Jane Benton, old Thompson's maiden sister, was as good as anybody, though no one urged the point as steadily as she did herself. Had the President walked into Jane Benton's presence, she would have believed that he had heard of her (although there was no reason that she should entertain that opinion) and had called to pay his respects; and instead of being timid in so great a presence, she would have expected him to be timid in hers.
There were people who cared to distinguish themselves: very well, let them do it; but Jane Benton did not have that ambition, though she had the ability, and could have easily made a name for herself which would have gone thundering down the ages. Let other people distinguish themselves and pay the price; Jane Benton was distinguished naturally—effort was not necessary in her case. If the people did not acknowledge it, it was their loss, not hers.
The Ancient Maiden was a book-worm, and devoured everything she heard of; but only with a determination to tear it to pieces, for of course no one could hope to amuse or instruct a lady of forty-five, who not only knew everything worth knowing already, but who had taught school in her younger days on the strength of a certificate ranging from ninety-eight to ninety-nine. This certificate had been issued by three learned men, each one of whom knew absolutely everything; and it was agreed by them that Jane Benton should have had an even hundred but for the circumstance that her "hand write" was a little crooked. This fault had since been remedied, and the Ancient Maiden still retained the certificate, and the recollection of the conclusion by the three learned men, as an evidence that, so far as education was concerned, she lacked nothing whatever.
When she consented to favor a book by looking through it, there was unutterable disgust on her features as she possessed herself of the contents, since she felt nothing but contempt for the upstarts who attempted to amuse or instruct so great a woman as Jane Benton. And her patience was usually rewarded.
Thompson! Annie! Ring the bells, and run here! The ignorant pretender has been found out! A turned letter in the book! A that for a which! A will for a shall! A would for a should! Hurrah! Announce it to the people! Another pretender found out! Lock the book up! It is worthless! Jane Benton's greatness, so long in doubt, is vindicated!
But while there is not a perfect book in existence now, there is likely to be one, providing Jane Benton lives three or four hundred years longer, for the thought has often occurred to her that she ought to do something for the race, although it does not deserve such a kindness, as a pattern for all future writers. She has done nothing in forty-five years; but she has been busy during that time, no doubt, in preparing for a book which will not only astonish the living, but cause the dead to crawl out of their graves, and feel ashamed of themselves. Let the people go on in their mad ignorance; Jane Benton is preparing to point out their errors, and in the course of the present century—certainly not later than toward the close of the next one—a new prophet will appear in such robes of splendid perfection that even the earth will acknowledge its imperfections, and creep off into oblivion.
But notwithstanding her rather remarkable conceit, Jane Benton was a useful woman. For fifteen years she had "pottered around," as old Thompson said, and made her brother's home a pleasant one. Since she could not set the world on fire, she said she did not want to, and at least knew her own home perfectly, and had it under thorough control. When old Thompson needed anything, and ransacked the house until he concluded that it had been burned up, his sister Jane could put her hand on the article immediately; and perhaps Jane Benton's genius, in which she had so much confidence, was a genius for attempting only what she could do well; for whatever her intentions were, she had certainly accomplished nothing, except to distinguish her brother's house as the neatest and cleanest in Davy's Bend.
Notwithstanding her lofty ambitions, and her marvellous capacity in higher walks, she was jealous of what she had really accomplished; and the servant girl who promised to be industrious and generally satisfactory around old Thompson's house was soon presented with her walking papers, for Jane Benton believed that she was the only woman alive who knew the secret of handling dishes without breaking them, or of sweeping a carpet without ruining it; therefore a servant who threatened to become a rival was soon sent away, and a less thrifty one procured, who afforded the mistress opportunity of regretting that the girls of recent years knew nothing, and stubbornly refused to learn. Old Thompson had been heard to say once, after his sister had ordered the cook to leave in an hour, that he would finally be called upon to send his daughter Annie away, for no other reason than that she was useful, and careful, and industrious, and sensible; but the Ancient Maiden had good sense, in spite of her eccentricities, and dearly loved her pretty niece; and it is probable that old Thompson only made the remark in fun.
Thompson Benton was too sensible a man to go hungry in anticipation of improbable feasts in the future; therefore his sister Jane and his daughter Annie were well provided for; and were seated in a rather elegant room in a rather elegant house, on a certain wet afternoon in the spring of the year, busy with their work. The girl had been quiet and thoughtful all day, but finally she startled her aunt by inquiring,—
"Aunt Jane, were you ever in love?"
The Ancient Maiden dropped her work, and looked at the girl in indignation and astonishment.
"Annie," she sharply said, "what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?"
The Ancient Maiden was particularly severe on the men who attempted to write books, but the sex in general was her abomination. Every man who paid court to a young woman, in Jane Benton's opinion, was a married man, with a large family of children; and though it sometimes turned out that those she accused of this offence were only twenty years old, or such a matter, she said that made no difference; they had married young, probably, and investigation would reveal that they had ten or twelve ragged children and a pale wife somewhere in poverty. Therefore the presumption of the girl in asking such a question caused her to repeat again, and with more indignation than before:—
"What do you mean by asking me such a question as that?"
Annie Benton was like her father in another particular; she was not afraid of Jane, for they both loved her; therefore she was not frightened at her indignation, but laughingly insisted on the question.
"Butwereyou ever in love?"
"Annie," her aunt replied, this time with an air of insulted dignity, "I shall speak to your father about this when he comes home to-night. The idea of a chit of a girl like you asking me if I have ever been in love! You have known me all your life; have I everactedas though I were in love?"
"The question is easy to answer," the girl persisted. "Yes or no."
Seeing that the girl was not to be put off, Jane Benton pulled a needle out of her knitting—for Thompson Benton wore knit socks to keep peace in the family, since his sister believed that should he go down town wearing a pair of the flimsy kind he kept for sale, he would return in the evening only to fall dead in her arms—and picked her teeth with it while she reflected. And while about it, her manner softened so much that, when she went out of the room soon after, Annie believed there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. She remained away such a length of time that the girl feared she had really offended the worthy woman, and was preparing to go out and look for her, when she came back wiping her eyes with her apron, and carrying a great packet of letters, which she threw down on the table in front of Annie.
"There!" she said pettishly. "Since you are so curious, read them."
The girl was very much amused at the turn affairs had taken, and, after breaking the string which held the letters together, looked over several of them. They were dated in the year Annie was born, and one seemed to have been written on her birthday. They all referred to her aunt in the most loving and extravagant terms possible; and while thinking how funny it was that her wrinkled aunt should be referred to as dear little angel, the Ancient Maiden said,—
"In love! I was crazy! And I can't laugh about it yet, though it seems to be so amusing to you."
"It only amuses me because I know now that you are like other women," the girl replied quietly. "I think more of you than ever, now that I know you have been in love."
