Annie Benton did not appear to be at all surprised at this avowal, and listened to it with the air of one who was being told of something commonplace.
"You do not make love like the lovers I have read about," she said, with an attempt at a smile, though she could not disguise the oddity of her position. "I do not know how to answer you."
"Then don't answer me at all," he replied. "I am not making love to you, for I have denied myself that privilege. I am not at liberty to make love to you, though I want to; therefore I ask the privilege of explaining why I shall avoid you in the future, and why I regret to do it. The first feeling I was ever conscious of was one of unrest; I was never satisfied with my home, or with those around me. If I thought I had a friend, I soon found him out, and was more dissatisfied than ever. Of course this was very unreasonable and foolish; anyone would say that, and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explanation, I could not help it; I was born that way, nor can I help saying that I am satisfied with you. You suit me exactly, and I was never contented in my life until I sat in the old church and looked at you."
Though the girl continued to look at him without apparent surprise, her face was very pale, and she was breathing rapidly.
"You may regard what I have said as impudent," Dorris continued, "and think that while you are satisfactory to me, I would not be to you. I am not now, but I would give a great deal to convince you that I am the man you dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake under your pillow, providing you ever did such a ridiculous thing. It is not conceit for me to say that I believe I could compel you to respect me, therefore I regret that we have ever met at all, for I am not at liberty to woo you honorably; if you want to know why, I will tell you, for I would place my life in your hands without the slightest hesitation, and feel secure; but it is enough for the present to say that nothing could happen which would surprise me. I am in trouble; though I would rather tell you of it than have you surmise what it is, for I am not ashamed of it. I can convince you—or any one with equally good sense—that I am not nearly so bad as many who live in peace. Would you like to hear my history?"
"No," she replied; "for you would soon regret telling it to me, and I fear that you will discover some time that I am not worthy of the many kind things you have said about me. I am only a woman, and when you know me better you will find that I am not the one you have been looking for so long and so patiently."
"Excuse me if I contradict you in that," he said with as much grave earnestness as though he had been talking politics, and found it necessary to take issue with her. "Youarethe one. Once there came to me in a dream a face which I have loved ever since. This was early in life, and during all the years which have brought me nothing but discontent and wretchedness, it has been my constant companion; the one little pleasure of my life. From the darkness that surrounded me, the face has always been looking at me; and whatever I have accomplished—I have accomplished nothing in Davy's Bend, but my life has been busy elsewhere—has been prompted by a desire to please this strange friend. I have never been able to dismiss my trouble—I have had no more than my share, perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in the world to render us all unhappy—except to welcome the recollection of the dream; and although I have often admitted to myself that this communion with the unreal was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, it has afforded me a contentment that I failed to find in anything else; therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, and it grew stronger as I grew older, causing me many a heartache because there was nothing in life like it. Most men have dreams of greatness, but my only wish was to find the face that always came out of the shadows at my bidding."
He paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, where his dream seemed to realize before him, for he looked intently at it, and went on to describe it.
"It was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there was no expression in it that was not human; expressions of love, and pity, and forgiveness—you have them in your face now, and I believe they are not uncommon. I have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as I grew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory nature of life, I became more than ever convinced that I would feel entirely satisfied could my dream come true. At last I came to believe that it was impossible; that I was as unreasonable as the man who pined because his tears were not diamonds; but I could not give up the recollection of the face, to which I was always so true and devoted, and comforted myself with brooding over it, and regretting my misfortune. Instead of greatness or grandeur, I longed for the face, and it was the only one I ever loved."
Again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his fancy, but this time he seemed to be dismissing it forever, after a careful inspection to convince himself that the counterpart he had found on earth was exactly like it.
"Until I met you," he said, looking at Annie Benton again, "this sweetheart of my fancy lived in Heaven, Maid of Air. When you turned upon me that afternoon in the church, I almost exclaimed aloud: 'The face! My vision has come true!' Not a feature was missing, and your actions and your smile were precisely what I had seen so often in my fancy. Therefore you are not a stranger to me; I have loved you all my life, and instead of worshipping a vision in the future I shall worship you. Why don't you speak to me?"
"I don't dare to," she answered, looking him full in the face, and without the slightest hesitation. "I am afraid I would say something I ought not to."
He looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to divine her meaning, and concluded that if she should speak more freely, he would hear something surprising; either she would denounce him for his boldness, or profess a love for him which would compel him to give up his resolution of never seeing her again.
"That was an unfortunate expression," he said. "I am sorry you said that, for it has pleased my odd fancy; indeed, it is precisely what I was hoping you would say, but there is all the more reason now for my repeating to you that I am dangerous. I know how desperate my affairs are; how desperate I am, and how unfortunate it would be if you should become involved. Therefore I say to you, as a condemned prisoner might shut out the single ray of light which brightened his existence, so that he might meet his inevitable fate bravely, that you must avoid me, and walk another way when you see me approaching."
A hoarse whistle came to them from the ferry in the river, and Dorris thought of it as an angry warning from a monster, in whose keeping he was, to come away from a presence which afforded him pleasure.
"May I speak a word?" the girl inquired, turning abruptly toward him.
"Yes; a dozen, or a thousand, though I would advise you not to."
"Is what you have said to me exactly true?"
"Upon my honor; exactly true," he answered.
"Is there no morbid selfishness in it; no foolish fancy?"
"Upon my honor, none!"
"Do you believe I am your dream come true with the same matter-of-fact belief which convinces you that there is a ferry in the river?"
She pointed out the boat as it moved lazily through the water, and as he looked at it he seemed to resolve the matter carefully in his mind.
