Top
"You are a pestiferous son-in-law," said Warren, as Lyman entered the room. "And I have taken possession of your private quarters," he added, pointing to a pile of country newspapers. "I have brought them in here to see if I could gouge some state news out of them. I know you don't like that sort of drudgery."
"That is all right. But why do you call me a pestiferous son-in-law?"
"I saw you through the window."
"With the lady and the mule?" said Lyman sitting down. "I asked them in to dine with me."
"Where? You say Staggs has nothing but a 'snack' on Sunday."
"Up here, to eat crackers and sardines."
"Extravagant pauper. I'm glad they didn't come."
"I knew they wouldn't."
"Did she ask you to sign the populistic petition?"
"Yes, but not in the name of love for the mule."
"In whose name, then?"
"Of her father, her mother, and herself."
"Are you going to sign it?"
"Not until she convinces me that she loves the mule, and I don't believe she can ever do that. She has a contempt for him, and I believe she is glad that her affairs are temporarily tied up. She's charming."
"There you go, falling in love with a strange woman."
"No, I am not in love with her, but I am naturally interested in her. I believe she has sense."
"Rather too pretty for that."
"No, she is handsome, but pretty is not the word. I'll warrant you she can run like a deer."
"You are gone," said Warren.
"No, I am simply an admirer. But admiration may be the crumbling bank overlooking the river. I may fall," he added, with a laugh.
"Don't. She has been taught to despise a real man. Let the other side of the house have the trouble."
"Yes," said Lyman. "It is better to be under the heel of the express company than under the heel of love."
"Don't say that," Warren objected, with a rueful shake of his head. "Some things are too serious to be joked over. It is all right to make light of love, for that is a light thing, but an express company is heavy. You are restless."
Lyman had got up and begun to walk about the room. "Yes, the bright day calls on me to come out."
"Isn't it the memory of a bright face that calls on you?"
"No. Well, I'll leave you."
"Won't you sit down to a sardine?"
"No. I'll stroll over to see old Jasper, and take cold pot-luck with him."
Old Jasper, his wife and daughter were seated at the table when Lyman entered the dining room. "Just in time," the old fellow cried. "We are waiting for you, although we didn't expect you. We didn't know but you'd gone up to McElwin's to dinner. Sit down."
Annie laughed, but the old woman looked distressed. "Jasper, you know you didn't think any such a thing. And if you did, how could you? Mr. Lyman doesn't intrude himself where he's not invited. And you know that McElwin is so particular."
Lyman frowned. It was clear that Mrs. Staggs, in her ignorance and in her awe of the man at the bank, could not feel a respect for intelligence and the refinement of a book-loving nature. "You may think me rude," said Lyman, "but I should not regard dining at his house a great privilege. Leaving out the respect I have for the young woman, it would not be as inspiring a meal as a canned minnow on a baize table."
"Why, Mr. Lyman, how can you say that?" the old woman cried.
"Madam, the fishes were divided among the thousands when the Son of Man fed the multitude, and that was a more inspiring meal than could have been provided by Solomon in all his glory."
The old man let his knife fall with a clatter. "Oh, he got you then!" he cried. "He set a trap for you and you walked right into it. All you've got to do is to set a trap for a woman, and she'll walk into it sooner or later."
"For goodness sake, hush, Jasper. A body would think you were the worst enemy I have on the face of the earth."
"Enemy! Who said anything about enemy? I was talking about a trap. But it's all right. We saw you, Lyman."
"Yes, and we didn't know it was going to happen," said Annie. "Everybody was watching you. And I heard a woman say that she admired your courage. I did, I'm sure."
"I didn't feel that I was exhibiting any degree of courage," Lyman replied. "All I had to fear was the young woman."
"But the man is—"
"A coward," Lyman broke in.
Old Staggs struck the table with his fist. "I always said it!" he shouted. "And he's another one that made light of my arrest of the man that choked the sheriff. Coward! of course he is."
Mrs. Staggs objected. No one whom McElwin had chosen for a son-in-law could be a coward. She admitted that he was not as gentle as one could wish. His life had been led out of doors. But he was a shrewd business man and would make a good husband. It was all well enough in some instances to permit girls to choose for themselves, but a girl was often likely to make a sad mistake, particularly a girl whose home life had been surrounded by every luxury. Love was a very pretty thing, but it couldn't live so long as poverty, the most real thing in the world. The old man winked at Lyman. He said that age might soften a man, but that it nearly always hardened a woman. It was rare to see a woman's temper improve with age, while many a sober minded man became a joker in his later years. Mrs. Staggs retorted that women had enough to make them cross. "They have an excuse for scoldin'," she said.
"Nobody has so good an argument as the scold," the old man replied.
"They have men, and that's argument enough," said his wife.
The old fellow laughed. "She put it on me a little right there," he declared. "Yes, sir, I've got a steel trap clamped on my foot this minute. But what do you think of the situation now, Lyman; I mean your situation?"
"I don't know of any material change."
"But of course you are going to sign the petition," said Mrs. Staggs. "Everybody agrees that you must, before court meets. And that reminds me, I met Henry Bostic's mother today. The old lady doesn't appear to be at all grieved over the part her son took in the affair. It would nearly kill me if a son of mine had made such a blunder."