"Well, you ought to think a good deal of me, then," the Ancient Maiden said, "for I was so crazy after the writer of those letters that I couldn't sleep. Love him! I thought he was different from any other man who ever lived, and I worshipped him; I made a god of him, and would have followed him to the end of the earth."
There was more animation in Aunt Jane's voice than Annie had ever noticed before, and she waved the knitting needle at her niece as though she were to blame for getting her into a love mess.
"He knew every string leading to my heart," the excited maid continued, "and he had more control over me than I ever had over myself. It was a fortunate thing that he was an honorable man. Now you know it all, and I feel ashamed of myself."
Miss Jane applied herself to knitting again, though she missed a great many stitches because of her excitement.
"But why didn't he marry you, since he loved you?" Annie inquired.
"Well, since youmustknow, he found a girl who suited him better," the Ancient Maiden replied. "But before that girl came in the way, hethoughthe loved me, and I was so well satisfied with his mistaken notion that I worshipped him. And if his old fat wife should die now, I'd marry him were he to ask me to. After you have lived as long as I have, you'll find out that fickleness is not such a great fault, after all. Why, sometimes it bothers me to have your father around, and a man can as easily tire of his wife or sweetheart as that!"
She snapped her fingers in such a manner that it sounded like the report of a toy pistol, and the girl looked at her in surprise.
"We're all fickle; you and I as well as the rest of them," she continued. "Had the wives of this country pleasant homes to go back to; were their fathers all rich men, for example, who would be glad to receive them, half of them—more than that, two thirds of them—would leave their husbands, as they ought to do; but a wife usually has no other home than that her husband has made for her, and she gets along the best she can. The men are no worse than the women; we are all fickle, fickle, fickle. As sure as we are all selfish, we are all fickle. If I were married to a rich man who treated me well, I would be more apt to love him than one who was poor, and who treated me badly; sometimes we forget our own fickleness in our selfishness. Look at the widowers; how gay they are! Look at the widows; how gaytheyare! I have known men and women so long that I feel like saying fiddlesticks when I think of it."
"But father is a widower, Aunt Jane," the girl said, "and he is not gay."
"Well, he had to run away with his wife, to get her," the Ancient Maiden replied, after some hesitation. "There seems to be a good deal in love, after all, in cases where people make a sacrifice for it. These runaway matches, if the parties to it are sensible, somehow turn out well."
"Did father ever think any less of my mother because she ran away with him?" the girl asked.
"No," her aunt replied. "He thought more of her for it, I suppose. Anyway, I never knew another man to be as fond of his wife as he was."
Annie Benton and the Ancient Maiden pursued their work in silence for a while, when the girl said,—
"I want to make a confession to you, too, Aunt Jane. I am in love with Allan Dorris."
"Don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vexation. "I have known it for six months. But it won't do you any good, for he is going away on the early train to-morrow morning. Your father told me so this morning, and he seemed glad of it. You haven't kept your secret from him, either."
To avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl walked over to the window, and looked out. Allan Dorris was passing in the road, and she felt sure that he was walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her; perhaps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in which she lived. But she did not show herself, although he watched the house closely until he passed out of sight.
"I supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning to her chair again. "I have always thought that any girl who is desperately in love cannot hide it; but I wanted to talk to you about it, and I am glad you told me what you did, for I can talk more freely after having heard it. I have no one else to make a confidant of, and I am very much concerned about it. The matter is so serious with me that I am scared."
"Don't be scared, for pity's sake," the Ancient Maiden replied, with a show of her old spirit. "They all feel that way, but they soon get over it. When I was in love I wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but everything went on just as usual. I thought the people were watching me in alarm, fearing I would do something desperate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, and Ihadto get over it, whether I wanted to or not. You will feel differently after he has been gone a week."
"The certainty that I will not is the reason I have spoken to you," Annie continued gravely. "Allan Dorris loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown me loved you before the other girl came in his way; and I love him as you have loved the writer of the letters all these years. You have never forgotten your lover; then why should you say that I will forget mine within a week? What would you advise me to do?"
"Ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding up her work with an unsteady hand. "No matter how I should advise you, I should finally come to believe that I had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. It is usually a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromising lovers turn out the best. I cannot advise you, Annie; I do not know."
Jane Benton imagined that Dorris was going away because Annie would not marry him; but the reverse was really the case,—he was going away for fear she would become his wife.
"My greatest fear is," the girl continued again, "that I do not feel as a woman should with reference to it. I would not dare to tell you how much concerned I am; I am almost afraid to admit it to myself. I am thoroughly convinced that his going away will blight my life, and that I shall always feel toward him as I do now; yet there are grave reasons why I should not become his wife. Do you think the women are better than the men?"
The Ancient Maiden leaned back in her chair to think about it, and picked her teeth with the knitting-needle again.
"What is your honest opinion?" the girl insisted.
"Sometimes I think they are, and sometimes I think they are not," the aunt replied, bending over her work again. "When I hear a man's opinion of a woman, I laugh to myself, for they know nothing of them. The women all seem to be better than they really are, and the men all seem to be worse than they really are; I have often thought that. Women have so manylittlemean ways, in their conduct toward one another, and are so innocent about it; but when a man is mean, he is mean all over, and perfectly indifferent to what is thought about him. A lot of women get together, and gabble away for hours about nothing, but the men are either up to pronounced mischief or they are at work."
"If you were in love with a man, would you have as much confidence in his honesty as you had in your own?" the girl asked.
"Certainly," her aunt replied promptly.
"Then won't you advise me? Please do; for I have as much confidence in Allan Dorris as I have in myself."
"If you will see that all the doors are fastened," Jane Benton replied excitedly, "I will. Quick! Before I change my mind."
The girl did as she was directed, and hurried back to her aunt's side.
"Since there is no possibility of anyone hearing," Jane Benton continued, "I will tell you the best thing to do in my judgment; but whatever comes of it, do not hold me responsible. Think over the matter carefully, and then do whatever you yourself think best. No one can advise you like yourself. You are a sensible girl, and a good girl, and I would trust your judgment fully, and so would your father, though he would hardly say so. There; that's enough onthatsubject. But you can depend on one thing: there is a grand difference between a lover and a husband; and very few men are as fond of their wives as they were of their sweethearts. All the men do not improve on acquaintance like your father, and I have known girls who were pretty and engaging one year who were old women the next; matrimony has that effect on most of them, and you should know it. The women do the best they can, I suppose, but you can't very well blame a man sometimes. In 1883 he falls in love with a fresh and pretty girl, and marries her; in 1884 she has lost her beauty and her freshness, and although he feels very meanly over it, somehow his feelings have changed toward her. Of course he loves her a little, but he is not the man he was before they were married—not a bit of it. A good many husbands and wives spend the first years of their marriage in thinking of the divorce courts, but after they find out that they should have known better than to expect complete happiness from matrimony, and that they are not different from other people, they get on better. Since you have locked the door to hear the truth, I hope you are satisfied with it."
"But is itnecessaryfor girls to become old so soon?" Annie inquired.
