It was during the first eighteen months of our life at Waydean that I wrote "The Meditations of Uncle Benny" for theObserver. I do not allude to these sketches as anything out of the ordinary, for there are times, as Marion says, when it is well for one to neither affirm nor deny the truth. Why it is wrong for me to voice a just and critical appreciation of my literary work, and proper for my wife to openly admire her newly scrubbed floor or her arrangement of flowers in a vase, I cannot see. Nor can I get her to explain; she prefers to say that if I cannot see for myself it would be useless for her to try to make me understand,—a baffling inconsequent remark. Nevertheless I am willing to believe that some things are too subtle for my comprehension, and that her instinct is invariablyto be depended upon; also, that the less I express my admiration for what I have written, the more open and unrestrained her appreciation will become. Consequently, although when the first of the Uncle Benny sketches appeared in print I laughed and applauded as heartily as if the author were unknown to me, I learned to regard the later ones with almost gloomy indifference, or even to subject them to adverse criticism, this course being the one most likely to lead my wife to praise the artistic excellence of my work.
Personally, I make no claim to artistic excellence,—it would be neither becoming nor tactful for me to do so,—but I may mention that the circulation of theWeekly Observerdoubled, and then trebled; also that as a result of the popularity of Uncle Benny it soon became necessary to copyright each instalment in advance of publication to prevent unauthorized copying by exchanges. I have noticed that to some authors is given the art of writing so that their work appeals to their fellow-creatures at a certain stage of development; others,again, have that broad human sympathy that puts them in touch with young and old, cultured and uncultured, wise and foolish. I had no wish to add to the sum of human wisdom and culture, but it was a delight to me that Uncle Benny made people merrier. Paul, at the age of seven, William Wedder, three score years older, were equally infatuated. On Saturday mornings Paul would insist upon having Uncle Benny read aloud to him during breakfast, then he would carry off the paper to peruse it himself at leisure, while William could ill conceal his impatience at having to await his turn. Most authors read their own works aloud, in public, to their friends, or in the family circle; I do not. It is only fair to state that I might not have reached this exalted plane but for my wife. It was she who made me understand the injustice, the blind selfishness, the distressing egotism that permits an author, revelling in the enjoyment of his own imaginings, to inflict them upon a helpless listener whose capacity for appreciation is so infinitesimal in comparison. It was she who showed methat Rossetti's sketch of Tennyson reading Maud was not merely a crude picture of the great poet by his friend, but a revelation of the long pent-up sufferings of one who was doomed to sit in an attitude of attention, under the watchful eye of The Author Who Reads His Own Works, ready to respond at a glance with a nod, a smile or a tear.
Therefore it was Marion who read Uncle Benny to Paul and Aunt Sophy and the author; it was I who, one morning during the reading, heard an unusual sound from the kitchen. Fearing that William, who was taking his breakfast there, had at last miscalculated his swallowing capacity and needed help, I quietly withdrew from the table and opened the door into the kitchen. To my amazement it collided with William's head, and he straightened himself up when he had recovered his equilibrium and looked at me with flushed cheeks and a foolish smile, making no attempt at explanation. Did I ask for one? Certainly not. I begged his pardon and hastened to get the liniment as if it was a most reprehensible act of mine to open the door withoutwarning. I felt angry and humiliated that he had placed me in such an awkward position, but I could not be brutal enough to show my resentment by accusing him of eavesdropping, especially when it appeared to be the case. When he had recovered his speech and remarked incidentally that he was in the act of picking up his hard-boiled egg which had rolled in front of the door, I expressed the keenest regret for my carelessness and assured him I would be more cautious in future.
Yet the revelation of his depravity was a distinct shock to us until I found that it was the reading of Uncle Benny that had attracted the dear old man, and that he could not resist the impulse to get within earshot.
"I may as well own up," he confessed, at last, "that the way the missis reads them stories is as refreshin' to my mind as raspberry pies is to my stomach. She do read most beautiful, and when I hear Master Paul chippin' in with them odd sayin's and you and that old lady laughin' so cheery I jest can't help listenin'."
William's spontaneous appreciation wasdelightful, and I found his admiration for my fictitious Uncle Benny most amusing, considering how unconscious he was that I was the author, and that he cordially detested the original of the character, Peter Waydean. But I ceased to enjoy his enthusiasm when it threatened to become a mania, for he unbosomed himself one day of a plan he had made to go to the city to make the personal acquaintance of Uncle Benny at theObserveroffice. I tried to dislodge this idea, showing him the absurdity of looking for a person who probably didn't exist, but I was mistaken in thinking my arguments effective, for in a few days I found a letter at my office addressed to Uncle Benny in William's crooked handwriting. I read it with rising indignation.
"Dear Uncle Benny," he wrote. "I am unknown to you and you to me but your writings has made me feel as if we was old chums. I wanted to go to the city to have a chat with you but the boss he kicked. He says I might be took up for a lunatic if I went to the Observer asking for you. Hesays there aint no such person and if there was he would be some young whip snap that would call the devil and the hoist man to run me out for thinking he was a old man like me. He says it aint none of my business how old you be and what you look like. He says your blame curiosity William might land you in the police cells. Now as far as I can make out you must be well up in years and you write darn good stories. Now I got one or two good stories about the boss that is too good to keep. He aint a regular farmer and he don't know much about working land. He says the way to make the farm pay is to keep from paying out money on it and when I tell him we need a implement he asks how much will it cost and when I tell him he puts that much in the bank and says we can do without. There aint a implement on the place but three. That shows what kind of a man he is but I ain't going to let him scare me off if you drop me a line to say you want to hear them stories.
"WILLIAM WEDDER."
It was well that I was not within reach of William when I read his epistle, for my wrath would have descended upon him, but having time to think it over before I reached home I concluded to preserve my incognito by ignoring the matter; besides, I was exceptionally busy that week as Aunt Sophy's wedding was near at hand, and I could not afford to risk the loss of his services at such a time.
As I neared the house that afternoon I heard loud voices in the yard, and when I got within sight I saw my hired man and Peter Waydean walking around each other in the attitude of quarrelsome dogs about to spring.
"I tell you," snarled Peter, "them darn hens has been living on my field peas, and I believe you drove them over there in the first place."
"And I tell you," snapped William, "your cattle has broke down the fence and got into my corn twice this week, and your blame hogs——"
At this point I intervened. Peter claimed that his crop of peas had been so destroyedby fowls that it couldn't be harvested; he hadn't actually seen my hens at work, he admitted, but they must have done the damage. In rebuttal, William contended that our fowls were honest well-conducted stay-at-homes; they weren't driven away to forage on other people's garden stuff like some cattle and hogs.
"What's a few corn-stalks?" shouted Peter.
"What's a few peas?" retorted William.
