When Mrs. Wedge had ceased talking, there was perfect silence in the room again, and the footsteps were heard descending the stair. Occasionally there was a painful pause, but they soon went on again, and were heard no more.
"Poor Helen," Mrs. Wedge said, wiping her eyes, "how reluctantly she leaves the little crib."
Mrs. Wedge soon followed the ghost of poor Helen down the stair, carrying Betty in her arms; and as Dorris stood on the landing lighting them down, he thought, as they passed into the shadow in the lower hall, that poor Helen had found her child, and was leaving the house forever, content to remain in her grave at last.
Annie Benton had said that she usually practised once a week in the church; and during the lonely days after his first meeting with her, Allan Dorris began to wonder when he should see her again. The sight of her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, had afforded him a strange pleasure, and he thought about her so much that his mind experienced relief from the thoughts that had made him restless and ill at ease. But he heard nothing of her, except from Mrs. Wedge, who was as loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her as he rode about on his business affairs, and a few times he had walked by her father's house, after dark, and looked at its substantial exterior.
There was something about the girl which fascinated him. It may have been only the music, but certainly he longed for her appearance, and listened attentively for notice of her presence whenever he walked in his yard, which was his custom so much of late that he had worn paths under the trees; for had he secured all the business in Davy's Bend he would still have had a great deal of time on his hands.
During these weeks he sometimes accused himself of being in love with a girl he had seen but once, and laughed at the idea as absurd and preposterous; but this did not drive thoughts of Annie Benton out of his mind, for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her presence. After listening during the hours of the day when he was not occupied, he usually walked in the path for a while at night, hoping it might be possible that she had changed her hours, and would come to practise after the cares and duties of the day were over. He could see from his own window that the church was dark; but he had little to do, so he took a turn in the path down by the wall to convince himself that she was not playing softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. But he was always disappointed; and, after finding that his watching was hopeless, he went out at the iron gate in front, and walked along the roads until he recovered from his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home.
This was his daily experience for several weeks after his first meeting with the girl, for even the Sunday services were neglected for that length of time on account of the pastor, who was away recruiting his health; when one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the organ again. Climbing up on the wall, and looking at the girl through the broken window, he imagined that she was not playing with the old earnestness, and certainly she frequently looked toward the door, as if expecting someone. Jumping down from the wall, he went around to the front door, which he found open, and entered the church. The girl heard his step on the threshold, and was looking toward him when he came in at the door leading from the vestibule.
"I seem to have known you a long time," he said, as he sat down near her, after exchanging the small civilities that were necessary under the circumstances, "and I have been waiting for you as anxiously as though you were my best friend. I have been very busy all my life, and I don't enjoy idleness, though I imagined when I was working hard that I would relish a season of rest. I have little to do here except to wait for you and listen to the music. Had you delayed your coming many days longer I should have called on you at your home. You are the only acquaintance I have in the town whose society I covet."
There was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting him, and that she was pleased that he came in so promptly. Her manner indicated it, and she was perfectly willing to neglect her practice for his company, which had not been the case before. She was better dressed, too; and surely she would have been disappointed had not Dorris made his appearance.
Annie Benton, like her father, improved on acquaintance. She was neither too tall nor too short, and, although he was not an expert in such matters, Dorris imagined that her figure would have been a study for a sculptor. A woman so well formed as to attract no particular comment on first acquaintance, he thought; but he remarked now, as he looked steadily at her, that there was a remarkable regularity in her features. There are women who do not bear close inspection, but Annie Benton could not be appreciated without it. Her smile surprised every one, because of its beauty; but the observer soon forgot that in admiring her pretty teeth, and both these were forgotten when she spoke, as she did now to Dorris, tiring of being looked at; for her voice was musical, and thoroughly under control:
"I have dreaded to even pass The Locks at night ever since I can remember," she said with some hesitation, not knowing exactly how to treat the frankness with which he acknowledged the pleasure her presence afforded him, "and I don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is lonely. They say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious light, and a footstep on the stair; and I am almost afraid to talk about it."
Allan Dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought when in the midst of a conversation, and though he said he had been waiting patiently to hear the music, it did not arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting for his reply, and gone to playing.
Now that he was in her presence he did not seem to realize the pleasure he expected when he walked under the trees and waited for her. Perhaps he was thinking of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the chirping of a cricket; but more likely he was thinking that what he had in his mind to say to the girl, when alone, was not at all appropriate now that he was with her.
"An overture to 'Poor Helen,'" Dorris thought, when he looked up, and heard the music, after coming out of his reverie; for it was full of whispered sadness, and the girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in her mind when she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step on the stair; and when he walked back to the other end of the church, he thought of the pretty girl in white, at the instrument, as a spirit come back to warn him with music to be very careful of his future.
Where had the girl learned so much art? He had never heard better music, and though there was little order in it, a mournful harmony ran through it all that occasionally caused his flesh to creep. She was not playing from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by making odd combinations with the stops; and so well did she understand the secret of the minors that her playing reminded him of a great orchestra he had once heard, and which had greatly impressed him.
