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At eleven o'clock the next day, Zeb Sawyer was to meet McElwin at the bank. The hour was tolled off by a grim old clock standing high in a corner, a rare old time piece with a history, or at least a past, of interest to McElwin, for it had been bought at the forced sale of fixtures belonging to a defunct bank. It struck with solemn self-importance, as if proclaiming the hour to foreclose a mortgage; and though not given to this sort of reflective speculation, McElwin must have been vaguely influenced by its knell-like stroke, for he nearly always glanced up as if a tribute were due to its promptness. A few minutes later Zeb Sawyer was shown into the room. The banker had been sitting in deep thought, with his legs stretched forth, and with his hands in his pockets, but he turned about when the clock struck, and as Sawyer entered the office he was busy with papers on a table in front of him.
"Good morning, Zeb; sit down."
"Hard at it, I see," said the young man, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table.
"Yes, day and night. No rest for the wicked, you know."
"I don't know as to that," Sawyer replied, "but I do know that there is mighty little rest for the man that wants to do anything in the world."
"You are right. The gospel of content builds poor houses. I never knew a happy man who wasn't lazy."
"You ought to go to Congress, McElwin; they need such talk there."
"They need a good many qualities that they are not likely to get." He put his papers aside, and leaning with his arms on the table looked into the eyes of his visitor. "My daughter has developed into a thinking woman, Zeb."
The over-confident young money-maker's face brightened, as if the banker had given him a piece of encouraging news.
"Yes, sir," McElwin went on, "and no cause is lost so long as thinking is going on. Why, sir, it took my wife years and years to learn how to think. It was not expected that a young woman in this part of the country should think. Men were the necessities and women the adornments of society when I was a young fellow."
"But you said your daughter had become a thinking woman," Sawyer hastened to remark, to bring him back from his wanderings.
"Yes. And it will require all my strength and influence as a father, to get her to think as I want her to. Still, in our dealings with a woman there is always hope—if she thinks. I had quite a talk with her last night, but I did not convince her that she ought to go to that fellow and ask him to sign—sign that infamous petition." McElwin took his arms off the table and leaned back in his chair. "And, sir, I don't believe she'll do it."
"It can't be that she can care anything for him," said Sawyer.
"Nonsense," the banker replied. "Such a thing has never entered her head. I think she enjoys the oddity of her position, married and yet not married. I think it tickles her sense of romance. But there is a way of getting at everything, and there must be some way of approaching this outrageous affair. I have looked into the law, and I find that in case the fellow should go and remain away one year, his signature would not be necessary. However, being a sort of a lawyer, he knows this as well as I do. We can't bring the charge of non-support, for we have not let him try. Zeb, she has intimated that you are afraid of him."
The banker looked straight at him, but the mule-trader did not change countenance. "No, I am not afraid of him," he said, "but unless I'm shoved pretty far, I don't care to mix up with him, I tell you that. My life is too valuable to throw away, and they tell me that Lyman is nothing short of a desperado when he is stirred up, though you wouldn't think it to look at him. But you can never tell a man by looking at him, not half as much as you can a mule. Oh, if the worst comes, I'd kill him, but—"
"That would never do," the banker broke in. "Don't think of such a thing. I wonder if we couldn't buy him off," he added, after a moment's musing. "I should think that he might be induced to go away. There is one thing in support of this; he has had a taste of success, or rather a nibble at ambition, and he may, even now, be thinking of going to a city. Suppose you go over and see him—offer him five hundred dollars."
Sawyer studied awhile. "He couldn't take offense at that," he said. "At least no sensible man ought to. Suppose you write me a check payable to him."
McElwin, without replying, made out a check, blotted it and handed it to Sawyer. "Come back and tell me," he said.
Lyman was writing when Sawyer tapped at the open door. "Come in," said the writer. His manner was pleasant and his countenance was genial, and Sawyer, standing at the threshold, felt an encouragement coming to meet him. He stepped forward and Lyman invited him to sit down.
"A little warm," said Lyman.
"Yes, think we'll have rain, soon; the air's so heavy."
"Shouldn't be surprised. It would help farmers when setting out their tobacco plants."
"I reckon you are right. But the farmers would complain anyway, wet or dry. The weather wouldn't suit them, even if they had the ordering of it."
"Well, in that they are not different from the rest of us," said Lyman. "We all grumble."
A short silence followed. Lyman moved some papers. Sawyer coughed slightly. They heard the grinding of the press.
"Printing the paper in there?" said Sawyer, nodding toward the door. He began to turn about as if nervous at the thought of his errand. "How many do you print a week?"
"I don't know, but we have a pretty fair circulation."
"I see it a good deal out in the state."
"Yes, it spreads out fairly well. We try to make it interesting to the farmers."
"By telling them something they don't know," said the visitor.
Lyman shook his head slowly: "By reminding them of many things they do know," he replied. "Tell a man a truth he doesn't know and he may dispute it; call to his mind a truth which he has known and forgotten, and he regards it as a piece of wisdom. The farmer is the weather-cock of human nature."
