It was generally agreed among the people of Davy's Bend—a thousand in number, the census said; six hundred they said themselves, for they changed the rule, and exaggerated their own situation unfavorably—that the town possessed more natural advantages than any other in the world.
They demonstrated this with great cleverness, by means of maps drawn on brown wrapping-paper inside of the stores, and, after looking at their maps, they triumphantly exclaimed, with a whack of their fists on the counter, "There are the figures; and figures won't lie." But in spite of their maps showing valleys occupied with railroads (which Capital neglected to build), Ben's City, below them, continued to prosper, whereas Davy's Bend continued to go steadily down the hill.
The people did little else than wonder at this, and curse Capital because it did not locate in a town where nature was lavish in the matter of location, instead of going to a place where it would always find the necessity of contending against odds confronting it. Such a town was Ben's City, in the estimation of those living at Davy's Bend; but they must have been mistaken, for great houses and institutions grew up where little had been planted, and men with money trampled upon each other in their mad haste to take advantage of the prosperity that seemed to be in the air. Those who drew the maps declared that a crash was soon to come, when the capitalists who did not know their own interests would trample upon each other in their haste to get away; but those who bought Ben's City property, no difference at what price, soon sold out again at an advance; and the prosperity of the place was quite phenomenal.
Never was Capital so thoroughly hated as in Davy's Bend. It was cursed a thousand times a day, and shown to be fickle and foolish and ungrateful; for evidences of these weaknesses on the part of Capital abounded on every hand. There were railroads to be built out of Davy's Bend that would pay immensely, as had been demonstrated times without number by the local paper; but Capital stubbornly refused to build them, preferring to earn a beggarly per cent elsewhere. There were manufactories to be built in Davy's Bend that would make their owners rich, as every child knew; but Capital, after a full investigation, was so dull that it could not see the opportunity. The town was alive with opportunities for profitable investments, but Capital, with a mean and dogged indifference, refused to come to Davy's Bend; therefore Capital was hated, and bullied, and cursed, and denounced; and it was generally agreed that it deserved no better fate than to go to ruin in the general crash that would finally overtake Ben's City.
The people of Davy's Bend were a good deal like a grumbling and idle man, who spends the time which should be devoted to improving his condition to grumbling about his own ill luck and the good luck of his industrious rival, who is steadily prospering; and as men frequently believe that the fates are against them when they are themselves their only opposition, so it was generally believed in this wretched little town that some sort of a powerful and alert goddess was in league with Ben's City. While they readily admitted their own points of advantage, even to the extent of giving themselves more credit than they deserved, they refused to be equally fair with their competitor, as men do, and contended, with an ignorant persistency, that Ben's City was prosperous because of "luck," whereas they should have known that there is no such thing, either good or bad.
But, in course of time, when they found that they would always be in the rear, no difference whether they liked it or not, the people of the Bend, in order to more thoroughly denounce their own town for its lack of ability to attract Capital, began to exaggerate the importance of Ben's City. A four-story building there became seven stories high, and those who visited the place vied with each other in giving vivid and untruthful accounts of its growth and prosperity on their return; all of which their acquaintances repeated over and over, though they knew it to be untrue, even adding to the exaggerated statements, in order to bully their own meek town.
Probably they were not proud of the greatness of their rival; for they talked of it as a cowardly man might exaggerate the strength of the fellow who had whipped him, using it as an excuse for defeat. Indeed, they were proud of nothing, except their own accounts of the greatness of Davy's Bend a long while before, when the huge warehouses were occupied, and before Capital had combined against it; of this they talked in a boastful way, magnifying everything so much that many of the listeners who had not heard the beginning of the conversation imagined that they were talking of Ben's City; but of bettering their present condition they had no thought,—by common consent it was so very bad that attempts to become prosperous again were useless, so the Bend was a little worse off every year, like an old and unsuccessful man.
Most of the business men of Davy's Bend had been clerks in the days of the town's prosperity, making their own terms when their energetic employers wanted to get away, and in spite of the general dullness and lack of success, they entertained very good opinions of themselves; for no difference what a citizen's misfortunes were, he loaded them all on the town, and thus apologized for his own lack of ability. But for the circumstance that he was tied to Davy's Bend, he would have been great and distinguished; they all said the same thing, and in order to get his own story believed, every man found it necessary to accept the explanations of the others, or pretend to; so it happened that the people did not hold themselves responsible for anything,—the town in which they lived was to blame for everything that was disagreeable, and was denounced accordingly.
The esteem with which the people regarded themselves was largely due to the manner in which they were referred to in the local paper, a ribald folio appearing once a week. None of the business men were advertisers, but they all gave the publisher free pardon if he referred to them in complimentary terms in his reading columns, and sent in his bill. Thus, the merchant who did not own the few goods he displayed was often referred to as a merchant prince, with an exceedingly shrewd business head on his shoulders. Sometimes notices of this character were left standing from week to week by the shiftless editor; a great number of them would occasionally get together on the same page, referring to different men as the shrewdest, the wisest, the most energetic, etc.; and it was very ridiculous, except to the persons concerned, who believed that the people read the notices with great pleasure.
So great was the passion for puffery among them that designing men who heard of it came along quite frequently, and wrote the people up in special publications devoted to that kind of literature. There would be a pretence that the special edition was to be devoted to the town, but it really consisted of a few lines at the beginning, stating that Davy's Bend had more natural advantages than any other town in the world, and four pages of puffs of the people, at so much per line; whereupon the men made fun of all the notices except their own, believing that its statements were true, and generally accepted as a part of the town's history. A few of those who were able had engravings inserted, and the puff writers, in order to make the notices and bills as large as possible, told how long and how often the subjects had been married; how many children they had, together with their names, where they came from, and much other mild information of this character.
It was known that many of the complimentary sketches were written by the persons to whom they referred; but while Harrisonfield, the grocer, gave wide circulation to the fact that Porterfield, of the dry-goods store, had referred to himself as an intellectual giant, and a business man of such sterling ability that he had received flattering offers to remove to Ben's City, he did not know that Porterfield was proving the same indiscretion with reference to himself.
Every new man who wrote up the town in this manner was more profuse with compliments of the people than his predecessor had been; and finally the common language was inadequate to describe their greatness, and they longed for somebody to come along who could "write," and who could fully explain how much each one was doing for the town; but although they all professed to be doing a great deal constantly for Davy's Bend, there was no reason to believe that any of them were accomplishing anything in this direction, for it could not have been duller than it was in the year of our Lord just referred to.