Where had this simple country-girl learned so much of doubt, of despair, and of anguish? Allan Dorris thought that hadhisfingers possessed the necessary skill,hisheart might have suggested such strains as he was hearing; but that a woman of twenty, who had never been out of her poor native town, could set such tales of horror and unrest and discontent to music, puzzled him. The world was full of hearts containing sorrowful symphonies such as he was now listening to, but they were usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be but one explanation—the organist was an unusual woman; the only flower in a community of rough weeds, scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by God in His mercy; a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was therefore modest in its innocence and purity. But her weird music; she must have thought a great deal because of her motherless and lonely childhood, for such strains as her deft fingers produced could not have been found in a light heart.
"There are few players equal to you," he said, standing by her side when she finally concluded, and looked around. "A great many players I have known had the habit of drowning the expert performance of the right hand with the clumsy drumming of the left; but you seem to understand that the left hand should modestly follow and assist, not lead, as is the habit of busy people. There are many people who have devoted a lifetime to study, surrounded with every advantage, who cannot equal you. I am an admirer of the grand organ, and have taken every occasion to hear it; but there is a natural genius about your playing that is very striking."
"No one has ever told me that before," she replied, turning her face from him. "I have never been complimented except by the respectful attention of the people; and father once said I could play almost as well as my mother. Your good opinion encourages me, for you have lived outside of Davy's Bend."
Well, yes, hehadlived outside of Davy's Bend, and this may have been the reason he now looked away from the girl and became lost to her presence. He did not do this rudely, but there was a pathetic thoughtfulness in his face which caused the girl to remain silent while he visited other scenes. Perhaps Allan Dorris is not the only man—let us imagine so, in charity—who has lived in other towns, and become thoughtful when the circumstance was mentioned.
"If there is genius in my playing, I did not know it, for it is not the result of training; it comes to me like my thoughts," the girl finally continued, when Dorris looked around. "When you were here before, you were kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain passage gave evidence of great study and practice. I am obliged to you for your good opinion, but the strains really came to me in a moment, and while they pleased me, I never studied them."
The girl said this with so much simple earnestness that Allan Dorris felt sure that his good opinion of her playing would not cause her to practise less in the future, but rather with an increased determination for improvement.
"I think that your playing would attract the attention of the best musicians," he said. "The critics could point out defects, certainly, for a great many persons listen to music not to enjoy it, but to detect what they regard as faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would cheerfully forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experience, and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. I only wonder where you learned it."
"Not from competent teachers," she replied, as though she regretted to make the confession. "The best music I ever heard was that of the bands which visit the place at long intervals. I have seldom attended their entertainments, but my father has listened with me when they played on the outside, and we both enjoyed it. All that I know of style and expression I learned from them. I once heard a minstrel band play in front of the hall, on a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an audience, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that I remember it yet. It is dreadful to imitate minstrel music in a church, but you have spoken so kindly of my playing that I will try it, if you care to listen."
They were both amused at the idea, and laughed over it; and after Dorris had signified his eagerness to hear it, and reached his favorite place to listen, the back pew, he reclined easily in it, and waited until the stops were arranged.
The music began with a crash, or burst, or something of that kind, and then ran off into an air for the baritone. This was the girl's favorite style of playing, and there was really a very marked resemblance to a band. There was an occasional exercise for the supposed cornets, but the music soon ran back into the old strain, as though the players could not get rid of the prospect of an empty house, and were permitting the baritone to express their joint regrets. The accompaniment in the treble was in such odd time, and expressed in such an odd way, that Dorris could not help laughing to himself, although he enjoyed it; but finally all the instruments joined in a race to get to the end, and the music ceased. He started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and when half way she said to him:
"At another time I heard a band coming up from the river. The players seemed to be in better spirits that day"—
A distant march, and a lively one, came from the organ, and surely there were banners in front of the players. The music gradually became louder, and finally the girl said,—
"Now it turns the corner of the street."
Then came a crash of melody, and Dorris was almost tempted to look out of the window for the procession that he felt sure was passing. It was just such an air as a band-master might select to impress the people favorably on his first appearance in a town; and every member did his best until the grand finale, which exhausted the powers of the organ.
When the girl turned round, Dorris was laughing, and she joined him in it.
"It is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, though her face indicated that she did not think it was so dreadful, after all, and that she enjoyed it; "but when father comes to hear me practise, he insists on hearing the band pieces; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and quadrilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. The hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of great use to me, for their music is all well arranged, and father says that if I can equal them he will be very proud of me. Please don't laugh at the idea, for father never says anything that is silly, and he knows good music when he hears it. I know it is the fashion to make light of the barrel-organ; and the people talk a great deal about bribing the players to leave town; but father says a great many customs are not founded in good sense, and perhaps this is one of them. We so rarely find innocent pleasure that we should be free to enjoy it, no matter what it is, or where found, whether custom happens to look on approvingly or not."
"I am glad you said that," Dorris returned, "for I enjoy coming here to listen to your practising, and whether the world approves or not, I intend to come whenever there is opportunity, and you do not object. It is my opinion that you have never been appreciated here, and I will repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appreciating it. Do you know that you are a remarkable girl?"
Dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there was nothing offensive in his frankness. He seemed to say whatever occurred to him, without stopping to think of its effects.
"It never occurred to me," she said.
"Really and truly?"
"Really and truly," she replied. "If there is merit in my playing, I might have lived all my life without finding it out, but for you."