"Yes," he answered, "I am as certain that you are the woman I have loved devotedly all my life, as I am certain that there is a river at the foot of the hill. What I have said to you is generally regarded as sentimental nonsense except when it is protected by the charity of a sweetheart or a wife; but it is in every man's heart, though it is sometimes never expressed, and my idle life here has made me bold enough to state that it is true. I have been seeking contentment with so much eagerness, and know so well that it is hard to find, that I have come to believe that there is but one more chance, and that I would find what I lack in the love of a woman like you. Even if I should discover by experience that I am mistaken in this belief, I would feel better off than I ever did before; for I would then conclude that my fancies were wrong, and that I was as well off as any man; but this feeling will always be denied me, for I am denied the privilege of happiness now that it is within my reach. My lonely life here has wrung a confession from me which I should have kept to myself, but it is every word true; you can depend on that."
Annie Benton seemed satisfied with the answers he had made, and there was another long silence between them.
"And your music—you play like one possessed," he said finally, talking to the wind, probably, for he was not looking at the girl. "Every sentiment my heart has ever known you have expressed in chords. Had I not known differently, I should have thought you were familiar with my history and permitted the organ to tell it whenever we met. What a voice the old box has, and what versatility; for its power in representing angels is only equalled by its power to represent devils. There is a song with which I have become familiar from hearing you play the air; it is a sermon which appealed to me as nothing ever did before. Before I knew the words, I felt sure that they were promises of mercy and forgiveness; and when I found them, I thought I must have been familiar with them all my life; they were exactly what I had imagined. To look at your cold, passionless face now, no one would suspect your wonderful genius. You look innocent enough, but I do not wonder that you are regarded as a greater attraction than the minister. I have been told that you can kill the sermon, when you want to, by freezing the audience before it commences, and I believe it. I have no doubt that you take pride in controlling with your deft fingers the poor folks who worship under the steeple which mounts up below us. I only wonder that you do not cause them to cheer, and swing their hats, for they say that you can move them to tears at will."
"I never feel like cheering myself," she answered, "and I suppose that is why the organ never does. But I very often feel sad, because I am so commonplace, and because there is so little in the future for me. If I play so coldly at times that even the minister is affected, it is because I am indifferent, and forget, and not because I intend it."
"If you are commonplace," Allan Dorris replied, "you have abundant company; for the world is full of common people. We are all creatures of such common mould that I wonder we do not tire of our ugly forms. Out of every hundred thousand there is a genius, who neglects all the virtues of the common folks, and is hateful save as a genius. For his one good quality he has a hundred bad ones; but he is not held to strict account, like the rest of us, for genius is so rare that we encourage it, no matter what the cost. But I have heard that these great people are monstrosities, and thoroughly wretched. I would rather be a king in one honest heart, than a sight for thousands. But this is not running away from you, as I promised, and if I remain here longer I shall lose the power. My path is down the hill; yours is up."
He lifted his hat to her, and walked away; but she called to him,—
"I am going down the hill, too, and I will accompany you."
He waited until she came up, and they walked away together.
The girl had said that she was going down the hill, too, and would accompany him; but Dorris knew that she meant the hill on which they were standing, not the one he referred to. He referred to a hill as famous as wickedness, and known in every house because of its open doors to welcome back some straggler from the noisy crowd travelling down the famous hill; but he thought that should a woman like Annie Benton consent to undertake the journey with him, he would change his course, and travel the other way, in spite of everything.
"Did I do wrong in asking you to wait for me?" she inquired, after they had walked awhile in silence.
"Yes," he answered, "because it pleased me. Be very careful to do nothing which pleases me, for I am not accustomed to it, and the novelty may cause me to forget the vow I have made. A man long accustomed to darkness is very fond of the light. What do you think of me, anyway?"
"What a strange question!" the girl said, turning to look at him.
"Be as frank with me as I was with you. What do you think of me?"
The girl thought the matter over for a while, and replied,—
"If I should answer you frankly, I should please you; and you have warned me against that."
Dorris was amused at the reply, and laughed awhile to himself.
"I didn't think of that," he said, though he probably had thought of it, and hoped that her reply would be what it was. "I am glad to hear that I am not repugnant to you, though. It will be a comfort to me to know, now that my dream has come true, that the subject of it does not regard me with distrust or aversion. I am glad, too, that after dreaming of the sunshine so long, it is not a disappointment. In my loneliness hereafter that circumstance will be a satisfaction, and it will be a pleasure to believe that the sunshine was brighter because of my brief stay in it. I can forget some of the darkness around me in future, in thinking of these two circumstances."
They had reached Thompson Benton's gate by this time, and, the invitation having been extended, Dorris walked into the house. The master was not due for an hour, so Dorris remained until he came, excusing himself by the reflection that he would never see the girl again, and that he was entitled to this pleasure because of the sacrifice he had resolved to make.
It was the same old story over again; Allan Dorris was desperately in love with Annie Benton, but she must not be in love with him, for he was dangerous, and whether this was true or not, his companion did not believe it. He told in a hundred ways, though in language which might have meant any one of a hundred things, that she was his dream come true, and of the necessity which existed for him to avoid her. Occasionally he would forget to be grave, and make sport of himself, and laugh at what he had been saying; and at these times Annie Benton was convinced more than ever that he was not a dangerous man, as he said, for there was an honest gentility in his manner, and a gentle respect for her womanhood in everything he did; therefore she listened attentively to what he said, saying but little herself, as he requested. Although he made love to her in many ingenious ways, and moved Annie Benton as she had never been moved before, he did not so intend it. Could his motives have been impartially judged, that must have been the verdict; but while he knew that his love was out of place in the keeping of the girl, he could not resist the temptation of giving it to her, and then asking her to refuse it.
Several times Annie Benton attempted to speak, but he held up his hand as a warning.
"Don't say anything that you will regret," he said. "Let me do that; I am famous for it. I never talked ten minutes in my life that I didn't say something that caused me regret for a year. But I will never regret anything I have said to you, for I have only made a confession which has been at my tongue's end for years. I have known you all my life; you know nothing of me, and care less, therefore let it be as I suggest."