"I guess you have about hit it. By the way, Mr. Lyman, I have called on a little matter of business, and I hope you'll not fly off before you consider it. The only way we can get at the merits of a case is by being cool and deliberate. The last time we had a talk, you—"
"Yes," Lyman interrupted, "I must have gone too far when I called you a coward."
"I think so, sir, but be that as it may, let us be cool and deliberate now. I have just had a talk with Mr. McElwin and he is still greatly distressed over—over that affair, and he thinks by putting our reasons to work we can get at a settlement. The fact is, he wonders that you would want to stay in such a small and unimportant place as this is, after your editorial that everybody is talking about."
"Did he call it an editorial?" Lyman asked, smiling at his visitor.
"Well, I don't know as he called it that, but whatever it is, he was a good deal struck by it, and he wondered that you didn't go to some big city and set up there. And I wondered so too, from all that I heard. Somebody, I have forgotten who, hinted that maybe you didn't have money enough and—"
"Money," said Lyman; "why, I've got money enough to burn a wet elephant."
Sawyer blinked in the glare of this dazzling statement, but he managed to smile and then to proceed: "I spoke to Mr. McElwin about what had been hinted, and inasmuch as you had applied to him for a loan, he didn't know but it was the truth."
"A very natural conclusion on his part," said Lyman, leaning back and crossing his feet on a corner of the table.
"Yes, he thought so, and I did, too. He ain't so hard a man to get along with as you might think."
"He is not a hard man to get away from. It doesn't seem to put him to any trouble to let a man know when he's got enough of him."
"I'm afraid you didn't see him under the best conditions."
"No, I don't believe I did. He made me feel as if I looked like the man standing at the threshold of the almanac, badly cut up, with crabs and horns and other things put about him."
"I think you would find him much more agreeable now."
"Oh, he was agreeable enough then, only he didn't agree. And I am thankful that he didn't."
"Well, he regrets that he didn't let you have the money, although you came in an unbusiness-like way."
"Yes, I did. And pretending to be a lawyer, I ought to have known better. I don't blame him for that."
"What do you blame him for, then?"
"For wanting his daughter to be your wife."
Sawyer jerked his hand as if something had bitten him. "But what right have you to blame him for that? It was arranged long before you ever saw me, and besides what right have you, a stranger, to interfere in his affairs?"
"That's very well put, Mr. Sawyer, but there are some affairs that rise above family and appeal to humanity. You requested me to be cool and deliberate, and you will pardon me, I hope, if I am cooler than you expected, and more considerate than you desire. It would be a crime to attempt to merge that young woman's life into yours."
"I know you have a pretty low estimate of me, but I won't resent it. We are to be cool."
"And considerate," said Lyman, with a slight bow.
"Yes, sir; and considerate. But I don't see where the crime would come in. My family is as good as hers."
"That may be. I am not looking at her family, but at her. She was spoiled, it is true, but she is developing into the highest type of American womanhood."
"Yes, but I haven't come to discuss her. We were talking just now about the prospect of your going away, and the probability that you might not have money enough to settle in a city. Mr. McElwin is willing to help you toward that end, and has signed a check for five hundred dollars, made out in your name. Here it is." He handed the check to Lyman, who took it, looked at it and said: "He writes a firm hand. Money gives a man confidence in himself, doesn't it?" He held out the check toward Sawyer. The latter did not take it, and it fluttered in the air and fell to the floor. Sawyer took it up and put it on the table, with an ink stand on it to hold it down.
"It is yours, Mr. Lyman; it is made out to you."
"Upon the condition that I leave here and remain away as long as one year. Is that it?"
"Well, yes."
"I told you that I have enough money to burn a wet elephant. I haven't—I haven't enough to scorch a dry cricket."
"Then you will accept the check," said Sawyer, brightening.
Lyman had struck a match, as if to light his pipe. He took up the check and held it to the blaze. "Look out," he said, as Sawyer sprung to interfere. "Sit down." He took the cinders and wrapped them in a piece of paper, folding it neatly. "Give this to Mr. McElwin and tell him that I have cremated the little finger of his god, and send him the ashes," he said.
Sawyer stood gazing at him in astonishment.
"I told you to sit down. You won't sit down. And you won't take the god-ashes to the devotee. Come, that's unkind."
"Sir, you have insulted me."
"What, again?"
"And you shall regret it. And you shall leave this town," he added, turning to go. "You have not only insulted me, but you—you have put an indignity upon Mr. McElwin." Indignity was rather a big word, coming from him unexpectedly out of his vague recollection, and he halted to stiffen with a better opinion of himself. "I say you shall leave this town."
"I heard what you said. But I thought we were to be cool. Oh, pardon me, it was the fire that gave offense."
"I say you are going to leave this town."
"Good-bye, then."
"I will make one more attempt," said Sawyer, standing in the door.
"Don't exert yourself."
"I will offer you a thousand dollars to go away."
"My stock is rising."
"Will you take it?"
"The advance is too rapid. Can't afford to sell now."
Sawyer began to sputter. "I'm done," he said. "I have no other proposition to make. But remember what I say. You are going to leave this town."