"Well, I don't suppose that it is," her aunt replied, "but the men had better expect it; and the women had better expect that since there never was yet an angel in pants, there never will be one. The trouble is, not the men and women, but the false notions each entertain toward the other. Now run and open the doors, or I'll faint."
Annie Benton, after opening the doors and watching her aunt revive, did not seem at all impressed by what she had heard; indeed, she acted as though she did not believe it, so the Ancient Maiden gave her another dose.
"I imagine I have been rather satisfactory to your father," she said, "but had I been his wife I doubt if we would have got along so well. A man who is rather a good fellow is often very mean to his wife; and it seems to be natural, too, for he does not admit it to himself, and thinks he has justification for his course. I don't know what the trouble is, but I know that the most bitter hatreds in the world are those between married people who do not get along. Since you are so curious about matrimony, I'll try and give you enough of it. Even a man who loves his wife will do unjust things toward her which he would not do to a sister he was fond of; and there is something about marriage which affects men and women as nothing else will. There are thousands of good husbands, but if you could see way down to the bottom of men's wicked hearts not one in ten would say he was glad he had married. That's a mean enough thing to say about the women, I hope, and if you do not understand what my real preferences in your case are, you must be blind."
Thompson Benton came in soon after, and they spent a very quiet evening together. Annie retired to her own room early, and when she came to bid her father good-night, tears started in her eyes.
"What is the matter with the girl?" he asked his sister after Annie had disappeared.
Jane Benton did not reply for a long time, keeping her eyes on the pages of a book she held in her hand, but at last she said,—
"I don't know."
Thompson Benton must have noticed that his sister was nervous, and had he followed her up the stairs when she retired for the night, he must have marvelled that she went into Annie's room, and kissed her over and over, and then went hurriedly away.
The regular patronage of the "Apron and Password," like the attendance at a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, but exceedingly respectable.
A gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name of Ponsonboy, and who professed to be a lawyer, usually occupied the head of the one long table which staggered on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when his place was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enough occasionally, Ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his companions were oppressed with the fear that they would be called upon to testify against him in court for violence.
The minister, who occupied the seat next to Ponsonboy, and who was of uncertain age himself, could demonstrate to a certainty that the legal boarder was at least forty-five, but the legal boarder nevertheless had a great deal to say about the necessity which seemed to exist for the young men to take hold, and rescue Davy's Bend from the reign of "the fossils," a term which was applied to most of the citizens of the town after the other epithets had been exhausted, and as but few of them knew what a fossil was, they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal.
Ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only be pleased in two ways—by accusing him of an intention to marry any stylish girl of twenty, or of an intention to remove to Ben's City, which he was always threatening to do.
"It would be useless for me to deny that I have had flattering offers," it was his custom to reply, when asked if there was anything new with reference to his contemplated change of residence. "But I am deuced timid. I came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extra shirt in the other, and I don't want to make a change until I fully consider it."
It was a matter of such grave importance that Ponsonboy had already considered it fifteen years, and regularly once a year during that time he had arranged to go, making a formal announcement to that effect to the small but select circle around the table, the members of which either expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him in a few months. But always at the last moment Ponsonboy discovered that the gentleman who had been making the flattering offers wanted to put too much responsibility on him, or something of that kind, whereupon the good lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, were happy again.
It was true that the legal boarder came to Davy's Bend a poor boy, if a stout man of thirty without money or friends may be so referred to; it was also true that he was poor still, though he was no longer a boy; but Ponsonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his friends were concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the door of the town, as they all did. He was property poor, he said, and values had decreased so much of late years, that he was barely able to pay his taxes, although he really possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble-down rookery on which there was a mortgage. But Ponsonboy, whose first name was Albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, so long as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich and distinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable impostor, Davy's Bend.
The good man on his right, the Rev. Walter Wilton, and pastor of the old stone church where Annie Benton was organist, was a bachelor, like Ponsonboy; but, like Ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as a bachelor, but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out a lady worthy of his affections.
Close observers remarked that age was breaking out on good Mr. Wilton in spots, like the measles in its earlier stages; short gray hairs peeped out at the observer from his face, and seemed to be waving their arms to attract attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so long that it was certain that some time he would become old in a night. He walked well enough,now, and looked well enough; but when he forgets his pretence of youth, then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some fine morning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand.
When it was said of Rev. Walter Wilton that he was pious, the subject was exhausted; there was nothing more to say, unless you chose to elaborate on piety in general. He knew something of books, and read in them a great deal, but old Thompson Benton was in the habit of saying that if he ever had an original idea in his head, it was before he came to the Bend as a mild menace to those whose affairs did not permit of so much indolent deference to the proprieties.
The Reverend Wilton did not gossip himself, but he induced others to, by being quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a day Ponsonboy and his assistant on the left laid a morsel before him, which he inquired into minutely—but with the air of a man who intended to speak to the erring parties; not as a gossip. Reverend Wilton never spoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he ever known to speak a good one, but he always gave those around him to understand by his critical indifference to whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to desert his post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the abyss out of which he kept them with the greatest difficulty, he would certainly show them how the affairs of men should be properly conducted.
Too good for this world, but not good enough for the next, Reverend Wilton only existed, giving every sort of evidence that, were it not unclerical, he would swear at his salary (which was less than that of a good bricklayer), denounce his congregation for good and sufficient reasons, cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions; but his trade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, with a great deal of time on his hands in which to criticise busy people, which he did without saying a word against them.
Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, sat on Ponsonboy's left; a tall and solidly built lady of forty-five, who was so very good as to be disagreeable. The people dreaded to see her come near them, for her mission was certain to be one of charity, and Mrs. Whittle's heart was always bleeding for somebody. Summer and winter alike, she annoyed the people by telling them of "duties" which were not duties at all; and finally she was generally accepted as the town nuisance, although Mrs. Whittle herself believed that she was quite popular because of the good she intended to accomplish, but which seemed to be impossible because of the selfishness of the people. Thompson Benton had given it out flat that if she ever came bothering around him, he would give her the real facts in the case, instead of putting his name on her subscription paper, but for some reason she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts, whatever they were. She regarded old Thompson, however, as a mean man, and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of or cared nothing about.
Old Thompson was seldom seen at church on Sunday evening, therefore Mrs. Whittle felt quite sure that he was prowling around with a view of safe-blowing, or something of that kind, and she never referred to him except to intimate that he was up to mischief of the most pronounced sort. A man who was not at church on Sunday evening, in the opinion of Mrs. Whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, or robbing somebody, for where else could he be? Mrs. Whittle only recognized two classes of men; those who were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons; and in her head, which was entirely too small for the size of her body, there was no suspicion of a middle ground. Those who craved the attention of Mrs. Whittle found it necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or a sinner.