Again I interposed, but I had to send William away to milk before my landlord could be placated enough to lower his voice to a reasonable pitch, then my anger suddenly flamed to a white heat. I had intended to soothe his ruffled feelings by paying for the damage, but instead, I found myself resenting the imputation that my hens, brought up from the shell to habits of virtue and propriety, could be guilty of such dishonesty. Still, my tone was calm and my manner patronizing as I challenged him to prove his charge; then before he had recovered from his astonishment I advised him to overcome the besetting sin of avaricethat prompted him to swindle me in every possible way.
I saw that he knew his own weakness, he was so stung by my words; but there was more of malicious triumph than of blind anger in the ring of his voice. "Proof!" he ejaculated contemptuously. "The kind of proof you'll get is to have them hens come home without their feathers on if I catch them in my fields. I've a bit of news for you," he went on, with a grin of satisfaction. "I've had two good offers to sell the place and I was going to give you the chance of topping them, but now that you've broke out into insulting language I wouldn't sell to you if you offered me ten thousand dollars."
It was with difficulty that I repressed my amusement; he was so obviously unsuspicious that I was a bidder, and when I assured him that the news didn't cause me any concern he grew still more angry.
"I'll go to the city to-morrow," he threatened me, "and I'll sell to whichever of them two men wants to live on the place, and you'll have to move when your lease is up."
Again I smiled; nothing he could do would suit me better than to have him hurry up in closing the bargain, but I tried to look as if my smile were forced to hide my disappointment. Peter glanced at me suspiciously as he turned away.
It is quite an ordinary occurrence to have one's chickens come home to roost, but not without their feathers, as two of mine did the next day. I could not look at them without a shudder, yet I could not keep from looking at them, and until Marion clothed them in two tiny shirts that Paul had worn in his infancy I could not smile at the fascinating absurdity of their appearance and the consternation of their friends and relatives. It was only too clear why Peter had not carried out his threat of going to the city that day to close the sale of the place; he had been lying in wait for my unfortunate chickens in his pea-field. My blood boiled at the thought of how the malevolent rascal must be chuckling over the way he had proved his case, but my anger was trifling in comparison with William's.
"I tell you, Mr. Carton," he affirmed,"I'll pay him back. I'll make him the laughin' stock of the county. Let me catch one of his critters on this side of the fence, and he won't be able to tell whether it's a bird of the air or a beast of the field when it goes home."
My cheerful, almost sprightly manner, at breakfast on the morning of Aunt Sophy's wedding-day cost me an effort, for instead of being able to make Marion a present of Waydean, as I had planned, I was compelled to conceal the depression I felt at the news from my agent that Peter had sold the place to the "other party," Roper's client. I noticed, during breakfast, that Marion and Aunt Sophy were continually exchanging confidential smiles and glances that were not intended to include me, for they looked consciously unconscious and avoided my eyes when I happened to intercept one of the silent messages. Still, I was so engaged in looking happy and free from care that the idea of Marion having prepared a surprise for me never entered my mind, although I wondered, when she handed me my mailwhich William had brought from the post-office, why they both stared at me with such an appearance of eager expectation. At the bottom of the pile my eye was attracted by an envelope with, "Bates and Roper, Land Agents," printed in one corner. It was addressed to Marion, and as I held it up inquiringly she clapped her hands with delight and urged me with impatient vehemence to read it. With a sickening premonition of what was coming I drew out the enclosure with trembling fingers and read a formal notification from the firm to Mrs. Henry Carton that they had, according to instructions, made an agreement with Peter Waydean for the purchase of his farm for the sum of five thousand, one hundred dollars. For a moment I forgot Marion and Paul and Aunt Sophy as I stared at the paper with open mouth and distended eyes, a ghastly gray-green pallor, so Marion told me afterwards, spreading over my face. A smothered shriek of alarm and the first strident prolonged note of Paul's howl brought me to my senses; my eyes turned slowly with the glassy stare of an owl. Ihad a jumbled idea that Marion's money was gone, also mine, also the farm; we had been bidding against each other and were ruined.
"What is it, Henry?" gasped Aunt Sophy, pressing one hand to her side and breathing heavily.
"Speak, Henry!" cried Marion.
"We've been sold—buncoed—duped. Old Peter—" I began thickly.
"You goose!" exclaimed Marion, with a laugh of sudden relief. "You misunderstand the letter. Of course old Peter has sold the place, but to me!—tome—do you understand? And I hereby make you a present of it to-day, because——"
"Because it's my wedding-day," interjected Aunt Sophy, wiping away tears of happiness. "I thought I'd like to see how pleased and proud you'd look before I go."
I awoke to my responsibilities and made a sickly attempt to look gratified. "What a—joyful surprise!" I stammered. "Awfully obliged—not so much for—pecuniary value—as a token of—the day that—" My voice was lost in a peal of laughter.
"Oh, how funny! Just like your Uncle Philip, Marion."
"He always will have his little joke, Auntie. Come now, Henry, do be serious, and I'll tell you what a narrow escape we had. There was another man—Mr. Roper called him a 'party'—after the place."
"After the place!" I repeated, with profound incredulity.
"There now—I thought you'd be startled. This man had employed Mr. Brooks to negotiate with Peter, and he kept bidding higher and higher till I was awfully afraid he'd get it. Then I got desperate, and I drew the hundred dollars that I had in the savings bank, for I had an idea that the 'party' would stop at five thousand—and he did—and just yesterday Peter signed the agreement, and I have the cheque for five thousand one hundred dollars all ready to pay over as soon as the legal documents are signed."
"Well," I commented, drawing a long breath, "it's a good thing he stopped."
"And wasn't Marion clever to manage so well?" asked Aunt Sophy.
"She was indeed," I responded warmly. "I would have given up at five thousand."
Then Marion wondered who the man was, speaking as if he had ceased to exist, and so did Aunt Sophy. I was on the point of wondering also, when it struck me that I could not truthfully do so, and I merely said that as I knew Brooks pretty well he would probably mention the man's name to me, a statement that was unassailable even from Marion's pinnacle of morality, and one that helped me to keep my secret until after Aunt Sophy's departure.
It was well that I had completed my arrangements the day before, for I was so distraught by the ordeal I had passed through that I had difficulty even in remembering that I must hurry away to the station to meet Mr. Fairman, who was due to arrive on the ten o'clock train, and must be entertained by me until the minister appeared to perform the marriage ceremony at eleven. Not having an equipage of my own, I had hired the most presentable one to be found in the neighborhood, and the horse being warranted tractable by hisowner, Joe Wrigley, I had no hesitation in driving to the station and back myself, although as a usual thing, if I have to be near a horse I prefer to be in a position where I can look him in the eye.