"It was no blunder on his part, and I don't blame him," said Annie. "No one thought enough of his pretensions to ask him if he had been ordained. And besides, Cousin McElwin had made fun of him."
"And a preacher can stand anything rather than ridicule," Lyman declared. "He may forgive all sorts of abuses, but cry 'Go up, old bald head!' and immediately he calls for the she-bears."
"And gives thanks when he hears the bears breaking the bones of his enemies," said the old man.
"I don't blame him," replied Lyman. "Ridicule is the bite of the spider, and it ought not to be directed against the man who dedicates his life to sacred work."
The old woman gave him a nod of approval: "You are right," she said. "But young Henry ought not to have been revengeful."
"No, not as the ordinary man is revengeful," Lyman assented, "but we serve the Lord when we humble a foolish pride. I don't think McElwin could have done a crueler thing than to have crushed the mother's heart with ridicule for the son."
"But about the petition," said Annie. "You will sign it, won't you?"
"I may."
"But why should you refuse. To annoy her?"
"No, to protect her."
"She would be awfully angry if she thought you presumed to pose as her protector. But let us change the subject. The whole town is talking about it, so let us talk of something else. Are you going to church tonight?"
"Yes, with you, if you don't object."
"Oh, I couldn't object, but—but don't you think it might cause remark, after what has happened?"
"There you go, leading back to it. Sawyer walked home with her; did that cause remark?"
"Yes, in a way; and I believe she will wait for the divorce before she goes with him again."
"Then she will be free of his company for some time to come. Well," he added, "I won't go to church. I'll go up stairs and read myself to sleep."
Top
An account of the marriage, written by an effusive correspondent, was published in a newspaper at the State Capital; and a few days later the same journal contained an editorial bearing upon the subject, taking the populistic party to task for its lamentable want of sense in legislation. The State press took the matter up, and then the "paragrapher" had his season of merry-making. "We have always heard it declared," said one, "that marriage is a plunge in the dark, but a preacher over at Old Ebenezer proves that it is all a joke." And this from another one: "'What do you think of young Parson Bostic?' was asked of Banker McElwin. 'I didn't think he was loaded,' the financier replied." It was said that a great batch of this drivel was cut out, credited and sent to McElwin, and Lyman accused Warren, but he denied it, though not with convincing grace.
One evening a picnic was given on the lawn of a prominent citizen. It had been heralded as a moonlight event, but the moon was sullen and the light was shed from paper lanterns hung in the trees. There was to be no dancing and no forfeit games, for McElwin was still raw, and the master of the gathering on the lawn would not dare to throw sand on the spots where the rich man's prideful skin had been raked off. The entertainment was to consist of talk among the older ones, chatter among the slips of girls and striplings of men, with music for all.
"You will have to go to write it up," Warren said to Lyman.
"It won't be necessary to go," Lyman replied. "We can hold a pleasanter memory of such events if we don't really see them. I can write of it from a distance."
"Yes, but that isn't enterprise, and we want to prove to these people that we are enterprising. They must see you on the ground."
"All right."
"You will go, then?"
"That's what I meant when I said all right."
"And you didn't mean that you'd simply look over the fence and then come away?"
"No, I mean that I'll go and be a fool with the rest of them."
"That's all I ask. Here's an invitation. You'll have to show it at the gate."
"Why don't you go, Warren?"
"It would be absurd."
"Why? Your clothes might be worse."
"There are a good many observations that don't apply to clothes. The entertainment is to be given by the Hon. Mr. S. Boyd. One time, with great reluctance, he lifted a grinding heel off my head. I owe him five dollars."
"And it would be embarrassing to meet him, by invitation, on his own lawn."
"Yes. I'll pay him one of these days, but of course he doesn't know that."
"Probably he doesn't even suspect it," said Lyman.
"No. He's dull, and not inclined to be speculative."
"I should take him to be wildly adventurous."
"Why so?"
"He let you have five dollars."
"Oh, I see. But that's all right. He'll treat you well. Say, he may pass cigars with a gilt band around them. Put a few in your pocket for me."
"I might have a chance to sneak a whole box."
"Come, don't rub the lamp. Rub the ring and get two cigars. I'll sit up and wait for them. If Boyd asks you why I have been dodging him, tell him I'm not well."
The lawn was a spread of blue grass, beneath trees with low, hanging boughs, and through the misty light and moving shadows the house looked like a castle. The air was vibrant with the music of the "string" band, gathered from the livery stable and the barber shop; and mingled with the music as if it were a part of the sound, was the half sad scent of the crushed geranium. At the gate a black man, in a long coat buttoned to the ground, took Lyman's card of invitation. From groups of white came the laugh of youth, and from darker gatherings came the hum of talk. Lyman shook hands with nearly every one whom he met, laughing; and his good humor was an introduction to persons he had never seen before. He felt that he was a part of a joke which everyone was enjoying. The Hon. S. Boyd came forward and shook hands with him.
"I am delighted to welcome you to my grounds," said the great man, speaking as if he had invited Lyman to hunt in a forest of a thousand acres. "And your partner, will he be here?"
"No, he's not very well this evening," Lyman answered, walking slowly, arm-hooked with the great man.
"I am sorry to hear it. A man of wonderful energy, sir. Quite the sort of a man we need in Old Ebenezer. And I am glad to see that his paper is picking up. I was over at the State Capital the other day, and the Governor spoke of something taken from its columns."
