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Lyman walked slowly across the public square. The lawyers, the clerks, the tradesmen, who had become acquainted with his habits were wont to say, as they saw him strolling about, "There he goes, blind as a bat, with a story in his head." And they commented upon him now, but they could see that he was not in a dreaming mood, for his head was high and his heels fell hard upon the ground. At the edge of the sidewalk he halted for a moment, and his eye ran along the signs over the doors. Then he stepped up to an open door and entered without pausing at the threshold. Caruthers was sitting with his face toward the door. He flushed as Lyman entered, took his feet off the corner of the table and straightened himself back in his chair. Lyman stepped up to the table and without a word, stood there looking at him.
"Well, you have come at last," said Caruthers, "I have been sitting here day after day, waiting for you."
"You expected me," said Lyman.
"Yes, as I say I have been waiting for you day after day. But where is the constable? You didn't bring him along."
Lyman took out the note. "The fog that settled between us," said he.
Caruthers nodded.
"I would have come sooner," said Lyman, "but the fog was not defined until a few moments ago."
"And I suppose your plan is to send me to the penitentiary. Tell me what you intend to do—don't stand there looking at me that way. Give a man a chance to defend his honor."
"Honor," Lyman repeated, with a cold smile. "You haven't as much honor as a hyena."
"Well, then, let me say name."
"You can say name. A snake has a name. And you want a chance to defend yours."
"Mr. Lyman, I really have no defense—I'm done up. I needed money and I put your name to that note, and if you want to disgrace my family, why you can send me to the penitentiary. I have suffered over it, day and night, and I am going to make the amount good if I live long enough. You can take everything I've got in here. But I suppose you would rather send me to the penitentiary."
Lyman sat down. "When I left my office," said he, "I was angry enough to kill you, but now you appear so contemptible that I am sorry for you."
"And I feel as contemptible as I look."
"I don't think that is quite possible. If you felt as contemptible as you look you'd blow your brains out." He got up and stood looking at Caruthers. He put his hand to his forehead as if a troublesome thought were passing through his mind. "Now that I am here I don't know what to do," said he. "I know that you ought to be punished, but my old weakness comes upon me and I falter." Caruthers brightened and Lyman looked like an abashed criminal.
"Lyman," said Caruthers, "if you have any mercy left, let me throw myself upon it. I know that there ought to be an end to your forgiveness, but why should you draw the line at me?"
"I am a fool," said Lyman, "and it makes me blush to know that I can't hide it from you. But you are so contemptible that I haven't the heart to punish you."
He tore the note into bits and turned toward the door, with his head hung low. He thought that he heard something and looking back he caught Caruthers laughing at him. His head went up; a strange light drove the gentleness out of his eyes.
"Ah, you laugh at my weakness. A moment ago I didn't know what to do. Now I know."
He sprang at Caruthers and seized him by the collar—he shoved him back and struck him in the mouth—he jerked him to his knees, threw him upon the floor and kicked him. The cries of the wretch brought a crowd to the door. A constable rushed in. "Get away," Lyman commanded. "He belongs to me."
"But you don't want to kill him," the officer replied. "Look, you have knocked his teeth out."
"So I have. Well, you may have him now."
Warren sat in the office, smoking. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked, as Lyman entered. "I'll bet you've got another piece of news to suppress."
"No, I haven't—we'll give it two columns. I knocked Brother Caruthers' teeth out and I'm glad of it."
"Good!" Warren cried. And then he called the office boy. "Tom, wet down two hundred extra copies for the next edition. Oh, Samuel, you are coming on first rate. What did he do?"
"He laughed at my weakness."
"Glad of it. Oh, we are prospering. Make a piece of news out of it, and don't think about yourself. Write it in the third person. Talk about hard times when things come this way! Why, the world is on a keen jump. Hold on a moment. Here comes Nancy's dad."
Old man Pitt came walking carefully into the room, looking about to avoid upsetting anything. He shook hands with Lyman and Warren, looked for a place to spit, did not find it and spat on the floor. "I seen your little rumpus over yonder jest now," said he, "and it was powerful entertainin'. You snatched that feller about like he wa'n't nothin' more than a feather pillow. And I'm glad of it, for if there ever was a scoundrel on the face of the earth he's the man. I drapped in town today to see if there was any news goin' on, an' I bucked up agin it the first off-start. That's what I call keepin' things lively. Mr. Warren, our cousin Jerry was over at the house last night."