I had been rather irritated by William's behavior that morning, for he had disappeared for an hour after breakfast just when I most needed him, and when he did appear he explained that he had been busy in the smokehouse rigging up a scarecrow and hadn't heard me calling him. This excuse seemed plausible at the time, though I remembered afterwards it was not the season to scare crows, for he had got permission from Marion the day before to take a discarded sun-bonnet of hers and a pair of Paul's long rubber boots for the purpose, so I warned him to be at the gate to open it when I returned, and drove away. It was not until it was too late to turn back that I found the reins were sticky with grafting wax where William had held them, and that it had melted with the warmth of my hands and ruined my new gloves. It was while I was trying to scrape the wax off with mypocket knife that Peter Waydean stopped me to ask if I had seen a pig of his that had been missing since the day before. It was the first time I had seen him since our quarrel, so I answered briefly in the negative and drove on, but I noticed that he looked after me with surly suspicion, as if he thought I had it concealed under the seat.
Now when I returned half an hour later I was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Fairman, and I had forgotten all about Peter's quest. The horse was trotting along at a creditable pace; Mr. Fairman sat upright beside me in starched and immaculate apparel, trying to appear unconcerned about his approaching fate; I, flicking the animal in the most artfully casual manner to keep him going, had on my best company manners. Perhaps this phrase may suggest effort, constraint, artificiality, but I have been told by Marion that no one could possibly be more charming in manner than I, when I choose to be agreeable, but that when I—but there, I like to take the sweet without the bitter, and the rest is quiteirrelevant. I was suave, genial, sympathetic; Mr. Fairman, in that blissfully exalted mood so natural to the occasion, had just drawn my attention to the idyllic beauty of Nature's autumn garb, when suddenly up from the dry ditch at the roadside stumbled Peter Waydean, a dishevelled, disreputable blot upon the scene. Frantically waving his arms, he shouted an invitation to me to stop and give him a chance to do me up. I had an idea that he called me a pig, but we were bowling along at such a rate that I couldn't be sure of his words, though there could be no doubt of his general intentions. For various reasons I did not attempt to stop, and my attention was immediately distracted from him by the sight of Marion's old sun-bonnet bobbing up and down in the ditch some distance ahead. If it had been hanging on a tree or lying on the roadside, I would have been quite surprised, but to see it travel along with unvarying speed and apparent dogged intention in a straight line along the inner side of the ditch seemed very like a miracle. That it could do so without legs was inconceivable; that legscould belong to it was marvellous, but if so, how many, what size and shape? I whipped up the horse, with a passing glance at Mr. Fairman. His eyes were riveted on the bonnet with eager wonderment; he had plainly forgotten for the moment that he was on his way to his wedding. As we neared the lower level of the road we were slightly ahead, and I checked the speed of the horse at the foot of a slope where the ditch ended; just in time, for like a dissolving view there dashed across the road directly in front of us the most grotesque object in the way of a quadruped that could be imagined. Its head was hidden in the sun-bonnet; the short fore-feet were completely encased in Paul's worn-out rubber boots; the body, instead of being hairy, was feathered like that of a Plymouth Rock hen; around the hind legs flapped a tiny pair of blue trousers—only a curly little tail remained to show it was a pig.
It came; it vanished. At the same instant Joe Wrigley's horse stood up very straight on his hind legs and then prepared to sit down on our laps. Without a word,Mr. Fairman leaned sideways and tried to climb head first over the wheel. I had just time to rescue him by seizing his coat-tails with one hand while I lashed the horse with the whip. The effect of that blow was electrical, for with a bound the animal sprang forward at a pace that first astonished, and then alarmed me. We passed the Waydean gate at racing speed, and in a fleeting glimpse of William as he stood there I saw a broad grin merge into open-mouthed horror, and I had the grim satisfaction of knowing that the enjoyment of his handiwork was swallowed up in remorse. In vain I tugged at the reins; the horse had the bit between his teeth, and the only effect was to slacken the traces and put the strain of drawing the vehicle on my arms. Perhaps if I had been alone I would have felt afraid and have resigned myself to disaster, but I was filled with a fierce resolve to save Mr. Fairman and see him safely married, as arranged.
He sat bolt upright now, his face pale and drawn as he gripped the seat with both hands. I had no breath to waste, so Iremained silent until he said, in feeble gasps: "I think—perhaps—I'd better—get out."
It was then that my mind reached an altitude of far-seeing clear-sighted wisdom that, under the perilous circumstances, was akin to inspiration. Although ordinary men similarly placed would have reviewed their past misdeeds, or have looked forward with selfish misgiving to approaching dissolution, I did not think of my own danger; my mind was fully occupied with the problem of how to save my companion for his marriage at eleven o'clock. In case this mental attitude may seem heroic, I wish to say frankly that it didn't seem so to me; if it should be supposed that the impulse was a noble one, let me say that I had no intention of acting nobly; I also bitterly repel Marion's insinuation that it was an ignoble one. The fact is, it did not occur to me that I should analyze my motive, but if I had known how I would be catechized later I would have done so, and thus have avoided trouble.
As he spoke, Mr. Fairman gazed with longing eyes at the ground that seemed soinvitingly near, with only the upper half of a rapidly revolving wheel to bar his descent. I knew that if I left him to himself he would take that fatal jump, yet I could not have moved a finger to stop him, for I dared not relax my hold on the reins. I must overcome with calm and decisive reasoning the alluring idea that had taken possession of him.
"Mr. Fairman," I said, with quiet authority, "there is—no cause—for alarm." He looked beseechingly at me, and I felt encouraged. "If you—jumped—" I continued jerkily, my words punctuated by the jolting of the vehicle, "you would either—be killed—" he shuddered—"or mangled." He stared at me with dumb appeal. "If the buggy were—in front—of a runaway horse—we'd have to jump, but since—we're behind—our best plan is to remain—seated—as long as—possible." A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. "We're absolutely safe—" I urged, "on the seat—but danger begins when we—leave it."
Mr. Fairman gulped. "I see," he said;"you've got a head. Don't—let me—jump."
I needed all the head I had, for while the road had been clear so far, I descried a load of hay on the narrow bridge that stretched over the little river in front of us. There was no chance of passing to one side, and I wondered whether the horse would try to plunge through the load or jump over the railing of the bridge. He did neither, for I saw just in time that a track led down to the river, where farmers drove through when the water was low. Pulling with all my strength on one rein, I managed to turn the horse off the main road and we headed straight for the river. A shout of horror arose from my companion, and I had to drop the reins and clasp him in my arms to keep him from jumping out. There was a mighty splash, a sudden shock that almost flung us over the dashboard, and then Joe Wrigley's horse walked,—yes walked, calmly and sedately to the opposite shore. We were safe and dry-shod, but alas!—stranded in mid-stream. The horse had the shafts; we had the buggy. I looked at my watch;time, twenty-five minutes to eleven. We were a mile beyond Waydean, but it was possible to walk there in twenty minutes, if we could get to dry land. No one was in sight along the road, and the load of hay had lumbered on, the driver happily unconscious of how he had been saved from sudden disaster. Mr. Fairman, though still pale and agitated, had recovered enough to remember his appointment, and was dismayed at our situation. I had to give up, regretfully, for want of time, a fascinating plan of taking off the buggy-top to float shorewards in; a glance at his gleaming boots and irreproachable trousers caused me to scout the thought of his wading; there was but one course open to me. With many apologies I removed my lower garments; with more apologies I begged Mr. Fairman to do me the favor of carrying them, and stepped into the water. Then I showed him how to gather the skirts of his coat under his arms, get on my back and hold his legs straight out to keep them from touching the water. He politely protested; I insisted; he yielded. I am almost certainI heard him chuckle on the journey; I knew he vibrated in a suspicious manner; but when I set him down on shore he was quite solemn in thanking me, and his eyes were moist with emotion as he watched me dry myself with the buggy-duster and get into my clothes.
