the funeral. Relatives, friends, who have come from a distance or live close by, and all others who wish to partake of it, are welcomed. Therefore most meeting-houses of the plain sects have their basements fitted with long tables and benches, a generous supply of china and cutlery, a stove big enough for making many quarts of coffee. And after the burial willing hands prepare the food and many take advantage of the proffered hospitality and file to the long tables, where bread, cheese, cold meat, coffee and sometimes beets and pie, await them. This was an important portion of what Aunt Rebecca called a “nice funeral,” and it was given to her.
Later in the day, while the nearest relatives were still together in the little house at Landisville, the lawyer arrived and read the will.
The Millers, who were so eager for their legacies, were impatient with all the legal phrasing, “Being of sound mind” and so forth. They sat up more attentively when the lawyer read, “do hereby bequeath.”
First came the wish that all real estate be sold, that personal property be given to her sister, the sum of five hundred dollars be given to the Mennonite Church at Landisville for the upkeep of the burial ground. Then the announcement of the sum of five thousand dollars to be equally divided among the heirs of Jonas Miller, deceased, the sum of five thousand dollars to her brother Amos Rohrer, a like amount to her sister, Mrs. Reist, the sum of ten thousand dollars to Martin Landis, husband of Elizabeth Anders, and the remainder, if any, to be divided equally between said brother Amos and sister Mary.
“Martin Landis!” exploded one of the Miller women, “who under the sun is he? To get ten thousand dollars of Rebecca’s money!”
“I’ll tell you,” spoke up Uncle Amos, “he’s an old beau of hers.”
“Well, who ever heard of such a thing! And here we are, her own blood, you might say, close relations of poor Jonas, and we get only five thousand to be divided into about twenty shares! It’s an outrage! Such a will ought to be broken!”
“I guess not,” came Uncle Amos’s firm reply. “It was all Rebecca’s money and hers to do with what suited her. She’s made me think a whole lot more of her by this here will. I’m glad to know she didn’t forget her old beau. She was a little prickly on the outside sometimes, but I guess her heart was soft after all. It’s all right, it’s all right, that will is! It ain’t for us to fuss about. She could have give the whole lot of it to some cat home or spent it while she lived. It washers! If that’s all, lawyer, I guess we’ll go. Mary and I are satisfied and the rest got to be. I bet Rebecca got a lot o’ good thinkin’ how Martin Landis would get the surprise of his life when she was in her grave.”
In a short time the news spread over the rural community that Rebecca Miller willed Martin Landis ten thousand dollars! Some said facetiously that it might be a posthumous thank-offering for what she missed when she refused to marry him. Others, keen for romance, repeated a sentimental story about a broken heart and a lifelong sorrow because of her foolish inability to see what was best for her and how at the close of her life she conceived the beautiful thought of leaving him the money so that he might know she had never forgotten him and so that he might remember his old sweetheart. But in whatever form the incident was presented it never failed to evoke interest. “Ten thousand dollars from an old girl! What luck!” exclaimed many.
If persons not directly concerned in the ten thousand dollar legacy were surprised what word can adequately describe the emotion of Martin Landis when Amanda’s verbal report of it was duly confirmed by a legal notice from the lawyer!
“Good guns, Mom!” the man said in astonishment. “I can’t make it out! I can’t get head nor tail out the thing. What ailed Becky, anyhow? To do a thing like that! I feel kinda mean takin’ so much money. It ought to go to Amos and Mary. They got five thousand apiece and somebody said the farms will bring more than Becky thought and by the time they are sold and everything divided Amos and Mary will get about eleven thousand each. It’s right for them to get it, but it don’t seem right for me to have it.”
But Millie soon paid a visit to the Landis home and repeated many of the things Aunt Rebecca had told her those last evenings by the light of the little oil lamp. “She said, Mr. Landis, that one day she was lookin’ at the big Bible and come across an old valentine you sent her when you and she was young. It said on it, ’If I had the world I’d give you half of it.’ And that set her thinkin’ what a nice surprise she could fix up if she’d will you some of her money. And she said, too, that Jonas was a good man but it worried her that she broke off with a poor man to marry a rich one when she liked the poor one best. I guess all that made her so queer and crabbit. She never let on when she was well that she wished she’d married you but when she come to die she didn’t care much if it was found out. You just take that there money and enjoy it; that’s what Rebecca wanted you should do.”