But there was an exception to this rule, as there is said to be to all others,—Thompson Benton, the merchant; the dealer in everything, as the advertisements on his wrapping-paper stated, for he advertised nowhere else. But he was reliable and sensible, as well as stout and surly; so it was generally conceded that he was the foremost citizen of the Bend.
Not that he made a pretence to this distinction; old Thompson was modest as well as capable, and whatever good was said of him came from the people themselves. Had there been new people coming to Davy's Bend occasionally, it is possible that old Thompson would not have been the leading citizen, for it was said that he "improved on acquaintance," and that people hated the ground he walked on until they had known him a dozen years or more, and found out his sterling virtues; but they had all known him a great many years, and therefore admired him in spite of themselves.
Thompson Benton had been a resident of the town in the days of its prosperity, and ranked with the best of those who had moved away; but he preferred to remain, since he had become attached to his home, and feared that he could not find one which would suit him equally well elsewhere. Besides, he owned precious property in the Davy's Bend cemetery, and lavished upon it the greatest care. Hard though he was in his transactions with men, the memory of his wife was sacred to him; and many believed that, had she lived, he would have been less plain-spoken and matter-of-fact. This devotion was well known; and when the people found it necessary to forgive him for a new eccentricity,—for it was necessary to either forgive him or fight him,—they said he had never recovered his spirits since the day a coffin was driven up to his house.
His store was always open at seven in the morning, and the proprietor always opened it himself, with a great iron key that looked as venerable and substantial as the hale old gentleman whose companion it had been so many years; for it was not a key of the new sort, that might lock up a trifling man's affairs, but a key that seemed to say as plainly as could be that it had money and notes and valuable goods of many kinds in its charge. At six in the evening his store was closed, and the proprietor turned the key, and put it into his pocket. At noon he ate his frugal dinner while seated on a high stool at his desk, and he had been heard to say that he had not eaten at home at midday in fifteen years; for on Sundays he dined in state at five o'clock.
There were no busy days in Davy's Bend, therefore he got along without a clerk, and managed his affairs so well that, in spite of the dulness of which there was such general complaint, he knew that he was a little richer at the close of every day, and that he was probably doing better than many of his old associates who were carrying on business with a great deal of noise and display in Ben's City. Certainly he was reputed to be rich, and those who were less industrious said that he should have retired years before, and given others a chance.
Thompson Benton was known as a plain-spoken man, and if he thought one of his customers had acted dishonestly with him, he said so at the first opportunity, and gruffly hoped it wouldn't happen again; by which he was understood to mean that if itdidhappen again, there would be a difficulty in which the right would triumph. Indeed, he had been known to throw men out of the front door in a very rough manner, two and three at a time; but the people always said he was right, and so it usually turned out, for he was never offended without cause. If an impostor came to the town, the people were fully revenged if he called at Benton's store, for the proprietor told him what he thought of him, and in language so plain that it was always understood.
Thompson Benton's principal peculiarity was his refusal to be a fool. The men who threatened to leave the town because they were not appreciated received no petting from him; indeed, he told them to go, and try and find a place where they would not grumble so much. The successors of the business men who had moved away were always trying to invent new methods as an evidence of their ability, and some of them did not pay their debts because that was an old, though respectable, custom; they rejected everything old, no matter how acceptable it had proved itself, and got along in an indifferent manner with methods invented by themselves, though the methods of their inventing were usually lame and unsatisfactory. For such foolishness as this old Thompson had no charity, as he believed in using the experience of others to his own profit; so he raised his voice against the customs of the town, and though he was usually abused for it, it was finally acknowledged that he was right.
But notwithstanding his austere manner, the people had confidence in old Thompson, and many of the town disputes were left to him. If the people had spare money, they asked the privilege of leaving it in his iron safe (which had belonged to the last bank that moved away), and took his receipt for it. When they wanted it again, it was always ready; and if the Ben's City cracksmen ever came that way to look at the safe, they concluded that the proprietor would prove an ugly customer, for it was never disturbed.
His family consisted of a maiden sister almost as old and odd as himself, and his daughter Annie, who had been motherless since she was five years old. The people said that old Thompson never smiled during the day except when his pretty daughter came in, and that his only recreation was in her society during two hours in the evening, when she read to him, or played, or sang. They were all certain that he was "wrapped up" in her, and it was also agreed that this devotion was not without cause; for a better girl or a prettier girl than Annie Benton was not to be found in all the country round.
The house in which he lived was as stout as brick and mortar could make it; for the people said that he inspected every brick and stick as it was used; and when it was completed, his prudish sister, whom he referred to as the "Ancient Maiden," was equally careful in the furnishing, so that it was a very good house, and kept with scrupulous neatness. The Ancient Maiden's drafts were always honored, for nothing was too good for Thompson Benton's home; and those who went there never forgot the air of elegant comfort which pervaded everything. Though Thompson Benton went down town in the morning with the men who worked by the day, and carried a lunch basket, he dined in the evening in state, surrounded by silver and china both rich and rare; though he worked ten hours a day, and ate a lunch at noon, he slept at night in a bed and in a room which would have rested a king; and his house was as good as any man's need be.
Very early in life Annie Benton learned, somehow, that it had been one of her father's pleasures, when he came home at night, to listen to her mother's piano-playing, when that excellent lady was alive; and, resolving to supply the vacant place, she studied so industriously with the poor teachers the town afforded that at fifteen she was complimented by frequent invitations to play for the glum and plain-spoken merchant. If she selected something frivolous, and played it in bad taste or time, and was not invited to play again for a long while, she understood that her music did not please him, and studied to remedy her fault. In course of time she found out what he wanted, though he never gave her advice or suggestion in reference to it; and he had amply repaid her for all the pains she had been to by saying once, after she had played for him half an hour in a dark room, while he rested on a sofa near her, that she was growing more like her mother every day.
"There were few ladies like your mother, Annie," old Thompson would say, when the girl thanked him for his appreciation. "It pleases me that you remind me of her, and if you become as good a woman as she was, it will be very remarkable, for you have had no mother, poor child, to direct you in her way."
Annie would try harder than ever, after this, to imitate the virtues of the dead woman, and bothered the Ancient Maiden a great deal to find out what she was like. She was not a drone, that much was certain; therefore the daughter was not, and tried to be as useful in the hive as she imagined her mother had been, in every way in which a worthy woman distinguishes herself.
In like manner the girl learned to read to please her father, and every day he brought home with him something he had come into possession of during the day, and which he wanted read; a book, a pamphlet, or a marked paragraph in a newspaper,—he seemed to read nothing himself except business letters; but none of these, or any mention of his affairs, ever came into his home.