"Then let me be the first to tell you of it. You are very pretty, and you have talent above those around you. I hear that your father is a very sensible man; he no doubt appreciates what I have said, but dreads to tell you of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose much of the charm that is so precious to him. The friends of Cynthia Miller force themselves into the belief that you are no handsomer than she, and that your playing is no better than her drumming. All the other Davy's Bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; but I, who have lived in intelligent communities, and am without prejudice, tell you that I have never seen a prettier girl in my life. You have intelligence and capacity, too. Mrs. Wedge has told me the pretty story of how you became an organist, and I admire you for it. Some people I have known were content to bewillingto do creditable things, and came to believe in time that they had accomplished all they intended, without really accomplishing anything; but I admire you because you do not know yourself how much of a woman you are; at least you make no sign of it. I am glad to be the first to do justice to a really remarkable woman."
The remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear this; for she was very much flustered, and hung her head.
"If a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he continued, "should fall in love with me, I believe I should die with joy; for a girl like you could find in her heart a love worth having. I don't know what I should do under such circumstances, for I have had no experience; but I imagine I should be very enthusiastic, and express my enthusiasm in some absurd way. No one ever loved me, that I can remember; for as a child I do not believe I was welcome to the food I ate, though I was not more troublesome than other children who receive so much attention that they care nothing for it. I have been indignant at men for beating their dogs, and then envied the love the brutes displayed while the smart was yet on their bodies. It has so chanced that the dogs I have owned were well treated and ungrateful, and finally followed off some of the vagrants who were hard masters. I have thought that they despised me because they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and hard treatment; but certainly they regarded me with indifference and suspicion. But I didn't try to force them to admire me; I rather kept out of their way; for an animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you cannot force or persuade a man to admire any one he dislikes."
"It is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. "Such doubts as you express have often come to me, but I have comforted myself with the poor reflection that there is so little love in the world that when it is divided among the people, it does not amount to as much as they wish. I know nothing of your situation, past or present, but is it not possible that everyone has the same complaint that you have?"
"There is force in your suggestion," he replied thoughtfully, "but I do not believe that I overdraw my condition; I know too much of real wretchedness to permit myself to worry over fancied wrongs. I hope I am too sensible to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and then grieve because of a lack of it. I might long for something which does not exist, but so long as I am as well off as others, I will be as content as others; but when I have seen that which I covet, and know that I am as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes me regret which I can shake off, but which, nevertheless, is always in my mind. This regret has no other effect than to make me gloomy, which no man should be; I can get it out of my actions when I try, but I cannot get it out of my mind. Happiness is not common, I believe; for I have never known a man or woman who did not in some way excite my pity on closer acquaintance, but owing to a strange peculiarity in my disposition, I have always felt the lack of honest friendship. This is my malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because of it, as I pity them because of their misfortunes. It must be that I have a disagreeable way about me, and repel friendship, though I am always trying to be agreeable, and always trying to make friends. I have little ambition above this; therefore I suppose it may be said that I am no more unfortunate than others who have greater ambitions, and fail in them. I have been told that men who have great success find friends a bother and a hindrance; so it comes about that we are all disappointed, and I am no worse off than others. How old are you?"
"I shall be twenty on my next birthday; you asked me that before."
"A little too old to become my pupil," he continued, "but let me say that if you are as contented as you look, make no experiments in the future; pursue the course you have already pursued as long as you live, and never depart from it. If you are given to dreaming, pray for sound slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and occupy them, extol your plain home, and put aside everything save simplicity, honesty, and duty. There is nothing out in the great world, from which I came, which will afford the happiness you know here. I know everything about the world except the simplicity and peace of your life, and these are the jewels which I seek in Davy's Bend. The road leading from this town is the road to wretchedness, and I have heard that those who have achieved greatness would scatter their reputation to the quarters from whence it came for the quiet contentment you know. Many lives have been wrecked by day dreaming, by hope, by fancy. Pay attention only to the common realities. If you feel that there is a lack in your life, attack it as an evil, and convince yourself that it is a serious fault; an unworthy notion, and a dangerous delusion."
"Must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "Can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days? This dreaming which you say is so dangerous—I have always believed it to be ambition—has been the only solace of my life. I have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that I cannot believe it was wrong; I almost believe you are dangerous, and I will leave you."
She walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as Dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back again.
"That is what you ought to do—go away and never come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "That was a good resolve; you should carry it out."
Annie Benton looked puzzled as she asked why.
"Because every honest sentiment I ever expressed seemed wrong, and against the established order. The friendship of the people does not suit me—neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though I am to feel dissatisfied with that which The King offers, I am not content with it. I wander aimlessly about, seeking—I know not what. A more insignificant man than I it would be difficult to find; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, this Prince Myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. A beggar asking to be chooser, I reject those things that men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible. Sent into the world to long for an impossibility, I have fulfilled my mission so faithfully that I sometimes wonder that I am not rewarded for it.Youmust not follow a path that ends in such a place."
He pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to The Locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect.
"For you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, I am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your music has lulled me into the only peace I have ever known; but principle—which has always guided me into that which was distasteful—demands that I advise you to keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice."
"I regret that what you say—that I am contented with everything around me—is not true," the girl replied, "but though I am not, and wish I were, I do not repine as you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew."
"Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my laugh. I will laugh at myself."
Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about.
"I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for I am usually gay. Gay! I am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. It's all over now; let's laugh some more."
And he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. The different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band.
"It makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently, and that I am to return to my cheerful room in The Locks, the gayest house in the world. Bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in the town. I leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the wind—I can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the windows and shutters. But if you will let me, I will walk home with you, although I am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. I wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. I am becoming so funny of late I must break my spirit some way."
It was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for Dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's wages.
"They say here that if Thompson Benton should see a gentleman with his daughter," Dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to him straight. I suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out; but I will risk it."
"They say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. Father is the best man in the world."
"The lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, "but I am anxious to meet this gentleman of whom I have heard so much, so you had better not invite me in, for I will accept. A lion's den would be a happy relief to the gayety of The Locks, where we go on—the spectres and I—in the merriest fashion imaginable."
Dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked along he several times suggested another laugh, saying, "now, all together," or, "all ready; here we go," as a signal for them to commence, in such a queer way that the girl could not help joining.
"I am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your pleasure. Just at present I am a circus tune, but if you prefer a symphony, you have only to say the word. I am sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down over me, and cause me to be oblivious to everything until you appear again. Something tells me that the stout gentleman approaching is the lion."
They were now in the vicinity of the home of the Bentons', and the girl laughingly replied that the stout gentleman was her father. By the time they reached the gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at Dorris from under his shaggy eyebrows. Annie presented the stranger to her father, who explained who he was, and said that, having been attracted by the music in the church, he had taken the liberty of walking home with the player.
"I have the habit myself," old Thompson grunted, evidently relieved to know that Dorris was not a lover, and looking at him keenly.
He held the gate open for the girl, who walked in, and then closed it, leaving Dorris on the outside. He raised his hat, wished them good night, and walked away, and he imagined when he looked back that the girl was standing at the door looking after him.
The guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save Silas Davy, the patient man-of-all-work.
A queer case, the proprietor. Instead of being useful to the hotel, as would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Armsby, who did about everything around the place, from tending the office to superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which was known far and near for its fine attention to guests.
Armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to welcome them. In addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business, even had he been inclined that way.
Mrs. Armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. He never got out of bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that he was usually forgiven. Indeed, the people found no other fault with his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "Apron and Password," probably a tribute to the English way of naming houses of public entertainment; for they argued that if Mrs. Armsby could forgive her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the place was known.
But he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife—not because she made the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable Mrs. Armsby: for though she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano.
It was said that as a girl Mrs. Armsby had been the favorite of a circle of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a very remarkable woman. She had been Annie Benton's first teacher, in addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in the upper rooms.
Armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing.
"There are a great many unhappy women in the world, Davy," Armsby said, looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. I wouldn't be a woman for all the money in Thompson Benton's safe; I am thankful that I am a man, if for nothing else. It is very pretty to say that any woman is so good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and thoughtless; but Mrs. Armsby has her own way here. She has a maid and a man, and I fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. Instead of being bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full charge. Pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? Help yourself to the sardines."
Davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when Mr. Armsby said:
"You will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they cost sixty cents a box—the three you have on your plate cost a dime. But they are as free as the air you breathe. Help yourself; have some more, and make it fifteen cents."
Davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that Armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no other time. There was a bottle of olives on the table, and when Davy took one of them, Armsby explained that he had imported them himself at enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of years.
"Any guests to-night?" Armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself.
"No," Davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff.
"I am sorry for that," Armsby continued. "Mrs. Armsby enjoys a lively parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself agreeable. What a wonderful woman she is to fix up! Always neat, and always pleasant; but she has little else to do. You don't take very kindly to the ladies yourself, Davy?"
The boarders frequently accused Davy of being fond of various old widows and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials; but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry.
"Why, bless me, Davy," Armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! Let me see the back of your head."
Silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the ceiling.
"It's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. But we must all expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. I know a man who does not mistreat his wife, but I never knew one who wasn't bald. You might as well quit washing your head in salt water, Davy; for it will do no good."
The facts were that Davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but Armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that other people's hair was falling out.
"Better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. All the men are unjust to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it has always been my policy to make Mrs. Armsby a notable exception. Is there another woman in the Bend who handles all the money, and does exactly as she pleases? You are around a good bit; do you know of another?"
Davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for Silas was not a talkative man.
"Whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model husband. "I never complain; indeed, I find much to admire. There is not another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of people."
Mrs. Armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. While she was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that event he would have to be present.
His wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the first meal of the next day, and Armsby said to Davy,—
"Poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into the kitchen to watch Jennie peel the potatoes. If business was not so dull—you say it is dull; I know nothing about it myself—I would hire a companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her during the day. It's too bad."
Unfortunately for the patrons of the Apron-and-Password, Armsby had been to New York; and though he had remained but two days, since his return he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous. When a New York man was mentioned, Armsby pretended to know him intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began and ended. Whenever a New York institution was referred to, he was familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the Davy's Bend people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in New York, and inducing Armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did with cheerful promptness.
He never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation, Silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for Armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man.