"Then I may not see you again; good-bye."
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McElwin was engaged when Sawyer returned to the bank, but he soon cleared the room. "Well," he said, when the mule buyer entered. Sawyer sat down before he replied.
"He refused."
McElwin's feet scraped the floor. "Refused?"
"Yes. He took the check, struck a match and burned it up."
"The scoundrel."
"Worse than that, he wrapped up the cinders and told me to take them to you, and tell you that he had burnt the little finger of your god."
"Blasphemous wretch!"
"And I told him that he had not only insulted me, but had put an indignity upon you. I talked to him just as cool as a man could talk to anybody; we got along first rate until he burnt the check, and then, of course, it was all off. No it wasn't, not even then. As I stood in the door on my way out I offered him a thousand dollars. And he refused. And do you know why? I think he's got the notion that by sticking out he may win you and Eva over and get a partnership here."
McElwin jumped up and slapped his hand upon the table. "I would see him in——first." He turned about and began to walk slowly up and down the room.
"But he's going to leave this town," said Sawyer. "When I set my head on a thing I go at it with reason and work on that line until I find it hasn't any power, and then I use force. I am going to do it in this case."
"How?" McElwin asked.
"The boys have a way of getting at a thing that persuasion can't reach."
"Speak out," said McElwin. "Tell me what you are going to do."
"Well, I am going out into the Spring Hill neighborhood and appeal to the boys—the White Caps. Then, some fine night, a party, all dressed in white head-gear, will call on Mr. Lyman. They will put him on a horse, take him out to the woods, take off his shirt, tie him across a log and give him fifty lashes as a starter. Then, when they untie him, they'll remark that if he is not gone within three days they will give him a hundred. See the point?"
"Zeb, he deserves it, but I'm afraid that course won't do."
"Not weakening, are you?"
"Weakening? Who ever knew me to weaken? I say he deserves it."
"But you say it won't do."
"And I'm afraid it won't. It would create a terrible scandal."
"It's done every week, in some part of the country. Even the most law-abiding citizens acknowledge that it is a good thing."
"It might do in the country, severe as it is, but it would be different in town. The law would interfere, and that would be disgraceful."
"But the law will not interfere. I can fix the town marshal, and as for the sheriff—he owes me for a span of mules. I have worked it all out. In the evening I'll go around to Uncle Jasper's with a bottle of old Bourbon. I'll tell him that I am celebrating my birthday or something. Once in a while he takes to the bottle, and the old liquor will tempt him. Well, when he's in good condition, I'll put him to bed and shortly afterwards the boys will come for brother Lyman. In the meantime I will see that there are no guns in the way. The women will be scared, of course, but they'll soon get over it. Isn't that a plan worthy of a county surveyor?"
"The plan's all right, Zeb, but I'm afraid of it's execution. Supposing my name should become involved. It would ruin me."
"Yes, but your name sha'n't be involved."
"He will suspect you and me, too."
"But he couldn't prove anything."
"Well, now, you may do as you please, but I'll have no hand in it. I refuse to countenance it."
"You simply don't know anything about it."
"Of course not. I'm too much taken up with other affairs."
Sawyer arose to go. "I shall see you again, I suppose. I mean before anything is done," said McElwin. "At the house," he added.
Sawyer looked down: "I don't feel free to come there," he said. "She has told me not to."
McElwin coughed dryly: "Nonsensical proprieties," he remarked, scraping his feet upon the floor. "But I am to see you again?"
"I think not—until afterwards. Whatever is done, you know, must be done at once."
Sawyer went out. The clock struck and McElwin glanced up at it. Then he settled down into a deep muse. Sawyer's plan was desperate—it was outlawry. It ought not to be carried out, and yet the provocation was great. But supposing it should be known that he had given countenance to the undertaking. Suppose the newspapers should print his name in connection with it; the public, to say nothing of the law, would frown upon him. It must not be done. He snatched a piece of paper, and writing upon it the words: "Give up that scheme at once," sealed it up and gave it to a negro, with instructions to find Mr. Sawyer and hand it to him at once. About half an hour later the negro returned with a note written on a piece of paper bag, and unsealed. The note ran: "Don't you worry, but it shall be done tonight. Don't try to find me. I have been fooling long enough, and now I am getting down to business." He tore the paper into bits, and then strode slowly up and down the room. Presently he took down his hat, rubbed it abstractedly with the sleeve of his coat, and went out, remarking that he might not be back that day. He felt like a criminal as he stepped upon the sidewalk. But he was stiff, and merely nodded to the tradesmen who bowed to him cringingly. He was looking for Sawyer, but was afraid to inquire after him. He went to the wagon yard where Sawyer stabled his mules, and looked about, but did not find him. The owner of the place, hard in the presence of the farmers, but obsequiously soft under the banker's eye, invited him into the office, a dismal place, the walls hung with halters, bridles, chains and twisting sticks, used to grip the jaw of a refractory horse and wrench rebellion out of him. The rough appearance of the stable men within and the pungent smell of the place, turned McElwin at the threshold.