Annie Benton's mother had been organist in the big stone church near The Locks, which the first residents had built in the days of their prosperity, and the girl learned from family friends that her father regularly attended both services on Sunday, to hear the music; perhaps there were certain effects possible on the great organ which were not possible on a more frivolous instrument; but it was certain that he never attended after her death until two or three years after his daughter became the organist, and after she was complimented on every hand for her voluntaries before and after the services, and for her good taste in rendering the hymns; for old Thompson was not a religious man, though he practised the principles of religion much better than many of those who made professions.
But one summer morning the girl saw her father come in, and occupy the seat he had occupied before her mother's death, and regularly after that he came early and went away late. Except to say to her once, as they walked home together, that she was growing more like her mother every day, he made no reference to the subject, though he pretended to wonder what the matter was when she threw her arms about his neck after they reached the house, and burst into tears.
One Sunday afternoon he had said to her that if she was going down to the church to practise, he would accompany her, and after that, every Sunday afternoon he was invited to go with her, although she never had practised on Sunday afternoons before. Arriving there, an old negro janitor pumped the organ, and the girl played until she thought her father was tired, when they returned home again, where he spent the remainder of the day alone; thinking, no doubt, of his property in the cemetery, and of the sad day when it became necessary to make the purchase.
It was Annie Benton's playing which Allan Dorris occasionally heard as he wandered about the yard of The Locks, for she came to the church twice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on Sunday afternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing; and Dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music that he concluded one afternoon to look at the performer.
In a stained-glass window looking toward The Locks there was a broken square, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall and looked through this opening.
A pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, with dark hair, and features as regularly cut as those of a marble statue, instead of the spectacled professor he expected to see. Allan Dorris jumped down on the outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the church, entered the door.
The player was so intent with her work that she did not notice his approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stood almost beside her. She gave a little start on seeing him, but collected herself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there.
"I hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self-possessed way, "but I live in the place next door called The Locks, and having often heard you play of late, I made bold to come in."
"All are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the book before her, and apparently paying little attention to Dorris. "You have as much right here as I, and if I can please anyone with my dull exercises, I am glad of the opportunity."
Allan Dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platform devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes and splendid teeth, as well as handsome features.
"Do you mind my saying that I think you are very pretty?" he inquired, after looking at her intently as she turned over the music.
Allan Dorris thought from the manner in which she looked at him that she had never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she did not appear confused.
"I don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her an opportunity to reply; "but I enjoyed the playing so much that I was afraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously ugly as to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than I expected that I cannot help mentioning it."
"You are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding the compliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "I imagined that the new occupant of The Locks was older than you are."
There was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that he was accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as much at his ease in the presence of Annie Benton as he had been with Mrs. Wedge, or with Silas and Tug.
"I am so old in experience that I often feel that I look old in years," he replied, looking at the girl again, as though about to repeat his remark concerning her beauty. "I am glad I do not appear old to you. You have returned my compliment."
The girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then look intently at her music, as an apology for smiling at all.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
Annie Benton looked a little startled at the question, but replied,——
"Twenty."
"Have you a lover?"
This seemed to require an indignant answer, and she looked at him sharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not a particle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. He made the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niece whom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking her head.
"That's strange," he returned. "It must be because the young men are afraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind I have ever seen. It is fortunate that you live in Davy's Bend; a more intelligent people would spoil you with flattery. Will you be kind enough to play for me?"
The girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there was nothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified her willingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat down to listen to the music. When the tones of the organ broke the silence, Dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for the music was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment.
Her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and odd combinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too, and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remain in his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. The frown upon his face was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone in his own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wild cries in the music, and mournful melodies. When it ceased, he walked up to the player, and asked what she had been playing.
"I don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, but timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "It was a combination of many of the chords I have learned from time to time that pleased me. My father, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and I thought you might. It was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, and everything else I have ever heard."
"The performance was very creditable, and I thank you for the pleasure you have afforded me," he said. "Would you care if I should seat myself here in this chair while you play, and look at you?"
The girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look of mingled confusion and pleasure in her face as she replied,—
"I wouldn't care, but I could not play so well."
"Then I will go back to the pews; I don't wish to interfere with the music. If you don't mind it, I will say that I think you are very frank and honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. Many a worse player than you are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords I have just heard was improvising."
"It is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy and fingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions in the book, and of which I am so much in need. The exercises are so dull that it is a great task for me to practise them; but I never tire of recalling what I have learned heretofore, and using the chords that correspond with my humor. I have played a great deal, lately, with The Locks in my mind, for I have heard much of you, and have known of the strange house all my life. Perhaps I was thinking of you when you were listening."
"If you will close up the book, and think about me while you are playing, I will go back to the door, and listen. The subject is not very romantic, but it is lonely enough, Heaven knows. I should think the old organ might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it is shut up from day to day in a great stone house, as I am."
Allan Dorris went back by the door, and the organ was still for such a length of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silence that hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunder of the double-bass, and the music began. The instrument was an unusually good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player as Annie Benton proved to be; and Allan Dorris thought she must have learned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared to listen. Dirges! The air was full of them, with processions of mourning men and women. The girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, played in imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with treble accompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone, the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain English why Allan Dorris, the occupant of The Locks, came to Davy's Bend, and why he was discontented and ill at ease.
The actor with the baritone voice, after telling everything he knew, gave way for a march-movement, and a company of actors, representing all the people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of the music. Some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as they passed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and their places were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, who looked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the back pew, though he was no stranger to them. Not by any means; they knew him very well. What an army! They are still coming, flinging their arms to the time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward the back pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as though they have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence in that quiet place. After a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded as if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heard at once. Their hatred, their dread, their fear,—all were represented in the chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothing cheerful or joyous. If any of the actors in the play he had been witnessing knew anything to the credit of Allan Dorris, their voices were so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hate and fear and dread.
The music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and the player sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did Dorris move from his position for several minutes.
The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old janitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased.
"What have you heard about The Locks?" he asked, after he stood beside the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she did not know; for she had expressed it all in the music.
"Everything about The Locks, and a great deal about you," she answered.
"I didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. Who talks about me?"
"The people."
"What do they say?"
"I wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for twenty years."
She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down the aisle.
"Whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside, "there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me. You know, somehow, that I am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. Do the people say that?"
"No."
"Then how did you know it?"
"I saw it in your manner. Anyone could see that."
"A perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long in that house," he replied, pointing to The Locks. "When the stillness of night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe the wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people I have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. Did you ever hear about the room in The Locks into which no one is permitted to look?"
"No."
"Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that room,—it adjoins the one I occupy,—or look into it, or inquire with reference to it; and if I look ill at ease, it must be because of the house I occupy. I am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May I listen to you when you practise again?"
"Certainly," she answered. "I could not possibly have an objection."
She bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at Dorris with distrust.
Allan Dorris was seeing pleasant pictures in the cheerful fire which burned in his room, for he watched it intently from early evening until dusk, and until after the night came on.
The look of discontent that had distinguished his face was absent for the first time since he had occupied the strange old house. Perhaps a cheerful man may see pleasant pictures in a fire which produces only tragedies for one who is sad; for it is certain that Allan Dorris had watched the same fire before, and cursed its pictures, and walked up and down the room in excitement afterward with clenched fists and a wicked countenance. But there was peace in his heart now, and it could not be disturbed by the malicious darkness that looked in at his windows; for the nights were so dark in Davy's Bend that they seemed not an invitation to rest, but an invitation to prowl, and lurk, and do wicked things.
When Mrs. Wedge brought in the lamp, and put it down on the mantel, he did not look up to say a cheerful word, as was his custom, but continued gazing into the fire; and she noticed that he was in better humor than he had ever been before during their acquaintance. Usually his thinking made him frown, but to-night he seemed to be enjoying it.
The worthy woman took pleasure in finding excuses to go to his room as often as possible, for he seemed to bless her for the intrusion upon his loneliness; but for once he did not seem to realize her presence, and he was thinking more intensely than usual.
Mrs. Wedge had come to greatly admire the new occupant of The Locks. That he was a man of intelligence and refinement there was no doubt; she believed this for so many reasons that she never pretended to enumerate them. Besides being scrupulously neat in his habits, which was a great deal in the orderly woman's eyes, he was uniformly polite and pleasant, except when he was alone, when he seemed to storm at himself.
There was a certain manly way about him—a disposition to be just to everyone, even to his housekeeper—that won her heart; and she had lain awake a great many nights since he had come to The Locks, wondering about him; for he had never dropped the slightest hint as to where he came from, or why he had selected Davy's Bend as a place of residence.
She often said to herself that a bad man could not laugh as cheerfully as Allan Dorris did when he dropped in at her little house to spend a half-hour, on which occasions he talked good-humoredly of matters which must have seemed trifling to one of his fine intelligence; and she was certain that no one in hiding for the commission of a grave offence could have captured the affections of Betty as completely as he had done, for the child always cried when he returned to his own room, or went out at the iron gate to ramble over the hills, and thought of little else except the time when she could see him again.
Mrs. Wedge had heard that children shrink from the touch of hands that have engaged in violence or dishonor, and watched the growing friendship between the two with a great deal of interest.
Mrs. Wedge believed that he had had trouble of some kind in the place he came from, and that he was trying to hide from a few enemies, and a great many friends, in Davy's Bend; for Mrs. Wedge could not believe that anyone would select Davy's Bend as a place of residence except under peculiar circumstances; but she always came to the same conclusion,—that Allan Dorris was in the right, whatever his difficulty had been. She watched him narrowly from day to day, but he never gave her reason to change her mind—he was in the right, and in the goodness of her heart she defended him, as she went about her work.
"Were it Betty's father come back to me, instead of a stranger of whom I know nothing," the good woman would say aloud, as she swept, or dusted, or scoured in her little house, "I could not find less fault with him than I do, or be more fond of him. I know something about men, and Allan Dorris is a gentleman; more than that, he is honest, and I don't believe a word you say."
"Grandmother," the child would inquire in wonder, "who are you talking to?"
"Oh, these people's tongues," Mrs. Wedge would reply, with great earnestness, looking at Betty as though she were a guilty tongue which had just been caught in the act of slandering worthy people. "I have no patience with them. Even Mr. Dorris is not free from their slander, and I am tired of it."
"But who says anything against Mr. Dorris, grandmother?"
Sure enough! Who had accused him? No one, save his friend Mrs. Wedge, unless his coming to Davy's Bend was an accusation; but she continued to defend him, and declared before she went to sleep every night; "I'll think no more about it; he is a worthy man, of course."
But whatever occupied his thoughts on the evening in question, Allan Dorris was not displeased to hear an announcement, from the speaking-tube behind the door, of visitors, for they were uncommon enough; and going to it, a voice came to him from the depths announcing that Silas and Tug were at the gate, and would come up if he had no objection. Pulling the lever down, which opened the gate, he went down to admit them at the door, and they came back with him.
During his residence in the place he had met the two men frequently, for they took credit to themselves that he was there at all, since his coming seemed to please the people (for it gave them something to talk about, even if they did not admire him); and when he returned to his house in the evening, he often met the strange pair loitering about the gate. He had come to think well of them, and frequently invited them to walk in; but though they apparently wanted to accept his invitation, they acted as though they were afraid to: perhaps they feared he would lose the little respect he already entertained for them on acquaintance. But they had evidently concluded to make him a formal call now, induced by friendliness and curiosity, for they were smartened up a little; and it had evidently been arranged that Silas should do the honors, for Tug kept crowding him to the front as they walked up the stairs.
Apparently Tug did not expect a very warm reception at The Locks, for he lagged behind, and sighted at Allan Dorris with his peculiar eyes, as though he had half a mind to try a shot at him; and when he reached the landing from the level of which the doors opened into the rooms of the second story, he looked eagerly and curiously around, as if recalling the night when he traced the shadow there, but which had escaped him.
Allan Dorris invited both men into the apartment he usually occupied, and there was a freedom in his manner that surprised them both. The pair had decided to visit him from a curiosity that had grown out of their experience with the shadow; and although they expected to find him stern and silent, and angered at their presence, he was really in good humor, and seemed glad to see them; perhaps he was so lonely that he would have welcomed a visit from a ghost. They both noticed that the ragged beard which he had worn on his face when he first arrived was now absent; for he was clean shaven, and this made him appear ten years younger. He looked a good deal more like a man in every way than he did on the night of his arrival, when he sat moping in the hotel office; and Silas and Tug both wondered at the change, but they were of one mind as to his clean face; it was a disguise.
Tug's suit of black glistened more than ever, from having been recently brushed; and as soon as he had seated himself, he set about watching Allan Dorris with great persistency, staring him in the face precisely as he would look at a picture or an ornament. Silas seated himself some distance from the fire, and seemed greatly distressed at his friend's rudeness.
"I like you," Mr. Whittle said finally, without moving his aim from Dorris's face.
Dorris seemed amused, and, laughing quietly, was about to reply, when Tug interrupted him.