"But just a word," the girl insisted. "You do not understand what I would say—"
"I don't know what you would say, but I can imagine what a lady like youshouldsay under such circumstances, and I beg the favor of your silence. Let me imagine what I please, since that can be of little consequence to you."
There was a noise at the front door, and old Thompson came in. Dorris bowed himself out, followed by a scowl, and as he walked along toward his own house he thought that his resolution to see Annie Benton no more would at least save him from a quarrel with her father.
John Bill, editor of the Davy's BendTriumph, was ruined by a railroad pass. When he taught school over in the bottoms, on the other side of the river, and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, he seldom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, but when he invested his savings in theTriumph, and the railroad company sent him an annual pass, he made up for lost time, and travelled up and down the road almost constantly, all his earnings being required to pay his expenses.
A day seldom passed that John Bill did not get off or on a train at the Davy's Bend station, carrying an important looking satchel in his right hand, and an umbrella in his left, and though he imagined that this coming and going gave the people an idea of his importance, he was mistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the town, and very little in it: therefore they made fun of him, as they did of everything else, for the Davy's Bend people could appreciate the ridiculous in spite of their many misfortunes. They knew enough, else they could not have been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had rather extensive knowledge of everything worldly except a knowledge of the ways of Capital, which was always avoiding them; but this was not astonishing, since Capital had never lived among them and been subject to their keen scrutiny.
When an event was advertised to take place on the line of road over which his pass was accepted, John Bill was sure to be present, for he argued that, in order to report the news correctly, he must be on the ground in person; but usually he remained away so long, and gave the subject in hand such thorough attention, that he concluded on his return that the people had heard of the proceedings, and did not write them up, though he frequently asserted with much earnestness that no editor in that country gave the news as much personal attention as he did.
Still, John Bill claimed to be worth a good deal of money. There was no question at all, he frequently argued, that his business and goodwill were worth fifteen thousand dollars—any man would be willing to pay that for theTriumphand its goodwill, providing he had the money; therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted to a trifle of eleven hundred dollars on his material, in the shape of an encumbrance, and a floating indebtedness of half as much more, he was still worth a little more than thirteen thousand dollars. The people said that everything in his office was not worth half the amount of the encumbrance, and that his goodwill could not be very valuable, since his business did not pay its expenses; but John Bill could prove that the people had never treated him justly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the facts in his case.
There was a mortgage, as any one who cared to examine the records might convince himself, but it was a very respectable mortgage, and had been extended from time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteen years past. It had been owned by all the best men in the neighborhood; but while a great many transfers were noted thereon, no credits appeared, so John Bill was no worse than the rest of them. The former parties of the first part had intended paying off the trifling amount in a few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they pleased; John Bill had the same intention concerning the document, therefore it was no great matter after all.
Besides, there were the accounts. He had a book full of them, and was always showing it to those who bothered him for money. The accounts were all against good men; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless, and the accounts should be figured in an estimate of John Bill's affairs, which would add a few thousands more to the total.
It was a little curious, though, that most of the men whose names appeared on John Bill's ledger had accounts against John Bill, and while he frequently turned to their page and showed their balances, they also turned to John Bill's page intheirledgers, and remarked that there was no getting anything out of him. Thompson Benton had been heard to say that each of these men were afraid to present their bills first, fearing that the others would create a larger one; so the accounts ran on from year to year. But whoever was in the right, it is certain that the accounts were a great comfort to John Bill, for he frequently looked them over as a miser might count his money.
John Bill was certain the people of Davy's Bend were ungrateful. He had helped them and their town in a thousand ways, and spent his time (or that part of it not devoted to using his pass) in befriending them; but did they appreciate him? They did not; this may be set down as certain, for if the editor had put them in the way of making money, they were thoroughly ungrateful. Indeed, the people went so far as to declare that John Bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in saying so. They had taken his paper, and helped him in every way possible, but he did not appreciate it; so they accused each other, and a very uncomfortable time they had of it. But though John Bill claimed to be always helping the people, and though the people claimed that they had done a great deal for John Bill, the facts were that neither John Bill nor the people gave substantial evidence of any very great exertions in each other's behalf, so there must have been a dreadful mistake out somewhere. Likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring the greater number of institutions to the town; but as to the institutions actually secured, there were none to quarrel over, so there was peace in this direction.
John Bill frequently came to the conclusion that his wrongs must be righted; that he must call names, and dot his i's and cross his t's, even to pointing out to the world wherein he had been wronged. He could stand systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill his ink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a view of holding up to public scorn those who had trampled him in the dust of the street. But it was a bold undertaking; a stouter heart than John Bill's would have shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound as the Davy's Bend folks could have made, so he usually compromised by writing paid locals about the men he had intended to accuse of ingratitude, referring to them as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable to humanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the rate of eight cents per line of seven words.
John Bill was so situated that he did little else than write paid locals, though he usually found time once a week to write imaginary descriptions of the rapid increase in circulation his paper was experiencing. He had discovered somehow that men who would pay for nothing else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rare accomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability was such that their competitors were constantly howling in rage; and it became necessary to use this knowledge to obtain the bare necessities of life. The very men who declared that John Bill could have no more goods at their stores until old scores were squared would soften under the influence of the puff, and honor his "orders" when in the hands of either of the two young men who did his work.
Perhaps this was one reason theTriumphwas on all sides of every question. Whoever saw fit to write for it had his communication printed as original editorial; for the editor was seldom at home, and when he was, he found his time taken up in earning his bread by writing palatable falsehoods; therefore all the contributions went in, and as correspondents seldom agree, theTriumphwas a remarkable publication. Whenever a citizen had a grievance, he aired it in theTriumph, his contribution appearing as the opinion of the editor. The person attacked replied in like manner; hence John Bill was usually in the attitude of fiercely declaringNoone week, andYeswith equal determination the next. It was so on all subjects; politics, religion, local matters—everything. The Republican who aired his views one week in John Bill's remarkable editorial columns was sure to find himself confronted by a Democrat who was handy with a pen in the next issue; the man who wrote that This, or That, or the Other, was a disgrace, would soon find out that This, or That, or the Other, were very creditable; for John Bill's printers must have copy, and John Bill was too busy travelling and lying to furnish it himself.