"The deuce you say!" Warren exclaimed.
"Yes, sir, last night; and he apologized for havin' been a leetle slow. He 'lowed that it had been in his mind all along to marry Nancy—"
"I'll shoot the top of his head off!" Warren broke in.
"No need of that, my son. I told him that we was much obleeged for his deliberation as the feller says, but that he was too late; and Nancy she up and tells him that she never had thought of marryin' him, and that she wouldn't have had him if he had asked her three years ago. And then she 'lowed that she loved you—"
"Talk about women!" Warren cried. "There's one for your life. And say, I'll be out there tomorrow morning at eight o'clock and the ceremony will be performed at half past eight. Just hold on, now, there's no use in arguing with me. She was born to you, but, by George, she was born for me, and that's all there is to it."
"Young feller," said Mr. Pitt, "the day for me to buck agin you is past. I don't mind markin' yearlin' calves and I don't hold off when it comes to breakin' up a hornet's nest, but I stand ready and willin' to fling up my hands when it comes to pullin' agin you. I have been kept busy many a time in my life; I have been woke up at mornin' and kept on the stretch pretty nigh till midnight, but you can come nearer occupyin' all my time and the time of all my folks than any article I ever come up against. I give in and so do the rest of them. You can jump on a hoss and ride right out there and marry her before I can git home if you want to."
The old fellow bowed his head as if he were exhausted with the strain of a long fight. Lyman sputtered with laughter, and Warren, his eyes shedding the light of victory, thus addressed the old man: "I am glad that you have at last given your consent, and I want to tell you that you shall never regret it."
"That's all right, young feller. I never squeal when a man outwinds me, and I am as much out-winded now as if I'd been wrasselin' with a bear. Nancy saw how the fight was goin', her and her mother, and for the past week or so they have been makin' clothes fitten to kill themselves, and if Nancy ain't got enough yet, why, I'll jest tell her to put on all she's got ready and let it rip at that. Well, I'm goin' now. I expect mebby, young feller, you'll beat me home and be married agin I git there, but I've got nothin' to say. I know when I'm winded. Good day."
They shook hands with him, and when he was gone Warren said: "Well, things are settling down on a fair sort of a basis. I like that old man, Lyman, and I don't believe I'll rush him; believe I'll give them more time to get things ready. I could go out there tonight, but I'll wait till tomorrow morning and let the ceremony be performed at eight o'clock. I'll get up about five and pick up a preacher on the way. He's a poor fellow and needs the job."
"Good!" Lyman cried. "I am really glad that you have decided not to push the old man."
"Yes, I think it best to give him and the girl plenty of time. Don't you?"
"I rather think so. They ought at least to have time enough to wash their faces and comb their hair. But to tell you the truth I don't relish the idea of getting up so early."
"You don't? Why, you've got nothing to do with it. Did you think I was going to let you go? Not much. You'd guy me and that would turn the whole thing into a farce. It's a fact that I don't want you; I may be peculiar, but I can't help it. I tell you what you must do: We'll be in town day after tomorrow night and I want you to come down to the house and take supper with us."
"I'll be there."
"But you mus'n't guy Nancy. She'll be scared anyway."
"I won't guy her. I shall feel more disposed to pronounce a benediction."
"I'm glad you feel that way though we don't want the occasion to be solemn. Where are you going?"
"Over to old Jasper's to imprison myself in my room. I want to think."
While Lyman was busy with Caruthers, Eva was tripping along a grass-grown street. She and her mother had just returned. The social relationship between the banker's daughter and the daughter of old Jasper Staggs had not been close; Eva's visits had always been a surprise. And on this day when Annie saw her coming, she got up in a flutter to meet her at the door.
"Why, how do you do?" Annie cried, catching her hand. "I am delighted to see you. When did you get home? We didn't hear that you had come back."
"We returned not more than an hour ago."
"Come in and put your things off."
"I haven't time to stay but a few moments. Is your mother well?"
"Yes, very well. I will call her."
"Oh, no, I'm going to remain so short a time. I was out walking and I thought I'd stop for a moment. Is your father well?"