"I know you don't like me, and I admire you for it, for every decent man despises me. I am not only the meanest man in the world, but the most worthless, and the ugliest. My teeth are snags, and my eyes are bad, and my breath is sour, and I am lazy; but I like you, and I tell you of it to your teeth."
Tug said this with so much seriousness that his companions both laughed; but if he understood the cause of their merriment, he pretended not to, for he said,—
"What are you laughing at?" glaring fiercely from one to the other. "I am not trying to be funny. I hate a funny man, or a joky man. I have nothing for a funny man but poison, and I have it with me."
Dorris paid no more attention to his fierce companion than he would to a growling dog, and continued laughing; but Silas shut up like a knife, as Tug took from his vest pocket a package carefully wrapped in newspaper, and after looking at it a moment with close scrutiny, continued,—
"Whenever you find me telling jokes, expect me to giggle at my own wit, and then pour the contents of this package on my tongue, and swallow it; and it will be no more than I deserve. I have but one virtue; I am not funny. You have no idea how I hate the low persons who advertise themselves as comedians, or comediennes, or serio-comic singers, or you would not accuse me of it."
Silas had often seen this package before, for Tug had carried it ever since they had been acquainted, frequently finding it necessary to renew the paper in which it was wrapped. From certain mysterious references to it Tug had dropped, Silas believed the powder was intended for a relative more objectionable than any of the others, though he occasionally threatened to use it in a different manner, as in the present instance. Indeed, he seemed to carry it instead of a knife or a pistol; and Silas had noticed on the night when they were following the shadow that his companion carried the package in his hand, ready for instant use.
"You are the kind of a man I intended to be," Tug continued, putting away his dangerous package with the air of a desperado who had been flourishing a pistol and took credit to himself for not using it. "I might have been worthy of your friendship but for my wife's relations, but I admire you whether you like it or not. Do your worst; I am your friend."
Tug had not taken his huge eye from Dorris's face since entering, except to look at the poison; but he removed it as Mrs. Wedge came in to prepare the table for the evening meal.
Dorris was a good deal like Tug in the particular that he did not sleep much at night, but he slept soundly when the morning light came up over the woods to chase away the shadows which were always looking into his window; therefore he frequently ate his breakfast at noon, and his supper at midnight.
There was a roast of beef, a tea urn, a pat of butter, and a loaf of bread, on the platter carried by the housekeeper, while Betty followed with the cups and saucers, and the potatoes, the napkins, and the sugar.
"I am obliged to you for your good opinion," Dorris said, while the cloth was being laid, "and if you will remain to supper with me, we will become better acquainted."
It occurred to Silas that Dorris looked at Tug, in spite of his politeness, as he might look at an amusing dog that had been taught to catch a bacon rind from off his nose at the word of command, and wondered that Tug felt so much at home as he seemed to; for he was watching the arrangements for supper with great eagerness. Silas was sure the invitation to supper would be accepted, too, for Tug had never refused an invitation of any kind in his life, except invitations to be a man and go to work, which the people were always giving him.
At a look from Dorris, Mrs. Wedge went out, and soon returned with additional plates, besides other eatables that seemed to be held in reserve; and during her absence the master had been placing the chairs, so that by the time the table was arranged, the three men were ready to sit down, which they did without further ceremony. Among other things Mrs. Wedge brought in a number of bottles and glasses, which were put down by the side of Dorris, and these now attracted the aim of Tug.
"If you offer us drink," he said, "I give you fair warning that we will accept, and get drunk, and disgrace you. We haven't a particle of decency, have we, you scoundrel?"
This, accompanied by a prodigious poke in the ribs, was addressed to Silas Davy, who had been sitting meekly by, watching the proceedings. Tug had a habit of addressing Silas as "his dear old scoundrel," and "his precious cut-throat," although a milder man never lived; and he intently watched Dorris as he opened one of the bottles and filled three of the glasses. Two of them were placed before Tug and Silas, and though Silas only sipped at his, Tug drank off the liquor apportioned to him greedily. This followed in rapid succession, until two of the bottles had been emptied, Dorris watching the proceedings with a queer satisfaction.
He also helped them liberally to the roast beef and the gravy, and the potatoes, and the bread and butter, to say nothing of the pickles and olives; but Tug seemed to prefer the liquor to the tea, for he partook of that very sparingly, though he was anxious to accept everything else offered; for he occasionally got up from the table to tramp heavily around the room, as if to settle that already eaten to make room for more.
Allan Dorris enjoyed the presence of the two men, and encouraged the oddities of each by plying them with spirits. Although the drink had little effect on Silas, who was very temperate, Tug paid tribute to its strength by opening his wide eye to its greatest extent, as if in wonder at his hospitable reception, and closing the other tighter, like a man who had concluded to give one side of his body a rest.
As the evening wore away, and the liquor circulated more freely through his blood, Tug recited, between frequent snorts, what a man he had been until he had been broken up and disgraced by his wife's relations, Silas earnestly vouching for it all, besides declaring that it was a shame, to which their host replied with enthusiasm that it was an outrage that such a bright man and such a good-looking man as Tug had been treated so unjustly, at the same time filling up the glasses, and proposing that they drink to the confusion and disgrace of the relations. Neither of them seemed to realize that Dorris was making game of them; for Tug listened to all he said—and he said a great deal—with an injured air that was extremely ludicrous; and when Davy related that when Mr. Whittle was in practice, the judges begged the favor of his opinion before rendering their decisions on difficult legal questions, Dorris regretted that he had not known the judges, for he felt sure that they were wise and agreeable gentlemen. But at the same time Dorris felt certain that if he should be invited to attend the man's funeral, he would laugh to himself upon thinking how absurdly dignified he must look in his coffin.
Silas had never known Tug when he was great, of course, for he had flourished in the time of Silas's father; but he nevertheless believed it, and seemed to have personal knowledge of the former magnificence of the rusty old lawyer. Indeed, but few of the present inhabitants of Davy's Bend had known Tug when he was clean and respectable, for he always claimed that his triumphs were triumphs of the old days, when Davy's Bend was important and prosperous, and among the energetic citizens who had moved away and made decay possible.
"I don't amount to anything except when I am drunk—now," Tug said, getting on his feet, and taking aim at his host, "but fill me with aristocratic liquor, and I am as cute as the best of them. Have you ever heard the story of the beggar on horseback? Well, here he is, at your service. Will the rich and aristocratic owner of this house oblige the beggar by pouring out his dram? Ha! the beggar is at full gallop."
Dorris good-naturedly obeyed the request, and while Tug was on his feet, his aim happened to strike Silas.
"Silas, you greatest of scoundrels," he said, "you thoroughly debased villain, loafer, and liar, I love you."