Having returned home on the night train, John Bill climbed the stairway at the head of which his office was situated, and was engaged in preparing for his next issue. Although he felt sure that a large amount of important mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not be found; and therefore the editor was in rather bad humor, as he produced a list of paid notices to be written, and made lazy preparation for writing them. The editor was always expecting important mail matter, and because it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was in the intrigue against him. While thinking that he would include that official in the exposé he felt it his duty to write at some time in the future, a knock came at the door. He had heard no step ascending the stair, therefore he concluded it must be one of his young men; probably the pale one, who was wasting his life in chewing plug tobacco, and squirting it around in puddles, in order that he might realize on a joke which he had perpetrated by printing a sign in huge letters, requesting visitors not to spit on the floor.
In response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in,—a stranger, dressed in a suit of black material that gave him the appearance of being much on the road, for it was untidy and unkempt. He looked a good deal like a genteel man who had been lately engaged in rough work, and John Bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. The stranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, were bushy, and sprinkled with gray; and he had a rather peculiar pair of eyes, which he used to such an advantage that he seemed to remark everything in the room at a single glance. An odd man, John Bill thought; a man who might turn out to be anything surprising; so he looked at him curiously quite a long time.
"You are Mr. Bill?" the stranger asked, after the two men had looked each other over to their joint satisfaction.
The editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of the head, at the same time offering a chair.
"I came in on the night train," the tall man said, seating himself with the left side of his face toward the door at which he had entered; "therefore I call upon you at this unseasonable hour to make a few inquiries with reference to your place. It is not probable that I shall become an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but I think you may depend on it that I will shortly furnish you with an item of news. I have read your editorial paragraphs with a good deal of interest, and concluded that you could give me the information desired."
John Bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger would never find out that he did not write the editorials he professed to admire; but there was a possibility that his visitor was not sincere. He had said that he came to the town on the night train. John Bill knew this to be untrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, and no one else got off when he did. He was glad, however, that the determined-looking visitor did not bring a folded copy of theTriumphwith him for convenience in referring to an objectionable paragraph; for John Bill felt sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be would not go away without satisfaction of some kind. He was bothered a good deal in this way, by reason of his rather peculiar way of conducting theTriumph; but questions with reference to Davy's Bend,—he could answer them easy enough.
But he did not contradict the statement of his visitor concerning the time he arrived in town, for he did not look like a man who would take kindly to a thing of that sort; so the editor meekly said he would be pleased to give him any information in his power.
"I will inquire first about the man calling himself—Allan Dorris," the stranger continued, consulting a book which he took from his pocket, and pausing a little before pronouncing the name, "and I ask that this conversation be in confidence. How long has this fellow been here?"
The tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the responsible head of theTriumph, as though he would intimate that his displeasure would be serious should his instructions be neglected.
"This is October," Mr. Bill replied, counting on his fingers. "He came in the spring, some time; probably six months ago. I do not know him personally. He is a doctor, and lives in a place called 'The Locks,' on the edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger toward the stone church, and the house in which Allan Dorris lived. "That's about all I know of him."
The peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man followed the direction pointed out for a moment, and then settled on John Bill again.
"I have heard that he has a love affair with a young woman named—Annie Benton," the visitor said with business precision, once more consulting his book, and pausing before pronouncing the name, as he had done before. "What do you know about that?"
"I have heard something of it," the editor replied, "but nothing in particular; only that he is with her a great deal, and that he meets her usually in a church near his house. The people talk about it, but I am too busy to pay much attention to such matters."
John Bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, with a modest cough: "Besides, I travel a good deal." But this was not the first time John Bill had tried to create a wrong impression. He foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expected to know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filled his mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had just occurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. If he encountered a word which he did not know the meaning of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually in connection with arguments to prove that the average man did not understand the commonest words in his language. Nor was this all; John Bill was a deceiver in another particular. He frequently intimated in theTriumphthat if he were a rich man he would spend his money liberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to "labor." John Bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care of their means. The men who have no money of their own claim to know exactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject.
Upon invitation the editor told of old Thompson Benton and his disposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as a musician; of Allan Dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted in his book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town's gossip progressed. When this was concluded, the book in which the notes were made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten-dollar note on the editorial table.
"I shall need your services soon," he said, "and I make a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. When the time comes you will know it. Your business then will be to forget this interview. You are also to say nothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. I bid you good-night."
So saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard.
A rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought; a visit at such an hour from a mysterious man who inquired minutely about a citizen who was almost as much of a mystery as the visitor himself; and when he heard a step on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger had forgotten something, and was coming back, so he opened the door, only to meet Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, who carried a sealed envelope in her hand.
John Bill did not like Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, very well; for she had a habit of saying that "her work" was all the advertising she needed, referring to the circumstance that she had become the town busybody in her attempts to reform the people; but he received her politely, and thought to himself that when his sensation finally appeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, and beardy.
Mrs. Whittle had a good deal to say concerning the careless, good-natured wickedness of the people, and the people had a good deal to say about Mrs. Whittle. One thing they said was, that while she was always coaxing those who were doing very well to become better, she was shamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of little Ben Whittle, her only child, who was being worked to death by the farmer named Quade, in whose employ he was. This unfortunate child had not seen his mother for years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and dirty; but while Mrs. Whittle imagined that he was doing very well, and felt quite easy concerning him, she could not sleep at night from worrying over the fear that other children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, were growing up in wickedness. Her husband was a drunkard and a loafer, but Mrs. Whittle had no time to bother about him; there were men in the town so thoroughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on Sunday, instead of going to church, and to this unfortunate class she devoted her life. She frequently took credit to herself that the best citizens of Davy's Bend were not in jail, and believed that they would finally acknowledge their debt to her; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant husband she never thought at all; so John Bill could not very well be blamed for disliking her.