"No, I don't think I have time," he said.
"Is there anything I can do for you? If there is, name it, and I will stir up this place from top to bottom."
discussion
McElwin thought that it was stirred up quite enough, with its rough men, its mangy dogs and rat-like smell. "Nothing at all," he answered. "I am looking for a farmer, a man named Brown."
"Old Jack? He's around here somewhere. It will tickle him pretty nigh to death to know you'd look for him. I'll tell him when he comes in."
"Oh, no. He's not the man. This man's quite young, and his name is Lucian Brown, I think."
"Then I don't know anything about him, I'm sorry to say."
"Are you feeding many mules at present?"
"Well, not many at present, but I expect to have more in a day or two. Mr. Sawyer has gone down in the country to gather up a lot. He drove out just a few moments ago. I tell you, there's a hustler, Mr. McElwin. He don't wait, he makes things happen."
"Which way did he go?" McElwin asked.
"I don't know, exactly, but I think he took the Spring Hill road. He must be going after something particularly fine, for I heard him tell old Josh that he wanted a bottle of the oldest liquor in town, no matter what it costs. But he didn't take it with him, come to recollect. He 'lowed he'd want it this evening when he come back."
McElwin walked straightway to his home. His appearance at that odd hour caused surprise, and his wife, having seen him through the window, came to the door with something of a flurry.
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked, as he stepped into the hall.
"Nothing at all," he answered, hanging up his hat. "Why?"
"Because you are home so early."
"Oh, that's it. I was tired and I thought I'd come home to rest."
She took his arm and they passed into the rear parlor. "Where is Eva?" he asked, sitting down.
"I don't know. I think she's out for a walk. Are you tired?" she asked, standing behind him, with her hands resting on the back of the chair.
"Not now," he said, reaching back and taking her hands. He pressed them against his cheeks. "You always rest me."
"Do I?" She leaned affectionately over him. "I was afraid that I did not. You have had so much to worry you of late."
"Yes," he sighed. "But when we are alone I can forget it all. Play something for me, please."
She looked at him in surprise: "When did you ask me to play, before?"
"I don't know," he answered frankly. "You most always play without my asking. Sing an old song, something we used to sing long ago."
She went to the piano and touched to life the strains of "Kitty Clyde." And when her voice arose, he felt a lump in his throat, and he sat with his eyes shut, with a picture in his heart—an old house, a honey-suckle, a beautiful girl in white, with a rose in her hair.
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Shortly after Sawyer took his leave, Lyman went out for a meditative stroll in the wooded land. About a mile and a half distant was a creek, with great bluffs on one side, and with a romantic tumble of land on the other. Of late he had gone often to this stream, not to listen to the melody of water pouring over the rocks, not to hear the birds that held a joy-riot in the trees, but to lie in the grass on a slope, beneath an elm, and gaze across at a limestone tower called "Lover's Leap." And on these journeys he always went through the shaded lane-like street that led past the banker's house. It was the most pretentious house in the town, of brick, trimmed with stone. In the yard, which was large, the great man had indulged his taste for art, stucco statuary—a deer, a lion, a dog, two Greek wrestlers, a mother with a child in her arms, and a ghastly semblance of Andrew Jackson.
Lyman reached the shore of the creek and walked slowly among the large, smooth rocks, that looked like the hip bones of the worn and tired old earth, coming through. As he approached the tree and the grassy slope whereon he was wont to lie and muse, he saw the fluttering of something white, and then from behind the tree a woman stepped. His heart beat faster, for he recognized her, and when he came up, with softened tread, to the tree, he was panting as if he had run a race. The woman did not see him until he spoke, her eyes having been cast down when she passed from behind the tree, and she started and blushed at beholding him.
"I hope I don't intrude," he said, taking off his hat.
"Oh, no, since you have as much right here as I have."
"I don't know but that I have a pretty good right," he said. "That is, if occupancy means anything. I come here often."
"Do you?" she cried in surprise. "Why, I have never seen you here before, and this has been my favorite spot for years."
"Well, as we are both at home," he said, laughing, "we might as well sit down."
They laughed and seated themselves on the spreading roots of the tree, though not very near each other. She took off her hat and he looked with admiration at her brown hair, tied with a ribbon. She flushed under his gaze and said he must pardon her appearance, as she had not expected to meet anyone.
"A violet might say as much," he replied.
"You must not talk that way," she said.
"Why? Because you like to hear it?"
"The idea! How could you say that?"
"Because modesty protests against the words that a woman most likes to hear, and modesty does not chide until she ventures upon an enjoyment."
"Then modesty is a scold, instead of a friendly guide."
"No. But over-modesty is over-caution."
"We were not talking of over-modesty. Are you as bold with all women as you are with me?" She looked at him with quizzical mischief in her eyes. He plucked a white clover blossom and tossed it upward. It fell in her lap.
"Bold, did you say? Am I bold? Most women have laughed at my angular shyness."
"Laughed at you; how could they?"
"On account of my peculiarities. I was called an old bachelor before I was twenty, and as I grew older I considered myself one, irredeemably, for I never expected to marry."