Theoretically Mrs. Whittle was a splendid woman, and certainly a bad woman in no particular except that she carried her virtues to such an extent that the people disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for it, not feeling quite certain that they had a right to find fault with one who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to teach others neatness, and thrift, and the virtues generally.
If she accomplished no good, as old Thompson Benton stoutly asserted, it was certain she did some harm, for the people finally came to neglect affairs in which they would otherwise have taken a moderate interest because of their dislike of Mrs. Whittle. A great many others who were inclined to attend to their own affairs (which are always sufficient to occupy one's time, heaven knows) were badgered to such an extent by Mrs. Whittle that they joined her in various enterprises that resulted in nothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and finally there was a general and a sincere hope that blunt Thompson Benton would find opportunity to come to the rescue of the people.
Three times a day this trio met, and three times each day it was satisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with Davy's Bend, as well as everything in it, including Allan Dorris. The new occupant of The Locks was generally popular with the people, but the hotel trio made the absurd mistake of supposing that they were the people, therefore they talked of Dorris as though he were generally hated and despised. They were indignant, to begin with, because he did not covet the acquaintance of the only circle in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on, and he still made no effort to know them, they could come to only one conclusion; that he was deserving of their severest denunciation.
Could Thompson Benton have known of the pious conclusions to which they came concerning his child, and which she no more deserved than hundreds of other worthy women deserve the gossip to which they are always subjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given the two men broken heads, and the woman the real facts in her case which he had been promising; but there is a destiny which protects us from an evil which is as common as sunshine, and Thompson Benton was not an exception to the rule.
It was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper and remain late, greatly to the disgust of the cook and the man-of-all-work, and, surrounding the table in easy positions, they gossipped to their heart's content, at last wandering away to their respective homes, very well satisfied with one another, if with nothing else.
It was after nine o'clock when they got away on the evening with which we have to do, and by the time Davy had eaten his own supper and put the room in order for the morning, it was ten. Hurriedly putting up a package of whatever was at hand for Tug, he was about starting out at the kitchen door when he met Mr. Whittle on the steps. He had somehow come into possession of a long and wicked-looking musket, which he brought in with him, and put down near the door connecting the kitchen with the dining-room. Seeing Davy's look of surprise, he seated himself in Ponsonboy's place, and explained.
"Poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when it bites, but it lacks range, and henceforth I carry a gun. How was Uncle Albert to-night?"
Silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and replied that Mr. Ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he should hear himself referred to as Uncle Albert.
"Oh, would he?" Tug inquired, sighting at his companion precisely as he might have sighted along the barrel of his musket. "That man is fifty years old if he is a day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddy tricks with me. I wouldn't stand it; I know too much about him. I have known Uncle Albert ever since he was old enough to marry, and I know enough to hang him, the old kicker. I've known him to abuse the postmaster for not giving him a letter with money in it, although he didn't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and whenever he spells a word wrong, and gets caught at it, he goes around telling that he has found a typographical error in the dictionary. What did he say about me to-night?"
"He said—I hope you won't believe that I think so,"—Davy apologized in advance—"that you robbed the only client you ever had of a thousand dollars."
"Didhe, though?" Tug impudently inquired. "Well, I'll give him half if he'll prove it, for I need the money. Uncle Albert hears what is said about me, and I hear what is said about him. If he'll make a date with me, I'll exchange stories with him; and he won't have any of the best of it, either. The people sometimes talk about as good a man as I am, and even were I without faults, there are plenty of liars to invent stories, so you can imagine that they give it to Uncle Albert tolerable lively."
Tug did not mingle with the people a great deal, but he knew about what they were saying, and when talking to Silas he did not hesitate to quote them to substantiate any position he saw fit to take. He had a habit of putting on his hat on these occasions, and inviting Silas to accompany him out in the town to see the principal people, in order that they might own to what Tug had credited them with saying. But Silas always refused to go, not doubting that his friend's inventions were true, so it happened that Tug made out rather strong cases against his enemies.
"I can stand up with the most of them," he said, with an ill humor to which hunger lent a zest; "and them that beat me, I can disgrace with their poor relations. Show me the man that can't be beat if you go at him right, and you may hang me with a thread. Them that are well-behaved have shiftless relations, and I'll get them drunk, and cause them to hurrah for 'Uncle Bill,' or 'Aunt Samantha,' or whoever it may be, in front of their fine houses. I pride myself on my meanness, and I'll not be tromped on. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone, and I'll not be stoned. You can bet on that, if you want to."
Tug proceeded with his meal in silence until Silas said to him that Reverend Wilton was a good man. Silas had a habit of inducing Tug to abuse his enemies by praising them, and the ruse never failed.
"Well, don't he get paid for being good?" Tug replied, waving a kitchen fork in the air like a dagger. "Ain't that his business? It's no more to his credit to say that he is good, than to say that Silas Davy is a hotel Handy Andy. If you say that he knows a good deal about books, I will say, so does Hearty Hampton know a good deal about mending shoes, for it's his trade. Shut Hearty up in a room, and pay him to post himself regarding certain old characters he cares nothing about, and pay him well, and in the course of years he will be able to speak of people, events, and words which you, having been busy all the time, will know nothing about. He ought to be good; it's his business. I always know what a preacher is going to say when he opens his mouth, for don't I know what he's hired to say? I don't like good men, any way, but a man who is paid to be good, and expects me to admire him for it, will find—well, I'll not do it, that's all. How's the old lady?"
There was a faint evidence that Tug was about to laugh at the thought of his divorced wife, and his cheeks puffed out as a preliminary, but he changed his mind at the last moment, and carefully sighted at Silas, as if intending to wing his reply, like a bird from a trap.
"She is uncommonly well, for her," Silas said, looking meekly at his companion. "She is almost gay."
"Oh, the young thing;isshe," Tug retorted. "Do you know what she reminds me of? An old man in a dress trying to imitate a girl."
There was unutterable meanness in Mr. Whittle's last remark, and when he looked around the room with fierce dignity, he seemed to be wondering why any one should continue to live in the face of his displeasure.
"I heard her say to-night, when I brought in a third lot of cakes, that you were the bane of her life," Silas said, timidly, and dodging his head to one side, as if expecting Tug Whittle to jump at him for repeating the scandalous story. "Although she says she is heart-broken, I notice she eats mighty well; for her."
"And I suppose Reverend Good and Uncle Alfred encouraged her," Tug replied. "What good husbands bachelors imagine they would be, and what miserable old growlers they turn out. Before a man is married he takes a great deal of comfort to himself in thinking what a kind, indulgent husband and father he would be, and how different from other men, but they soon fall with a dull sickening thud to the level of the rest of us. It's easy enough to be a good husband in theory, and it's easy enough to be brave in theory, but when the theorists come down to actual business, they are like the rest of us. It's like an actor in a show. He wants to find a villain, and punish him, and the villain appears about that time, and makes no resistance, and is beaten to great applause, finally shrinking away while the other fellow looks ferociously at him, but it is not that way in real life. The villain fights in real life, and usually whips. If I knew that the men I dislike would stand it peaceable, like the villains in a show, I'd beat 'm all to death; but as it is, I am a coward, like Ponsonboy, and you, and Armsby, and all the rest of them; except Allan Dorris—there's a man who'd fight. When I read in books about brave men, it makes me feel ashamed, until I remember that the men in actual life are not like those in the books. What did Her Ladyship say about Hector?"