"I heard you would return to-night," the good woman said, panting from her exertion in climbing the stairs, "and I wanted to deliver this with my own hands, which is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though I don't suppose that any one would doubt that I came on a good errand, even if they had seen me coming up. Bless me, what a hard stair you have!"
John Bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, hung the note it contained on an empty hook within reach of his hand, without looking at it. Meanwhile Mrs. Whittle continued to pant, and look good.
"It refers to Allan Dorris's affair with Annie Benton," she said, recovering her breath at last. "Something should be done, and I don't know who else is to do it. The people all mean well enough, and they are good enough people as a rule; but when there is good to be accomplished, I usually find it isnotaccomplished unless I take an interest in it. No one knows better than John Bill that I do not suspect people, and am always inclined to believe good of them, but there is something wrong about this Allan Dorris. Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton say so, and you know they are very careful of what they say."
John Bill had heard that statement questioned, and he mentally added their names to his black list. Two greater talking old women never wore pants, John Bill had heard said, than Messrs. Ponsonboy and Wilton, and when he got at it he would skin them with the others.
"Better men than Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton never lived," Mrs. Whittle said, "and I have concluded to write a hint which Annie Benton as well as Allan Dorris will understand. If nothing comes of it, I will try something else. I am not easily discouraged, Mr. Bill; I would have given up long ago if I were."
Mrs. Whittle found it necessary to pause for another rest, and the editor took opportunity to make mental note of the fact (for use in the coming exposure) that she was dressed in the most execrable taste; that her clothes seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneous assortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, and that she had not taken the trouble to arrange them. John Bill felt certain that when the people were buying copies of his paper to burn, they would read that Mrs. Whittle was in need of the refining influences of a dress-maker.
"You are a good man at heart, Mr. Bill," Mrs. Whittle said again, which was an expression the editor had heard before, for he was always being told that he was a better man than he appeared to be, though he knew a great many people who were not better than they appeared to be. "I know you are, and that you do not mean all the bad things you say sometimes. I know you will help me in doing good, for it is so important that goodshouldbe done. When I think of the wickedness around me, and the work that is to be done, I almost faint at the prospect, but I only hope that my strength may enable me to hold out to the end. I pray that I may be spared until this is a better world."
Mr. Bill promised to find a place in his crowded columns for the good woman's contribution, and she went away, with a sigh for the general wickedness.
"The world will be better off for that sigh," John Bill said, as he settled down in his chair, and heard Mrs. Whittle step off the stair into the street. "What we need is more sighing and less work. There is no lack of workers; in fact, the country is too full of them for comfort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. The first one who called to-night on Allan Dorris business looked like a worker; a worker-off, I may say. This Dorris is becoming important of late. I must make his acquaintance. Hello! Another!"
The owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway this time turned out to be Silas Davy, who came in and handed John Bill a piece of paper. It proved to be a brief note, which read,—
"To John Bill,—If the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning Allan Dorris, I speak for the privilege of answering it."Tug Whittle."
"To John Bill,—If the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning Allan Dorris, I speak for the privilege of answering it.
"Tug Whittle."
John Bill read the note several times over after Silas had disappeared, and finally getting up from his chair, said,—
"I'll write no more to-night; there may be interesting developments in the morning."
During the summer and winter following the arrival of Allan Dorris in Davy's Bend, he met Annie Benton at intervals after their strange meeting out on the hills, in spite of his resolution to keep out of her way, and though he was convinced more than ever after each meeting that their acquaintance was dangerous, he candidly admitted to himself that he was powerless to resist the temptation to see her when opportunity offered, for the girl waited as anxiously for his appearance as he did for hers; she was as deeply concerned as he was, and while this circumstance afforded him a kind of pleasure, it was also painful, for he felt certain that no good could come of it.
Usually he attended the services in the church once a week, and watched the organist so closely that she always divined his presence, and looked timidly toward where he sat when opportunity offered. Dorris believed that he could cause the girl to think of him by looking at her, and though he changed his position at every service, he had the satisfaction of finally seeing her pick him out, and she never made a mistake, always looking directly at him when she turned her head.
After the people were dismissed, he occasionally met her at the door, and walked home with her behind her glowering father, who received the attentions of Dorris with little favor. A few times he remained in the church with her a few minutes after the congregation had passed out, but after each meeting he felt more dissatisfied than ever, and chafed under the restraint which held him back. A few times, also, he went into the house, after accompanying her home, which pleased Annie Benton as much as it displeased old Thompson, but somehow he did not enjoy her company there as he did when she was alone in the church, for the Ancient Maiden, as well as the Ancient Gentleman, seemed to regard him with suspicion and distrust; therefore in spite of his vows to let her alone, which he had made with honesty and sincerity, he called on her at the church nearly every week.
He believed that he was entitled to some credit because he only saw the girl occasionally, for he longed to be with her continually; and there were times, when he heard the organ, that he overcame the temptation and did not enter the church. On these occasions he turned his face doggedly toward The Locks, and paced up and down in his own room until he knew the temptation was removed; when he would go out into the yard again, hoping that some good fortune had detained the player longer than usual, and that he would meet her unexpectedly.
This same spirit caused him to haunt the road which she frequented on her visits to and from the town, and quite often he had occasion to appear surprised at her approach when he was not, when he would walk with her one way or the other until it seemed necessary for them to separate. It was not a deepruse—nor did it deceive himself, for he often laughed at its absurdity—but it afforded occupation to a man who was idle more than half his time, and Allan Dorris was like other men in the particular that he wanted to do right, but found it very difficult when inclination led in the other direction. When they met in this manner, each usually had time to say only enough to excite the curiosity of the other, and to cause them to long for another meeting, and thus the winter was passed, and the early spring came on; the season of quarreling between frost and sunshine.