"Yes, as well as usual. I don't know where he is—out in the garden, I suppose."
"Is Mr. Lyman here yet?"
"You mean is he still in town? Oh, yes, and he boards here, but I suppose he's at his office."
"Somebody told me that he was thinking of leaving town."
"That may be, but he hasn't gone yet."
"Does he do most of his work here?"
"Yes, all but the work for the paper."
"Would you mind showing me the room where he does his work? I'd like so much to see it."
"With pleasure, I'm sure."
She led Eva to the room above. The young woman stood with her hands clasped, looking at the bare walls—she looked at the chair, at every article of meager furniture. She went to the desk and took up a pen. "Is this the pen he writes with?" she asked.
"Yes, I think so. Did you wish to write something?"
"Oh, no," she answered, holding the pen. "And is that where he walks up and down while he's thinking?" she asked, pointing to a thread-bare pathway in the rag carpet.
"It must be," Annie answered. "We hear him walking a good deal and he always seems to be walking up and down in the same place."
Eva put down the pen and turned to go. Annie looked at her narrowly. They went down stairs and Eva did not halt until she had reached the door. "Won't you sit down?"
"Oh, no, thank you. I must be getting back. You must come over to see us. Good-bye."
Annie went out to the dining-room where her mother was ironing. "Eva has just been here," she said. "All she wanted was to go into the room where Mr. Lyman does his work. She's dead in love with him and he's blind as a bat not to see it. I don't believe he wrote the book—I don't believe he could write anything."
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Lyman did not sleep much that night. Annie, cautioned by her discreet mother not to say too much, had simply told him that Eva had called and asked about him. But that was enough to keep him awake nearly all night; and long before the table was set, the next morning, they heard him walking slowly up and down the pathway worn in the carpet. In the office he sat musing. The boy came in to tell him that at five o'clock he had helped Warren on the road to be married, and that he had left strict instructions that Lyman should be told not to forget the supper at the cottage. The boy went out and Lyman stood at the window, looking across at the bank. Presently he saw McElwin bow with dignity to a man whom he met in front of the door and then enter the place. The boy came in again and holding out a piece of "copy" written badly, asked him to read the first line. It was a notice of the meeting of the Chancery court. The boy returned to his work and Lyman continued to gaze at the bank. Suddenly a smile, not altogether soft, but half cynical, lighted up his face; and at the same instant he reached for his hat. Straightway he went to the bank and sent his name into the private office. McElwin came to the door.
"Why, come in, Mr. Lyman," he said cordially, extending his hand. Lyman shook hands with him and entered the room. The great clock began to strike. McElwin looked up at it and then said: "Have a seat, please."
Lyman sat down. McElwin did not permit the silence to become embarrassing. "Mr. Sawyer told me all about it, sir; he kept nothing back, although he must have seen that I could not help honoring you. Mr. Lyman, you have taught us all a lesson, sir, and I am more than pleased to see that you are prospering. It is more than likely," he went on, crossing his legs, "that you may soon seek some sort of investment for your money. Idle money, sir, is like an idle mind—a mischief to the community; and if you should desire to invest—"
"I can't afford to engage in trade," Lyman broke in. "Of course," he added, "trade is a good thing in its way, a sort of necessity, but the English have the right idea of it, after all—drawing a distinction between the tradesman and the gentleman. I remember a remark old Sam Johnson made concerning a fellow who had grown rich enough to stop buying and selling—'he had lost the servility of the tradesman without having acquired the manners of a gentleman.'"
McElwin bit his lip. "I didn't mean any offense," he said.
"Oh, surely not, and I have taken none. By the way, Mr. McElwin, Chancery court will meet next Monday."
"Ah! I had quite forgotten it. Time does fly, sir."
"Yes, and circumstances change, and men bow to circumstances."
"You are quite right, Mr. Lyman. And that reminds me that I have been forced through a change concerning Mr. Sawyer. I honor him on some grounds, you understand, but his confession of drunkenness shocked me greatly. In fact, sir, I am glad he did not marry my daughter."
"When I spoke of the meeting of the court," said Lyman, pretending to have paid no attention to McElwin's remark concerning Sawyer, "I wished to remind you of the petition for divorce."