"I should have thought your life full of romance, wandering about, as you must have done."
"My life has been a tread-mill," he answered.
"But you see so many beautiful things in nature."
"The horse on the tread-wheel can look through a crack, and see a flower growing outside."
"Has your life been really hard?" she asked.
"Yes, desperately hard, at times."
"But you don't show it. You seem so kind and gentle."
"If I do, it is out of charity for those who have suffered."
"But I don't see any sign of your suffering, you write so beautifully."
"I had to suffer before I could write. The heart cannot express a joy until it has felt a sorrow."
She gave him her frank, admiring eyes. "Why haven't I met such men as you are? I have not lived here all my life; I have travelled with my aunt, who knew the world, and she took me to many strange places, and I met many men, but they didn't appeal to me or interest me any more than those I met at home. It was all the same old commonplace flattery."
"You have never found a man so interesting because you have never had the opportunity to see a man standing in the light I stand in now," he replied. "Our relationship has given me a new color."
She shook her head: "I have thought of that, but I believe that I should have found you interesting, even if I should have met you in the ordinary way."
"No, you would never have allowed yourself the time. Some sobering process was required."
"Yes, that is true," she frankly admitted.
In the tree tops above them the birds were riotous. The air was scented with a sharp sweetness from the wild mint that grew at the edge of the water.
"Has Mr. Sawyer been to see you?"
"He came today."
"Tell me about his visit. What did he say?"
"He wanted to buy me—wanted to hire me to go away."
"Tell me all about it. Remember, we are friends."
"He brought a check for five hundred dollars, signed by your father."
"I think you have told me enough," she said.
A flock of sheep came pattering along the road that skirted the hill-top, not far away. A bare-footed boy shouted in the dust behind them.
"Not much more remains to be told. He said I would regret not having taken the check."
"Did he threaten you?"
"Well, he said that I would have to leave town."
"He is afraid of you, and he knows it."
"If he is, he ought to know it," Lyman drolly replied. "If he doesn't know it, somebody ought to tell him. But I won't go away and leave you unprotected."
She looked at him gratefully. "How strange it sounds, and yet how true it is that you are my only real protector. My father cannot understand why I don't place Mr. Sawyer's money-getting ability above everything else. He thinks Mr. Sawyer will become one of the greatest men in the country. And I admit that at times this, together with father's entreaty, has had a strong influence over me. But I don't think," she added, shaking her head, "that I could ever have married that man. No," she said energetically, as she pointed across the stream, "that rock, first."
"You wouldn't do that," Lyman replied.
"Wouldn't I? Don't we read every day of women who kill themselves?"
"Yes, of women whose minds are not sound."
"But who shall say when a mind is not sound? How do you know that it is? What proof have I? We often read that no one suspected that Miss So-and-So had the slightest intention of destroying herself. Well, I may be a Miss So-and-So."
"I have no right to doubt your word," said Lyman. "Things that we most doubt sometimes come to pass, and then we wonder why we should have questioned them. But I will stand between you and the rock; I will be your friend and confidant, your brother, let us say. You must keep faith with me, and if you ever really fall in love, the sweet, torturing, the desperate sort of love which must exist, come to me and tell me."
"I will keep faith. But why do you say the sweet and torturing and desperate love that must exist? You talk as if it was a speculation of the mind rather than a fact of the heart. Don't you know that it does exist? Was there not a woman in the past who aroused it within you?"
"I have seen one or two women who might have done so. I remember one particularly. I was young and foolish, of course, but as I looked at her I thought she could win my soul. I did not know her; I saw her only once and that was at a hotel in the White Mountains. She and a party of ladies and gentlemen dined at the hotel, and I was a waiter." She looked up at him. "Yes, a waiter, with a white apron on and a Greek Testament in my pocket. The employment was menial, perhaps loathsome in your eyes."
"No," she said with a shiver. "Perhaps you had to do it."
"Yes, under a keen whip, the desire to continue my education. I think I must have been the first of my race to run forward at the tap of a knife on a dish. In my strong determination to fit myself—as I then thought—for the duties of life, I would have done almost anything to further my plans; and I was never really ashamed of my having to wait at table to earn knowledge-money, until the night I saw you—until you turned to some one and said: 'What, that thing!'"
"I did say that," she answered, "yes, and I have censured myself a thousand times. I hoped that you had not heard me. I am awfully sorry."
"Oh, I don't take it to heart. It hurt my pride a little and it gave me a wrong impression of you."
"Let us forget it. I was always a fool—until after that night. But about the woman, what became of her?"
"I don't know. She blew away like the down of the dandelion."
"And you didn't see her again?"
"Never again."
"But you dreamed of her?"
"No. You misunderstand me. I didn't fall in love with her. I say that I might have loved her. Perhaps upon becoming acquainted with her, I might have smiled at my foolish belief—might have found her uninteresting."
"You said there was one or two—the other one? What about her?"
"I don't remember her at all. I say that I may have seen her, but I don't recall her."
"Perhaps the other one has read your story."