In my young days I often wished I could have an opportunity to save a human life; indeed, I have always held myself in readiness to plunge into any depth of water up to four feet if occasion should arise, and it is all the more remarkable that I really didn't think of having saved Mr. Fairman's life until he mentioned it. But when I looked back I saw that I had saved him at least four times in a quarter of an hour. First, by not abandoning my post when the horse tried to sit down in the buggy; second, by overcoming his impulse to jump out by my cold dispassionate logic; third, by holding him in the seat when we approached the river; fourth, by rescuing him from the shipwrecked buggy in perfect condition for his wedding.
When we met William Wedder hurryingalong the road in search of us, his anxious and crestfallen air showing how much he regretted having been the cause of the accident, I did not stop to reproach him but sent him on to bring the horse and buggy to Waydean. Fortunately, Aunt Sophy and Marion, knowing nothing of our adventure, had been spared much anxiety, and it was not until after the brief marriage ceremony that Mr. Fairman related how, but for my heroic conduct, Aunt Sophy would not now be Mrs. Fairman. I must say he did me a little more than justice, and I did my best to faintly depreciate my heroism. I found Aunt Sophy's warm-hearted and impulsive demonstration most embarrassing, but it was a peculiar expression of scepticism on Marion's face that made me wish I had not been accused of acting heroically.
It was not until the Fairmans had departed and the flutter of Aunt Sophy's handkerchief from the car-window was no longer visible that Marion had a chance to speak to me alone; then she lost no time.
"Now," she said, turning to me with an impatient little tap of her foot, "I want toknow the truth about that horse. Didn't you only pretend he ran away?"
"Pretend!" I exclaimed, with rightful indignation, the muscles of my arms still tingling with the strain.
"Yes," she insisted, with the resolute look that I knew only too well; a look meaning that no matter what the evidence I would be adjudged guilty; naturally, I flushed under her gaze. "I knew from your manner that you had done something you were ashamed of. Did you do it for one of those insane practical jokes, or because you wanted to convince Mr. Fairman that you are the paragon that Aunt Sophy thinks you?"
My irritation vanished; being innocent, I could forgive my wife's suspicion. "The fact is, Marion," I explained, with complete candor, "that brute of Joe Wrigley's had the bit between his teeth and I couldn't stop him."
She laughed scornfully. "He had the bit between his teeth! Just what you told poor Mr. Fairman. May I ask where you would have liked his bit to be? Betweenhis eyes or his ears, perhaps. If you had a bit in your mouth wouldn't it have to be between your teeth?"
I knew her argument was defective, but I got too flustered to think where the weakness lay, for I felt the matter was getting serious. It is one thing to have the satisfaction of showing your wife that she has made a blunder; it is another to confirm her suspicions by your denial. In the end she did appear to believe that the horse ran away and that I really had tried, with some small measure of success, to save Mr. Fairman's life, but that didn't end the matter. Marion has unusual psychological insight. Not only can she unearth thoughts and motives that I am conscious of having, but she can go deeper still, delving into unexplored regions of sub-consciousness to find the thoughts and motives that I am not aware of having.
"How strange!" she mused. "You had time to think of so much in those few minutes. Did I understand you to say that youroneidea was to save Mr. Fairman?"
"Well, that was the dominant one. Theother thoughts that flashed through my mind were all dependent on it, as the tones of a musical scale are related to the tonic."
Not once in years do I think of so apt an illustration within five minutes of the time I need it, and I was so wrapped up in conceit of my remark that I walked, open-eyed but unseeing, into the most transparent pitfall. Knowing, in my innocence, that I had nothing to conceal, I forgot for the time that I must be on my guard against Marion's digging up something that wasn't there.
"And you never considered," she asked, "how dreadful it would be for Paul and me if anything happened to you?"
"It never entered my mind," I answered confidently, "but I can tell you I was afraid the old gentleman would be killed or mangled before he was married—then where would Aunt Sophy have been?"
"Where would Aunt Sophy havebeen?"
"Don't you see," I explained, with a confidential lowering of my voice, "that if he had been killed before the ceremony she would have been left out in the cold;whereas, afterwards it wouldn't matter—ah—so much."
"Wouldn'tmatter—so——"
"In a pecuniary sense," I interjected nervously. "I know she'd be heartbroken and all that, but as a widow—I mean, as his widow—she'd be wealthy, and—and—she'd get over——"
By Marion's stony glare I knew I had struck quicksand; I felt myself sinking and made one despairing effort to recover my footing. "Of course, I made up my mind that if I didn't pull him through safely, I'd give back my five thousand to Aunt Sophy, but—Good Heavens! Marion—what's the matter?"
It has been my lot to arouse anger, sorrow, despair, scorn, and various other sentiments consecutively, but never before had I seen them expressed in one composite glance.
"Sothatwas your motive," she said, with stinging, withering emphasis. "You clutched Mr. Fairman as a miser might clutch his hoard if his house took fire. It wasn't to save his life; it wasn't for AuntSophy's sake; he was merely a money sack. Henry, if you hadn't confessed it yourself I wouldn't have believed you were such a mercenary wretch. No wonder you looked ashamed."
We had just reached the house, and I had no chance to clear my character before Marion ran upstairs and locked herself in her room, so I thought it politic to leave her in silence for a while. I was bristling with indignation, for while I hadn't pretended that my conduct was praiseworthy, I knew that I had not been cold-blooded and calculating enough to try to save Mr. Fairman from the motive she had suggested. Indeed, I saw that the explanation that I had formulated in response to Marion's insistent questions had no foundation in fact, except possibly a fragmentary impression that may have flashed across my mind for an instant during our imminent peril, yet I had been thick-headed enough to make it appear that I had been influenced by these considerations instead of confessing that I had invented them as an afterthought. I knew I should be able tomake Marion see the matter in this light when she had been sufficiently long in seclusion; in the meantime, I went around to the rear of the house to find William Wedder and to settle my score with him.
