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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0990af6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50271 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50271) diff --git a/old/50271-0.txt b/old/50271-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e9b0e0d..0000000 --- a/old/50271-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4714 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tioba and Other Tales - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Illustrator: A. B. Frost - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50271] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - -TIOBA - -AND OTHER TALES - -By Arthur Colton - -With a Frontispiece by A. B. Frost - -New York - -Henry Holt And Company - -1903 - - -[Illustration: 0002] - - -[Illustration: 0009] - - -[Illustration: 0010] - - - -DEDICATED TO - -A. G. BRINSMADE - - - - -TIOBA - -FROM among the birches and pines, where we pitched our moving tent, you -looked over the flat meadow-lands; and through these went a river, -slow and almost noiseless, wandering in the valley as if there were -no necessity of arriving anywhere at appointed times. “What is the -necessity?” it said softly to any that would listen. And there was none; -so that for many days the white tent stood among the trees, overlooking -the haycocks in the meadows. It was enough business in hand to study the -philosophy and the subtle rhetoric of Still River. - -Opposite rose a strangely ruined mountain-side. There was a nobly-poised -head and plenteous chest, the head three thousand feet nearer the -stars--which was little enough from their point of view, no doubt, but -to us it seemed a symbol of something higher than the stars, something -beyond them forever waiting and watching. - -From its feet upward half a mile the mountain was one raw wound. The -shivered roots and tree-trunks stuck out helplessly from reddish soil, -boulders were crushed and piled in angry heaps, veins of granite ripped -open--the skin and flesh of the mountain tom off with a curse, and the -bones made a mockery. The wall of the precipice rose far above this -desolation, and, beyond, the hazy forests went up a mile or more clear -to the sky-line. The peak stood over all, not with triumph or with -shame, but with the clouds and stars. - -It was a cloudy day, with rifts of sunlight. An acre of light crept -down the mountain: so you have seen, on the river-boats at night, the -search-light feeling, fingering along the shore. - -In the evening an Arcadian, an elderly man and garrulous, came up to see -what it might be that glimmered among his pulp-trees. He was a surprise, -and not as Arcadian as at first one might presume, for he sold milk and -eggs and blueberries at a price to make one suddenly rich. His name was -Fargus, and he it was whose hay-cutter clicked like a locust all day -in the meadow-lands. He came and made himself amiable beside us, and -confided anything we might care to know which experience had left with -him. - -“That's Tioba,” he said. “That's the name of that mountain.” And he -told us the story of one whom he called “Jim Hawks,” and of the fall of -Tioba. - -She's a skinned mountain [he said]. She got wet inside and slid. Still -River used to run ten rods further in, and there was a cemetery, -too, and Jim Hawks's place; and the cemetery's there yet, six rods -underground, but the creek shied off and went through my plough-land -scandalous. - -Now, Jim Hawks was a get-there kind, with a clawed face--by a wildcat, -yes, sir. Tioba got there; and Jim he was a wicked one. I've been -forty years in this valley, with the Petersons and the Storrses and the -Merimys at Canada Center, all good, quiet folk. And nothing happened to -us, for we did nothing to blame, till Jim came, and Tioba ups and drops -on him. - -Now look at it, this valley! There've been landslides over beyond in -Helder's valley, but there's only one in mine. Looks as if the devil -gone spit on it. It's Jim Hawks's trail. - -He come one day with a buckboard and a yellow horse, and he says: - -“Sell me that land from here up the mountain.” - -“Who be you?” says I. - -“Jim Hawks,” says he, and that's all he appeared to know about it. And -he bought the land, and put up a house close to the mountain, so you -could throw a cat down his chimney if you wanted to, or two cats if you -had 'em. - -He was a long, swing-shouldered man, with a light-colored mustache and a -kind of flat gray eye that you couldn't see into. You look into a man's -eye naturally to see what his intentions are. Well, Jim Hawks's eye -appeared to have nothing to say on the subject. And as to that, I told -my wife it was none of our business if he didn't bring into the valley -anything but his name and a bit of money sufficient. - -He got his face clawed by a wildcat by being reckless with it; and he -ran a deer into Helder's back yard once and shot it, and licked Helder -for claiming the deer. He was the recklessest chap! He swings his fist -into Helder's face, and he says: - -“Shoot, if you got a gun. If you hain't, get out!” - -I told Jim that was no place to put a house, on account of Tioba -dropping rocks off herself whenever