"Mr. Warren remembers your kindness, sir," replied Lyman; "not only your words of encouragement, but the money you so generously advanced to him."
"A paltry sum, and really I had forgotten it."
"The sum was not large, but any debt is embarrassing until we pay it, and then we can look back upon it as a pleasure."
"Sound doctrine, Mr. Lyman. But there must be no embarrassment in this matter. So, if you please, you may tell Mr. Warren that I will take enough copies of the next edition to cancel the debt. Not enough to embarrass him, you understand. It would come to about one hundred copies, I believe. But let him make it two hundred, as I wish to send it out pretty largely, and I will send him five dollars in addition. Will you pardon me if I mix business with pleasure, and give you the money now?" He unhooked his arm.
"I shall be delighted to act as your messenger," Lyman replied.
"I thank you, sir; you are very obliging. And now," he added, when he had given Lyman the money, "we'll go over to the grotto and get a lemonade and a cigar."
They went to a hollow pile of stones, where a negro stood ready to serve them. "Help yourself to the lemonade. It was deemed advisable to have nothing strong. A very old ladle, that, sir; it was the property of my grandfather. The cigars, Jacob, the gold band. Now, here's a cigar, sir, that I can recommend. Oh, don't stop at one. Here," he added, grabbing a handful, "put these in your pocket, for I am sure you'll not get any like them down town. Well, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, I'll slip off to look after my other guests."
Lyman walked about, joking and gathering the names of the joyous maidens, the heavy men, the light young fellows, and the dames who had come to enjoy their daughters' conquests and their own dignity. With a feeling of disappointment he wondered why the banker's family was not represented, and more than once he looked about sweepingly, believing that he had heard the loud voice of Zeb Sawyer. He mused that his work was done, that the company had transacted its business with him, and he turned aside to a quiet spot, to a seat behind a clump of shrubs, to smoke a cigar and to picture Warren's surprise and delight. The cigar burned out and he was about to go, when he heard the ripple of skirts on the soft grass. A woman came across the sward, and in the light of a neighboring lantern Lyman recognized Eva. She saw him and halted.
"Won't you please sit down," he said, rising.
"I—I—didn't know you were here," she replied, looking back.
"The fact that you came is proof enough of that," said he, with a quiet laugh.
"How shrewd you are," she replied.
"No, I am only considerate. But now that you are here, won't you please sit down. I am weary of senseless chatter, and I would like to talk to you."
"Oh, I couldn't refuse, after such a compliment as that. And, besides, I am tired."
She sat down; he continued to stand. She did not appear to notice it.
"I looked all over the ground, but could not find you," he said.
"Mamma and I did not come until just now. We live so near that we put off our coming until late."
"Did your father come?"
"No. Only mamma and I. Some of us had to come."
"Just you and your mother, and not Mr. Sawyer?"
"He didn't come with us. I don't know that he is here." For a few moments they were silent. "I am so tired of everything," she said.
"Tired of yourself?"
"Yes, I am."
"Why don't you do something? Did you ever think of that?"
"What would be the use of thinking of it? There's nothing for me to do."
"There is something for everyone to do. Why don't you take up some line of study?"
"I hate study. I can't put my mind on it."
"But you could read good books."
"I do, but I get tired. I must have been petted too much."
"Ah! A girl is beginning to be strong when she feels that way. I suppose you have been flattered all your life."
"Do I show it?"
"Yes. But not so much as you did."
"And do you know the reason?"
"I don't know, unless it is that you have been sobered by a joke."
"That has something to do with it. You have made me think. You don't regard me as a spoiled child; you seem to believe that I have a mind. And that, even if you were a field hand, would cause me to be interested in you. I would like to talk with you seriously, but you joke with me."
"To hear you in a serious mood would be as sweet as an anthem."
"You must not talk that way. I want your friendship."
"You shall have it."
"I need your help."
"You shall have it."
"I don't want to be wicked," she said, looking up at him, "but I beg of you not to sign that petition to the Court, until—"
"Until when?"
"Until Zeb Sawyer is—is—out of the way. People flatter me and praise me, but they don't know what I have suffered. And my father doesn't understand me. When you called Sawyer a coward I wanted to shout in the street."
"Still you consented to marry him."
"Yes, to live for a little longer in peace. But I know a tall rock over on the creek, and from the top of it is a long way to the cruel boulders below. They call it 'Lover's Leap,' and I have thought after awhile the name might be changed to 'Despair's Leap.' At night I have dreamed of that rock, and sometimes my dream would continue after I opened my eyes. Our engagement was for one year, and often I said to myself that I had but one year longer to live. At church I would pray, and I could hear the words, 'Children, obey your parents.' And then I would go home and pretend to be happy in that obedience."
"But you signed the petition."
"Yes, with a prayer that you would not sign it."
"And I won't."
"Not even if they should come with pistols?"
"Not if they should come with a mob and a rope."
She looked up at him, with her hands clasped in her lap. The light fell upon her face, and in its human loveliness was the divine spirit of sadness. Lyman looked upward at the fleece among the stars, the lace curtain of the night.