Mrs. Whittle's first husband had been a certain Hector Harlam, with whose history Silas was very familiar from his association with Tug, so he answered,—
"She wiped away a tear, and regretted his death. She seemed greatly affected,—for her."
"She can't possibly regret his death more than I do," Tug said. "He appreciated her; I never did, and I am sorry she does not join Hector in glory, or wherever he is, for she is no earthly good in Davy's Bend. She told me once that he always called her his baby."
There was no keeping it in now; the thought of his wife being called a "baby" was so absurd to Tug that he was about to laugh. His cheeks swelled out as though the laugh came up from below somewhere, and he found it necessary to swallow it, after which there was a faint smile on his face, and a gurgle in his throat. When Mr. Whittle smiled, it was such an unusual proceeding that his scalp had a habit of crawling over towards his face, to take a look, which it did in this instance, and then went back to its old position at the top of his head. It was a dreadful laugh, but Silas was used to it, and was not alarmed.
"That woman wants to be a man the worst way," the old scoundrel went on to say. "I hope it accounts for the circumstance that she never looks like a woman should. A white dress on a woman—arealwoman, understand; not an imitation one—looks handsome; and I never see a girl dressed in white that I do not fall in love with her, but when the old lady puts it on, with a frill at her neck, or any such trifling thing, I want to find a woodpile and an axe to cut off my feet. I don't know why anyone should want to be a man; I know what a man is, and I wonder at this strange ambition of the old lady. I never see a man that I don't want to spit on him. Ugh!"
He shrugged his shoulders in unutterable disgust, but soon modified his manner, as Davy began talking of another matter.
"Barney Russell, of Ben's City, was here to-day," the little man said. "He used to live in Davy's Bend; I suppose you remember him."
"There's another feller I don't like," Mr. Whittle replied, with a snort. "He comes up here regularly once a month to crow over us, and tell around that he has two overcoats; one for winter, and another for spring. Some say he has seven canes, a different one for every day in the week; but he ain't half the man Dorris is, although he carries silk handkerchiefs with a red 'R' in the corner. If I should leave Davy's Bend, I'd never come back, as he does; for I have done so many contemptible things here that I wouldn't want to be reminded of them by seeing the place again. I don't blame Barney, though, for having two overcoats," Tug continued thoughtfully. "Next to two pairs of shoes, it's the greatest luxury a rich man can afford—I'd own two overcoats myself if I had the money. A man who has two overcoats and two pairs of shoes, and uses a knife to cut his tobacco, instead of biting it off like a pig, is ready to die; there will be little left in the world for him to regret after he's gone,—but to return to the serious business of life: it is usually on a Wednesday when the shadow appears. This is his night, and I'm looking for him."
He turned his big eye toward the corner where he had left the musket, and, seeing it was safe, resumed,—
"I have never been of any use to a single human being in all my life, but I intend to make myself useful to Allan Dorris by shooting the shadow. Give me that gun."
Silas went over to where the gun was standing, and returned with it in his hand. Placing his finger about half way up the barrel, and following it with his great eye, Tug said,—
"It is loaded to there. Thompson Benton trusted me for the ammunition, though he said he knew he would never get the money. I have a notion to pay him now, for contrariness. Have you fifty cents about you?"
Silas carefully went through his pockets, as if he were not quite sure about it, but after a long examination replied that he hadn't a cent.
"Well, it's no great matter, though you ought to keep money about you; I am liable to need it. But, if let alone by the shadow, Allan Dorris will marry Annie Benton, and become a happy man, which he has never been before. I don't know what he has been up to before he came here, and I don't care, for I like him, and I am going out now to get a shot at his enemy."
Without further words he walked out, followed by Silas, who carefully locked the kitchen door and put the key in his pocket. Viewed at a distance, the pair looked like a man and a boy out hunting; the boy lagging behind to carry the game.
It was a bad night, for which the Bend was famous, and though it was not raining, there was so much moisture in the air from a recent rain, that it occurred to Silas, as he went limping along towards The Locks, for they walked in that direction, that if Tug should find the shadow, and fire his gun at it, the discharge would precipitate another shower; for the prop under the water in the sky seemed to be very unsubstantial and shaky that night.
It had been raining at intervals all day, and the two men floundered along in the mud until they reached the church which stood near Allan Dorris's house, where Tug stopped awhile to consider. Coming to a conclusion after some deliberation, he pulled two long boards up from the church steps, and, giving the gun to Silas to hold, he carried them to the middle gable of the building, on the side looking towards The Locks. Climbing up on the window-sill, he placed one end of each board on the wall which surrounded The Locks, and which was only a few feet from the church, and the other on the window-sash, pulling the upper one down to aid the lower one in holding his weight, and allowing one end of each board to protrude into the church. Then climbing up, and straddling one of the boards, he took his gun, and motioned his companion to follow.
When Davy seated himself by the side of his friend, he found that the low gable would protect them from the rain, should it come on, and that from where they sat they commanded a view of Dorris's window; the one above the porch where they had once seen the shadow appear, and in which a light now appeared. Silas felt certain that it was Tug's intention to wait there all night for a shot, and he made himself as comfortable as possible.
Occasionally he fell into a light doze, but on coming out of it, by losing his balance, he saw that Tug was still intently watching the window, with the musket in his hands ready for use.
Two hours passed in this manner, when the patience of Silas was rewarded by seeing Tug crane his neck, and look intently through the trees. Silas looked himself, and saw a man's head slowly rising to the porch roof from below. It came up in full view, and then a part of the body was seen as the shadow climbed over the low railing. As near as Silas could make out, the man wormed himself around, and finally stood upon the porch railing to look in at the top of the window; so that only a part of his head and none of his body could be seen from where the men were.
Although he heard Tug cock the gun when the head first appeared, he seemed to be waiting for a larger mark to shoot at; for there was nothing to be seen except a part of a hat. Occasionally this would be withdrawn, but it would soon appear again, and remain motionless a long time, as though the wearer was intently gazing at something transpiring in the room which greatly interested him. Tug did not seem at all excited, as Silas was, but sat watching the shadow, as motionless as a stone.
After a longer disappearance than usual, during which time Tug became very nervous, the hat came in view again, and Silas said softly,—
"Suppose it should disappear, and never come back?"
Apparently Tug had not thought of this possibility, for he hurriedly threw the gun to his shoulder, aimed a moment, and fired. The report was tremendous, and seemed to frighten Tug himself; for he hurriedly jumped down, and softly raised the sash into position, replaced the boards on the steps, and set out toward the town. Reaching the vicinity of the hotel, he waited until Silas came up, and said,—
"Sleep in your own bed to-night; we must not be found together."