"You ought to wear the apron, Silas," Mr. Armsby said, looking at Silas with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if your application should be greeted with the blacks. I don't recommend that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about, sooner or later. Only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness. But if you have faults, I should advise you not to run the risk of being humiliated, for the members are very particular. A lazy man, or a shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as they make them. This is the reason we must be particular in admitting new members. Reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. There's nothing like it."
The landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in the lodge connection,—
"When I first went to New York I became acquainted with the very best people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the fullest extent. One day I went over into—"
Armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in vexation.
"It is strange I am unable to name the town," he said; "I am as familiar with it as I am with my own stable. Well, no matter; anyway it is a big suburb, and you reach it by crossing the—"
Again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to walk up and down the room.
"If I should forget your name, or Mrs. Armsby's, it would not be more remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "I was brought up in sight of them; but what I started out to say was, that I walked into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking I was a robber, no doubt, until I gave him a certain sign. You should have seen the change in his manner! He came through a little door at the side, and shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table.
"'President Judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.'
"All the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. It was not feigned, either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the city, though I protested that I was so well acquainted that I could get along very well alone. But they insisted upon it, and when they began to quarrel rather fiercely about it, I gave them a sign (which reminded them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all good-natured at once, and one of them said,—
"'Thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will occasionally forget. Will you do us the favor to pick out one of our number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'"
Davy noticed that Mrs. Armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though Armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did not mention the circumstance.
"I liked the looks of Mr. Judd," Armsby continued, "so I said that if the other brothers would not take offence, I would like his company. The others said, 'Oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be brothers at the same time, and President Judd at once began arranging his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others said it wasn't half enough."
Davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much interested in what Armsby was saying.
"Well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. You cannot imagine how potent it was. We made it when we wanted a carriage, and the driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels, which were nothing like this, but larger—very much larger."
Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were hotels larger than the "Apron and Password;" but as the proprietor himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was certainly very astonishing.
"I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd remained with me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice as big as The Locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with presents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the greatest thing in the world; I am sorry you do not wear it."
Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when Mrs. Armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed.
"Silas," she said, "don't believe a word Armsby has said to you, or ever will say, on this subject. Before he became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. Do you know what they do at the lodges?"
Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a membercouldknow.
"Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, and my advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and I suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks."
Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas made up his mind to ask Tug's opinion,—Tug would know,—but he said nothing.
"Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on to say; "but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it in its case again; but I fear the lesson did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad as ever since. But while these men might be pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. If you should join, you would be expected to do this, and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. Besides, it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will all be disgraced. It is your misfortune as well as mine, Silas, that Armsby is not a drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. If a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. Whittle is a very fortunate woman."
Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as Tug's. Whenever Tug had use for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend had possession.
Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he found Tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas caught sight of him. When the pair travelled, Davy always lagged behind, as he did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt that his place was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that Tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit was untrue. It was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of trumpeters behind; and Silas was content to wait. Tug occasionally illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to Silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around.
Tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived, he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards, and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing freight arriving by the boats when the Bend was an important town. It was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, Tug gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret.
After they had blown awhile, Tug began crawling around the building on his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. When Tug had reached the other end of the warehouse, he motioned Davy to come up to him; and when he did so this is what he saw:—
A light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a woman seated in the stern—the woman they had seen when they followed the shadow down the river, after its appearance at Allan Dorris's window. They were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow down the river, and she was very small. Her back was turned toward them, and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other end of the building.
"I intend to steal her," Tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the same time reaching down into Davy's pocket and taking out a handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use.
After resting a while, and looking carefully around to make sure that they were not watched, Tug and Silas crawled cautiously back to the bank which overlooked the boat and its singular occupant, and after warning his companion to remain where he was by shaking his hand at him like a club, Tug began to climb down the bank, feeling every step as he went with the cunning stealth of a tiger. Gradually he worked his way to the water's edge; so careful was he, that even Silas, watching him with breathless interest above, could not hear his step, and at last he stood on the brink of the water. The boat was in an eddy, floating easily about, and when it came within Tug's reach, he clapped the handkerchief over the woman's mouth, tied it in a knot at the back of her head, and came clambering up the bank with her on his shoulders. Without saying a word, he started to retrace his steps, only stopping once or twice to see that his booty was not smothering, when, finding the little woman all right, he went on over the fences and sloughs, and through the alleys and yards, until he entered his own door.
"Now then, sister," he said, putting the woman on her feet, and breathing heavily from his exercise, "Tell us who you are. Davy, make a light."
Silas came lagging in about this time, and did as he was told, though he was a long time about it, for the matches were damp, and the flame slow in coming up. Everything seemed to be damp in Davy's Bend, and it was no wonder that the matches were slow and sleepy, like the other inhabitants of the town; therefore they came to life with a sputtering protest against being disturbed. While Silas was rubbing them into good humor, Tug was closely watching the little woman with his great eye, and getting his breath; and when the light was fairly burning, he went over to her side, and removed the handkerchief from her mouth.
"Gentlemen!" she cried out, in a weak voice, as soon as she could. "Gentlemen! In the name of God! I appeal to you as gentlemen!"