"Or perhaps her daughter honeyed over it on her wedding journey," he suggested, laughing.
A light vehicle rattled down the road, and she looked up. "I was thinking that someone might drive past and recognize us," she said. "It may be wrong, but I don't want father to know that we meet, except by accident."
"Wasn't this meeting an accident?" he asked, hoping that she would say it was not, on her part.
"Yes. But sitting here under this tree is not. And I must go," she added, arising. He got up and stood there, hoping that she would hold out her hand to him, but she did not. "Good-bye," she said, smiling as she turned away.
"Let me hope for another accident, soon," Lyman replied, bowing to her.
Top
Sawyer drove rapidly toward Spring Hill, about eight miles distant from Old Ebenezer. The land was uneven, with oak ridges, beech slopes and shell-bark hickory flats, but the road was smooth, and for the two trotting horses the buggy was merely a plaything. He drew up at a wagon-maker's shop, the end of his journey, and threw the lines to a negro who came forward to meet him.
"You needn't feed them," he said. "Take the harness off and let them run about the lot. They've been shut up till they're frisky."
A large man, in his shirt sleeves, and with collar unbuttoned, met him at the door.
"Helloa, Mr. Zeb."
"Helloa, Steve, where's Bob?"
"Come in. He's about, somewhere."
Sawyer entered and sat down on a large block of wood, his feet half hidden in a pile of chips. A hand-saw, hanging on the wall, caught a shaft of light from the sun, and threw it into his eyes. He turned slightly and spoke to the wagon-maker.
"How's business with you?"
"Bad enough. People can buy wagons a good deal cheaper than I can afford to make 'em. They tell me that up north a man can go into a place and they'll make him a wagon while he waits, ironed and all ready for the road, and for a third less than I can do it. I can't buck against anything like that. I've got to get my timber out of the woods and season it, and take care of it like it was a lame leg, and all that sort of thing, to say nothin' of the work after I get down to it. Just before the election," said the wagon-maker, sitting down upon an unfinished hub, taking up an oak splinter and putting one end of it into his mouth, "a man come around here and 'lowed, he did, that if we could get a majority of farmers into the legislature, the condition of affairs would be changed. He 'lowed that they'd make it a point to put a tax on wagons not made in the state. Well, they got in, and about all they did was to fight the railroads, tear the digest to pieces and tinker with the marriage law, as some of you folks in Old Ebenezer have good cause to know. Why, if you read the papers at the time, you recollect that one old feller from Blaxon county said that marriage license was an outrage—'lowed, he did, that there wa'n't no license writ out for Adam. Yes, and he said that down in his neighborhood several young fellers held off from marryin' because they couldn't afford to pay for the license. He said it was a sin and a shame to put a tax on a man that was tryin' to do somethin' for his country."
"Do you think Bob will be back pretty soon?" Sawyer asked, working his feet deep down among the chips.
"Yes, he ought to be here now. If he don't come pretty soon I'll send the nigger to look for him. How's that marriage of McElwin's daughter gettin' along?"
"Not at all. It's just the same."
"Feller still there?"
"Yes; he's running the paper."
"Don't 'pear to mind it, I reckon. I wonder McElwin don't hire him to pull out. Well, down in this neighborhood we've got a way of settlin' such things. We tell a feller to go and if he refuses, why, we see that he goes. We've got a mighty lively set of young fellers."
"And your brother Bob is one of the liveliest," said Sawyer.
"Well, Bob ain't slow. The other night they took out a feller over on Caney Fork, feller that had dropped into the habit of whippin' his wife—and they hit him about forty-five, with a promise of more; and they say now that he's as sweet to his home folks as a June apple-pie. Oh, it do have a powerful sweetenin' effect on a sour citizen. Any sour citizens up your way?"
"One," Sawyer answered.
"Don't know why, but I sorter thought so. It's dangerous in town, ain't it?"
"Not when you fix everything."
"Well, then, go ahead, but keep outer the way of the law. Here's Bob now."
A tall, gaunt young fellow stepped into the shop. He was a type of the southern ruralist, broad, flapping straw hat, home-woven shirt, cottonade trousers, one suspender. He grinned upon seeing Sawyer, and said, "Hi."
"Ho, Bob. Busy tonight?"
"Ain't rushed. Anything blowing in the wind?"
"A little fun, that's all."
"Then let her blow my way. Steve, here, 'lows he's gettin' so old that he don't care for fun any more, but I have to have it—bread and blackberry jam to me."
"Well, you shall have it. How are the boys, the White Caps?"
"Finer'n silk split three times."
"Can you call them together for tonight?"
"By howlin' like a wolf. Do you want 'em?"
"Yes. Will twenty dollars pay the way?"
"We'll whip the governor of the state for that much."
Sawyer unfolded his plan. The boys were to be in front of old Jasper's house at midnight.
"Don't let nobody take a gun with him," said Steve. "If you do there mout be serious trouble. And there won't be no need of it, as you say everything will be fixed. I know what I'm talkin' about. Give one of them boys a pop and he'll use it whether occasion warrants or not. I know 'em."