“Yes, I guess she wanted me to have it,” the man said thoughtfully. “But it beats me why she did it. Why, I’d almost forgot that I ever kept company with her and was promised to marry her. It’s so long ago.”
“Men do forget,” said Millie. “I guess it’s the women that remember. But the money’s for you, that’s her will, and she said I should be sure to see that the will is carried out and that the money goes where she said.”
“Yes--we can use it. We’ll be glad for it. I wish I could say thanks to Becky for it. It don’t seem right by Amos and Mary, though.”
“Ach, they don’t need it. They got lots a’ready. The only ones that begrudge it are the relations of Jonas. None of them come to shake up a pillow for poor Rebecca or bring her an orange or get her a drink of water, but they come when the will was read. I just like to see such people get fooled! They wanted a lot and got a little and you didn’t expect nothin’ and look what you got! There’s some nice surprises in the world, for all, ain’t!”
That summer Martin Landis was well pleased with the world in general. He enjoyed his work at the bank, where his cordiality and adeptness, his alert, receptive mind, were laying for him a strong foundation for a successful career.
He called often at the home of Isabel Souders, listened to her playing, made one in an occasional game of cards, escorted her to musicals and dramas. He played and talked and laughed with her, but he soon discovered that he could not interest her in any serious matter. At the mention of his work, beyond the merest superficialities, she lifted her hands and said in laughing tones, “Please, Martin, don’t talk shop! Father never does. I’m like Mother, I don’t want to hear the petty details of money-making--all that interests me is the money itself. Dad says I’m spoiled--I suppose I am.”
At such times the troublesome memory of his father’s words came to him, “You need a wife that will work with you and be a partner and not fail you when trouble comes.” Try as he would the young man could not obliterate those haunting words from his brain. Sometimes he felt almost convinced in his own heart that he loved Isabel Souders--she was so appealing and charming and, while she rebuffed his confidences about his work, nevertheless showed so deep an interest in him generally, that he was temporarily blinded by it and excused her lack of real interest on the world-old ground that pretty women are not supposed to bother about prosaic affairs of the male wage-earners of the race.
There were moments when her beauty so thrilled him that he felt moved to tell her he loved her and wanted to marry her, but somewhere in the subconscious mind of him must have dwelt the succinct words of the poster, “When in doubt,don’t!” So the moments of fascination passed and the words of love were left unsaid.
“Some day,” he thought, “I’ll know, I’ll be sure. It will probably come to me like a flash of lightning whether I love her or not. I shouldn’t be so undecided. I think if it were the real thing I feel for her there would be not the shadow of a doubt in my heart concerning it. A man should feel that the woman he wants to marry is the only one in the universe for him. Somehow, I can’t feel that about her. But there’s no hurry about marrying. We’ll just go on being capital friends. Meanwhile I can be saving money so that if the time comes when I marry I’ll be able to support a wife. Things look pretty rosy for me at present. Since Father is fixed with that legacy and the boys are old enough to take my place on the farm I have time to study and advance. I’m in luck all around; guess I got a horseshoe round my neck!”
But the emblem of good luck must have soon lost its potency. The bank force was surprised one day by an unexpected examination of the books.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Martin of another worker in the bank.
“I don’t know. Ask old Buehlor. He acts as though he knew.”
Martin approached the gray-haired president, who was stamping about his place like an angry dog on leash. “Anything the matter, sir? Can I help in any way?”
“Why, yes, there seems to be,” he snapped. “Come in, Landis.” He opened the door of his private office and Martin followed him inside. He gave one long look into the face of the young man--"I’m going to tell you. Perhaps you can make things easier for us to adjust in case there’s anything wrong. An investigation has been ordered. One of our heaviest depositors seems to have some inside information that some one is spending the bank’s money for personal use.”
“Good guns! In this bank? A thief?” Horror was printed on the face of Martin.
The man opposite searched that face. “Yes--I might as well tell you--I feel like a brute to do so--if it’s false it’s a damnable trick, for such a thing is a fiendish calumny for an honest man to bear--you’re the man under suspicion.”