"With the strength accidentally dedicated to me by a body of men assembled to break the customs of a class opposed to them, I will hold you a prisoner, free from the grasp of a feelingless clown," he said. "I will protect you. And when you have really fallen in love, and believe that your happiness depends upon a man, I will sign the petition."
With the frankness of a child she sprung from the seat and grasped his hand: "Oh, you stand between me and the tall rock," she said. "Good night—God bless you."
She ran away. Lyman looked after her, with dim vision—her white gown spectral in the misty light.
Top
Lyman walked slowly down the tree-darkened lane that led to the main street of the village. Beneath a forest oak, where the desolate town cow and the stray sheep had come to seek freedom from the annoyances of the day, he halted and looked back. The few remaining lanterns were like fire-flies in a growth of giant grass. The members of the "string-band" were singing a negro melody. The notes came floating with the mirth-shriek of a maiden, and the hoarse laugh of the boy who aspired to be a man. Far away on a hillside a dog was barking at the mystery of night. Near by a mocking-bird, in a cage, was singing out of the melodious fullness of his heart. The muser felt two distinct senses, one that a sweet voice had touched the quick of his nature, the other that he had been grandiloquent in his talk while looking at the stars. She had threatened to destroy herself. No, she would not do that. She could but shrink from it if the time should come. But to resolve upon it, driven by a father who could not understand her, was so girlishly natural, so complete a bit of romantic despair, that she must have found it a source of great consolation.
Warren was waiting. "I'll bet you didn't bring a cigar," he said, tossing a cob pipe on the table.
"You've lost," Lyman replied, rolling out a handful of cigars upon a pile of newspapers.
Warren reached over, his eyes snapping. "Gold bands," he said. "Oh, I knew you would bring them if they were to be had. You are all right, Samuel," he added, striking a match. "Yes, sir, but I have been sitting up here, almost envious of the good time you were having. However, I was not sorry that I had not faced the Hon. S. Boyd. He frowned at me the last time we met. I can stand to be dunned once in awhile, but I don't like to be frowned at. Did he say anything about the money I owe him?"
"Well," said Lyman, leaning back in his chair, "the subject was mentioned."
"What, the old skinflint! Did he blurt it out before everybody?"
"No. He talked to me privately."
"Well, I am glad he had that much consideration. But why did he want to speak of it at all? I suppose you told him I'd pay it as soon as I could, didn't you?"
"Yes, I told him so."
"Well, then, what more does he want? No man can pay a debt before he can. There are in this town some of the queerest people I ever saw. They expect a man to pay a debt whether he's got the money or not. I'll pay that fellow and tire him to death with meeting him afterward. I'll cross the street a dozen times a day to shake hands with him. Yes, sir, I'll make him wish that I owed him."
"He sent you this," said Lyman, handing over the five dollars.
Warren's eyes flew wide open with astonishment. "Sent it to me?"
"Yes, he wants two hundred copies of our next edition. One hundred to discharge the old debt, and the five dollars is to pay for the other hundred."
"Lyman, you rubbed the lamp. Don't rub it again right away. Let me hold this thing a minute."
"You may hold it until the express company takes it away from you."
"Hush, don't make a noise. You'll wake me up. Let me dream."
"She was there," said Lyman, after a brief silence.
"A dreamer listening to a dream," Warren vacantly replied.
"I had quite a talk with her. She is not a doll. She's a woman with a soul and a mind."
"You are gone," said Warren, wrapping the bank note about his finger.
"No, I'm not gone. I am decidedly here, and I am going to stay here to protect her."
He related the talk that had passed between the young woman and himself. He told even of his gaze at the stars and his theatric declaration to stand as her protector. But he did not tell that she had caught his hand. In that act there was something sacred to him.
"As I said before, you're all right," declared Warren. "No one but a great man could have done what you have done tonight. Why, that old fellow was a jewel, and was not revealed until you brushed the dust off him. Two hundred copies? He shall have them, together with a write-up that will make this town's hair stand on end. And, by the way, don't you think you had better get at it while it's fresh?"
"Don't you fear. It will never fade, my boy. It is in my mind to stay."
"Look here, don't let that joke turn on you," said Warren. "It would be serious if you should fall in love with her."
"Yes, but I won't."
"Were you ever caught by a woman?"
"Not very hard; were you?"
"Rather," Warren answered; "I loved a girl several years ago, while I was running a paper over at Beech Knob. Yes, sir, and I reckon I loved her as hard as a woman was ever loved. I thought about her every day. And I believe she cared for me."
"It's of no use to ask you why you didn't marry her. Money, I suppose."
"That's it, Lyman; money. You see, her old man was rather well fixed, and one day when he was in the office I borrowed ten dollars of him. Then I couldn't go to the house, you see, and before I could pay it back the girl was married. Lost one of the best girls this country ever produced just because I couldn't raise ten dollars to pay her father. I guess Brother McElwin wishes now that he had let you have the hundred. It would have given him a hold on you."
"It would have given him a club," said Lyman. "A man could snatch out a hundred dollar debt and run me off the bluff. 'Lover's Leap,'" he added to himself, smiling. Warren looked up and saw the smile, but he had not caught the words.
"It's too serious a matter to grin over," he remarked, sadly, but with a bright eye turned toward the cigars that lay upon the pile of newspapers. "It's a curse to be poor," he said, with solemnity, though his eye was delighted.