"Well, they needn't put themselves to the trouble of firing off a gun to scare that chap. He ain't one of the sort that scares," Sawyer was gracious enough to admit. "He don't tote a pistol and I'll manage to slip into his room and see if he has one there, and if he has, I'll hook it. I have also hatched out a plan to get the women folks away. I've got my mother, and of course she knows nothing about the affair, to send a message by me asking them to come over to our house. If I can get the old man to go, too, so much the better. But he don't care to go out much at night, and I reckon my only course will be to get him drunk."
"Say," said Bob, "you 'lowed your man wa'n't easy to skeer, and if that's the case, what's the use of takin' him a mile or two to the woods? Men that don't skeer don't holler. Why not put it to him right then and there, out in the yard, over a barrel?"
Before Sawyer could reply, the philosophic mind of Steve saw the practical sense of his brother's suggestion. "I reckon he's got the right idee, Mr. Sawyer. He's done so much of this sort of work lately that now it comes to him somewhat in the natur' of a trade. You can tell him a good deal about mules that I reckon he don't know, but he knows the fine p'ints in men like a hungry feller knows the fine p'ints of a fried chicken. Better let him have his way."
"I am more than willing," said Sawyer. "The sooner it's over with the better it will suit me. It's results I'm after. There's a rain-water barrel at the corner of the house," he went on, reflectively. "We can pour the water out and roll the barrel around where we'll have plenty of room. Do you think he'll be willing to go away, Bob?"
Bob stood leaning back, with his elbows on the vise bench. "Well," he drawled, "an examination of the books of my firm will show that none ain't never failed yet. I have know'd them to argy and object, but I'll jest tell you that a hickory sprout laid on right, can soon make a man lose sight of the p'int in his own discussion. Why, when we get through with a man, and tell him what we want him to do, he thanks us, as if we had given him the opportunity of his life."
"All right," Sawyer laughed, getting up. "Be there on time is all I ask."
Top
The air was damp. At evening a heavy mist came with the soft June wind, and the night was dark. McElwin had gone over to the town after supper, something he rarely did alone, having the rich man's dread of a dark street; but he soon returned and paced nervously up and down the room. And more than once he muttered, shaking his head: "I can't help it; I tried to prevent it, but couldn't." He told his wife that he was worried over a piece of business, and as business was the awe-inspiring word of the household, she stood aloof from him, in nervous sympathy with his worry; and the negro servants spoke in whispers. From her walk her daughter had returned in a solemn state of mind. Her manner, which had been growing gentler, was now touched with a winsome melancholy, and her eyes appeared to be larger and dreamier. Of late an old minister, who for nearly half a century had worn a tinkling bell in the midst of a devoted flock, had called frequently to talk to her, and in her smile the old man saw the spirit of religion, though not of one creed, but the heart's religion of the past, of the present, of Eternity.
Mrs. McElwin went up to Eva's room, leaving her husband to continue his troubled walk. The girl was sitting at the window. "Come in," she said.
"I'm worried about your father," said Mrs. McElwin, sitting down with a sigh. "Have you said anything to annoy him?"
"No, nothing that I can remember."
"Well, something has happened. Have you seen—seen Mr. Lyman since the evening of the picnic? You told me that you saw him then, but you haven't told me of seeing him since. And I don't dare tell your father."
"No, for you promised me that you wouldn't."
"But have you kept your promise to me? You told me you would tell me if you met him again."
"Yes, and I will keep my word. I met him today, over by the creek, and we sat down under a tree and talked. And, oh, his voice almost made me sob as I sat there, listening to him."
"Eva," said her mother.
"I can't help it. His life has been so hard, and yet it has made him so considerate and so gentle. Mother, why haven't I met such a man among our friends—why didn't I see one in my travels?"
"My daughter, can't you understand the strange interest you take in him? Have you considered the circumstances—"
"I have considered everything, and it would have been the same no matter where we might have met. Mother," she said, turning with a smile, more than sad in the dim light, "do you know that old log cabin over on the hill where the pension woman used to live? Yes, for we could see it from here in daylight. I passed there today, coming home, and I stopped and gazed at the wretched place, and suddenly there came a thought that almost took my breath away. I thought that with him—" she leaned over and took her mother's hand—"that with him I could live there and bless God for my happiness."
"My darling child, you must not think that—you couldn't think that."
"But I did, and though the world seemed further away, heaven was closer. I ought to have been a poor man's daughter, mother, for love is all there is to live for."
They put their arms about each other. "It would break your father's heart," the mother said, her tears falling. "It would crush him to the earth."
"I know it, and my heart may be crushed, instead of his. But that petition must not be signed."
"Let us wait, my child. Don't say anything. Don't—"
They heard McElwin calling from the foot of the stairs. "Lucy, Lucy, I think I'll have to go down town again."
"Wait a moment," his wife cried, hastening out, Eva following her. He turned back before they reached the foot of the stairs, and had resumed his anxious walk when they entered the parlor.
"Why, what can you be thinking about, James?" his wife asked.
"Thinking about going down town. I must go."
"Not tonight? Why, it's going to rain."