So saying he disappeared, and Silas crept to his lonely room to wonder what Allan Dorris would find when he went out to investigate the shooting.
There had been two days of rain already, and Allan Dorris sat in his lonely room at ten o'clock at night, listening to its ceaseless patter at the windows, and on the roof, and its dripping from the eaves, thinking that when the sun came out again he would go away and leave it, and remove to a place which would always be in the shadow. Davy's Bend was noted for its murky weather, and the nights were surely darker there than elsewhere; but he felt that after his departure he would think of the sun as always shining brightly around The Locks, and through the dirty town, even lighting up the dark woods across the river, which seemed to collect a little more darkness every night than the succeeding day could drive out; for Annie Benton would remain, and surely the sun could not resist the temptation to smile upon her pretty face.
Davy's Bend, with all its faults, would always remain a pleasant memory with Allan Dorris, and he envied those who were to remain, for they might hope to see Annie Benton occasionally pass on her way to church, and be better for it.
He loved Annie Benton to such an extent that he would rather be thousands of miles away from her than within sight of the house in which she lived, since he had sworn not to ask her to share his life; and the next morning before daylight he intended to go to some far-away place,—he did not know where,—and get rid of the dark nights, and the rain, and the step on the stair, and the organ, and the player who had exerted such an influence over him.
He had not been able to sell The Locks at the price he paid, although the people had been grumbling because they were not offered the bargain originally; so he intended to turn it over to Mrs. Wedge, and poor Helen, and the noises and spectres which were always protesting against his living there at all, and become a wanderer over the face of the earth. Perhaps his lonely life of a year in The Locks would cause another ghost to take up its residence in the place, and join poor Helen in moaning and walking through the rooms.
Mrs. Wedge had disappeared an hour before, her eyes red from weeping, but she was coming back at three o'clock in the morning, at which time Dorris intended to leave for the railroad station; so Dorris settled himself in his chair to wait until the hour for his departure arrived.
How distinct the step on the stair to-night! A hundred times it had passed up and down since Allan Dorris sat down a few hours before; and the dripping rain at the windows made him think of sitting up with a body packed in ice. Drip; drip; drip; and the ghostly step so distinct that he thought the body he was watching must have tired of lying in one position so long, and was walking about for exercise.
The light burned low under its shade, and the other side of the room was in deep shadow. He thought of it as a map of his life; for it was entirely dark and blank, except the one ray in the corner, which represented Davy's Bend and Annie Benton. Yet he had determined to go back into the shadow again, and leave the light forever; to exist once more in toil and discontent, hoping to tire himself by excitement and exertion into forgetfulness, and sleep, and death.
Death! Is it so dreadful, after all? Dorris argued the question with himself, and came to the conclusion that if it meant rest and forgetfulness he would welcome it. There had been a great deal of hope in his life, but he was convinced now that he was foolish for entertaining it at all, since nothing ever came of it. Perhaps his experience had been that of other men; he gave up one hope only to entertain another, but experience had taught him that hope was nothing more than a solace for a wretched race. The old hope that they will be better to-morrow, when they will get on with less difficulty and weary labor; but to-morrow they die, and their children hope after them, and are disappointed, and hope again.
Should Death open the door, and walk in to claim him, Dorris believed he would be ready, since there was nothing in the future for him more pleasant than the past had offered. He did not believe he was a morbid man, or one given to exaggerating the distress of his own condition, but he would give up life as he might give up anything else which was not satisfactory, and which gave no promise of improvement.
How distinctly the step is climbing the stair! He had never heard it so plainly before, but the faltering and hesitation were painfully natural; he had heard it almost every night since coming to the house, but there was a distinctness now which he had never remarked before. A long pause on the landing; poor Helen dreading to go into the baby's room, he thought, whither she was drawn so often from her grave. But it advanced to the door of the room in which Dorris sat, and stopped again; he drew his breath in gasps—perhaps it was coming in!
A timid knock at the door!
The face of the listener turned as pale as death, and he trembled violently when he stood upon his feet. Should he open the door or lock it! Going up to the fire, he stirred the smouldering coals until there was a flood of light in the room, and turned up the lamp to increase the illumination. Still he hesitated. Suppose he should open the door, and find poor Helen standing there in her grave-clothes! Suppose she should drop on her knees, and ask for her child, holding out her fleshless fingers to him in supplication, and stare at him with her sightless sockets?
After hesitating a long time, he went to the door and threw it wide open, at the same time springing back from it in quick alarm.
Annie Benton!
He had firmly expected to see the ghost of poor Helen; instead he saw a fresh and beautiful girl, but so excited that she could scarcely speak. There was a look of reckless determination in her face which made Allan Dorris fear for the moment that she had gone mad, and, strolling about the town, had concluded, in her wild fancy, to murder him for some imagined wrong.
"How you frightened me!" he said, coming close to her. "Just before you rapped, the ghost of poor Helen had been running up and down the stair, as if celebrating my resolution to leave The Locks, and give it over to her for night walking. You have been out in the storm, and are wet and cold. Come in to the fire."
The girl crossed the threshold, and entered the room, but did not go near the fire. She seemed to be trying to induce her hot brain to explain her presence there, for she turned her back to him, as if in embarrassment.
"I can no longer control myself," Annie Benton said, facing Dorris with quivering lips, "and I have come to give myself to you, body and soul. I am lost to restraint and reason, and I place myself in the hands of him who has brought this about, for I am no longer capable of taking care of myself. Do what you please with me; I love you so much that I will be satisfied, though disgrace comes of it. I will never leave you again, and if you go away, I will go with you. I have loved you against my reason ever since I knew you, for you always told me I must not, and I restrained myself as best I could. But I cannot permit you to go away unless you take me with you. O, Allan, promise me that you will not go away," she said, falling on her knees before him. "Do this, and I will return home, to regret this rashness forever. If you do not, I will remain, let the consequences be what they may."
Dorris looked at the girl in wonder and pity, for there was touching evidence in her last words that she was greatly distressed; but he could only say, "Annie! what are you doing!"
"You have taught me such lessons in love that I have gone mad in studying them," she continued, standing beside him again, "and there is nothing in this world, or the world to come, that I would not give to possess you. I relinquish my father, and my home, and my hope of heaven, that I may be with you, if these sacrifices are necessary to pacify my rebellion. If you have been playing upon my feelings during our acquaintance, and were not sincere, you have captured me so completely that I am your slave. But if you were in earnest, I shall always be glad that I took this step, and never feel regret, no matter what comes of it. Did you think I was made of stone, not to be moved by your appeals to me? I am a woman, and every sentiment you have given utterance to during our acquaintance has found response in my heart. It may be that you did not know differently, for there is too much sentiment in the world about women, and not enough knowledge. But I did not deserve all the good you said about me; it made me blush to realize that much that you have said in my praise was not true, though I loved you for what you said. But I show my weakness now. I could not resist the temptation to come here, and, as you have often told me, when anyone starts to travel the wrong road, the doors and gates are all open.Yourswere all open to-night, and I came here without resistance."