I met him looking for me, dressed up in his best clothes and carrying his red bundle and stick.
"William," I said, in my most austere manner, "I haven't had a chance to tell you what I think of your con——"
"No, sir," he broke in, "and I'm not calculatin' to give you a chance. I'm off."
"You're—off!" I ejaculated, my anger suddenly displaced by dismay. "What—what's the matter?"
"Well, sir," answered William, his face broadening to a grin, "there's several reasons why I'd better be off. One is, I'd rather go than be sacked; then, old Waydean, he's took the notion that I dressed up his pig, and Joe Wrigley says he's gone to swear out a summons."
His manner was so coy, so engaging, so innocently virtuous and forbearing, that Icould not refrain from an encouraging smile; somehow I seemed to know exactly how he felt—perhaps I, too, in some previous state of existence, had found it expedient to appear to know less than I did know.
"What became of the pig, William?" I asked, in a tone that conveyed, I fear, more sympathy than reproof.
"After you drove off so fast," he replied, "it turned onto the Stone Road, with old Waydean close behind, and that was the last I seen of them, but Joe Wrigley says they met a funeral near the Stone Road Cemetery, and there was a regular circus; after it was over I seen people drivin' past here lookin' as if they'd been at a Punch and Judy show."
I smiled appreciatively, feeling a softening toward William in view of the entertainment he had provided, but I saw it would be wiser for him to leave than to wait for Peter's revenge. There was one more point that puzzled me.
"How did you fasten those boots on the pig?" I asked.
There was a momentary triumphant gleam in his eyes, then they opened wide with innocent frankness as he spoke. "Joe Wrigley says there was a wad of graftin' wax in each one, and the longer they were on the tighter they'd stick. Joe says——"
"William," I interrupted, "why do you keep saying that Joe Wrigley says this and Joe Wrigley says that, when you——"
One eyelid slowly curtained an eye. "You see, Mr. Carton," he said, in a half-whisper, "if you don't know nothin' but what Joe says, you don't know enough for evidence, nor too much for your own good, and if that old sinner makes law trouble you can't swear to anythin' but hearsay. Joe says it's like a sort of judgment on him, for it'll take as long to get the feathers and wax off that pig as it'll take new feathers to grow on them chickens. He says there ain't but three ways of gettin' that kind of wax off: bilin' in kerosene, freezin' in a ice-cream freezer, or leavin' it to nature and the habits of pigs."
"Well, William," I said regretfully, "I suppose you had better go, but I'll have toget another man to do the work, for I'll have the farm on my hands in a few days. Peter has signed the agreement to sell."
"Jee—rus'lem!" he exclaimed. "It'll be a bigger circus than I counted on when——"
"When what?" I asked, as he suddenly checked himself.
"I was thinkin' about the new well up at the barn," he replied, with sudden gravity. "I haven't got down to water yet, but it ain't far off, and Joe Wrigley says he'll come over to-morrow and finish it for you. Well, I must be goin'—good-by for the present. Mebbe I'll come back when this blows over."
"Where are you going to?" I called after him, as he hurried off.
His legs moved faster, as if he feared pursuit, but there was no response until he reached the gate, then he turned and shouted: "To see—Uncle—Benny!"
It is painfully humiliating to stand before a locked door and try to convince a silent person inside that you have high ideals, noble impulses, virtuous aspirations and anunvarying regard for the truth; it is yet more painful if you are the victim of a train of circumstantial evidence that has biassed the mind of the listener; you are at a further disadvantage if that person is the one who knows your failings better than you do yourself, but there is yet hope if, with all your faults, she loves you still.
I pleaded and reasoned with Marion in a high, unnatural and despairingly mellifluous voice; without avail. Then it occurred to me that I was on the wrong tack, and in a tone of hoarse despair I said I was a brute. This had been effective before, and I listened breathlessly; there was a faint monosyllabic response, but whether of assent or dissent I could not determine. With added anguish I declared that I was and that she needn't say I wasn't; that it would be better for her if I were dead. There was a whole sentence in reply, the gist of it being that she hadn't said I wasn't. This was encouraging, so I sought to create a diversion by telling her that William had gone; this item was coldly received. Then, like an inspiration, came the thought that I hadstill to tell her how we had been bidding against each other.
"Marion," I called out excitedly, "I know the man who tried to buy the place."
"Who is he?"
"Open the door, and I'll tell you."
"No; I can hear."
"He's a perfect brute." I moved away with a heavy tread. It was an excellent move; the door opened and Marion ran after me.
"What's his name?" she demanded.
"He's a man," I replied, with unreproving, sad forgiveness, "who thought he would try to please his wife by making her a present of the place."
"Good gracious! Was it that wretched Griggs?"
"No,—his name is—Henry Carton."
Now I had expected the announcement to create a sensation, but I was totally unprepared for the effect it produced. Instead of being appalled to learn that she had thrown away sixteen hundred dollars unnecessarily, she forgave me with every appearance of being delighted to hear thenews. An interval followed, during which I didn't care particularly how this blissful state of affairs had come to pass, but I gathered by degrees that it was because I had quite innocently proved that I was not a mercenary wretch and that I could by no possibility have saved Mr. Fairman's life from any sordid motive. There are probably few men more deserving of praise, but I shall not repeat Marion's expressions of affection and respect, in case they should appear extravagant. I bore her appreciation with my usual modesty, and when she wondered how she could have behaved so, I said it wasn't any wonder at all, and that I was almost sure I wasn't as good as she said. She declared indignantly that I was far better, and when I tried to add that I had acted like a brute she put her hand over my mouth and threatened to get angry again if I used that word about myself, saying that I had acted like an angel, and how could I ever forgive her? I assured her that there was nothing to forgive, but if there was I forgave her freely, and I did so with such fervor and unselfishness thatshe almost melted into tears again. Then with the greatest delicacy I suggested that I was grieved that she had been obliged to pay so much more for the farm than if I hadn't been so stupid, but she only said indifferently, "Bother the money—I've got you!"
Still, I grudged that sixteen hundred dollars, and I thought she ought to show more concern, but I dreaded a return of her suspicion that I was mercenary, so I bothered the money also and remarked that I had her. Then we both made the happy discovery that we had Paul, and Marion reminded me that I had the farm and enough money to stock it, yet in spite of all these blessings it rankled in my mind that when the papers were signed Peter Waydean would have that sixteen hundred dollars above the worth of the farm.
The morning after Aunt Sophy's wedding I slept late, more exhausted by the excitement of the day than I had been aware of, yet in that dreamy state of half-wakefulness before sunrise, I was dimly conscious of hearing the sound of Joe Wrigley's pick and shovel, as he worked at the unfinished well. I remembered that I must go to the city and arrange with Marion's agent for the transfer of the property, and also be ready, in my rôle of Uncle Benny, to receive William Wedder, if he should call at theObserveroffice as he had threatened. I was drowsily exulting in William's discomfiture on finding that I was Uncle Benny, when a loud shouting from the direction of the barn awakened me; a moment later I heard hurried clumping footsteps and the sound of hammeringat the back door. My first impression was that the earth had caved in and buried Joe Wrigley and that he had come to me for help, but when I hurried into a few essential garments and reached the back door I was relieved to find that Joe was there; pale, breathless, agitated, but unburied.