Martin sat up, his eyes wide in horror, then his chest collapsed and his neck felt limber. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, as though in appeal to the Infinite Father of Mercy and Justice, “what a thing to say about me! What a lie!”
“It’s a lie?” asked the older man tersely.
“Absolutely! I’ve never stolen anything since the days I wore short pants and climbed the neighbors’ trees for apples. Who says it?”
“Well, I can’t divulge that now. Perhaps later.”
Martin groaned. To be branded a thief was more than he could bear. His face went whiter.
“See here,” said the old man, “I almost shocked you to death, but I had a purpose in it. I couldn’t believe that of you and knew I’d be able to read your face. You know, I believe you! It’s all some infernal mistake or plot. You’re not a clever enough actor to feign such distress and innocence. Go out and get some air and come back to-morrow morning. I’ll stand for you in the meantime. I believe in you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Martin managed to blurt out between dry lips that seemed almost paralyzed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Hope you’ll find I’m telling the truth.”
He walked as a somnambulist down the street. In his misery he thought of Isabel Souders. He would go to her for comfort. She’d understand and believe in him! He yearned like a hurt child for the love and tenderness of some one who could comfort him and sweep the demons of distress from his soul. He wanted to see Isabel, only Isabel! He felt relieved that no older member of the household was at home at that time, that the colored servant who answered his ring at the bell said Isabel was alone and would see him at once.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked as she entered the room where he waited for her. “You look half dead!”
“I am, Isabel,” he said chokingly. “I’ve had a death-blow. They are accusing me of stealing the bank’s money.”
“Oh, Martin! Oh, how dreadful! I’ll never forgive you!” The girl spoke in tearful voice. “How perfectly dreadful to have such a thing said after Father got you into the bank! Your reputation is ruined for life! You can never live down such a disgrace.”
“But I didn’t do it!” he cried. “You must know I couldn’t have done it!”
“Oh, I suppose you didn’t if you say so, but people always are ready to say that where there’s smoke there must be some fire! Oh, dear, people know you’re a friend of mine and next thing the papers will link our names in the notoriety and--oh, what a dreadful thing to happen! They’ll print horrible things about you and may drag me into it, too! Say you spent the money on me, or something like that! Father will be so mortified and sorry he helped you. Oh, dear, I think it’s dreadful, dreadful!” She burst into weeping.
As Martin watched her and listened to her utterly selfish words, in spite of the misery in his heart, he was keenly conscious that she was being weighed in the balance and found wanting. The lightning flash had come to him and revealed how impotent she was, how shallow and selfish.
“Well, don’t cry about it,” he said, half bitterly, yet too crushed to be aught but gentle. “It won’t hurt you. I’ll see to that. If there’s anything to bear I’ll bear it alone. My shoulders are broad.”
There was more futile exchange of words, words that lacked any comfort or hope for the broken-hearted man. Martin soon left and started for his home.
Home--he couldn’t go there and tell his people that he was suspected of a crime. Home--its old sweet meaning would be changed for all of them if one of its flock was blackened.
He flurried past the Reist farmhouse, head down like a criminal so that none should recognize him. With quick steps that almost merged into a run he went up the road. When he reached the little Crow Hill schoolhouse a sudden thought came to him. He climbed the rail fence and entered the woods, plodded up the hill to the spot where Amanda’s moccasins grew each spring. There he threw himself on the grassy slope, face down, and gave vent to his despair.
Amanda Reist knew the woods so well that she never felt any fear as she wandered about in them. That August morning as she climbed the fence by the school-yard and sauntered along the narrow paths between the trees she hummed a little song--not because of any particular happiness, but because the sky was blue and the woods were green and she loved to be outdoors.
She climbed the narrow trail, gathering early goldenrod, which she suddenly dropped, and stood still. Before her, a distance of about twenty feet, lay the figure of a man, face down on the ground, his arms flung out, his hair disheveled. A great fear rose in her heart. Was it a tramp, an intoxicated wanderer, was he dead? She shrank from the sight and took a few backward steps, feeling a strong impulse to run, yet held riveted to the spot by some inexplicable, irresistible force.
The figure moved slightly--why, it looked like Martin Landis! But he wouldn’t be lying so in the grass at that time of day! The face of the man was suddenly turned to her and a cry came from her lips--itwasMartin Landis! But what a Martin Landis! Haggard and lined, his face looked like the face of a debilitated old man.