Reaching across the table, Tug cordially shook hands with his friend, who had been doing nothing up to that time save enjoying Tug's humor, and indorsing whatever he said. Whether Silas enjoyed being called a scoundrel, a villain, a loafer, and a liar, is not known, but he certainly heard these expressions very frequently; for Tug seemed to tolerate him only because of his total and thorough depravity, though the other acquaintances of Silas regarded him as a mild-mannered little man without either vices or virtues.
"I have but two friends," Tug said again, seating himself, and gazing stiffly at his host, "Rum and Davy; rum cheers me when I'm sad, and Davy feeds me when I'm hungry, though the splendid thief does not feed me as well as he might were he more industrious. Rum has a bad reputation, but I announce here that it is one of my friends. I am either ravenously hungry, or uncomfortable from having eaten too much, all the time, so that I do not get much comfort from victuals; but rum hits me just right, and I love it. You say it will make me drunk. Very well; Iwantto get drunk. If you argue that it will make me reckless, I will hotly reply that Iwantto be reckless, and that a few bottles will make me as famous as a lifetime of work and success will make a sober man. Therefore I hail rum as my best friend, next to the unscrupulous rascal known for hailing purposes, when there are boots to be polished, or errands to run, as Hup-avy."
The eminent legal mind hurriedly put his hand to his mouth, as though thoroughly humiliated that he had hiccoughed, and, looking at Dorris with the air of a man who commits an unpardonable indiscretion and hopes that it has not been noticed, continued with more care, with a great many periods to enable him to guard against future weakness.
"Although I have but two friends, I have a host of enemies. Among them Tigley. My wife's cousin. When I was a reputable lawyer, Tigley appeared in Davy's Bend. Tigley was a fiddler. And spent his time in playing in the beer halls for the drinks. The late Mrs. Whittle believed him to be a great man. She called him a mastero, though he played entirely by ear; and excused his dissipation on the ground that it was an eccentricity common to genius. If Tigley ever comes in my way again there will be something to pay more disagreeable than gold. He taught me to like rum."
Silas, who acted as a kind of chorus, intimated to Dorris that his friend referred to a word of four letters beginning with an "h," and ending with an "l."
"That'sonereason why I am a drunkard," the victim of too many relatives added, after a moment's thought. "The other is that I could never talk up to the old women except when I was drunk, and it was necessary to talk up to her so often that I finally craved spirits."
Tug crooked his elbow and produced the package from his vest pocket, which he waved aloft as an intimation that Tigley's nose should be held, when next they met, until he swallowed its contents.
"By-the-way," Tug said, as if something new had occurred to him, "I warn you not to believe anything I say; I lie because I enjoy it. Drinking whiskey, and lying, and loving Davy, are my only recreations. Then there was Veazy Vaughn, the Vagrant—my wife's uncle—he is responsible for my idleness. When he came here, twenty odd years ago, I tried to reclaim him, and went around with him; but he enjoyed vagrancy so much, and defended his position so well, that I took a taste of it myself. I liked it. I have followed it ever since."
There was not the slightest animation about Tug, and he sat bolt upright like a post while he talked with slow and measured accent, to avoid another hiccough, and his great eye was usually as motionless as his body.
"The late Mrs. Whittle treated her relatives so well that other worthless people who were no kin to her began to appear finally, and claim to be her cousins and nieces and nephews," Tug said. "And she used my substance to get up good dinners for them. They came by railroad. By wagon. On foot. And on horseback. I was worse than a Mormon, for I married a thousand, at least, on my wedding-day. Some of them called me 'Uncle W,' while others spoke of me as their 'Dear Cousin T;' but when the last dollar of my money was invested in dried beef, and the relatives had eaten it, I protested, and then they turned me out. The relations have my money, and I have their bad habits. I have nothing left but the poison, and they are welcome to that."
He once more produced the package, and as he laid it on the table, Dorris half expected to see a troop of ill-favored people come dashing in, grab up the paper, and run away with it. But none of them came, and Tug went on:
"I was a polite man until my wife's relations made me selfish. We always had gravy when they were around, and good gravy at that; but by the time I had helped them all, there was none left for me. I now help myself first. Will the Prince pass the Pauper the fresh bottle of rum?"
The bottle was handed over, and the rare old scoundrel helped himself to a full glass of its contents, drinking as deliberately as he had talked, apparently taking nine big swallows without breathing, at the same time thinking of the one he loved the best, as a means of curing the hiccoughs.
"I like Mrs. Wedge," Tug said, looking at that excellent woman with a tipsy grin, as she came into the room with some new delicacy for her employer's guests. "She looks so common, somehow, and I don't believe she knows any more about manners than I do. Whenever you see her eating her dinner, you'll find that she puts her arms on the table, as I do, though it's not polite. Polite things are not natural, in my opinion; mind I don't assert it as positive. I hate cold water, but it's polite to bathe; and your respectable shirt-collars rub all the hide off my neck. And anything that's good for me, I don't like. There's oatmeal, and graham grits, and such like—they are healthy, therefore I don't like their taste; but give me milk gravy, or salt risin' bread, or fried beef, or anything else that's not good for me, and you'll find me at home, as the man who had the party said on his cards."
During this discourse Mr. Whittle's great eye was following Mrs. Wedge about the room, but when she disappeared it lit on Dorris.
"I'm with the crowd, though, when it comes to my wife's kin," he said, eyeing his host in an impudent way. "A good many don't say so; but it makes them all hot to fill their houses with their relations. Whenever you go to see your relations, depend upon it that they are glad when you are gone. They may pretend to like you, but they don't, except when you are away from them. But in all other respects I'm common. Common! I'm so common that I like boiled cabbage; and the olives you blow about—I'd as soon eat green pignuts soaked in brine.Common!" He yelled out the words as though he were calling some one of that name in the cellar. "If men were judged by their commonness, I would be a chief with plumes in my hat."
Allan Dorris and Silas Davy were seated with their backs to the windows overlooking the town, while Tug sat opposite them, and in transferring his gaze from one to the other, in dignified preparation for resuming his conversation, which both his companions were enjoying, he saw the mysterious face he had seen once before peering into the room, and which was hastily withdrawn.
Tug jumped up from his chair at sight of it, and hurried to the window with such haste that the table was almost upset; but the face, as well as the figure to which it belonged, had disappeared. Throwing up the sash, Tug found that he could step out on to a porch, and from this he dropped into the yard with a great crash through the vines and lattice-work. Silas Davy quickly followed, by way of the stairs, suspecting the cause of Tug's disappearance; and Dorris was left alone.