"Doesn't make any difference if it rains bearded pitchforks, I must go."
His wife took him by the arm: "James, you are keeping something from me—something has happened."
"No, nothing has happened. A friend of mine has a project on foot. I am interested in it, and I want to advise him not to go ahead with it."
"But he couldn't go ahead with it tonight," Eva spoke up.
"Yes he can. You don't know how rash he is; he's got no head at all when it comes to such matters. Let me get my umbrella."
"James," said his wife, looking into his eyes, "don't deceive us, tell us what it is."
"What noise was that?" he cried, leaning toward the window. "I heard something. Gracious!" he exclaimed, as the doorbell rang.
Mr. Menifee, the old minister, was shown in. "Ah, good evening," McElwin cried, starting toward him, but then remembering his dignity he said: "You are always welcome. Sit down."
The old gentleman bowed to the ladies and took the easy chair which the banker shoved toward him. McElwin turned to the window and stood there, looking out, listening, with no ear for the solicitous common-places concerning the health of his household, indulged by the old gentleman. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, and was surprised to find that the hour was no later. He turned to the preacher.
"You can do me a service, Mr. Menifee; you can quiet the fears of my wife and daughter while I go down town. I have a most important matter of business on hand but they don't want me to go. Why," he added, with a dry laugh, "what is it to go down town at half past nine?"
"What, is it that late?" the old gentleman spoke up. "Why, I am getting to be a late prowler. But if you have an important matter to attend to, surely you ought to do it."
"I rarely ever go down town at night," said the banker; "that is the reason of their uneasiness. Yes, the only cause, I assure you."
He passed out into the hall, his wife following him. He took an umbrella from the rack, and preparing to hoist it, stepped out upon the veranda. His wife spoke to him and he started as if he had not noticed her. "James," she said, "something is wrong and you are deceiving me."
"Nothing at all, my dear," he replied, hoisting the umbrella. "The truth is, I want to see Sawyer."
"In relation to Mr. Lyman?" she asked, putting her hand on his arm to detain him.
"Well, yes, indirectly. The truth is, I authorized Zeb to offer him a sum of money to go away—quite too much I am sure—and I want to ask him to withdraw the offer. I can't afford to invest that much ready money at present, I really cannot."
"If you have been afraid that he will accept the offer—"
"What," he said, closing the umbrella and looking at her, "what do you know about it?"
"I know, or at least I believe, that he is not a man to be bribed,—to be turned from his purpose."
"His purpose. What is his purpose?"
"To claim his wife."
"Lucy, whatever you may be unreasonable enough to think, don't talk that way to me. He may claim her as his wife and may force his claim, but it will be after I am dead. I don't like the fellow personally. He is impudent; he is an anarchist. There now," he added, hoisting the umbrella, "go back and don't worry about me."
He stepped out upon the walk, and she stood in the door until he had passed into the lane, into the heavy darkness of the trees. When she returned to the parlor the minister was preparing to take his leave.
"My mission in coming might have been discharged in a moment," he said; "but seeing that your husband was worried I did not like to bring it up in his presence. Young Henry Bostic is soon to preach over at Mt. Zion. I know that in this family a prejudice is felt against him, but he is deeply in earnest and I feel that it is your Christian duty, madam, to give him on that occasion the encouragement of your presence. He believes that he is inspired to preach the Word, and who, indeed, shall say that he is not? I have talked to him frequently of late, and I am convinced that toward this household he bears no malice."
"Eva and I will go," Mrs. McElwin replied promptly.
"Nobly said, madam," the minister rejoined, looking upon her with an eye that had swept over many a field of duty. "I did not believe that I should appeal to you in vain. We have but a little while here," he went on, his white head shaking. "The future has seemed far, but the past is short, and soon the time comes when we must go. They may dispute our creed and pick flaws in our doctrine, but they acknowledge the mighty truth of death. There is nothing in life worth living for—"
"Except love," said the girl standing beside him.
He put his tremulous hand upon her head, a withered leaf upon a flower in bloom. "Yes, my child, love which is God's spirit come down to earth."
He bade them good night, and for a long time they sat in silence.
"Sometimes," said the mother, "I feel a sudden strength, and I look up in surprise and see that it has come from you."
"I believe that I am developing," the daughter replied. "But I shall be strong if he asks me to go with him."
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"I mean that if he were to ask me, I would be strong enough to go."
"And leave me?"
"Leave the world—everything!"
"Why, my child, how can you talk so? Really, you alarm me. You scarcely know the man; you have met him but a few times, and then your talks with him were brief."
"I don't attempt to explain, mother. I simply know."
"But you must wait and see. It may be possible that he has no such feeling toward you; it may be that he has not permitted himself to aspire—"
"Oh," she cried, moving impatiently; "it is almost sacrilege to talk that way. Who am I that he should aspire to me? What have I done? What can I do? Nothing. I haven't a single talent, hardly an accomplishment. Oh, I know that I was intoxicated with vanity, but that has worn off. I am simply a country girl, that's all."
"You are a girl bewitched," said the mother, sadly.