"Come quick—ile!" he gasped, and lumbered off. I followed.
When I reached the well Peter Waydean was lying prone on his face with his head hanging over the hole. At the sound of my voice he humped himself slowly and stood up, looking at me with an expression of utter misery.
Joe grabbed my arm and pointed to the well. "Ile," he repeated, in a hoarse croak—"smell."
I lay down and smelled; the reeking odor of kerosene oil arose upwards and I staggered to my feet, stunned by a sudden vision of great wealth.
Peter was the first to speak. "The farm's worth half a million," he said despairingly, "and I've sold it to that shark for fifty-one hundred."
"What shark?" I forced myself to ask.
"That land shark in the city," he said, turning away with a sudden stiffening of his frame. "But I'll not be robbed," he shouted, raising his clenched hand above his head in a fierce gesture—"he hasn't got the deed yet."
I watched him hurry over the adjoining field, a strange pitying impulse possessing me to run after him and tell him to take back the farm; then Joe attracted my attention.
"Jest as I struck that streak of clay," he said, pointing downwards, "I seen it get soppy like, but I thought it was water, for I took the smell to be from the ile on my hair, settled into contracted quarters like; then it began to bubble up faster, an' I scooped up a handful to taste, an' the next thing I knowed I was up here hollerin' for all I was worth. Old Peter, he come runnin' over the pasture field, an' I lit out for the house to call you."
In the well I could see a slight bubbling as the oil ran in, and the bottom was now covered with several inches of the fluid,which looked remarkably clear and of such fine quality that I didn't wonder Joe had mistaken it for water. I told him to stop work and cover the hole with boards, warning him not to tell anyone of the discovery. I don't know why I gave him the latter direction, but I had an instinct that it was the correct thing to do and was an evidence of presence of mind on my part. Then I went back to the house to break the news to Marion.
In my inmost heart I knew that the wealth was rightfully Peter's, though I was legally entitled to reap the benefit of the discovery, but something of the passionate greed that I had seen expressed in his distorted face stirred my soul, and I went upstairs to tell Marion, feeling, I imagine, like a fugitive bank cashier. But when I looked into her clear eyes I knew there was but one right course, and that was to release Peter from his agreement. Somehow I felt as if I had just escaped from prison when that was settled; never again do I wish to be burdened with even the thought of unworked-for riches.
I felt sorry for Peter when I hurried over to his house to tell him he could take back his farm without going to law. I regret to say that he did not receive me with open arms or fully appreciate my generosity; indeed, when I told him that we had employed the land agents to negotiate with him he declared that he never would have signed the agreement if he had known, but he became more amiable when he understood that Marion and I had been bidding against each other.
Now when I act nobly, I like the matter to be distinctly understood; therefore Peter's attitude was disappointing. There wasn't the slightest doubt but that he should have been so affected by my action as to thank me in a voice broken with emotion, begging me at the same time to accept the office of President of the Waydean Oil Company, and fifty per cent. of the capital stock. I did not try to make him see it in the proper light, for that would have been undignified as well as useless, and I was pressed for time, so I bade him a courteous but frigid good-morning. I knew betterthan to seek consolation from Marion by letting her know that I had expected gratitude, for such a course would have led to the scornful assertion that I had done nothing for which gratitude should be expected. So when she asked if he wasn't awfully grateful I answered in the negative, elevating my eyebrows in surprise. Marion at once asserted that Peter was a grasping hard-hearted man, and tried to show me how nobly I had behaved; a point of view that I protested against, with the result that I was praised to an extent that she has never since excelled.
It was about ten o'clock when I took the train for the city, and for the first time I had leisure to think over the astounding discovery of oil. The short time which had elapsed since I had been awakened by Joe Wrigley had been so full of action that I had difficulty in persuading myself that I hadn't been dreaming, and the farther I got from Waydean, the more incredible appeared the evidence of my senses that I had seen and smelled oil bubbling up at the bottom of my fifteen-foot well.
The first thing I did when I got to theObserveroffice was to consult the encyclopædia in regard to oil-wells. I do not think I ever received so much mental enlightenment from that useful compendium in such a short space of time, as during the few minutes I spent over the article on petroleum. William Wedder was not mentioned, but when I closed the book with a bang I knew that the ingenious old rogue had not only carried out his threat of making Peter the laughing-stock of the county, but had included me also. For a short time I was beside myself with rage, then an idea leaped into my mind that suggested delightful possibilities, and I hurried down to the front office to find out if William had called that morning.
I have been repeatedly questioned about how I spent the time between lunch and three o'clock, but I have two good reasons for evading a direct answer; one is, that I do not care to say, the other, that I cannot, like some people, tell a lie without provocation. Young Evans, at the Inquiry and Subscription wicket, knew that I told himas I went out at noon that if a smooth-shaven countrified-looking old man asked for Uncle Benny he was to be shown up to my room to await my return. Old Jamieson, the elevator man, knew that I entered by the side door about three o'clock, and that I was quite astonished to hear that a visible Uncle Benny had appeared and disappeared during my absence, and that he had been followed into my room by a smooth-shaven rural-looking old codger; that after an interval of loud conversation that could be heard above the rumbling of the presses in the basement, the latter emerged hastily, clattered down the stairs with something in one hand that looked like a human scalp, closely pursued by Uncle Benny, who was excitedly pulling his stovepipe hat down over his ears as he ran, and stopping as he descended the stairs to replace the huge prunella shoes that kept dropping off.
But it was Meldrum, the cartoonist, whose room was opposite mine, who told me most about this strange occurrence. "I thought there was a fire at first," he said, inrelating the affair. "I got into the hall and saw the most remarkable looking old party sitting at your desk. Hairy as a gorilla—couldn't see a feature except his nose—smoked goggles—white hair to his shoulders—white beard down to his belt—long-skirted frock coat—pants turned up at the bottom, showing his spindle-shanks half way——"
"Spindle-shanks!"
"Yes—regular pipe-stems—and prunella shoes, by Jove!—the kind he wore in the ark—voice like a polar bear, and deaf as a door-post. Other chap got completely winded trying to make him hear."
"What washelike?"
"Small, smooth-shaven, pink cheeks, blue eyes. Looked like Shem—voice away up in G."
"Could you hear what they said?"
Meldrum laughed derisively. "Hear?" he repeated. "Hear!Great Scott! If the presses hadn't been running some idiot on the street would have pulled the fire-alarm, sure. When I saw them first Noah had his hand up to his ear and Shem wasyelling into it: 'Will—yum Wed—der!'