Dorris was too much frustrated to attempt to explain how his front gate and door came open, which was, perhaps, the result of carelessness; but he seemed as much alarmed as though a ghost, instead of his sweetheart, had come in at them. Without knowing exactly what he did, he attempted to take her wet wrap, but she stepped back from him excitedly.
"Don't touch me!" she said excitedly. "Speak to me!"
"Sit down, and take off your wet wrap," he answered, "and I will."
She unfastened a hook at her throat, and the garment fell to the floor. Her dress had been soiled by the walk through the rain, and her hair was dishevelled; but she never looked so handsome before as she did when she stood in front of Dorris, radiant with excitement. But instead of speaking to her, as he had promised, Dorris sat motionless for a long time, looking at the floor. The girl watched him narrowly, and thought he trembled; indeed he was agitated so much that he walked over to the window, and stood looking out for a long time.
"You say you could not resist the temptation to love me, though yousaidit was wrong," the excited girl continued. "Nor could I help loving you when you asked me to, though you said I should not. You never spoke to me in your life that you did not ask me to love you. Everything you said seemed so sincere and honest, that I forgot my own existence in my desire to be with you in your loneliness, whatever the penalty of the step I am taking may be. I have so much confidence in you, and so much love for you, that I cannot help thinking that I am doing right, and that I never will regret it. Speak to me, and say that, no difference what the world may say, you are pleased; I care only for that."
A picture, unrolled from the heavens, has appeared on the outside, and Allan Dorris is looking at it through the window. A long road, through a rough country, and disappearing in misty distance; travellers coming into it from by-ways, some of whom disappear, while others trudge wearily along. There are difficulties in the way which seem insurmountable, and these difficulties are more numerous as the travellers fade into the distance; and likewise the number of travellers decreases as the journey is lengthened. At length only one traveller is to be seen, a mere speck along the high place where the difficult road winds. He tries to climb a hill, beyond which he will be lost to view; but he fails until another traveller comes up, when they help each other, and go over the hill together, waving encouragement to those who are below; into the mist, beyond which no human eye can look.
"During our entire acquaintance," Dorris said finally, coming over to her, "you have said or done nothing which did not meet my approbation, and cause me to love you more and more. You did not force yourself to do these things; they were natural, and that was the reason I told you to keep away from me, for I saw that our acquaintance was becoming dangerous; why, I have offered to tell you before. But what you have done this night pleases me most of all. I have been praying that you would do it for months, though I did not believe you would, and, much as I loved you, I intended going away in the morning for your good. I was afraid to ask you to share my life, fearing you would accept, for I am a coward when you are in danger; but now that you have offered to do it, and relieved me of the fear I had of enticing you into it, I am happier than I can express."
Annie Benton's face brightened, and she put her hands in his.
"Please say that my face is not cold and passionless," she said. "Once you told me that when we were out on the hills, and it has pained me ever since. Say that there is hot blood and passion in my veins now."
"When I said that," he answered, "I was provoked because you had so much control. I had none at all, and declared my passion within a few weeks after I knew you, but when I did it, you only looked at me in meek surprise. But I understand it all now, and I want to say that although you may regard what you have done to-night as an impropriety, it is the surest road to my heart. If it is depravity, I will make you proud of depravity, for I will be so good to you in the future that you will bless the day you lost your womanly control. The fact that you have trusted me completely caused me to resolve to make you a happy woman, and I believe I can do it. I love you because you have blood in your veins instead of water, and I will make you a queen. I am more of a man than you give me credit for; I am not the gloomy misanthrope you take me to be, for you have rescued me from that, and I will make the people of Davy's Bend say that Annie Benton was wiser than the best of them!"
He struck the table a resounding blow with his fist, and had the enemies of the man been able to look at his face then, they would have been afraid of him.
"May I sit on your knee, and put my arms around your neck while you talk?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, picking her up with the ease of a giant, and kissing her on the cheek. "You may ride on my back all your life if you will only remain with me. I have never felt like a man until this moment, and those who have fault to find with my course had better keep out of the way. There is a reason why you and I should not be married—as we will be before the sun shows itself again, for I intend to send for the minister to come to the church when I am through telling you how much I love you, and you shall play our wedding march while I pump the organ—but I am in the right. I have endured misery long enough to accommodate others; let them expect it no longer! And now that you know what I intend to do, listen while I tell you who I am, where I came from, and why I forced you to your present novel position."
"I prefer not to hear it," the girl said, without looking up. "I did not know you before you came to Davy's Bend: I am not concerned in your history beyond that time, and as a mark of confidence in you I shall reserve the telling of it until our married life has been tested: until I am so useful to you (as I am certain you will be to me) that, no difference what your secret is, we will consider it a blessing for bringing us together. But for the disagreeable part of your life we would never have met; we should think of that."
"Another time, then, or never, as you prefer," he replied. "I would have told you long ago, had you encouraged me to. Anyway, it is a story of devotion to others, and of principle practised with the hatred and contempt and cowardly timidity which should only characterize villains, and villainous actions; of principle carried to such an extent as to become a wrong; but from this hour I shall act from a right motive, in which my heart sympathizes; which affords me a return for effort, and which will aid in making me a better man. I shall live to accommodate myself henceforth, instead of as a favor to others. But what will the people say of our strange marriage?"
"I fear it is a sad depravity," the girl answered, "but I don't care."
"Nor do I; how lucky! If it satisfies you and me, let every tongue in the world wag, if it will afford them enjoyment. I have neither time nor inclination to hunt down the idle rumors that may find their way into circulation concerning my affairs, for what does it matter whether old Miss Maid or old Mr. Bach thinks good or ill of me? I never cared about such trifles; I care less now that I have you."
Had Dorris looked at the upper sash of the window over the porch, instead of at the girl, he would have seen a malicious face looking in at him, but he was too much occupied for that, and the face was soon withdrawn.
"I have never expected anything that was unreasonable," Dorris said, probably recollecting that his actions had been such as to give rise to a suspicion that he was a fickle man, and could not be satisfied with anything. "I know all that it is possible for a woman to be, and I have hoped for nothing beyond that. I ask no more than a companion of whom I will never tire, and who will never tire of me—some one who will keep me agreeable company during my life, and regret me when I am dead. There are people, and many of them, who fret because they long for that which is impossible. I have passed that time of life, and will be content with what life affords,—with you. I am not a boy, but a man of experience, and I know I will never tire of you. I have thought of the ways in which you can be disagreeable, but your good qualities outweigh them all. I know you are not an angel; you have faults, but it gives me pleasure to forgive them in advance. If you will be equally charitable with me, we will be very happy."