On a certain wild March evening, after a day of idleness and longing to see the girl, Dorris put on his heavy coat and walked in the yard, up and down the old path under the trees, which gave evidences of his restless footsteps even in the snows of winter. As soon as he came out he heard the music, and between his strong desire to see the player, and his conviction that he should never enter her presence, he resolved to leave Davy's Bend and never return. He could better restrain his love for her in some distant town than in Davy's Bend, therefore he would go away, and try to forget. This gave him an excuse to enter the church, though he only intended to bid her good-by; and so impatient was he that he scaled the wall, and jumped down on the outside, instead of passing out at the gate.
Annie Benton was watching for him when he stepped into her presence from the vestibule, and as he walked up the aisle he saw so much pleasure in her face that he regretted to make the announcement of his departure; but he knew it was the best thing to do, and did not hesitate. He even thought of the prospect that she might regret his determination, and say so, which would greatly please him.
"I have concluded to leave Davy's Bend," he said, as he took the hand she offered him, "and have called to say good-by. As soon as I can dispose of my effects I will leave this forbidden ground, and travel so far that I will forget the way back. The more I see of you, the more I love you; and if I continue to live in sight of your house, I will finally forget everything except that I love you, and do you a great harm. It will not take me long to settle up my affairs, and within a few days, at the farthest, I shall be gone."
The smile on Annie Benton's pretty face vanished at once, as she turned her head and looked from him, at the same time trying to run her fingers over the keys; but they had lost their cunning, and her hands soon lay idly on the keyboards. When Dorris finally caught her head gently, and turned it toward him, he saw that tears were in her eyes. She did not attempt to hide this, and quietly submitted when he brushed them away.
"It pains me to know that you regret this announcement," Dorris said, after looking at her a moment, "though it would pain me more to believe that you did not. It seems to be always so; there is sorrow in everything for me. I have cursed myself a thousand times for this quality, and thought ill of a nature which had no peace or content in it. I have hated myself for years because of the belief that nothing would satisfy me; that I would tire of everything I coveted, and that I was born a misanthrope and an embodied unrest. When I have envied others their content, I have always concluded afterwards that there was something in my nature opposed to peace, and that I was doomed to a restless life, always seeking that which could not be found. I have always believed that my acquaintances have had this opinion of me, and that for this reason they did not grant me the charity I felt the need of. But now that I am going away, and will never see you again, I hope you will pardon my saying that your absence has been the cause of the unrest which has always beset me. Long before I knew you existed I was looking for you; and I know now that all my discontent would have vanished had I been free to make honorable love to you when we first met. In our weakness we are permitted to know a few things; I know this to be true."
"Since you have always wished me to take no interest in this acquaintance of ours," Annie Benton replied, in a tone which might have been only sullen, but it sounded very much like the voice of an earnest woman expressing vexation and regret, "let me at least express in words what I have often expressed in my actions—that I would have long ago shown you that your affection was returned; that you are not more concerned than I am. I have always been in doubt as to what my course should be; but let me say this, in justice to my intelligence, though it be a discredit to my womanhood, you can never love me more than I do you. Nor do you more sincerely regret the necessity which you say exists for your going away."
"I hope I do not take undue credit to myself," he replied, "when I say that I have known this ever since our acquaintance began, and I only asked you to remain silent because I could not have controlled myself with declarations of love from your lips ringing in my ears. You trusted my judgment fully, and refused to hear the reasons why I said our acquaintance was dangerous; and I will deserve that confidence by going away, for I know that is the best thing to do. Sometimes there is a little pleasure in a great sorrow. I have known mothers to find pleasure in talking of their dead children, and I find a fascination in talking to you about a love which can never be realized. Heretofore I have been a man shut up in a dungeon, craving sunlight, hating myself because I came to believe that there was no sunlight; now I realize that sunlight was a natural necessity for my well-being, for I have found it, and it is all I hoped. But I must go back into the dungeon, and the necessity is more disagreeable than I can tell you. I am an average man in every respect save that I feel that I have never had an average man's chance in this matter of love, and fret because of it. That which I crave may be a mistake of the fancy, but I am not convinced of it; therefore I am not as philanthropic as those who have outgrown in experience an infatuation such as I feel for you. I have tried everything else, and have learned to be indifferent, with all my idols broken and dishonored at my feet; but there is a possibility in love which I can never know anything about."
While the girl was listening, there were times when Dorris thought she would interrupt him, and make the declaration which he had forbidden; but she controlled herself, and looked steadily away from him.
"It may occur to you as strange—itisstrange—that while I declare my love for you, I run away from it. In explanation I could only repeat what I have said before; that it is for your good that I have adopted this course. Had you listened to my brief story, you would now understand why my going away seems to be necessary; since you preferred not to, I can only say in general terms that nothing could happen, except good fortune, which would surprise me. I am surrounded by danger, and while my life has been one long regret, the greatest regret of all is that which I experience in leaving you. Were I to consult my own bent, I would deny all that I have intimated to my discredit, and make such love to you that you could not resist it; but I love you, and this course would not prove it. We are doing now what millions of people have done before us; making a sacrifice for the right against strong inclinations, and we should meet it bravely. There is no hesitation in my manner, I hope."
Annie Benton turned and looked at him, and saw that he was trembling and very much agitated.
"Then why are you trembling?" she asked.
"Because of the chill in the air, I presume," he answered, "for I am very determined to carry out my resolution. I might tremble with excitement in resolving to rescue a friend from danger, though it would not indicate a lack of courage. You are willing for me to go?"
"Since you say it is for the best," she replied, "yes."