All this had occupied but a few moments, and he probably thought of the circumstance as one of the many eccentricities of the two odd men; for after pulling down the lever to close the gate (it is a wonder that he was not surprised to find it open) he sat down before the fire and engaged in the pleasant thoughts that were interrupted early in the evening.
Silas did not come up with Tug until he reached the vicinity of the hotel, where a single street lamp burned all night, and while they were hurrying along without speaking, the figure they were pursuing passed quickly on the opposite side of the street from the hotel. The rays of the lamp were so feeble that the figure was only a shadow; but they easily recognized it as the one seen before—that of a man above the medium height, enveloped in a long cloak, not unlike those worn by women in wet weather, with a slouch hat pulled down over his face.
The two men hurried after it, but in the darkness they were frequently compelled to stop and listen for the footsteps of the pursued, in order to detect his course. Each time the echoes were more indistinct, for the fellow was making good use of his legs; and in this manner they traced his course to the river bank, near the ferry landing, where the ferry-boat itself was tied up for the night. They concluded that the fugitive had a skiff tied there somewhere, which he intended to use in leaving the place, and, hurrying on board the ferry-boat, they rapped loudly at the door of the little room on the upper deck where the crew usually slept, with a view of procuring means of following.
The fellow who had charge of the ferry, a native of the low lands lying along the river, was known as "Young Bill Young," although he greatly desired that the people call him "Old Captain Young;" therefore both men pounded vigorously on the door, and loudly called "Captain Young," as a tribute to his vanity. "Captain Young" soon appeared, for he always slept in a bunk with his clothes on, which he said reminded him of his sea days, although he had never really seen any other water than that on which he operated his ferry. As the two hurriedly explained to him that they wanted a boat, Young Bill Young went to the lower deck, and unlocked one that floated at the stern, and soon Tug and his friend were pulling down the river with long strokes, for there were two pairs of oars. Occasionally they stopped rowing to listen, but nothing could be heard save the gentle ripple of the current; whereupon they worked with greater vigor than before.
They had rowed in this manner for an hour or more, when, stopping to listen again, the plash of oars was indistinctly heard on the water ahead of them. Lying down in the prow of the boat, Tug could see the boat and its occupants low down on the water, between him and the first rays of light of the coming morning. There was a heavy fog on the river, which was lying close to the water, but this had lifted sufficiently to permit an inspection through the rising mist. There were two figures in the boat; one rowing, who was evidently the man they had twice seen looking in at them, and the other a much smaller person, who was seated in the stern, and steering. This fact Tug regarded as so remarkable that he told Davy to lie down, and take a look, and when Davy returned to his oars, after a long inspection, he said:—
"I make out two."
"A big one and a little one," Tug replied, bending to the oars, and causing the boat to hurry through the water. "Earn your supper up at The Locks, and I'll introduce you to them."
On the left hand a smaller stream put into the main river, and at its mouth there was an immense growth of willows, besides a chute, an island, and a bend. Into this labyrinth the boat they were pursuing effectually disappeared; for though Tug and Silas rowed about until broad daylight they could find no trace of it or its occupants.
A short distance up the smaller stream was a lonely station on a railroad that did not run into Davy's Bend, and while rowing around in the river, the roar of an approaching train was heard, and the fact that this stopped at the station, with a blast from the engine-whistle indicating that it had been signalled, may have been important; but it did not occur to either Silas or Tug, who pulled their boat back to town in silence.
There was general curiosity in Davy's Bend with reference to the new occupant of The Locks, and when the people had exhausted themselves in denouncing their own town more thanitdeserved, and in praising Ben's City more than it deserved, they began on Allan Dorris, and made him the subject of their gossip.
Whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with reference to him, and express them, was sure of a welcome at any of the houses where the speculation concerning his previous history went on from day to day; and, this becoming generally known, there was no lack of fresh material for idle tongues. Whenever he walked into the town, he knew that the stores turned out their crowds to look at him, and that in passing the residences which were occupied, the windows were filled with curious eyes. But although there were a hundred theories with reference to him, it was only positively known that he one day appeared at his gate, two months after his arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which was inscribed in gold letters:
DR. DORRIS.
DR. DORRIS.
This curiosity of the people brought Dr. Dorris a great deal of business, for many of them were willing to pay for the privilege of seeing him, and he applied himself to practice with such energy that he was soon in general demand. As the people knew more of him, their curiosity became admiration; and many of them defended him from imaginary charges as warmly as did Mrs. Wedge, for there was every reason that the people should admire him, except that he had located at Davy's Bend.
That he was skilful and experienced as a physician became apparent at once, and it was therefore generally believed that he was only there temporarily; for certainly no one who was really capable would consent to remain long in Davy's Bend.
His heart was not in his work; this was a part of the gossip concerning him, though it is difficult to imagine how the idea originated; for he appeared to be pleased when he was called out at night, as though the companionship of even those in distress suited him better than the solitude of his own house; but though he was always trying to be cheerful, he could not disguise the fact that his mind was busy with matters outside of his work. Perhaps this was the excuse of the people for saying that his heart was not in his work, and the charge may have been true. While busy, he gave whatever was in hand careful and intelligent attention, but as soon as he was idle again, he forgot his surroundings, and permitted his mind to wander—nobody knew where. When addressed, he good-naturedly remembered that he was in Davy's Bend, and at the service of its people, and did whatever was expected of him with so much gentleness and ability that he won all hearts. This was his brief history during the summer following his arrival, except as shall be related hereafter.
The sun, which had been struggling for mastery over the mist and the fog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the pleasanter weather, and his business, served to make him more cheerful than he had been; and had he cared to think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt have forced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, and that he had every reason to feel contented, though he was not.
Still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his rather busy life, and nights when he sent for Mrs. Wedge and Betty to keep him company; for there were strange sounds through his house, when the summer air was still and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattled in the most unaccountable manner.
Thus it came about that they were with him one night long after their usual time to retire, Dorris being particularly nervous and restless, and having asked them to come up to his room rather late in the evening.
Mrs. Wedge had told him of Annie Benton a dozen times already, but she made it a baker's dozen, and told him again of her simple history; of her popularity in the town, though the people all seemed to be shy of her, and of her gruff father, who, in Mrs. Wedge's opinion, would resent the appearance of a lover in the most alarming manner. Mrs. Wedge thought she observed that Dorris was fond of this subject, and kept on talking about it; for he was paying close attention as he lounged in his easy chair. Dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts of Thompson Benton's jealousy of his daughter that Mrs. Wedge believed that he regarded him as he might regard a growling mastiff, which growled and snapped at whoever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and not expected of him.