“Martin,” she called, anxiously. “Martin!”
He raised his head and leaned on his elbow. “Oh,” he groaned, then turned his head away.
She ran to him then and knelt beside him in the grass. “What’s wrong, Martin?” she asked, all the love in her heart rushing to meet the need of her “knight.” “Tell me what’s the matter.”
“They say I’m a thief!”
“Who says so?” she demanded, a Xantippe-like flash in her eyes.
“The bank, they’re examining the books, swooped down like a lot of vultures and hunting for carrion right now.”
“For goodness’ sake! Martin! Sit up and tell me about it! Don’t cover your face as though youwerea thief! Of course there’s some mistake, there must be! Get up, tell me. Let’s sit over on that old log and get it straightened out.”
Spurred by her words he raised himself and she mechanically brushed the dry leaves from his coat as they walked to a fallen log and sat down.
“Now tell me,” she urged, “the whole story.”
Haltingly he told the tale, though the process hurt.
“And you ran away,” she exclaimed when he had finished. “You didn’t wait to see what the books revealed? You ran right out here?”
“Yes--no, I stopped at Isabel’s.”
“Oh"--Amanda closed her eyes a moment--it had been Isabel first again! She quickly composed herself to hear what the city girl had done in the man’s hour of trial. “Isabel didn’t believe it, of course?” she asked quietly.
“No, I suppose she didn’t. But she cried and fussed and said my reputation was ruined for life and even if my innocence is proved I can never wholly live down such a reputation. She was worried because the thing may come out in the papers and her name brought into it. She’s mighty much upset about Isabel Souders, didn’t care a picayune about Martin Landis.”
“She’ll get over it,” Amanda told him, a lighter feeling in her heart. “What we are concerned about now is Martin Landis. You should have stayed and seen it through, faced them and demanded the lie to be traced to its source. Why, Martin, cheer up, this can’t harm you!”
“My reputation,” he said gloomily.
“Yes, your reputation is what people think you are, but your character is what you really are. A noble character can often change a very questionable reputation. You know you are honest as the day is long--we are all sure of that, all who know you. Martin, nothing can hurtyou!People can make you unhappy by such lies and cause the road to be a little harder to travel but no one except yourself can ever touchyou!Your character is impregnable. Brace up! Go back and tell them it’s a lie and then prove it!”
“Amanda"--the man’s voice quavered. “Amanda, you’re an angel! You make me buck up. When you found me I felt as though a load of bricks were thrown on my heart, but I’m beginning to see a glimmer of light. Of course, I can prove I’m innocent!”
“Listen, look!” Amanda whispered. She laid a hand upon his arm while she pointed with the other to a tree near by.
There sat an indigo bunting, that tiny bird of blue so intense that the very skies look pale beside it and among all the blue flowers of our land only the fringed gentian can rival it. With no attempt to hide his gorgeous self he perched in full view on a branch of the tree and began to sing in rapid notes. What the song lacked in sweetness was quite forgotten as they looked at the lovely visitant.
“There’s your blue bunting of hope,” said Amanda as the bird suddenly became silent as though he were out of breath or too tired to finish the melody.
“He’s wonderful,” said Martin, a light of hope once more in his eyes.
“Yes, he is wonderful, not only because of his fine color but because he’s the one bird that sultry August weather can’t still. When all others are silent he sings, halts a while, then sings again. That is why I said he is your blue bunting of hope. Isn’t it like that with us? When other feelings are gone hope stays with us, never quite deserts us--hear him!”
True to his reputation the indigo bird burst once more into song, then off he flew, still singing his clear, rapid notes.
“Amanda,” the man said as the blue wings carried the bird out of sight, “you’ve helped me--I can’t tell you how much! I’m going back to the bank and face that lie. If I could only find out who started it!”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to bet Mr. Mertzheimer is back of it, somehow. The old man is a heavy depositor there, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but why under the sun would he say such a thing about me? I never liked Lyman and he had no love for me, but he has no cause to bear me ill will. I haven’t anything he wants, I’m sure.”
“No?” The girl bit her lip and felt her cheeks burn.