"A crime," Lyman replied. "It gives no opportunity to be generous, sneers at truth and calls virtue a foolish little thing. It is the philosopher, with money out at interest, that smiles upon the contentment and blessedness of the poor man."
"Helloa, you are more of a grumbler than I ever saw you before."
Lyman leaned back with his arms spread out, and laughed. "It would seem that the rich man's coach wheel has raked off a part of my hide, but it hasn't, my boy." He got up and walked about the room; he went to the window. Damp air was stirring and an old map was flapping slowly against the dingy wall. He gazed over the housetops in the direction of the grove where the paper lanterns had hung, but all was dark and rain was fast falling.
"It's raining," he said. "I'm glad it held up until after the picnic."
"Yes," Warren replied, "for we might have been cheated out of the cigars and the five dollars."
"And I might have been robbed of a pleasant few moments."
"You are gone," said Warren, yawning.
"No, not yet, but I am going." He reached for his hat.
"In the rain?" Warren asked. "I'm going to smoke another cigar before I turn in. Stay here tonight; you can have my cot. I'd as soon sleep on the floor."
"No, I won't rob you."
"Rob me? Your work tonight would make a stone slab a soft place for me to rest."
"And my mind might turn a bed, formed of the breast feathers of a goose, into a stone slab. Good night."
The hour was late, but a light was burning in old Jasper's house. As Lyman stepped upon the veranda Henry Bostic came out of the sitting room.
"Ah, Mr. Lyman, but you are dripping wet."
"I hadn't noticed it, but it is raining rather hard. You are not going out in it, are you?"
"I have but a short distance to go. I found Miss Annie so entertaining that I didn't know it was so late. I came to invite her to hear me preach the third Sunday of next month, at Mt. Zion, on the Fox Grove road, five miles from town. I should like you to be present."
"Yes, as I was present at your first—"
"Don't mention that, Mr. Lyman," he said, hoisting his umbrella. "That was not wholly free from a spirit of revenge, and I have prayed for pardon. My mother has called on the McElwins to beseech them to forgive me, and I went to the bank today on the same errand."
"Wait a moment," said Lyman, as the young minister moved toward the steps leading to the dooryard. "Did the banker forgive you?"
The young man stood with his umbrella under the edge of the roof, and the rain rumbled upon it. "No, sir. He said I had done his family a vital injury. I told him I might have been an instrument in the hands of a higher power, and he sneered at me. I hope you forgive me, Mr. Lyman."
"To be frank, I am secretly glad that it happened," Lyman replied.
"But not maliciously or even mischievously glad, I hope," said the preacher.
"No, I am glad for other reasons, but I cannot explain them."
The rain rumbled upon the umbrella and the preacher was silent for a moment. "Mr. McElwin said that if I could induce you to sign the petition he would forgive me. And I told him I would. Will you sign it?"
"I cannot, Mr. Bostic."
"May I ask why?"
"Because I stand as the young woman's protector. She despises Sawyer, and her father was determined that she should be his wife."
"Did she tell you, sir?"
"Yes, and I have promised; but this is confidential."
"Then, sir, the petition must not be signed. The ceremony, after all, was a blessing, and I shall not again crave the banker's forgiveness. Good night."
Top
There came a day, and it followed the picnic, with not a week between, when Lyman's midnight scratching, done at the house of old Uncle Buckley, came out into the dazzling light. A story written by him appeared in one of the leading magazines of the East. It was a simple recital, a picture of the country and its people, and so close down upon the earth did it lie that a patter of rain that fell somewhere among the words brought a sweet scent from the blackberry briars, and a smell of dust from the rain. There were intelligent reading persons, in Old Ebenezer, and with the big eye of astonishment they viewed the story, but they were afraid to form an opinion until the critic of the "State Gazette," following a bold lead struck by an eastern reviewer, declared it to be a piece of masterly work. And then the town of Old Ebenezer was glad to assert its admiration. The leading hardware man said that he had noticed from the first that there was something strange about the fellow.
"And," said he, "you can never tell what a strange sort of a fellow may pop up and do. Now, there was old Kincade's son Phil. Everybody knew he was curious; everybody could see that, but they didn't know how to place him. I told them not to place him. I told them there was no telling where he might break out. His daddy said he was a fool. I said 'wait.' Well, they waited, and what came? The boy discovered a process for tanning coon hides without bark, and now look at him. Worth ten thousand dollars if he's worth a cent."
A saddler gave his opinion: "I knew he had it in him. I haven't read his article, but I'll bet it's good. Why, he's said things in my shop that it would be worth anybody's while to remember. Just stepped in and said them and went out like it wasn't no trouble at all. And look what he's done for the paper here! Every time he touches her he makes her flinch like a hoss-fly lightin' on a hoss. And when everybody was making such a mouth about that fool marriage, I—well, I just kept my mouth shut and didn't say a word."
Warren was the proudest man in town. He was so elated and so busy talking about the story that he never found time to read it, except to dip into it here and there, to find something to start him off on a gallop of praise.
"Why didn't you tell me, so that I might have known what to expect? Why did you nurse it so long?" Warren asked, as he and Lyman sat in the office.
"Oh, I hadn't anything to tell, except of a probable prospect. And nothing is more tiresome than to listen to a man's hopes."