it rained hard and the soil got -mushy. I told him Tioba'd as soon drop a rock on his head as into his -gridiron. - -You can't see Canada Center from here. There's a post-office there, and -three houses, the Petersons', the Storrses' and the Merimys'. Merimy's -house got a peaked roof on it. I see Jeaney Merimy climb it after her -kitten a-yowling on the ridge. She wasn't but six years old then, and -she was gritty the day she was born. Her mother--she's old Peterson's -daughter--she whooped, and I fetched Jeaney down with Peterson's ladder. -Jeaney Merimy grew up, and she was a tidy little thing. The Storrs boys -calculated to marry her, one of 'em, only they weren't enterprising; and -Jeaney ups and goes over to Eastport one day with Jim Hawks--cuts out -early in the morning, and asks nobody. Pretty goings on in this valley! -Then they come back when they were ready, and Jim says: - -“What you got to say about it, Merimy?” - -Merimy hadn't nothing to say about it, nor his wife hadn't nothing -to say, nor Peterson, nor the Storrs boys. Dog-gone it! Nobody hadn't -nothing to say; that is, they didn't say it to Jim. - -That was five years ago, the spring they put up the Redman Hotel at -Helder's. People's come into these parts now thicker'n bugs. They have -a band that plays music at the Redman Hotel. But in my time I've seen -sights. The bears used to scoop my chickens. You could hear wildcats -'most any night crying in the brush. I see a black bear come down -Jumping Brook over there, slapping his toes in the water and grunting -like a pig. Me, I was ploughing for buckwheat. - -Jeaney Merimy went over to Eastport with her hair in a braid, and came -back with it put up like a crow's nest on top of her head. She was a -nice-looking girl, Jeaney, and born gritty, and it didn't do her any -good. - -I says to Jim: “Now, you're always looking for fighting,” says I. “Now, -me, I'm for peaceable doings. If you're looking for fighting any time, -you start in beyond me. - -“You!” says Jim. “I'd as soon scrap with a haystack.” - -I do know how it would be, doing with a haystack that way, but you take -it from Jim's point of view, and you see it wouldn't be what he'd care -for; and you take it from my point of view, and you see I didn't poke -into Jim's business. That's natural good sense. Only I'm free to say -he was a wicked one, 'stilling whiskey on the back side of Tioba, and -filling up the Storrs boys with it, and them gone to the devil off East -where the railroads are. And laying Peterson to his front door, drunk. -My, he didn't know any more'n his front door! “He's my grandfather,” - says Jim. “That's the humor of it”--meaning he was Jeaney's grandfather. -And mixing the singularest drinks, and putting 'em into an old man named -Fargus, as ought to known better. My wife she said so, and she knew. I -do' know what Jeaney Merimy thought, but I had my point of view on that. -Jim got drunk himself on and off, and went wilder'n a wildcat, and -slid over the mountains the Lord knows where. Pretty goings on in this -valley! - -This is a good climate if you add it all up and take the average. But -sometimes it won't rain till you're gray waiting for it, and sometimes -it will snow so the only way to get home is to stay inside, and -sometimes it will rain like the bottom fallen out of a tub. The way of -it is that when you've lived with it forty years you know how to add up -and take the average. - -That summer Tioba kept her head out of sight from June to September -mainly. She kept it done up in cotton, as you might say, and she leaked -in her joints surprising. She's a queer mountain that way. Every now and -then she busts out a spring and dribbles down into Still River from a -new place. - -In September they were all dark days and drizzly nights, and there was -often the two sounds of the wind on Tioba that you hear on a bad night. -One of 'em is a kind of steady grumble and hiss that's made with the -pine-needles and maybe the tons of leaves shaking and falling. The other -is the toot of the wind in the gullies on edges of rock. But if you -stand in the open on a bad night and listen, you'd think Tioba was -talking to you. Maybe she is. - -It come along the middle of September, and it was a bad night, drizzly, -and Tioba talking double. I went over to the Hawkses' place early to -borrow lantern-oil, and I saw Jeaney Merimy sitting over the fire -alone, and the wind singing in the chimney. “Jim hasn't come,” she says, -speaking quiet; and she gets me the lantern-oil. After, when I went -away, she didn't seem to notice; and what with the wind in the chimney, -and Jeaney sitting alone with her big black eyes staring, and Tioba -talking double, and the rain drizzling, and the night falling, I felt -queer enough to expect a ghost to be standing at my gate. And I came -along the road, and there _was_ one! - -Yes, sir; she was a woman in a gray, wet cloak, standing at my gate, and -a horse and buggy in the middle of the road. - -“'Mighty!” says I, and drops my oil-can smack in the mud. - -“Does Mr. Hawks live here?” she says, seeing me standing like a tomfool -in the mud. - -“No, ma'am,” says I. “That's his place across the flat half a mile. He -ain't at home, but his wife