"'I see,' growls Noah, 'William was your grandson, and he got married. Go ahead.'
"'No, no—' shouts Shem, 'that's myname. WILL......YUM WED......DER!'
"'You'll have to raise your voice,' says Noah, 'I'm a little hard of hearing.'
"Then Shem goes at it again, a fifth higher, and Noah catches on and asks him a lot of questions. Where he came from, what family, how he happened to leave home. Shem shouts that he isn't a hired man by birth, and that he left his family because his wife and daughter caught the whole-wheat-and-nut-food fever and tried to feed him on hygienic principles, so after building up his strength on unwholesome food for the summer, he's going back to his family to see if they've come to their senses."
"Do you mean to say, Meldrum, that you stood out in the hall and eavesdropped?"
"Eavesdropped! Old Wedder's voice sailed into my room as plainly as if he had the jim-jams. Come now, Carton, you know more about this thing than you pretend. He brought your name in several times, and if I'm not mistaken, he had some good joke on you about your farm. Every little while I'd hear Noah growl, 'That isn't funny.' At last I heard Shem fairly yell, 'Thatain't funny, ain't it?'—then there was a shout from Noah and a mighty clatter. By the time I got out from behind my desk and into the hall again, all I could see was the top of Noah's stovepipe vanishing down the stairway. Jamieson is certain Shem had his wig. Come now, Carton, make a clean breast of it and tell me who these old parties were. I always thought you wrote the Uncle Benny papers, but perhaps I was mistaken."
"Meldrum," I said confidentially, "I'll tell you the honest truth, but I want you to keep it quiet. William Wedder was my hired man, and he was determined to see a real Uncle Benny, so to oblige him, I togged myself out for the part at thetheatrical costumer's around the corner. I didn't expect—ha, ha, ha!—to take you in, though."
I made this explanation with calm sincerity, with child-like frankness, and I'm sure I don't know what prompted me to cast these pearls of truth before a fellow-journalist, but I did. What was the result? Meldrum sniffed at the gems suspiciously, then chuckled, assuring me as he jocularly slapped my back that he was delighted to know the facts of the case and that he would respect my confidence.
This is how the rumor originated that the real Uncle Benny was an aged and talented relative of mine, whom I kept in seclusion to restrain his bibulous propensities. It was perhaps as well that I was not aware of this at the time, or I certainly would have been discouraged from the practice of telling the undiluted truth.
I need not dwell upon my return to Waydean that evening. It is still painful to recall my sensations as I stepped from the train, on finding that Joe Wrigley had so completely disregarded my instructions to tell no one of the discovery that the usually quiet country road between the station and Waydean swarmed with pedestrians returning from an inspection of William Wedder's handiwork. Had I been permitted, as I had hoped, to publicly expose the fraud, I could have risen to the occasion and perhaps found a certain solace in doing so; but to find that in my absence the prying eyes of my neighbors had found the ingenious mechanism by which William had manufactured a flowing well of refined petroleum, and had attributed it to me, was crushing. I could bear up under thefacetious remarks of the people who complimented me on my success in taking such an excellent rise out of Peter, but when Andy Taylor rushed out of his house and clapped me on the back, I could only look at him in sorrowful reproach, at which his merriment increased. "Mr. Carton," he gasped, "it beats the way you done up that Griggs all hollow. I knew you'd get back on Peter, but I didn't know it'd be so—gosh—darn—rich. Oh Lordy, to see him when the loose dirt shifted and showed the blue end of the coal-oil barrel!"
"The coal-oil barrel?"
"Yes,—you'd ought to have laid a few boards of top of the heap, and it wouldn't have shifted with people trampin'. You must have let ten gallons run down that iron pipe—and how did you ever get it drove so far? I suppose that joke cost you as much as five dollars, but I'd say it was cheap at ten."
In vain I assured Andy that I was innocent; he only laughed the harder, reiterating his belief that I beat the Dutch and that I was a natural born play-actor; that theGriggs episode, charming as it had been, was discounted by my latest histrionic venture.
By the dim light of my lantern, Marion, Paul and I viewed the wreck of the Waydean Oil Well when I reached home. Our coal-oil barrel, exhumed from the loose earth that had covered it, had been rolled away from the edge of the hole, leaving the iron pipe exposed. The ground was packed hard with the trampling of many feet.
"I didn't think there could be such a crowd of people in the country, except at a funeral or an auction sale," said Marion indignantly. "I was just enraged to sit in the house and see them pass through the yard as if it were a common. I'll never forgive William Wedder—I wish I had never baked him a pie."
"I hope he'll have to live on hygienic wheat biscuits when he gets home," I responded. "I hope his wife has learned to cook them in two hundred ways, and whether they're mashed, stewed, fried, pied, creamed, puddinged or jellied, he'll havedisappointment three times a day of finding that they are still the same old wheat biscuits. That'll be punishment enough for him, but it won't make Peter believe I didn't do this, and by this time he must have got Roper's letter cancelling the agreement."
"I suppose we'll have to give up the place in the end," said Marion, with a sigh.
"Don't let Paul hear," I said in a low tone, "or he'll make the dickens of a row."
At that moment Paul was leaning over the edge dangling a long string into the well; fishing, I supposed, in my ignorance. For days he had been going about with a dreamy look on his face that betokened a secret play of absorbing interest. I drew a breath of relief when I saw that he didn't look up at Marion's unguarded remark. All would have been well had I not been so misguided as to make a suggestion that aroused Marion's sense of duty and her persistent belief that I tried to shirk mine.
"Paul," said she, and even in that one word I detected the compassionate severity suitable to the extraction of a tooth—"do you know that we'll have to leave——"
"Marion," I implored, "wait till we get him into the house—he'll rouse the neighborhood."
I should have known better than to protest. Once started in the track of duty nothing short of a disastrous collision would stop her. She did pause, but merely to make a remark to me that led to a sharp altercation. We forgot our rule never to give way to our angry passions before Paul; indeed, he was so unusually silent that we didn't remember his presence until we were suddenly struck dumb by a shrill exclamation of impatient wrath that arose from the other side of the well.
"Dar-r-n it!" he ejaculated, with petrifying distinctness.
If he had turned into a quick-firing gun and dropped a shell at our feet the effect could not have been more paralyzing. Our boy had been carefully screened, not only from evil, but from vulgarity; he had never gone to Sunday school, nor been left to the care of a nursemaid. His companions were his toys and domestic pets; other children he had seen only from a distance, and heregarded them as curious, but not interesting, little animals. His face reflected the purity of his mind. I hesitate to say so, for obvious reasons, but his face at the age of seven was simply angelic; I mean, of course, normally, not when his mouth was wide open in the act of expressing bodily or mental anguish. And this is not merely his mother's opinion and mine; it is Aunt Sophy's also. Indeed, Aunt Sophy, who is never tired of drawing attention to his remarkable resemblance to a photograph of me as a boy, has gone much farther, and has given utterance to thoughts that we only think.