"Don't gentleman me," Tug said, bringing the light over to look at the woman's face. "I'm not a gentleman; I'm a thief, and I've stolen a woman. Nor ishea gentleman," pointing to Davy, and holding his head to one side to get a bead on him. "He's the greatest scoundrel that ever lived. Look at the audacious villain now! Look at him! Did you ever see a person who looked so much like the devil? And heisthe devil, when he gets started. He's keen to get at you now, and I'll have trouble with him if you are at all unreasonable."
Davy looked like anything but a villain as he meekly watched the pair from the other side of the room; indeed, he was thinking that Tug was carrying the matter entirely too far, and was becoming alarmed. But Tug did not share this feeling of apprehension, for he seemed desperately in earnest as he held the lamp close to the woman's face, who tried to shield it from his sight with her thin, trembling hands, and cried out in the same weak voice: "Gentlemen! In the name of God! I appeal to you as gentlemen!"
A very small woman, with shrivelled face and sharp features, was Tug's booty, and she trembled violently as she piteously held out her hands to the two men. Tug thought of her as the key to the problem he had been attempting to solve, so he stood between her and the door to prevent escape. But Silas felt sure that the woman had but lately risen from a sick bed; for she was weak and trembling, and from sitting long in the damp river air, there was a distressed and painful flush in her face.
"Come now, sister," Tug said, seating himself in front of her, and frowning like a pirate. "Tell us what you know, and be carried back to your boat. If you refuse to do it, we will take you on a journey to the Hedgepath graveyard, in the woods over the river, where we will erect a stone Sacred to the Memory of an Obstinate Woman. Which will you have? Use your tongue; which will you have?"
But the woman made no other reply than to appeal to them as gentlemen, in the name of God, and cry, and wring her hands.
"In case you ever see that foxy companion of yourn again, which is extremely doubtful, for I have a companion who murders for the love of it—(Here, now, take your hand off that knife, will you," Tug said, by way of parenthesis to Silas, looking at him sharply. Then going over to him, he pretended to take a knife out of Davy's inside coat pocket, and hide it in the cupboard). "If you ever see your friend Sneak again, say to him that I intend to get his head. He is bothering a friend of mine, and I intend to create a commotion inside of him for it."
Tug walked over to the table where the lamp stood, and, taking the package of poison from his pocket, carefully divided it into two doses; a large one for a man, and the other for a smaller person, probably a woman. He also took occasion, being near to Davy, to whisper to him that the woman reminded him of his wife's sister Sis.
"You are evidently a married woman, sister," the bold rascal said, seating himself in front of his captive, and looking at her in the dignified manner which distinguished him. "I suppose you were very handsome as a girl, and the men fell desperately in love with you, and were very miserable in consequence. But I will let you into a secret; you are bravely over your beauty now. I suppose your mother braided your hair, and did all the work, that your hands might be as pretty as your face; and certainly she believed that while the boys might possibly fail in life,youwould be all right, and marry a prince, and repay her for her kindness. Your poor mother rented a pianow for you, too, I reckon, and hired you a teacher; and when you could drum a little, she thought you could play a great deal, and felt repaid for all her trouble, believing that you would turn out well, and make your brothers feel ashamed of themselves for being so worthless. And while I don't know it, I believe that she paid five dollars to somebody to make you a artist, and that you painted roses and holly-hocks on saucers and plates, which your poor mother, in the kindness of her heart, recognized, and greatly admired. I shall believe this as long as I live, for youlooklike a painter and a pianowist out of practice."
This train of thought amused Mr. Whittle so much that he paused as if to laugh; but he apparently thought better of it, though his scalp crawled over on his forehead,—an oddity which distinguished him when he was amused.
"Did your poor mother get to sleep peacefully at night, after working all day for you?" inquired Mr. Whittle fiercely. "You don't answer; but you know she didn't. You know she spent the night in wrangling with your father to induce him to give her money that she might buy you more ribbons and millinery and dry goods; and kid gloves, probably, although your brother Bill was out at his toes, and hadn't so much as a cotton handkercher; and how your mother went on when your husband came courting you! He wasn't good enough for youthen, whoever he was; though I'll bet he thinks he's too good for younow, whoever he is; and what a time you must have had borrowing silverware and chairs for the wedding! I've been married, and I know. Your tired mother hoped that when her children grew up they would relieve her, and love her, and be good to her; but I'll bet you find fault because she didn't 'do' more for you; and that your brother Bill, who ran away because you had all the pie in the house, is taking care of her, providin' she aint dead from bother and too much work, which is likely. And after all this trouble in your behalf, look at you now!"
The little woman seemed to be paying some attention to what he was saying, for she looked at him timidly out of the corners of her black eyes a few times, and occasionally forgot to wring her hands and cry.
"Look at you now, I say! Your health has gone off after your beauty, for you seem to have neither with you, and I find you wandering around at night with a Thief. A great fall you've had, sister, providin' you ever were young and pretty, for I was never acquainted with a worse-looking woman than you are; and if you knew my wife you would be very indignant, for she has the reputation of being a Terror for looks. When I was younger I fell in love with every girl I met, and had no relief until they married;thenI soon got over it, for you ought to know how they fade under such circumstances; but you are worse than the rest of them; you are so ugly that I feel sorry for you. Honestly, I wonder that you do not blush in my presence; and I am not handsome, God knows. I really feel sorry for you, but in connection with your friend Prowler you are annoying an amiable and a worthy gentleman, who happens to be a friend of Mr. Blood's, the party sitting opposite you; and I fear he doesnotfeel sorry for you. A little less of that word 'gentlemen,' sister, if you please."