"But you must have known that the story would be a success."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, maybe not. It was fortunate to drive center the first shot."
Lyman laughed sadly. "Warren," said he, nodding toward the magazine, which lay upon the table, "I began to scatter seeds so long ago that I hardly know when; and one has sprouted. I have been writing stories for the magazines ever since I was a boy, and they were returned with a printed 'thank you for—' and so forth. I had thought, as many young writers think, that I must be deep and learned. I didn't know that one half-hidden mood of nature, one odd trait of man, one little reminder to the reader of something that had often flitted across his mind, was of more value than the essence of a thousand books. I strove to climb a hill where so many are constantly falling and rolling to the bottom. At last I opened my eyes and shut my memory, and then I began to progress. But not without the most diligent work. This story, (again nodding toward the magazine) was written six times at least."
"Why, you have made it look as easy as falling off a log," said Warren.
"Yes; it was work that made it look easy. There are two sorts of successful stories; one that makes the reader marvel at its art; the other one that makes the reader believe that almost anybody could have written it. The first appeals to the stylist and may soon die. The other may live to be a classic."
"Go ahead. That sort of talk catches me. It seems now that I have thought it many times, but just didn't happen to say it. Have you got anything in hand now?"
"Yes; I might as well let it all out now. I have a book accepted by a first-class house, and I have a long story which I may submit to a magazine to be published as a serial in the event of the success of the book."
"You are all right. I have often told you that. Why, some of the things you have written for this paper would do to go into the school readers along with the dialogue between some fellow—forget his name now—and Humphrey Dobbins; and that barber who lived in the City of Bath. Recollect? Let's see, 'Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded.' Don't you know now? 'And say,' the stranger says to him, 'I have glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead,' and so on. But it used to tickle me to think the fellow could find any glory in the news of his uncle's death, but I guess he did."
"Yes, I remember. He was the barber that wouldn't shave on Sunday. And as a reward his uncle died and left him a lot of money. And you'd hit it off pretty well now by marking out virtue in 'Virtue Is Its Own Reward,' and substituting 'money.'"
"But I don't think we've got very much cause to complain," said Warren. "We gathered in five subscribers yesterday, and three today, besides an electric belt ad, to run for six months. Oh, we're all right, and the first thing you know, we'll have some new clothes. We don't want any hand-me-downs. About two weeks ago I went into the tailor's shop across the square, and picked out a piece of cloth. But when I passed there yesterday I noticed that some scoundrel had bought it. Why, helloa; come in."
Uncle Buckley Lightfoot stood in the door. His approach had been so soft that they did not hear him. His tread was always noiseless when he walked in strange places. He appeared to be afraid of breaking something.
"Come in!" Lyman shouted, springing to meet him.
"Howdy do; howdy do." He seized Lyman and then shook hands with Warren. "I jest thought I'd look in and see how Sammy was gettin' along. And I promised mother that if he was busy I'd jest peep in and then slip away. Sammy, you look as peart as a red bird."
"Sit down, Uncle Buckley," said Lyman. "Let me take off your leggings."
"Jest let them alone where they are, Sammy," the old man replied. "I haven't got long to stay, for I don't want to keep you from your work. Jest put those saddle-bags over there on the table. No, wait a minute. I've got something in 'em for you. Look here," he added, taking out a package; "mother sent you some pickles."
"Oh, I'm a thousand times obliged to her," said Lyman, putting the package and the saddle-bags on the table. "Tell her so, please."
"I'll do that. Lawd bless you, Sammy; I do reckon she knows what a man needs. And she says to me, 'Pap, you shan't go one step toward that fetch-taked town unless you agree to take Sammy some pickles made outen the finest cucumbers that ever growd.' And I jest said, 'You do up your pickles and don't you be askeered of me.' And she begins then to fix 'em up, a-talkin' all the time fitten to kill herself. 'The idea of a man bein' shet up there in that musty place, without any pickles,' she says; 'it's enough to kill him, the Lord knows.' And I wanted to sorter relieve her distress, and I 'lowed that mebby there was pickles in town; and she turned about, lookin' like she wanted to fling somethin' at me. 'Pap,' she says, and I begin to dodge back, 'for as smart a man as you are, I do think you can say the foolishest things of anybody I ever seen. Pickles fitten to eat in a town where if a person ain't dressed up he can't get into the churches on the Lord's day; and where, if they do get in, the minister won't even so much as cast his eye on 'em while he's a preachin' of his sermon! Pickles indeed,' she says, and I kep' on a dodgin'. How are you gettin' along, Sammy?"
Saddlebags
"First rate."
"But what's this joke they've got on you about bein' married?"
"That's what it is, Uncle Buckley, a joke."
"I told Jimmy and Lige that it was only a prank. I knowed you weren't goin' to throw yourself away on no one here, when the woods are full of 'em out our way that would like to have you. Don't dodge, Sammy. Stand right up to your fodder, for you know it's a fact. It made mother powerful mad. She took it that you wanted the gal, and the old man thought you wa'n't good enough. And she boiled. 'Why, he can start a church tune better than any person we ever had in the neighborhood,' she 'lowed. 'Not good enough, indeed!' And I dodged on off, sorter laughin' as I ducked behind the hen-house. And that reminds me, Sammy, that a varmint come the other night and toated off the likeliest rooster I had on the place. Mother woke me at night, and asked if that wa'n't a chicken squallin.' I told her that I had the plan of a new barn in my head, and that I couldn't let the squallin' of no sich thing as a chicken drive it out, and I went to sleep. But you ought to have seen the look she gave me the next mornin' when we found feathers scattered all over the yard. By the way, Sammy, where is the other man; the great lawyer that was your partner? Is he out at present?"