"Yes, quite right," McElwin replied, uncrossing his legs and putting out his hand as if unconsciously feeling for his dignity, to pull it back to him.
"Is the paper which your daughter signed here or at your home?"
"At home, I think; yes, I am quite sure of it."
"Then would you mind walking up there with me so that I may sign it?"
"Why—er, not at all, sir, but we have plenty of time."
"No," Lyman insisted, "it is better to have it over with; and I ask your pardon for not having signed it sooner."
The banker got up, took down his hat, brushed it with the sleeve of his coat and announced his readiness to go. Together they walked out. Lyman assumed an unwonted gaiety. He commented humorously upon the tradesmen standing in their doors. The banker strove to laugh, but his heart was not in the effort. "Yes, sir," said he, "things change and women change, too. And I may make bold to say that my daughter—and my wife, sir—are not exceptions to the—er, rule."
"I don't quite understand," said Lyman.
"I mean, sir, that what at one time might have been distasteful may have become a—er—matter of endearment, you understand."
"I don't know that I do," the cruel tormenter replied.
"A woman's nature is a peculiar thing—a romantic thing, I might almost say. My daughter is strangely influenced by romance, sir. And her peculiar relationship to—ahem—yourself, I might say—"
"You mean that outrageous affair at old Jasper's house," Lyman broke in.
"Well, the odd—you understand—marriage. Yes, it has made quite a different person of her, I might say. Really, I was in hopes—it came upon me latterly, you observe, or I mean you understand—that we might come to some adjustment—"
"We will," Lyman interrupted. "I am more than willing to sign the petition."
"You are very kind, and I thank you—yes, very considerate—but my daughter has changed greatly since then, and I have lately indulged a hope together with my wife that we might throw open our home to you—ahem—you understand."
"We can settle it today," said Lyman. "I believe you told me once that I ought to go away, or sent some word of that sort, I don't remember which, and I am now ready to take your advice."
The banker sighed, and they walked along in silence until they came to the gate of Eva's home.
"Walk in," said McElwin.
They stepped upon the veranda and Lyman saw Eva sitting in the parlor. She came running to meet him, forgetful of everything—came running with her hands held out.
"He has come to sign the petition," said the banker in a dry voice. "Where is your mother?"
She drew back. "In the garden I think," she answered.
"I will go after her," said McElwin.
He walked away, heavy of foot. Eva turned to Lyman and asked him to sit down. He did so, and she remained standing. It reminded him of the night when they had met at the lantern picnic, only their position now were reversed, for then he had remained standing while she sat looking up at him. He took up a volume of Tennyson and opened it, and between the pages in front of him lay a faded clover bloom.
"A memory?" he asked, looking at her.
"Yes, a beautiful memory. Some one plucked it, threw it up and it fell in my lap—one day at the creek."
He looked at her searchingly. They heard McElwin in the garden calling his wife, "Lucy, oh, Lucy. Where are you?"
"Eva, I have not been honorable with you—I have held you not as a protector—I have held you selfishly—I love you."
"Lucy, where are you?" the banker called.
"I have not dared to hope that you could love me—I'm old and ugly. But I worshipped you and I can not set you free. I told your father that I would come to sign the paper, and I spoke sarcastically to him, but I will beg his pardon, for I honor him."
"Lucy, come here, quick!" the banker shouted in the garden.
"You did not think I could love you," she said, looking at him frankly, her eyes full of surprise and happiness; "you did not know me. I told my mother that with you life would be joyous in a shanty. Oh, my husband."
He got up quietly, the tears streaming down his face—he held out his arms.
"Lucy, he has come to sign the paper."
They were standing in the garden walk. She was almost breathless, having run to meet him. "Oh, he must not," she said. "It will kill her."
"He is going to sign it and we must be brave. Wait here till I fetch it," he said when they reached the rear veranda. She waited, tearful, trembling. He came with the paper and they stepped into the parlor. Lyman stood with his back toward them, his arms about Eva, her face hidden in his bosom. Mrs. McElwin held up her hands and then bowed her head with a whispered, "Thank God." The banker stood there, quickly, but without noise, tearing the paper into bits. His wife held her arms out toward him. He opened his hand and the bits of paper fluttered to the floor.