Therefore, we turned to each other in dumb amazement; then I raised the lantern to make sure that it really was Paul who had spoken. He was getting up from his crouching position and the light showed that his little mouth was tightly set and that his wide-open eyes sparkled like stars. Even as we stared at him his lips parted again, and again he said: "Dar-r-r-n it!"
I am thankful that the well was partially covered and that I was able to keep Marionfrom sliding into it. "Paul!" she cried in horror, "oh, Paul!"
I hastened to follow her lead. "Paul," I said, with fierce sternness, "what do you mean, sir?"
"I mean," he replied accusingly, "that it's all spoiled. They've taken fright at your squabbling and put out their lamps."
Again we stared at each other in questioning silence. What had taken fright we knew not, but we did know that we had squabbled.
"Where did you hear that dreadful word?" demanded Marion.
"Darn?" queried Paul, with innocent pride. "I heard William Wedder say something when the coal-oil barrel rolled on his foot, and when I asked him 'I beg your pardon?' he couldn't remember what he had said, then when I kept on asking him to try to remember he said it must have been an exclamation calleddarn. I think it's ever so much nicer thanbotherorgood gracious."
"It's a vulgar word, and only vulgar people use it," I commented reprovingly.
"Why, father, William said that when Joe Wrigley's horse stood up on his hind legs you said——"
"Paul," I interrupted hurriedly, "you said something took fright, and——"
"Hush!" said he, in a mysterious whisper, coming close to me. "It was the fairies. William said if we made an oil well and didn't say anything about it, they'd be sure to come to fill their lamps, and they have. I saw three of them climbing up my rope ladder when you frightened them off."
"Then you knew that William made this?" I exclaimed.
"Of course. I helped him to bury the barrel so that the fairies wouldn't know it wasn't a real natural well. He said if we kept it a secret it would be a pleasant surprise to you when I showed you the fairies. Hush! They're climbing up the rope ladder again. Peep down through that crack and you'll see them—very—ve—ry—quietly. There now—stand back. I'm going to help them up over the edge."
The next morning Peter Waydean came over to see me, his face wreathed in smiles,his manner most cordial. "Mr. Carton," he said genially, "I ain't on the hunt for oil wells this morning, but I was on my way to thank you for the trouble you took in rigging up that one when I met your little boy coming over to see me."
"Paul!" I exclaimed—"to see you?"
Peter nodded. "Great head on that little chap," he said. "'I don't want you to be angry at father about the oil well,' he says to me, 'for William and I made it together, and father didn't know anything about it,' says he, standing up straight and stiff. Then he told me the whole business, and although it turned out a good thing for me, I'm glad to know it was that scoundrel Wedder that tried to play it off, and not you. Paul was so tickled at me pretending to believe he really seen fairies that when he wanted me to say that I'd sell the farm to you just the same, I hadn't the heart to tell him it was sold."
"Sold?"
"Yes,—you see, I thought you had played that trick on me and I was so mad yesterday that when along comes anotheragent twice as keen to buy as them other two I jumped at the chance of selling. 'Name your price,' says he, 'to sell on the spot.' 'Six thousand,' says I, at a bluff. 'Done,' says he; and in five minutes the agreement was signed."
"Well," I said, with a sigh, "I suppose we'll have to move."
"Oh, I don't know," said Peter encouragingly. "Perhaps the party don't want to live here; though, considering the price," he added, with a shrewd smile, "he didn't buy just for speculation. They say he's got a fine place in the city and heaps of money, and he's just got married again to a widow. I might as well have asked another thousand, I believe."
"What is his name?" I asked, with sudden interest.
"Fairman. He owns—what—Mr. Carton, what's the——"
I relaxed my tense grip of his arm. "His first name?" I demanded eagerly.
"Joseph, I think. What's the matter?"
I am afraid my explanation was not very clear to Peter. I could not tell him thecause of my excitement, nor mention the fact that I had saved Mr. Fairman's life several times in one day, for that would have savored of boastfulness; so I hinted that when we were boys together Mr. Fairman had saved my life and had ever since regarded me with the highest esteem. Thus I preserved the main fact of our connection, only disguising it enough to let Marion see incidentally afterwards how careful I was to avoid the appearance of vainglory.
Now when I rushed into the house to tell Marion that Mr. Fairman had bought Waydean, I did so with the innocent exuberance of expectant delight with which children, not too sophisticated, view brown paper parcels that are delivered at their homes during the Christmas season. Marion's first thought, I could swear, was similar to mine; I could not mistake the vivid flash of happy gratitude that illumined her face, nor the sudden exclamation that was checked at the parting of her lips, yet her tone, when she did speak, expressed the utmost mystification. "Why,—how strange!" said she.
For an instant I did not comprehend her mental attitude, but I am remarkably adaptable, not by nature, but by training, and by a swift turn I avoided plunging headlong into an awkward situation. It would show a want of delicacy, a sordid mind, a vulgar expectancy, were I not to ignore the thought that we had both almost uttered. Even though I saw an equine nose, a flowing tail and four legs protruding through the brown paper, I must not guess it was a rocking horse; above all, I must not hope it was to be mine.
"Yes," I remarked, with innocent bewilderment, "it is very strange. I wonder why he bought it."
Truly I have learned a thing or two. My wife regarded me with admiration that she scarcely tried to hide. I had saved Mr. Fairman's life without adding a cubit to my stature in her estimation, but by this trifling observance of the proprieties, this delicate expression of native refinement, I stood exalted upon a pedestal.
"I wonder," repeated Marion, after me, in deep conjecture, "why he—bought—it?"
Our eyes met. In hers I could see a faraway amused sparkle; in my own I permitted a faint twinkle, then we both looked in another direction.
"Perhaps," I ventured cautiously, "Aunt Sophy will write and tell us."
"Perhaps she will," said Marion.
The reward of unconscious virtue arrived by the next mail, in the guise of a long letter from Mrs. Fairman.
"......I can scarcely realize that it is only three days since we said good-by," she wrote, "it seems so long ago. Of course we have been travelling most of the time and this is really the first chance I have had to write and tell you about the trip, and how constantly I think of your kindness to me, and what good reason I have to be grateful for the advice that had so much to do with my present happiness. Indeed, I confessed to Joseph how I was influenced by Henry's opinion, and he was quite affected. He keeps saying to me: 'A fine young man—a noble young man!' He describes to me over and over again howadmirably Henry acted in the presence of danger the morning of our wedding; he says he hasn't a doubt but that for Henry's coolness and resource we wouldn't be married now. The thought makes me shudder! I suppose that is why I feel so nervous about him when he is out of sight; I am so afraid of another accident.