Mrs. Wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of old Thompson,—or of any one else, for that matter,—so she added this declaration to the great number she was constantly making in his defence, and repeated it to herself whenever he was in her mind.
She was pleased with the circumstance that he admired Annie Benton, and though she said a great deal in her praise, it was no more than the truth, for she was a girl worthy of admiration and respect. But the subject was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, Dorris roused himself from one of his reveries, and asked her to tell him the history of The Locks, as a last resort to induce her to keep him company.
The worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed down the folds of her apron, and began by saying,—
"Betty, open the door leading into the hall."
The child did as she was directed, and, coming back, brought up a low chair, and rested her head on her grandmother's knee.
"Listen," Mrs. Wedge said again.
They were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could be distinctly heard on the stair; it came up to the landing, and, after hesitating a moment, seemed to pass into the room into which no one was to look. The little girl shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, where she hid away in the folds of her dress.
Dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he had heard it frequently, and at night the thought had often occurred to him that some one was in the house, going quietly from one room to another. A great many times he had taken the light, and looked into every place from the cellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and discovered nothing, except that when in the attic he heard the strange, muffled, and ghostly noises in the rooms he had just left.
"It is not a ghost to frighten you," Mrs. Wedge said, looking at her employer, "but the spirit of an unhappy woman come back from the grave. Whenever the house is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair, but I have never regarded it with horror, though I have been familiar with it for a great many years. I rather regard it as a visit from an old friend; and before you came I often sat alone in this room after dark, listening to the footsteps.
"Jerome Dudley, who built The Locks, was a young man of great intelligence, energy, and capacity; but his wife was lacking in these qualities. Perhaps I had better say that he thought so, for I never express an opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both my friends. I may say with propriety, however, that they were unsuited to each other, and that both knew and admitted it, and accepted their marriage as the blight of their lives. Differently situated, she would have been a useful woman; but she was worse than of no use to Jerome Dudley, as he was contemptible in many ways towards her in spite of his capacity for being a splendid man under different circumstances.
"The world is full of such marriages, I have been told; so I had sympathy for them both, and was as useful to them as I could be. When I came here as housekeeper, I knew at once that they were living a life of misery, for they occupied different rooms, and were never together except at six o'clock dinner.
"Mr. Dudley always went to his business in the morning before his wife was stirring, and did not return again until evening; and, after despatching his dinner, he either went back to his work, or into his own room, from which he did not emerge until morning. He was not a gloomy man, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that she was a drawback rather than a help to him.
"The management of the house was turned over to me completely, and when I presided at the table in the morning, he was always good-natured and respectful, (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in the same room with him) and frequently told me of his successes, and he had a great many, for he was a money-making man; but I am sure he never spoke of them to his wife. His household affairs he discussed only with me, and the fact that I remained in his service until I entered yours should be taken as evidence that I gave satisfaction."
Dorris bowed respectfully to Mrs. Wedge in assent, and she proceeded,—
"Mrs. Dudley spent her time in her own room in an indolent way that was common to her, doing nothing except to look after her little girl, who was never strong. The child was four years old when I came, and the father lavished all his affection upon it. He had the reputation of being a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave but few his confidence, which I think was largely due to his unsatisfactory home; and I have heard him say that but two creatures in all the world seemed to understand him—the child, and myself. It was a part of my duty to carry the child to its father's room every night before putting it to bed; and though I usually found him at a desk surrounded with business papers, he always had time to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or romp with it if awake.
"While the mother cheerfully turned over the household affairs to me entirely, she was jealous of the child, and constantly worried and fretted with reference to it. The father believed that his daughter was not well cared for, in spite of the mother's great affection, for she humored it to its disadvantage; and I have sometimes thought that the child was sick a great deal more than was necessary. From being shut up in a close room too much, it was tender and delicate, and when the door was open, it always went romping into the hall until brought back again, which resulted in a cold and a spell of sickness. This annoyed Mr. Dudley, and from remarks he occasionally made to me I knew he believed that if the little girl should die, the mother would be to blame.
"'It would be better if she had no mother,' he was in the habit of saying. When children are properly managed, they become a comfort; but if a foolish sentiment is indulged in, the affections of the parents are needlessly lacerated, and they become a burden. I say this with charity, and I have become convinced of it during my long life. Little Dudley was managed by the mother with so much mistaken affection that she was always a care and a burden. Instead of going to bed at night, and sleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she was always wakeful, fretful, and ill, and Mr. Dudley's rest was disturbed so much that I thought he had some excuse for his bad humor; for nothing is so certain as that all this was unnecessary. The child was under no restraint, and was constantly doing that which was not good for her, and though her mother protested, she did nothing else.
"Because the father complained of being disturbed at all hours of the night, the mother accused him of heartlessness and of a lack of affection, but he explained this to me by saying that he only protested because his child was not cared for as it should be; because that which was intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, and because he was in constant dread for its life.
"Whether the mother was to blame or not will perhaps never be known; but it is certain that the child died after a lingering illness, and the father was in a pitiful state from rage and grief. He did not speak to his wife during the illness, or after the death, which she must have accepted as an accusation that she was somehow responsible; for she soon took to her bed, and never left it alive except to wearily climb the stairs at twelve o'clock every night, to visit the child's deserted room,—the room next to this, and into which no one is permitted to look. Her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the parlor, and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the hour the child died, she wrapped the coverings about her, and went slowly up the stairs, clinging to the railing with pitiful weakness with one hand, and carrying the lamp with the other.
"I frequently tried to prevent her doing this; but she always begged so piteously that I could not resist the appeal. She imagined, poor soul, that she heard the child calling her, and she always asked me not to accompany her.
"One night she was gone such a long time that at last I followed, and found her dead, kneeling beside her child's empty crib, and the light out. Mr. Dudley was very much frightened and distressed; and I think the circumstance hastened his departure from Davy's Bend, which occurred a few weeks later. He has never been in the house since.
"It is said that once a year—on the third of May—at exactly twelve o'clock at night, a light appears in the lower room, which soon goes out, and appears in the hall. A great many people have told me that they have seen the light, and that it grows dimmer in the lower hall, and brighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where the empty crib still stands, precisely as if it were carried by some one climbing the stair. It soon disappears from the upper room, and is seen no more until another year rolls round. I have never seen the light, but I have often heard the step. Sometimes it is silent for months together, but usually I hear it whenever I am in the main house at night. Just before there is a death in the town, or the occurrence of any serious accident, it goes up and down with unvarying persistency; but there is a long rest after the death or the accident foretold has occurred."