"I have no occasion to be charitable with you," she answered.
"Then you never will have," was his reply. "Marriage is the greatest inheritance of man, but it is either a feast or a famine. The contrast between a man who is happily married, and one who is not, is as great as the contrast between light and darkness, but there are many more of the first class than of the latter. It may be a false social system, but very often those who ought not to marry hurry into it in the greatest haste. I have thought that the qualities which attract young people to each other are the very ones which result in misery: and that love should commence in sincere and frank friendship; not charity or sentimentality. I do not believe in affinities, but I do believe that there is only one person in the world exactly suited to be my wife, and I intend to kiss her now."
He did kiss her, but with the tenderness a rough man might display in kissing a tiny baby.
"Although you say you love me, and Iknowyou do," the girl said thoughtfully, "you have always acted as though you were afraid of me. You never kissed me but once before in your life, and then I asked you to."
"Afraid of you!" There was a merry good humor in Allan Dorris's voice which would have made anyone his friend. "Afraid of you! Am I afraid of the sunshine, or of a fresh breath of air! I am afraid of nothing. I had the same fear of you that I have of heaven—a fear that you were beyond my reach, therefore I did not care to contaminate you with my touch. But if ever I get to heaven, I will not be afraid of it. I intend to make love to you all my life, though I shall be careful not to make myself tiresome. We will reverse the rule, and become lovers after we are married. You once said that I was queer; I cannot forget that charge, somehow. Iamqueer; in this respect: I was born a bull with a hatred for red flags, which have been waved in my face ever since I can remember. I may have been mistaken, but I have always believed that I never had a friend in my life, although I craved one more than anything else. But you have changed all this; I am contented now, and ready to give peace for peace. Of the millions of people in the world, am I not entitled to you?"
He held her up in his arms, as if he would exhibit her, and ask if that small bundle was an unreasonable request, since he asked no more, and promised to be entirely satisfied.
The loud report of a gun on the outside, followed by a crash in the glass in the upper pane of the window as a bullet came in to imbed itself in the wall above their heads, startled them. The girl sprang up in alarm, while Dorris hurriedly ran down stairs and into the yard.
"A careless hunter has allowed his gun to explode in the road," he said, when he returned after a long absence. But this explanation did not seem to satisfy even himself, for he soon went down to the lower end of the hall, and aroused Mrs. Wedge, by throwing the window-prop on the roof of her house. On the appearance of that worthy woman, who came in with her eyes almost closed from the sleepiness which still clung to her, but who opened them very wide at sight of Annie Benton, he said,—
"Will you two please talk about the weather, and nothing else, until I return? I will return in a few minutes, and make the necessary explanations. If there is anything wrong here, I will make it right."
He left the house hurriedly, and they heard the big iron gate in front bang after him, but when his footsteps could no longer be heard, and they no longer had excuse for listening to them, the two women sat in perfect silence. Occasionally Mrs. Wedge looked cautiously around at Annie Benton, but, meeting her eyes, they both looked away again, and tried to appear at their ease, which they found impossible. Fortunately Dorris was not gone long, and when he came back he put the girl's cloak on, as if they were going out.
"We will return in a little while," he explained to Mrs. Wedge, who looked up curiously as he walked out with Annie Benton on his arm. "If you care to wait, we will tell you a secret when we come back, as a reward for not speaking while I was out of the room."
Down the stairs they went, out at the front gate, and toward the town, until they reached the church door, which they entered. On the inside they found Reverend Wilton waiting for them at the chancel rail, and although he tried to appear very much put out because he was disturbed at that unseasonable hour, and yawned indifferently, he was really interested. Perhaps he was thinking of the rare story he would have to tell at breakfast.
Dorris had evidently given instructions as to what was expected of him, for as soon as they stood before him he read the marriage service, and pronounced them man and wife; after which he congratulated them and left the church, which was probably in accordance with his instructions, too.
A single light burned in the building, which barely extended to the vaulted ceiling, and which did not prevent the pews and the pulpit from looking like live objects surprised at being disturbed at such an hour; and leading his wife up to the organ, Dorris said: "We will have the wedding march, if you please," whereupon he disappeared behind the instrument to work the bellows.
And such a wedding march was never heard before. The girl put all the joy of her heart into melody, and made chords which caused Allan Dorris to regret that he could not leave the bellows and go round in front to wave his hat and cheer. He was seated on a box in the dusty little corner, working away industriously; and when he heard how eloquently the girl was telling the story of her love for him, tears of thankfulness came into his eyes and surprised them, for they had never been there before. Your cheek and mine have been wet with tears wrung from the heart by sorrow, but all of us have not been as happy as Allan Dorris was on his wedding night.
But there was more than joy in the music; it changed so suddenly into the plaintive strain of the minstrel baritone as to cause Allan Dorris to start. It may have been because the player was executing with the left hand, and without a light; but certainly it was difficult, like a life. But when the chords were formed, they were very sweet and tender, as we might say with a sigh that flowers on a weary man's grave were appropriate.
At last the music ceased, dying away like the memory of sobs and cheers and whispers, and taking his wife's arm through his own, Allan Dorris walked back to The Locks.
Mrs. Wedge was informed of the marriage, and could do nothing but cry from happiness; and after she left them Allan Dorris and his wife had so much to say to each other that daylight came to congratulate them while they were still seated in their chairs.
But what is this which comes into the mind of Annie Dorris and causes her to start up in alarm? It is the recollection of Thompson Benton, her plain-spoken father.
"O Allan!" she said. "What will father say?"
"I will go over and hear what he says," Dorris replied promptly, putting on his hat. "You can go along if you like."
What a bold fellow he was! And how tenderly he adjusted the wraps around his wife, after she had signified her desire to accompany him, when they stepped out into the frosty morning air!
It was about Thompson Benton's time to start down town, and as they paused before his front door, not without misgivings, he opened it wide and stood before them. Evidently the girl had not been missed from the house, for there was genuine astonishment in the father's face as he looked from one to the other.
"What does this mean?" he said, looking at Dorris sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows.
"That we were married this morning," Dorris replied, not in the least frustrated, though his wife trembled like a leaf.
He gave no evidence of the surprise which this announcement must have caused him, but looked sullenly at Dorris for several moments, as though he had a mind to try his strength with him; but when his eyes fell on his child, his manner changed for the better. Motioning them to follow him, they closed the door, and all sat down in the pleasant family room where the girl's recollection began, and where her father spent his little leisure in the evening. Here old Thompson looked hard at the floor until he had thought the matter over, when he said,—
"I have never found fault with the girl in my life; I have never had occasion to, and if she can justify what she has done I am content. Are you sure you are right, Annie?"
He looked up at her with such a softened manner, and there was so much tenderness in his words, that the girl forgot the fear which his hard look had inspired when they met him at the door, and going over to him she put her arm around his neck, and softly stroked his gray hair as she replied,—