Martin looked at her, amazed. Why was she blushing? Surely, she didn’t like Lyman Mertzheimer!
“Oh, Martin,” she was thinking, “how blind you are! You do have something Lyman Mertzheimer wants. I can see through it all. He thinks with you disgraced I’ll have eyes for him at last. The cheat! The cheat!” she said out loud.
“What?” asked Martin.
“He’s a cheat, Lyman is. I hope he gets what’s coming to him some day and I get a chance to see it! You see if that precious father of his is not at the bottom of all this worry for you!”
“It may be. I’m going in to Lancaster and find out. If he is, and if I ever get my hands on him---”
“Good-bye Lyman!” said Amanda, laughing. “But you wouldn’t want to touch anything as low as he is.”
“I’d hate to have the chance; I’d pound him to jelly.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’d just look at him and he’d shrivel till he’d look like a dried crabapple snitz!”
Both laughed at the girl’s words. A moment later they rose from the old log and walked down the path. When they had climbed the fence and stood in the hot, sunny road Martin said, “I guess I’ll go home and get cleaned up.” He rubbed a hand through his tumbled hair.
“And get something to eat,” she added. “By that time you’ll be ready, like Luther, to face a horde of devils.”
“Thanks to you,” he said. “I’ll never forget this half-hour just gone. Your blue bunting of hope will be singing in my heart whenever things go wrong. You said a few things to me that I couldn’t forget if I wanted to--for instance, that nothing, nobody, can hurtme, except myself. That’s something to keep in mind. I feel equal to fight now, fight for my reputation. Some kind providence must have sent you up the hill to find me.”
“Ach,” she said depreciatively, “I didn’t do a thing but steady you up a bit. I’m glad I happened to come up and see you. Go tell them if they’re hunting for a thief they’re looking in the wrong direction when they look at Martin Landis! Hurry! So you can get back before they think you’ve run away. I’ll be so anxious to hear how much the Mertzheimers have to do with this. I can see their name written all over it!”
Smiling, almost happy again, the man turned down the road to his home and Amanda went on to the Reist farmhouse. She, too, was smiling as she went. She had read between the lines of the man’s story and had seen there the moving finger writing above the name of Isabel Souders, “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.”
When Martin Landis entered the bank early in the afternoon of that same day he presented a different appearance from that of his departure in the morning. His head was held erect, his step determined, as he opened the swinging door of the bank and entered.
“What--Landis, you back?” Mr. Buehlor greeted him, while the quizzical eyes of the old man looked into those of the younger.
“I’m back and I’m back to get this hideous riddle solved and the slate washed clean.”
“Come in, come in!” Mr. Buehlor drew him into a little room and closed the door. “Sit down, Landis.”
“Well, how much is the bank short?” He looked straight into the eyes of the man who, several hours before, had dealt him such a death-blow.
“So far everything is right, right as rain! There’s a mistake or a damnable dirty trick somewhere.”
“Let’s sift it out, Mr. Buehlor. Will you tell me who had the ’inside information’ that I was taking bank’s money?”
“I’ll tell you! It was a farmer near your home---”
“Mr. Mertzheimer?” offered Martin.
“The same! He asked to have you watched, then changed it and insisted on having the books examined. Said your people are poor--forgive me, Landis, but I have to tell you the whole story.”
“Don’t mind that. That’s a mere scratch after what I got this morning.”
“Well, he said your father had a mortgage on his farm up to the time you came to work in the bank, then suddenly it was paid and soon after the house was painted, a new bathroom installed, electric lights put into the house and steam heat, a Victrola and an automobile bought. In fact, your people launched out as though they had found a gold mine, and that in spite of the fact that your crop of tobacco was ruined by hail and the other income from the farm products barely enough to keep things going until another harvest. He naturally thought you must have a hand in supplying the money and with your moderate salary you couldn’t do half of that. He talked with several of the bank directors and an investigation was ordered. You’ll admit his story sounded plausible. It looked pretty black for you.”
“To you, yes! But not to him! Mr. Mertzheimer knows well enough where that money came from. My father had a legacy of ten thousand dollars this spring. You people could have found that out with very little trouble.”