is.” - -The wind blew her cloak around her sharp, and I could see her face, -though it was more or less dark. She was some big and tall, and her face -was white and wet with the rain. After a while she says: - -“He's married?” - -“Yes, ma'am. You'd better not--'Mighty, ma'am!” says I, “where you -going?” - -She swung herself into the buggy quicker'n women are apt to do, and she -whops the horse around and hits him a lick, and off he goes, splashing -and galloping. Me, I was beat. But I got so far as to think if she -wasn't a ghost, maybe Jim Hawks would as lief she would be, and if -she didn't drive more careful she'd be liable to oblige him that way. -Because it stands to reason a woman don't come looking for a man on a -bad night, and cut away like that, unless she has something uncommon -on her mind. I heard the buggy-wheels and the splash of the horse dying -away; and then there was nothing in the night but the drip of the rain -and Tioba talking double--_um-hiss, toot-toot._ - -Then I went into the house, and didn't tell my wife about it, she -disliking Jim on account of his singular drinks, which had a tidy taste, -but affecting a man sudden and surprising. My wife she went off to bed, -and I sat by the fire, feeling like there was more wrong in the world -than common. And I kept thinking of Jeaney Merimy sitting by herself off -there beyond the rain, with the wind singing in the chimney, and Tioba -groaning and tooting over her. Then there was the extra woman looking -for Jim; and it seemed to me if I was looking for Jim on a dark night, -I'd want to let him know beforehand it was all peaceable, so there -wouldn't be a mistake, Jim being a sudden man and not particular. I had -the extra woman on my mind, so that after some while it seemed to me she -had come back and was driving _splish-splash_ around my house, though it -was only the wind. I was that foolish I kept counting how many times she -went round the house, and it was more than forty; and sometimes she came -so close to the front door I thought she'd come through it--_bang!_ - -Then somebody rapped sudden at the door, and I jumped, and my chair went -slap under the table, and I says, “Come in,” though I'd rather it would -have stayed out, and in walks Jim Hawks. “'Mighty!” says I. “I thought -you was a horse and buggy.” - -He picked up my chair and sat in it himself, rather cool, and began to -dry off. - -“Horse and buggy?” says he. “Looking for me?” - -I just nodded, seeing he appeared to know all about it. - -“Saw 'em in Eastport,” says he. “I suppose she's over there”--meaning -his place. “Gone down the road! You don't say! Now, I might have known -she wouldn't do what you might call a rational thing. Never could bet -on that woman. If there was one of two things she'd be likely to do, she -wouldn't do either of 'em.” - -“Well,” says I, “speaking generally, what might she want of you?” - -Jim looks at me kind of absent minded, rubbing his hair the wrong way. - -“Now, look at it, Fargus,” he says. “It ain't reasonable. Now, she and -me, we got married about five years ago. And she had a brother named Tom -Cheever, and Tom and I didn't agree, and naturally he got hurt; not -but that he got well again--that is, partly. And she appeared to have -different ideas from me, and she appeared to think she'd had enough of -me, and I took that to be reasonable. Now, here she wants me to come -back and behave myself, cool as you please. And me inquiring why, she -acts like the country was too small for us both. I don't see it that way -myself.” And he shook his head, stretching his hands out over the fire. - -“I don't see either end of it,” says I. “You're a bad one, Jim, a -downright bad one.” - -“That's so. It's Jeaney you mean,” he says, looking kind of interested. -“It'll be hell for Jeaney, won't it?” - -The wind and rain was whooping round the house so we could hardly hear -each other. It was like a wild thing trying to get in, which didn't know -how to do it, and wouldn't give up; and then you'd hear like something -whimpering, and little fingers tapping at the window-glass. - -My opinion of Jim Hawks was that I didn't seem to get on to him, and -that's my opinion up to now; and it appeared to me then that Jim might -be the proper explanation himself of anything the extra woman did which -seemed unreasonable; but I didn't tell him that, because I didn't see -rightly what it would mean if I said it. - -Jim got up and stretched his legs. “Now, I tell you, Fargus,” says he, -“I'm going to put the thing to Jeaney, being a clipper little woman, -not to say sharp. If it comes to the worst, I daresay Canada Center will -give us a burying; or if she wants to slide over the mountains with me, -there's no trouble about it; or if she'd rather go her own way, and me -mine, that's reasonable; or if she says to do nothing but hold the fort, -why, that's all right, too, only Canada Center would be likely to take a -hand, and then there'd surely be trouble, on account of me getting mad. -Now, I have to say to you, Fargus, that you've been as friendly as a man -could be, as things are; and maybe you've seen the last of me, and maybe -you wouldn't mind if you had.” - -“Speaking generally,” says I, “you're about