Believing that he had said all that was necessary, Allan Dorris hesitated between going away and remaining. Walking over to the window, and looking out, he saw that the light he had been talking about was fading away from the earth, as it was fading away from him, and that the old night was coming back. A hill-top he saw in the distance he likened to himself; resisting until the last moment, but without avail, for the darkness was gradually climbing up its sides, and would soon cover it.
"You will no doubt think that I should have kept away from you when I saw that my presence was not objectionable, and that our acquaintance would finally result in this," he said, coming back to the girl, and standing by her side, "but I could not; let me acknowledge my fault, and say that I am sorry for it. I could not resist the temptation to enter the only presence which has ever afforded me pleasure, try hard as I could, so I kept it up until I am now forced to run away from it. Do I make my meaning clear?"
"Perfectly," she replied, without looking around.
"Life is so unsatisfactory that it affords nothing of permanent value except the love and respect of a worthy, intelligent, and agreeable woman. It is the favor I have sought, and found too late. It is fortunate that you are not as reckless as I am; otherwise no restraint would keep us apart. But for the respect I have for your good name, I would steal you, and teach you to love me in some far-away place."
"You have taught me already," the girl timidly replied, still looking away.
"Don't say that," Dorris said in alarm. "That pleases me, for it is depravity, and everything depraved seems to suit me. You must say nothing which pleases me, else I will fail in my resolve. Say everything you can to hurt my feelings, but nothing to please me."
"I cannot help saying it," she replied, rising from her seat at the organ, and facing him. "If it is depravity to love you, I like depravity, too."
"Annie," Dorris said, touching her arm, "be careful of what you say."
"I must say it," she returned, with a flushed face; "I am only a woman, and you don't know how much weakness that implies. I am flesh and blood, like yourself; but you have made love to me as though I were an unconscious picture. I fear that you do not understand womankind, and that you have made an idol of me; an idol which will fall, and break at your feet. My love for you has come to me as naturally as my years, and I want you to know when you go away that my heart will be in your keeping. Why may not I avow my love as well as you? Why may not I, too, express regret that you are going away?"
The girl asked the question with a candor which surprised him; there was the innocence of a child in her manner, and the enthusiasm of a woman thoroughly in earnest.
"For the reason that when I am gone it will be in the nature of things for you to forget me," he replied. "You are young, and do not know your heart as well as I know mine. In course of time you will probably form an honorable alliance;thenyou will regret having said this to me."
"It will always be a pleasure for me to remember how ardently I have loved you," she replied, trembling and faltering, as though not quite certain that the course she was pursuing was right. "I will never feel ashamed of it, no matter if I should live forever. It may not be womanly for me to say so; but I can never forget you. Your attentions to me have been so delicate, and so well calculated to win a woman's affection, that I want you to know that, but for this hindrance you speak of, your dream might be realized. If I am the Maid of Air, the Maid of Air returns your affection. Surely my regard for you may excuse my saying this, now that you are going away, for you may think of it with pleasure in your future loneliness. I appreciate your love so much that I must tell you that it is returned."
They were standing close together on the little platform in front of the organ, and the girl leaned against him in such a manner that he put his left arm around her shoulders to support her. Her head rested on his arm, and she was looking full into his face. The excitement under which she seemed to labor lent such a charm to her face that Allan Dorris thought that surely it must be the handsomest in the world.
"Kiss me," she said suddenly.
The suggestion frightened the great brawny fellow, who might have picked up his companion and ran away with her without the slightest inconvenience; for he looked around the room in alarm.
"I don't know whether I will or not," he replied, looking steadily at her. "Were you ever kissed before?"
"By my father; by no one else."
"Then I think I will refuse," he said, "though I would give twenty years of my life to grant your request. What a request it is! It appeals to me with such force that I feel a weakness in my eyes because of the warmth in my heart, and the hot blood never ran races through my veins before as it is doing now. You have complete possession of my heart, and I am a better man than I was before, for you are pure and good; if I have a soul, it has forgotten its immortality in loving this earthy being in my arms. But it is the proudest boast of a loyal wife that no lips save those of her husband ever touched hers, and my regard for you is such that I do not wish to detract from the peace of your future. If I have made an idol of you, let me go away without discovering my mistake; grant me the privilege of remembering you as the realization of all my dreaming. In a year from now you will only remember me to thank me for this refusal of your request."
"In a year from now I will feel just as I do now. I will never change. I will have only this to remember you by, and my acquaintance with you has been the only event in my life worth remembering.Pleasekiss me."
He hurriedly pressed her lips to his own, and looked around as though he half expected to be struck dead for the sacrilege, but nothing serious resulted, and the girl continued to talk without changing her position.
"I have never regretted the restraint which is expected of women until I knew you, for why should I not express my preferences as well as you? In my lonely, dreamy childhood, I had few acquaintances and fewer friends, and you have supplied a want which I hardly knew existed before. Ever since I can remember, I have longed so much to know the people in the great world from which you came that I accepted you as a messenger from them, and you interested and pleased me even more than I expected. My life has always been lonely, though not unhappy, and the people I read of in books I accepted as the people who lived outside of Davy's Bend, in the cities by the lakes and seas, where there is culture as well as plenty. I have been familiar with their songs, and played them on the organ when I should have been practising; everything I have read of them I have put to music, and played it over and over. Once I read of a great man who died, and who was buried from a church filled with distinguished mourners. The paper said that when the people were all in their seats, the voice of a great singer broke the stillness, in a song of hope, and I have imitated the voice on the organ, and imagined that I was playing a requiem over distinguished dust; but in future I shall think only of you when I play the funeral march. Since I have known you, I have thought of little else, and I shall mourn your departure as though you had always been a part of me. If I dared, I would ask you on my knees to remain."