“We’re a pack of asinine blunderers, Landis!” Mr. Buehlor looked foolish. Then he sighed relievedly. “That clears matters for you. I’m glad. I couldn’t conceive of you as anything but honest, Landis. But tell me about that legacy--a pretty nice sum.”
“It’s a romantic little story. An old sweetheart of my father, one who must have carried under her prickly exterior a bit of tender romance and who liked to do things other people never dreamed of doing, left him ten thousand dollars. She was a queer old body. Had no direct heirs, so she left Father ten thousand dollars for a little remembrance! It was that honest money that paid for the conveniences in our house, the second-hand car Father bought and the Victrola he gave Mother because we are all crazy for music and had nothing to create any melody except an old parlor organ that sounded wheezy after nine babies had played on it.”
“Landis, forgive me; we’re a set of fools!” The old man extended his hand and looked humbly into the face of Martin. The two gripped hands, each feeling emotion too great for words.
After a moment’s silence Mr. Buehlor spoke.
“This goes no farther. Your reputation is as safe as mine. If I have anything to say you’ll be eligible for the first vacancy in the line of advancement. As for that Mertzheimer, he can withdraw his account from our bank to-day for all we care. We can do business without him. But it puzzles me--what object did he have? If he knew of the legacy, and he certainly did, he must have known you were O.K. Is he an enemy of yours?”
“Not particularly. I never liked his son but we never had any real tilts.”
“You don’t happen to want the same girl he wants, or anything like that?”
“No--well now--why, I don’t know!” A sudden revelation came to Martin. Perhaps Lyman thought he had a rival in him. That would explain much. “There’s a son, as I said, and we know a girl I think he’s been crazy about for years. Perhaps he thinks I’m after her, too.”
“I see,” chuckled the old man. “Well, if the girl’s the right sort she won’t have to toss a penny to decide which one to choose.” He noted the embarrassment of Martin and changed the subject.
But later in the afternoon as Martin walked down the road from the trolley and drew near the Reist farmhouse the old man’s words recurred to him. Why, he’d known Amanda Reist all his life! He had never dreamed she could comfort and help a man as she had done that morning in the woods. Amanda was a fine girl, a great pal, a woman with a heart.
Now Isabel--a great disgust rose in him for the sniveling, selfish little thing and her impotence in the face of his trouble. “She’s just the kind to play with,” he thought, “just a doll, and like the doll, has as much heart as a thing stuffed with sawdust can have. I guess it took this jolt to wake me up and know that Isabel Souders is not the type of girl for me.”
When he reached the Reist home he found Amanda and her Uncle Amos on the porch.
“Oh, it’s all right!” the girl cried as he came into the yard. “I can read it in your face.” Gladness rang in her voice like a bell.
“It’s all right,” Martin told her.
“Good! I’m glad,” said Uncle Amos while Amanda smiled her happiness.
“Was I right?” she asked. “Was it the work of Mertzheimers?”
“It was. They must hate me like poison.”
“Ach, he’s a copperhead,” said Uncle Amos. “He’s so pesky low and mean he can’t bear to see any one else be honest. You’re gettin’ up too far to suit him. It’s always so that when abody climbs up the ladder a little there’s some settin’ at the foot ready to joggle it, and the higher abody climbs the more are there to help try to shake you down. I guess there’s mean people everywheres, even in this here beautiful Garden Spot. But to my notion you got to just go on doin’ right and not mind ’em. They’ll get what they earn some day. Nobody has yet sowed weeds and got a crop of potatoes from it.”
“But,” said the girl, “I can’t understand it. The Mertzheimer people come from good families and they have certainly been taught to be different. I can’t see where they get their mean streak. With all their money and chance to improve and opportunities for education and culture---”
“Ach, money"--said Uncle Amos--"what good does money do them if they don’t have the right mind to use it? My granny used to say still you can tie a silk ribbon round a pig’s neck but she’ll wallow in the dirt just the same first chance she’ll get. I guess some people are like that. Well, Martin, I’m goin’ in to tell Millie--the women--it’s all right with you. They was so upset about it. And won’t Millie talk!” He chuckled at the thought of what that staunch woman would say about Mr. Mertzheimer. “Millie can hit the nail on the head pretty good, pretty good,” he said as he ambled into the house.
Martin lingered on the porch with Amanda till the sound of the Landis supper bell called him home.