right, Jim.” - -With that he laughed, and went out, pulling the door to hard against the -storm. - -Next day the rain came streaming down, and my cellar was flooded, and -the valley was full of the noise of the flood brooks. I kept looking -toward the Hawkses' place, having a kind of notion something would blow -up there. It appeared to me there was too much gunpowder in that family -for the house to stay quiet. Besides, I saw Tioba had been dropping -rocks in the night, and there were new boulders around. One had ploughed -through Jim's yard, and the road was cut up frightful. The boulder in -Jim's yard looked as if it might be eight feet high. I told my wife the -Hawkses ought to get out of there, and she said she didn't care, she -being down on Jim on account of his mixed drinks, which had a way of -getting under a man, I'm free to say, and heaving him up. - -About four o'clock in the afternoon it come off misty, and I started -over to tell Jim he'd better get out; and sudden I stops and looks, -for there was a crowd coming from Canada Center--the Storrses and the -Petersons and the Merimys, and the extra woman in a buggy with Henry -Hall, who was county sheriff then. “Well, 'Mighty!” says I. - -They pulled up in front of Jim's place, and I took it they were going to -walk in and settle things prompt. But you see, when I got there, it was -Jim a-standing by his door with his rifle, and the sheriff and Canada -Center was squeezing themselves through the gate and Jim shooting off -sideways at the pickets on his fence. And the sheriff ups and yelled: - -“Here, you Jim Hawks! That ain't any way to do.” - -Then Jim walks down the road with his rifle over his arm, and Jeaney -Merimy comes to the door. She looked some mad and some crying, a little -of both. - -“Hall,” says he, “you turn your horse and go back where you come from. -Maybe I'll see you by and by. The rest of you go back to Canada Center, -and if Jeaney wants anything of you she'll come and say so. You go, -now!” - -And they went. The extra woman drove off with the sheriff, hanging her -head, and the sheriff saying, “You'll have to come to time, Jim Hawks, -soon or late.” Jeaney Merimy sat in the door with her head hung down, -too; and the only one as ought to have been ashamed, he was walking -around uppish, like he meant to call down Tioba for throwing rocks into -his yard. Then Jeaney sees me, and she says: - -“You're all down on Jim. There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.” - -She began to cry, while Jim cocked his head and looked at her curious. -And she kept saying, “There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.” - -That was a queer way for her to look at it. - -Now, that night set in, like the one before, with a drizzling rain. It -was the longest wet weather I ever knew. I kept going to the window to -look at the light over at the Hawkses' and wonder what would come of -it, till it made my wife nervous, and she's apt to be sharp when she's -nervous, so I quit. And the way Tioba talked double that night was -terrible--_um-hiss, toot-toot_, hour after hour; and no sleep for me and -my wife, being nervous. - -I do' know what time it was, or what we heard. All I know is, my wife -jumps up with a yell, and I jumps up too, and I know we were terrible -afraid and stood listening maybe a minute. It seemed like there was -almost dead silence in the night, only the um-m went on, but no hissing -and no tooting, and if there was any sound of the rain or wind I -don't recollect it. And then, “Um!” says Tioba, louder and louder and -_louder!_ till there was no top nor bottom to it, and the whole infernal -world went to pieces, and pitched me and my wife flat on the floor. - -The first I knew, there was dead silence again; or maybe my hearing was -upset, for soon after I began to hear the rain buzzing away quietly. -Then I got up and took a lantern, and my wife grabs me. - -“You ain't going a step!” says she, and the upshot was we both went, two -old folks that was badly scared and bound to find out why. We went along -the road, looking about us cautious; and of a sudden, where the road -ought to be, we ran into a bank of mud that went up out of seeing in the -night. Then my wife sat down square in the road and began a-crying, and -I knew Tioba had fallen down. - -Now, there's Tioba, and that's how she looked next morning, only -worse--more mushy and generally clawed up, with the rain still falling -dismal, and running little gullies in the mud like a million snakes. - -According to my guess, Jim and Jeaney and the cemetery were about ten -rods in, or maybe not more than eight. Anyway, I says to Peterson, and -he agreed with me, that there wasn't any use for a funeral. I says: “God -A'mighty buried 'em to suit himself.” It looked like he didn't think -much of the way Canada Center did its burying, seeing the cemetery was -took in and buried over again. Peterson and me thought the same on that -point. And we put up the white stone, sort of on top of things, that -maybe you've noticed, and lumped the folk in the cemetery together, and -put their names on it, and a general epitaph; but not being strong -on the dates, we left them out mostly. We put Jeaney Merimy with her -family, but Canada