"Yes, Uncle Buckley, he's out at present, and for good. We have dissolved partnership."
"No!" said the old man, dropping his jaw. "Why, I thought you and him was together for keeps. And you don't really mean to tell me that you ain't, Sammy?"
"He has an office on the other side of the square, and I'm not in the law business," Lyman replied. "Warren and I are running this paper."
"When did you quit each other?" the old man asked, leaning forward and picking at his blanket leggings.
"Why, the day you were in here. You remember I left you here with him. When I came back he had decided to set aside the partnership."
The old man looked up at the ceiling. "I reckon it's all right, but I don't exactly get the hang of it," he said, getting up and taking his hat off the table.
"Understand what, Uncle Buckley?" Lyman asked.
"Oh, nothin'. It's all right, I reckon. Young feller, jest keep on a shootin' your paper at me. We find some mighty interestin' readin' in it; and sometimes Lige he breaks out in a loud laugh over a piece, and he 'lows, 'if that ain't old Sammy, up and up, I don't want a cent.' Well, boys, I've some knockin' around to do and I'll have to bid you good day."
Top
Mr. McElwin put aside his newspaper and paced slowly up and down the room, his slippered feet falling with an emphatic pat on the carpet. His wife sat near the window, watching the swallows cutting black circles in the dusky air. Eva was seated at the piano, half turned from it, while with one hand she felt about to touch the nerve of some half-forgotten tune. McElwin dropped down in an arm chair.
"I wonder if this newspaper will ever stop talking about that fellow's story," said he. "I read it over and I didn't see anything remarkable in it. Of course it's all right to feel a local pride in a thing, but gracious alive, we don't want to go into fits over it. Now, here's nearly half a column about it."
"Let me see it," said Eva. He picked up the paper and held it out to her. She got off the piano stool, took the paper and stood near her father, under the hanging lamp.
"Can't you find it? On the editorial page."
"Yes, I have found it. But it is not written by the pen of local pride."
"It is in the state paper."
"Yes, but if you had read to the bottom you would have seen that it was from a New York paper."
"Ah, well, it doesn't interest me, no matter what paper it is from."
"What is it?" Mrs. McElwin asked, turning from the window.
"Something more about Mr. Lyman's story," the daughter answered.
"It appears to have stirred up quite a sensation," said Mrs. McElwin. "One of those happy accidents."
"It was not an accident," the girl replied. "It was genius."
"Come, don't be absurd," said her father. "There is such a thing as a man finding a gold watch in the road. I call it an accident. I had quite a talk with him in my private office before our relations became strained, and I found him to be rather below the average. He surely has but a vague and confused idea regarding even the simplest forms of business. But I admit that his story is all well enough, and so are many little pieces of fancy work, but they don't amount to anything. Educated man? Yes, that's all right, too, but the highways are full of educated men, looking for something to do. Sawyer is worth a dozen of him."
Mrs. McElwin glanced at her daughter, as if she had heard a footstep on dangerous ground. She was not far wrong.
"Sawyer is a man, ready—"
"He has not shown it," the girl was bold enough to declare. She stood under the lamp and the newspaper rattled as she held it now grasped tightly.
"Eva," said her mother, in gentle reproof, "don't say that."
"But I want her to say it if she thinks it," the banker spoke up, almost angrily. "I want her to say it and prove it."
"He proved it to me, but I may not be able to prove it to you. Mr. Lyman called him a coward and he did not resent it."
"Lyman did? How do you know?"
"I heard him."
The banker blinked at her. "You heard him? When? And how came you to be near him?"
"It was on the Sunday after the mar—the foolish ceremony. As Mr. Sawyer walked off with me from the church door Mr. Lyman joined us."
"Joined you! The impudent scoundrel! What right had he to join you, and why did you permit it?"
"He took the right and we couldn't help ourselves. At least I couldn't and Mr. Sawyer didn't try to."
"I wish I had been there."
"You were just in front, but you didn't look around."
"Well, and then what happened?"
"Why, during the talk that followed, Mr. Lyman called him a coward."
"Mr. Sawyer is a gentleman and he couldn't resent it at the time in the presence of a lady."
"He has had time enough since," she said with scorn.
Mrs. McElwin came from the window and sat down near her husband. The banker looked hard at his daughter, and a sudden tangling of the lines on his face showed that the first words that flew to the verge of utterance had been suppressed, and that he was determined to be calm.
"He has had time, but he has also had consideration," said McElwin. "To resent an insult is sometimes more of a scandal than to let it pass. He hesitated to involve your name."
He was now so quiet, so plausible in his gentleness that the young woman felt ashamed of the quick spirit she had shown.
"Sit down," he said, and she obeyed, with her hands lying listlessly together in her lap.