The woman was appealing to them again as before: "Gentlemen! In the name of God! I appeal to you."
"Promise to take your friend Prowler, and leave this country," Mr. Whittle continued, "and never return, and you shall go free; but if you refuse—Blood!"
Tug sprang up and glared savagely at his meek little partner, at the same time advancing toward him.
"You sha'n't satisfy that devilish disposition of yourn by shooting a woman in the back whenI'maround, you cut-throat," he said. "Haven't I always been ready to join you in putting men out of the way, and haven't I enjoyed the pleasure of it with you? Then why do you want to take the credit of this job to yourself, and enjoy it alone? You must wait, Blood, until she speaks. Wemayforgive her, providin' she speaks up cheerful and don't attempt to deceive us."
Again Tug pretended to take a dangerous weapon from his companion, standing between Davy and the prisoner while about it; after which he regarded him for a few moments in contemptuous silence.
"It's your tongue, sister, and not your tears, as will do you good in this difficulty," Tug said, in answer to a fresh burst of grief from the woman. "I'll give you five minutes to decide between tongue and tears. At the end of that time, if it's tears, the cravings of that bad man in the corner shall be satisfied. Blood, where is the watch you took from the store? Hain't got it? My guess is that you've lost it gambling, as usual. Well, I'll count three hundred seconds, sister, since we have no watch. One, two, three; here we go."
Tug looked reverently up at the ceiling; and appeared to be engaged in counting for two or three minutes, occasionally looking at the woman and then at Silas, who thought Tug had been counting at least half an hour already.
"Two hundred and twenty-one, two hundred and twenty-two, two hundred and twenty-three," he counted aloud. "Fifth call, sister, the time is going; two hundred and twenty-four, two hundred and—"
At this moment there was a strange interruption to the proceedings. A tall man wearing a rubber coat, which reached below his knees, opened the door, and, leaving it open, stood just upon the inside, carrying a pistol in his right hand, which hung by his side.
"The shadow!" both men thought at once; and very determined and ugly looked the shadow, with his long, sallow face, and dark moustache.
"Alice," he said to the woman, "come out."
The woman quickly jumped up, and hurried outside. The shadow followed, backing out like a lion-tamer leaving a cage, and closing the door after him. But while he stood inside the door, although he was there only a moment, both men noticed a strange peculiarity. The upper part of his left ear was gone,—cut off clean, as if with a knife; and this peculiarity was so unusual that they remarked it more than his face. The circumstance gave them both an impression that the shadow was a desperate man, and that he was accustomed to fierce brawls.
Tug and Silas looked at each other in blank dismay a long time after the mysterious pair had disappeared, not venturing to look out, fearing it might be dangerous; but finally Tug said,—
"Silas, I must have a gun. Do you happen to have one?"
Silas shook his head.
"Then I must steal one, for I need a gun. The shadow looks so much like an uncle of my wife's that I am more determined than ever to kill him."
Whereupon he went over to the table, emptied the two packages of poison on to the floor, and went to bed.
There is a wide and populous world outside of Davy's Bend, from which Allan Dorris recently came; let the whispers in the air, which frighten every man with their secrets, answer why he had resolved never again to see Annie Benton.
During his residence in Davy's Bend he had met the girl frequently, usually at the stone church near his house, where she came to practise; and after every meeting he became more than ever convinced, after thinking about it,—and he thought about it a great deal,—that if their acquaintance continued, there would come a time when he would find it difficult to quit her society. The pleasure he enjoyed in the company of the pretty organist was partly due to the circumstance that she was always pleased at his approach, although she tried to disguise it; but beyond this,—a long way beyond this,—there was reason why he should avoid her; for the girl's sake, not his own.
He repeated this often to himself, as though he were a desperate man ready to engage in any desperate measure; but his manner visibly softened when he thought of the pretty girl whose ways were so engaging, innocent, and frank. He knew himself so well,—the number of times he had gone over the story of his life, in his own mind, since coming to The Locks even, would have run up into the hundreds; therefore he knew himself very well indeed,—that he felt in honor bound to give up his acquaintance with her, although it cost him a keen pang of regret, this determination to hear the music no more, and never again see the player.
Avoiding even a look at the church, which was a reminder of how much pleasure he had found in Davy's Bend, and how much misery he would probably find there in the future, he passed out of the iron gate of The Locks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he hoped to walk until his body would call for rest at night, and permit him to sleep; a blessing that had been denied him of late more than before he knew Annie Benton, and when he thought that Davy's Bend contained people only fit to be avoided.
But he was glad that he had resolved never to see the girl again,—for her sake, not his own.
He had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, thinking of the strange fatality that had made duty painful throughout his entire life; and he walked toward the country because he believed the girl was in the direction of the town; probably seated in the church at that moment, watching the door for his approach. She was a comfort to him, therefore he must avoid her; but this had always been the case—he was accustomed to being warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a pleasant place.
There was something in store for her besides a life of hiding and fear, and an unknown grave at last, with a fictitious name on the headboard; and he would not cross a path which led toward happiness for one he so much admired.
Thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but when he remembered how dull his life would be should her smile never come into it again, he could not help shuddering.
"But I have been so considerate of others," he said aloud, as he pursued his way, "that even the worms in my path impudently expected me to go round them, and seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at all if I did not. Let me not show a lack of consideration now that my heart is concerned."
Above his house, and so near the river that the water rippled at its base, was a rugged bluff, separated from the town by a deep and almost impassable ravine, and for this reason it was seldom visited; Allan Dorris had found it during his first month in the town, and he resolved to visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine and delightful air of the perfect summer day.
It occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making the difficult ascent, that he would like to build a house there, and live in it, where he would never be disturbed. But did he want solitude? There seemed to be some question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his downcast face. When he first came to Davy's Bend, he believed that the rewards of life were so unsatisfactory that all within his reach that he desired was his own company; but an experience of a month had satisfied him that solitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not know what he wanted. If he knew what it was his heart craved, he believed that it was beyond him, and unobtainable; and so his old habit of thinking was resumed, though he could never tell what it was all about. Everything he desired was impossible; that within his reach was distasteful—he could make no more of the jumble in his brain, and finally sat with a vacant stare on his face, thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gave him a headache but no conclusions.
Even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he thought he wanted while coming along the road, were not satisfactory now; and as he started to walk furiously up the hill, to tire himself, he met Annie Benton in the path he was following.
She had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came upon her, she was so intent on arranging them after some sort of a plan, that she was startled when he stood beside her.
"I was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of returning his greeting. "I intended sending you these."
Dorris could not help being amused that he had encountered the girl in a place where he had gone to avoid her, but there was evidence in his light laugh that he was glad of it; so he seated himself on a boulder beside the path, and asked what she had been thinking of him.
"That you were a very odd man," she answered frankly.
"That has always been a complaint against me," he said, with a tone of impatience. "I think I have never known any one who has not said, during the course of our acquaintance, that I was 'odd;' whatever is natural in me has been called 'odd' before. If I wanted bread, and was not satisfied with a stone, they called me 'odd.' The wishes of the horse that has a prejudice for being bridled on the left side are respected, but there is no consideration for a man who cannot be contented simply because it is his duty. I remember that we had a horse of this description in our family when I was a boy, and if he injured any one who failed to respect his wishes, the man was blamed, not the horse. But the people do not have equal charity for a man who is not content when circumstances seem to demand it of him, no difference what the circumstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his taste. So you were finding fault with me? I am not surprised at it, though; most people do."
The girl had seated herself near him, and was busily engaged in arranging the flowers until he inquired again,—
"So you were finding fault with me?"
"No," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to think of you as being different from any other person I have ever known. It was not a very serious charge to think of you as being different from the people in Davy's Bend."
There was something in that, for they were not the finest people in the world, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they pretended.
"No, it is not serious," he replied; "but I am sorry you are looking so well, for I am running away from you. It would be easier, were you less becoming. I am sorry you are not ugly."
There was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettier than ever.
"Running away fromme?"
"Yes, from you," he answered.
She began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them while he watched her face. Dorris thought of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened to be moving.
"Why?" she asked at last.
"Because I am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "You should run away when you see me approach, for I am not a fit companion for you. I have nothing to offer that you ought to accept; even my attentions are dangerous."
The bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, and looked at him.
"I suppose I should be very much frightened," she said, "but I am not. I am not at all afraid of you."
He laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she had made.
"I know nothing whatever about women," he said, "and I am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. I know men as well as I know myself, and know what to expect of them under given circumstances; but all those of your sex I have ever known were as a sealed book. The men are always the same, but I never know what a woman will do. No two of them are alike; there is no rule by which you can judge them, except that they are always better than the men. I have never known this to fail, but beyond that I know nothing of your sex. I say to you that I am dangerous; you reply that you are not afraid of me. But you ought to be; I am sure of that."
"If you desire it," she said, "I am sorry, but I feel perfectly safe in your company."
"It's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "If you were afraid of me, I would not be dangerous. I am not liable to pelt you with stones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our becoming friends."
"Is friendship so dangerous, then?"
"Itwouldbe between you and me, because I am odd. Look at me."
She did as requested, with quiet confidence and dignity.
"You say you are not afraid of me; neither am I of you, and I intend to tell you what you can hardly suspect. I am in love with you to such an extent that I can think of nothing else; but I cannot offer you an honorable man's love, because I am not an honorable man, as that expression is used and accepted. I have been looking all my life for such a woman as you are, but now that I have found you, I respect you so much that I dare not attempt to win your favor; indeed, instead of that, I warn you against myself. Until I was thirty I looked into every face I met, expecting to find the one I sought; but I never found it, and finally gave up the search, forced to believe that such a one as I looked for did not exist. I have found out my mistake, but it is too late."
He jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, as if he intended to run away, and did walk a distance, but came back again, as if he had something else to say.
"I speak of this matter as I might tell a capable artist that I was infatuated with his picture, and could not resist the temptation to frequently admire it. I have no more reason to believe that there is a responsive feeling in your heart than I would have reason to believe that the picture I admired appreciated the compliment, but there is nothing wrong in what I have said to you, and it is a pleasure for me to say it; there can be no harm in telling a pretty, modest woman that you admire her—she deserves the compliment."