Center was singularly united against letting Jim in. - -“You puts his name on no stone with me or mine,” says Merimy, and -I'm not saying but what he was right. Yes, sir; Merimy had feelings, -naturally. But it seemed to me when a man was a hundred and fifty feet -underground, more or less, there ought to be some charity; and maybe I -had a weakness for Jim, though my wife wouldn't hear of him, on account -of his drinks, which were slippery things. Anyway, I takes a chisel -and a mallet, and I picks out a boulder on the slide a decent ways from -Canada Center's monument, and I cuts in it, “Jim Hawks”; and then I cuts -in it an epitaph that I made myself, and it's there yet: - - - HERE LIES JIM HAWKS, KILLED BY ROCKS. - - HE DIDN'T ACT THE WAY HE OUGHT. - - THAT'S ALL I'll SAY OF JIM. - - HERE HE LIES, WHAT'S LEFT OF HIM. - - -And I thought that stated the facts, though the second line didn't -rhyme really even. Speaking generally, Tioba appeared to have dropped -on things about the right time, and that being so, why not let it pass, -granting Merimy had a right to his feelings? - -Now, neither Sheriff Hall nor the extra woman showed up in the valley -any more, so it seemed likely they had heard of Tioba falling, and -agreed Jim wouldn't be any good, if they could find him. It was two -weeks more before I saw the sheriff, him driving through, going over to -Helder's. I saw him get out of his buggy to see the monument, and I went -up after, and led him over to show Jim's epitaph, which I took to be a -good epitaph, except the second line. - -Now, what do you think he did? Why, he busted out a-haw-hawing -ridiculous, and it made me mad. - -“Shut up!” says I. “What's ailing you?” - -“Haw-haw!” says he. “Jim ain't there! He's gone down the road.” - -“I believe you're a blamed liar,” says I; and the sheriff sobered up, -being mad himself, and he told me this. - -“Jim Hawks,” says he, “came into East-port that night, meaning business. -He routed me out near twelve o'clock, and the lady staying at my house -she came into it, too, and there we had it in the kitchen at twelve -o'clock, the lady uncommon hot, and Jim steaming wet in his clothes and -rather cool. He says: 'I'm backing Jeaney now, and she tells me to come -in and settle it to let us alone, and she says we'll hand over all we've -got and leave. That appears to be her idea, and being hers, I'll put it -as my own.' Now, the lady, if you'd believe it, she took on fearful, and -wouldn't hear to reason unless he'd go with her, though what her idea -was of a happy time with Jim Hawks, the way he was likely to act, I give -it up. But she cried and talked foolish, till I see Jim was awful bored, -but I didn't see there was much for me to do. Then Jim got up at last, -and laughed very unpleasant, and he says: 'It's too much bother. I'll go -with you, Annie, but I think you're a fool.' And they left next morning, -going south by train.” - -That's what Sheriff Hall said to me then and there. Well, now, I'm an -old man, and I don't know as I'm particular clever, but it looks to me -as if God A'mighty and Tioba had made a mistake between 'em. Else how -come they hit at Jim Hawks so close as that and missed him? And what was -the use of burying Jeaney Merimy eight rods deep, who was a good girl -all her life, and was for standing up for Jim, and him leaving her -because the extra woman got him disgusted? Maybe she'd rather Tioba -would light on her, that being the case--maybe she would have; but she -never knew what the case was. - -That epitaph is there yet, as you might say, waiting for him to come -and get under it; but it don't seem to have the right point now, and it -don't state the facts any more, except the second line, which is more -facts than rhyme. And Tioba is the messiest-look-ing mountain in these -parts. And now, I say, Jim Hawks was in this valley little more than a -year, and he blazed his trail through the Merimy family, and the Storrs -family, and the Peterson family, and there's Tioba Mountain, and that's -his trail. - -No, sir; I don't get on to it. I hear Tioba talking double some nights, -sort of uneasy, and it seems to me she isn't on to it either, and has -her doubts maybe she throwed herself away. And there's the cemetery six -to ten rods underground, with a monument to forty-five people on top, -and an epitaph to Jim Hawks that ain't so, except the second line, there -being no corpse to fit it. - -Canada Center thinks they'd fit Jim to it if he came round again; but -they wouldn't: for he was a wicked one, but sudden to act, and he was -reckless, and he kept his luck. For Tioba drawed off and hit at him, -slap! and he dodged her. - - - - -A MAN FOR A' THAT - - -COMPANY A was cut up at Antietam, so that there was not enough of it -left for useful purposes, and Deacon Andrew Terrell became a member -of Company G, which nicknamed him “'is huliness.” Company A came from -Dutchess County. There was a little white church in the village of -Brewster, and a little white house with a meagre porch where that good -woman, Mrs. Terrell, had stood and shed several tears as the deacon -walked away down the street, looking extraordinary in his regimentals. -She dried her eyes, settled down to her sewing in that