"I have heard you play the songs to which you refer," Dorris replied musingly, "and I have thought that you played them with so much expression that, could their authors have listened to the performance, they would have discovered new beauties in them. I never knew a player before who could render the words of a song as well as the music. You do it, and with so much genius that I wonder that you have nothing but the cold, passionless notes to guide you. One dark afternoon you played 'I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,' and a savage could have told what the words were. The entire strength of the organ seemed to be united in the mournful air, and the timid accompaniment was peopled with the other characters in the play from which the song is taken. That represented you; but you have had me before the organ, telling all I knew, a hundred times. Although you have refused to hear my story, you seem to know it; for you have told it on the organ as many times as I have thought of it."
"If I have told your story on the organ," the girl said, "there must have been declarations in it that you were a brave, an honorable, and an unfortunate man, for I have always thought that of you. In spite of all you have said to me against yourself, I have never doubted this for a moment, and I would trust you to any extent."
"If I expect to carry out my resolution," Allan Dorris replied, as though in anger, though it was really an unspoken protest against doing a disagreeable thing, "I must hear no more of this; a very little more of what you have said, and retreat will be impossible. But before I leave you, let me say this: You once said I was an odd man; I will tell you why. I seem to be an odd man because you have heard every sentiment there is in my heart; I have kept nothing back. The men you have known were close-mouthed and suspicious, knowing that whatever they said was likely to be repeated, and this made them cautious. Place other men in my situation as to loneliness and misfortune, and I would not seem so unusual. There are plenty of staid business men who are as 'odd' as I am, but they have never been moved to tell their secrets, as I have done to you. Even were your honorable father to express the love he feels for your dead mother, it would sound sentimental and foolish, and surprise his acquaintances; but rest assured that every man will turn out a strange creature when you get his confidence. I say this in justice to myself, but it is the truth. When you know any man thoroughly, you either think more or less of him."
"I don't dare to tell you what is in my mind," Annie Benton said, as she stood beside him, his arm still around her. "It would startle you, and perhaps cause you to change the good opinion you have expressed of me; but there can be no harm in my saying this—every day of our acquaintance has brought me more respect and love for you. Let me pay you the poor compliment of saying that the more I know of you, the more I respect and honor you."
"I believe I deserve that," he replied. "I have more than my share of faults, but it has always been a comfort for me to know that my best friends are those who know most of me. But though I have faults, I am not the less sensitive. I believe that should I kill a man, I would as keenly feel the slights of my fellows as would one whose hands were clean. Should I become so offensive to mankind as to merit banishment, my wickedness would not cause me to forget my loneliness. My mistakes have been as trifling in their nature, and as innocent, as neglect to lock a door in a community of thieves; but I have been punished as severely as though I had murdered a town. The thieves have pursued and beaten me because I carelessly permitted them to steal my substance; and the privilege of touching a pure woman's lips with my own, and folding her in my arms, becomes a serious wrong, though it has only brought me a joy which other men have known, and no harm came of it."
"I do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl said, with some alarm, stepping away from him, as if frightened at her situation; "but on the score of friendship, I may say that I shall be very lonely when you are gone. Davy's Bend was never an agreeable place, but I was content with it until you came and filled me with ambition. I wanted to become worthy of the many kind things you said of me; I hoped that I might distinguish myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that you had predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, you will never know of it even if I succeed. I may regret your departure on this account, if nothing else. Idoregret it for another reason, but you reprimand me for saying it."
The dogged look which distinguished him when thinking came into his face again, and though he seemed to be paying no attention, he was listening with keen interest.
"Regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, after a protracted silence between them. "Your regret makes me stronger; it convinces me that I am not its only victim. Duty is a master we must all obey, though I wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom leads us in the direction we would travel. The busy world is full of people who are making sacrifices for duty as great as yours and mine; let us not fail in doing ours. In the name of the only woman I ever loved, I ask you to bid me good-by with indifference. For the good of the best woman in the world, play a joyful march while I leave your presence, never to return."
Without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at the organ, and Allan Dorris having awakened the sleeping janitor, the music commenced; a march of joy, to the time of which he left the church without once looking back.
But on reaching the outside he could not resist the temptation to look once more at Annie Benton; so he climbed up to his old position on the wall, and looked at her through the broken pane.
He saw her look around, as if to convince herself that he was gone, when the music changed from joy to regret while her face was yet turned toward the door at which he had departed. She was thinking, and expressing her thoughts with the pipes, and Allan Dorris knew what she was thinking as well as if she were speaking the words. There were occasional passages in the music so fierce and wild that he knew the girl was struggling with desperate thoughts; nor could she easily get rid of them, for the reckless tones seemed to be fighting for mastery over the gentler ones. The old baritone air again; but strong and courageous now, instead of mournful, and it seemed to be muttering that it had ceased to be forbearing, and had no respect for customs, or usages, or matters of conscience; indeed, there was a certain reckless abandon in it which caused the listener to compare it to the roaring song of a man reeling home to squalor and poverty—a sort of declaration that he liked squalor and poverty better than anything else. The mild notes of the accompaniment with the right hand—how like entreating human voices they sounded—a chord of self-respect, of love of home, of duty, in all their persuasive changes, urging the enraged baritone air to be reasonable, and return to the pacific state which it had honored so long; but the baritone air continued to threaten to break over all restraint, and become as wild and fierce as it sounded. Occasionally the chord of self respect, of love of home, and of duty, seemed to gain the mastery, but the wicked baritone broke away again, though it was growing more mild and tractable, and Allan Dorris thought that it must finally succumb to the eloquent appeal in the treble. "I have been mild and gentle all my life"—it seemed to be grumbling the words, as an apology for giving in, instead of declaring them as an excuse for breaking over all restraint—"and what good has it done me? Am I happier than those who have mingled joys with their regrets? My mild sacrifices have resulted in nothing, and I am tempted to try what a little spirit will do."
But the unruly spirit was pacified at last, and the music resolved itself into a lullaby of the kind which mothers sing to their children; it may have been a recollection of the player's own childhood, for it soon caused her to bow her head on the keyboard, and burst into tears.