"Your mother and I know what is best for you," he said. A slight shudder seemed to pass through the wife's dignified shoulders. "You have always been the object of our most tender solicitude," he went on. "And if I have been determined, it has been for your own ultimate good. I admit that there is not much romance about Mr. Sawyer. He is a keen, open-eyed, practical business man, with money out at interest, and with money lying in my bank. His family is excellent. His father was, for many years, the Clerk of the Court of Appeals, and his grandfather was a judge. And I believe as firmly as I ever believed anything, that he will be a very rich man. He is constantly widening out and will not confine himself to the buying and selling of mules. His judgment of the markets is fine, and I repeat that he will be a very rich man. In looking over the field I don't know another man I would rather have associated with me."
His wife, long since convinced by his practical logic, looked up with a quiet smile of approval. The girl sat weaving her fingers together. She met her father's questioning eye and did not waver.
"I don't presume to question what you say," she said. "But I am no longer a spoiled child to be petted and persuaded. I am a woman and have begun to think. This marriage, though brought about in so ridiculous a way, has had a wonderful effect upon me. I have heard that marriage merges a woman's identity with that of her husband, but this marriage has made an individual of me. It has freed me from frivolous company; it has given me something that I once thought I could not endure—solitude—and I have found it delightful. The hard and stubborn things that were beat into my head at school, and which I despised at the time, are useful pieces of knowledge now, and, viewing them, I wonder that I could ever have been so silly as to find my greatest pleasure in flattery."
Never before had she spoken at such length, nor with an air so serious. Her mother looked at her with a half wondering admiration, and the banker's countenance showed a new-born pride in her—in himself, indeed—for nothing in his household was important unless it showed a light reflected from him; and now, in his daughter, he discovered a part of himself, a disposition to think. This thought was seditious, and there is virtue in even a rebellious strength, and it convinced him that henceforth he must address her reason rather than a feminine whim. He was proud of her, admitted it to himself and conveyed it in a look which he gave his wife; but he was not the less determined to carry his point. Sawyer was a man of affairs. His judgment was sure, his spirit adventurous. Figures were his playthings, and who could say that he was not to become one of the country's great financiers? Once he had made a bid against many competitors acquainted with the work, to build a bridge for the county. Sawyer's bid was the lowest. His friends said that the undertaking would ruin him; McElwin deplored the young man's rashness. But he built the bridge, made money on the speculation; and the first traffic across the new structure was a drove of Sawyer's mules, en route to a profitable market.
"I am glad you have begun to think," he said, smiling at her. "I knew the time would come, and, as it has come, let me ask you a question. Did you request this Mr. Lyman to sign the petition?"
"I mentioned it to him."
"You did. That ought to have been sufficient. What did he say?"
"He said that he would—under certain conditions." McElwin winced in memory of his and Sawyer's visit to Lyman.
"Conditions? How does he dare enforce conditions? What were they?"
"That I must avow my love for Zeb—Mr. Sawyer."
"Well, is that all?"
"All! Isn't it enough?"
"You can do that, my daughter," Mrs. McElwin said meekly.
"Yes, I could, if the time should ever come."
"What time?" the banker asked.
"The time when I can say that I love him."
McElwin crossed his legs with a sudden flounce. "You put too serious an estimate upon love," he said. "You expect it to be the grand, over-mastering passion we read about. That was all well enough for the age of poetry, but this is the age of prose. You can go to that man and tell him that—"
"That I have a Nineteenth century love for Mr. Sawyer," she interrupted.
"Well, yes."
"And he would laugh at me."
"Laugh at you," he frowned. "No gentleman can laugh at a lady's distress."
"But he might not regard it as distress. It might seem ridiculous to him."
"Hump," he grunted. "Well, it's undignified, it is almost outrageous to be forced to do such a thing, but you must go to him. Your mother will go with you."
"No, James," his wife gently protested, looking at him in mild appeal. "I don't really think I can muster the courage for so awkward an undertaking. Please leave me out."
"Leave you out of so important an arrangement, an arrangement that involves the future of your daughter!"
"Then, why should not all three of us go?" she asked.
"I have trampled my own pride under my feet by going once," he replied. "Yes, and he treated me with cool impudence. And if I should go again something might happen. That man has humiliated me more than any man I ever met, and once is enough; I couldn't bear an insult in the presence of my wife and daughter. Eva, do you know what that man tried to do? He gained admission to my private office, and actually strove to bunco me out of a hundred dollars."
"He may have tried to borrow it, father, but I don't think he tried to get it dishonestly."
"Didn't I tell you that he tried to beat me out of the money? Why do you set up a mere opinion against my experience? And why are you so much inclined to take his part? Tell me that. You can't be interested in him?"
"I don't want injustice done him."
"Oh, no; but you would submit to the injustice he does you. He has robbed you of the society of your younger acquaintances—he compels you to sit almost excluded in a town where you are an acknowledged belle. Young gentlemen are afraid to call on you."
"Well, I don't know that it would be exactly proper," she replied.
"And," he went on, lifting his voice, "the strangest part of it is that you quietly submit to this treatment when there is a way to free yourself. And I request you to make use of it."
He got up, went to the mantel-piece, took up a sea-shell, put it down, turned his back to the fire place, stood there a moment and strode out.
"You must do as he commands," said the mother.
"I can't."
"Don't say that. You must. I have thought it over, and I know it's for the best."
"You have permitted him to think it over, and you hope it is for the best," the daughter replied.