quiet south -window, and hoped he would remember to keep his feet dry and not lose -the cough drops. That part of Dutchess County was a bit of New England -spilled over. New England has been spilling over these many years. - -The deacon took the cough drops regularly; he kept his gray chin beard -trimmed with a pair of domestic scissors, and drilling never persuaded -him to move his large frame with other than the same self-conscious -restraint; his sallow face had the same set lines. There is something in -the Saxon's blood that will not let him alter with circumstances, and it -is by virtue of it that he conquers in the end. - -But no doorkeeper in the house of God--the deacon's service in the -meeting-house at Brewster--who should come perforce to dwell in the -tents of wickedness would pretend to like it. Besides, Company G had no -tents. It came from the lower wards of the great city. Dinkey Cott, that -thin-legged, stunted, imp-faced, hardened little Bowery sprout, put his -left fist in the deacon's eye the first day of their acquaintance, and -swore in the pleasantest manner possible. - -The deacon cuffed him, because he had been a schoolmaster in his day, -and did not understand how he would be despised for knocking Dinkey down -in that amateur fashion, and the lieutenant gave them both guard duty -for fighting in the ranks. - -The deacon declared “that young man Cott hadn't no moral ideas,” and did -his guard duty in bitterness and strict conscience to the last minute of -it. Dinkey put his thumb to his nose and offered to show the lieutenant -how the thing should have been done, and that big man laughed, and both -forgot about the guard duty. - -Dinkey had no sense whatever of personal dignity, which was partly what -the deacon meant by “moral ideas,” nor reverence for anything above or -beneath. He did not harbor any special anger, either, and only enough -malice to point his finger at the elder man, whenever he saw him, and -snicker loudly to the entertainment of Company G. - -Dinkey's early recollections had to do with the cobblestones of Mulberry -Bend and bootblacking on Pearl Street. Deacon Terrell's began with a -lonely farm where there were too many potato hills to hoe, a little -schoolhouse where arithmetic was taught with a ferrule, a white -meeting-house where the wrath of God was preached with enthusiasm; both -seemed far enough away from the weary tramp, tramp, the picket duty, and -the camp at last one misty night in thick woods on the Stafford hills, -looking over the Rappahannock to the town of Fredericksburg. - -What happened there was not clear to Company G. There seemed to be a -deal of noise and hurrying about, cannon smoke in the valley and cannon -smoke on the terraces across the valley. Somebody was building pontoon -bridges, therefore it seemed likely somebody wanted to get across. They -were having hard luck with the bridges. That was probably the enemy on -the ridge beyond. - -There seemed to be no end to him, anyway; up and down the valley, mile -beyond mile, the same line of wooded heights and drifting smoke. - -And the regiment found itself crossing a shaky pontoon bridge on a -Saturday morning in the mist and climbing the bank into a most battered -and tired-looking little town, which was smoldering sulkily with burned -buildings and thrilling with enormous noise. There they waited for -something else to happen. The deacon felt a lump in his throat, stopping -his breath. - -“Git out o' me tracks!” snickered Dinkey Cott behind him. “I'll step on -yer.” - -Dinkey had never seemed more impish, unholy and incongruous. They seemed -to stand there a long time. The shells kept howling and whizzing around; -they howled till they burst, and then they whizzed. And now and then -some one would cry out and fall. It was bad for the nerves. The men were -growling. - -“Aw, cap, give us a chance!” - -“It ain't my fault, boys. I got to wait for orders, same as you.” - -Dinkey poked the deacon's legs with the butt of his rifle. - -“Say, it's rotten, ain't it? Say, cully, my ma don't like me full o' -holes. How's yours?” - -The other gripped his rifle tight and thought of nothing in particular. - -Was it five hours that passed, or twenty, or one? Then they started, and -the town was gone behind their hurrying feet. Over a stretch of broken -level, rush and tramp and gasping for breath; fences and rocks ahead, -clumps of trees and gorges; ground growing rougher and steeper, but that -was nothing. If there was anything in the way you went at it and left -it behind. You plunged up a hill, and didn't notice it. You dove into a -gully, and it wasn't there. Time was a liar, obstacles were scared and -ran away. But half-way up the last pitch ran a turnpike, with a stone -wall in front that spit fire and came nearer and nearer. It seemed -creeping down viciously to meet you. Up, up, till the powder of the guns -almost burned the deacon's face, and the smoke was so thick he could -only see the red flashes. - -And then suddenly he was alone. At least there was no one in sight, for -the smoke was very thick. Company G all dead, or fallen, or gone back. -There was a clump of brambles to his left. He dropped to the ground, -crept behind it and lay still. The roar went on, the smoke rolled down -over him and sometimes a bullet would clip through the brambles, but -after a time the small fire dropped off little by little, though the -cannon still boomed on. - -His legs were numb and his heart beating his sides like a drum. The -smoke was blowing away down the slope. He lifted his head and peered -through the brambles; there was the stone wall not five rods away, all -lined along the top with grimy faces. A thousand rifles within as -many yards, wanting nothing better than to dig a round hole in him. He -dropped his head and closed his eyes. - -His thoughts were so stunned that the slowly lessening cannonade seemed -like a dream, and he hardly noticed when it had ceased, and he began -to hear voices, cries of wounded men and other men talking. There was -a clump of trees to the right, and two or three crows in the treetops -cawing familiarly. An hour or two must have passed, for the sun was down -and the river mist creeping up. He lay on his back, staring blankly at -the pale sky and shivering a little with the chill. - -A group of men came down and stood on the rocks above. They could -probably see him, but a man on his back with his toes up was nothing -particular there. They talked with a soft drawl. “Doggonedest clean-up I -ever saw.” - -“They hadn't no business to come up heah, yuh know. They come some -distance, now.” - -“Shuah! We ain't huntin' rabbits. What'd yuh suppose?” - -Then they went on. - -The mist came up white and cold and covered it all over. He could not -see the wall any longer, though he could hear the voices. He turned on -his face and crawled along below the brambles and rocks to where the -clump of trees stood with a deep hollow below them. They were chestnut -trees. Some one was sitting in the hollow with his back against the -roots. - -During the rush Dinkey Cott fairly enjoyed himself. The sporting blood -in him sang in his ears, an old song that the leopard knows, it may be, -waiting in the mottled shadow, that the rider knows on the race course, -the hunter in the snow--the song of a craving that only excitement -satisfies. The smoke blew in his face. He went down a hollow and up the -other side. Then something hot and sudden came into the middle of him -and he rolled back against the roots of a great tree. - -“Hully gee! I'm plunked!” he grumbled disgustedly. - -For the time he felt no pain, but his blood ceased to sing in his ears. -Everything seemed to settle down around him, blank and dull and angry. -He felt as if either the army of the North or the army of the South had -not treated him rightly. If they had given him a minute more he might -have clubbed something worth while. He sat up against a tree, wondered -what his chance was to pull through, thought it poor, and thought he -would sell it for a drink. - -The firing dropped off little by little, and the mist was coming up. -Dinkey began to see sights. His face and hands were hot, and things -seemed to be riproaring inside him generally. The mist was full of -flickering lights, which presently seemed to be street lamps down the -Bowery. The front windows of Reilly's saloon were glaring, and opposite -was Gottstein's jewelry store, where he had happened to hit one Halligan -in the eye for saying that Babby Reilly was his girl and not Dinkey's; -and he bought Babby a 90-cent gold ring of Gottstein, which proved -Halligan to be a liar. The cop saw him hit Halligan, too, and said -nothing, being his friend. And Halligan enlisted in Company G with the -rest of the boys, and was keeled over in the dark one night on picket -duty, somewhere up country. All the gang went into Company G. The -captain was one of the boys, and so was Pete Murphy, the big lieutenant. -He was a sort of ward sub-boss, was Pete. - -“Reilly, he's soured on me, Pete. I dun-no wot's got the ol' man.” - -The lights seemed to grow thick, till everything was ablaze. - -“Aw, come off! Dis ain't de Bowery,” he muttered, and started and rubbed -his eyes. - -The mist was cold and white all around him, ghostly and still, except -that there was a low, continual mutter of voices above, and now and then -a soft moan rose up from somewhere. And it seemed natural enough that a -ghost should come creeping out of the ghostly mist, even that it should -creep near to him and peer into his face, a ghost with a gray chin beard -and haggard eyes. - -“I'm going down,” it whispered. “Come on. Don't make any noise.” - -“Hully gee!” thought Dinkey. “It's the Pope!” - -A number of things occurred to him in confusion. The deacon did not see -he was hit. He said to himself: - -“I ain't no call to spoil 'is luck, if he is country.” - -He blinked a moment, then nodded and whispered hoarsely: “Go on.” - -The deacon crept away into the mist. Dinkey leaned back feebly and -closed his eyes. - -“Wished I'd die quick. It's rotten luck. Wished I could see Pete.” - -The deacon crept down about two hundred yards, then stopped and waited -for the young man Cott. The night was closing in fast A cry in the -darkness made him shiver. He had never imagined anything could be so -desolate and sad. He thought he had better see what was the matter with -Dinkey. He never could make out afterward why it had seemed necessary -to look after Dinkey. There were hundreds of better men on the slopes. -Dinkey might have passed him. It did not seem very sensible business -to go back after that worthless little limb of Satan. The deacon never -thought the adventure a credit to his judgment. - -But he went back, guiding himself by the darker gloom of the trees -against the sky, and groped his way down the hollow, and heard Dinkey -muttering and babbling things without sense. It made the deacon mad -to have to do with irresponsible people, such as go to sleep under the -enemy's rifles and talk aloud in dreams. He pulled him roughly by the -boots, and he fell over, babbling and muttering. Then it came upon the -deacon that it was not sleep, but fever. He guessed the young man was -hit somewhere. They had better be going, anyway. The Johnnies must have -out a picket line somewhere. He slipped his hands under Dinkey and got -up. He tried to climb out quietly, but fell against the bank. Some one -took a shot at the noise, spattering the dirt under his nose. He lifted -Dinkey higher and went on. Dinkey's mutterings ceased. He made no sound -at all for a while, and at last said huskily: - -“Wot's up?” - -“It's me.” - -“Hully gee! Wot yer doin'?” - -His voice was weak and thin now. He felt as if he were being pulled in -two in the middle. - -“Say, ol' man, I won't jolly yer. Les' find Pete. There's a minie ball -messed up in me stomick awful.” - -“'Tain't far, Dinkey,” said the deacon, gently. - -And he thought of Pete Murphy's red, fleshy face and black, oily -mustache. It occurred to him that he had noticed most men in Company -G, if they fell into trouble, wanted to find Pete. He thought he should -want to himself, though he could not tell why. If he happened to be -killed anywhere he thought he should like Pete Murphy to tell his wife -about it. - -Dinkey lay limp and heavy in his arms. The wet blackness seemed like -something pressed against his face. He could not realize that he was -walking, though in the night, down the same slope to a river called the -Rappahannock and a town called Fredericksburg. It was strange business -for him, Deacon Terrell of Brewster, to be in, stumbling down the -battlefield in the pit darkness, with a godless little brat like Dinkey -Cott in his arms. - -And why godless, if the same darkness were around us all, and the same -light, while we lived, would come to all in the morning? It was borne -upon the deacon that no man was elected to the salvation of the sun or -condemned to the night apart from other men. - -The deacon never could recall the details of his night's journey, except -that he fell down more than once, and ran against stone walls in the -dark. It seemed to him that he had gone through an unknown, supernatural -country. Dinkey lay so quiet that he thought he might be dead, but he -could not make up his mind to leave him. He wished he could find Pete -Murphy. Pete would tell him if Dinkey was dead. - -He walked not one mile, but several, in the blind night Dinkey had long -been a limp weight. The last thing he said was, “Les' find Pete,” and -that was long before. - -At last the deacon saw a little glow in the darkness, and, coming near, -found a dying campfire with a few flames only flickering, and beside it -two men asleep. He might have heard the ripple of the Rappahannock, but, -being so worn and dull in his mind, he laid Dinkey down by the fire and -fell heavily to sleep himself before he knew it. - -When he woke Pete Murphy stood near him with a corporal and a guard. -They were looking for the pieces of Company G. “Dead, ain't he?” said -Pete. - -The deacon got up and brushed his clothes. The two men who were sleeping -woke up also, and they all stood around looking at Dinkey in awkward -silence. - -“Who's his folks?” - -“Him!” said the big lieutenant. “He ain't got any folks. Tell you what, -ol' man, I see a regiment drummer somewhere a minute ago. He'll do a -roll over Dinkey, for luck, sure!” - -They put Dinkey's coat over his face and buried him on the bank of the -Rappahannock, and the drummer beat a roll over him. - -Then they sat down on the bank and waited for the next thing. - -The troops were moving back now across the bridge hurriedly. Company G -had to take its turn. The deacon felt in his pockets and found the cough -drops and Mrs. Terrell's scissors. He took a cough drop and fell to -trimming his beard. - - - - -THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER - - -ANY one would have called Bobby Bell a comfortable boy--that is, any -one who did not mind bugs; and I am sure I do not see why any one should -mind bugs, except the kind that taste badly in raspberries and some -other kinds. It was among the things that are entertaining to see Bobby -Bell bobbing around among the buttercups looking for grasshoppers. -Grasshoppers are interesting when you consider that they have heads -like door knobs or green cheeses and legs with crooks to them. “Bobbing” - means to go like Bobby Bell--that is, to go up and down, to talk to -one's self, and not to hear any one shout, unless it is some one whom -not to hear is to get into difficulties. - -Across the Salem Road from Mr. Atherton Bell's house there were many -level meadows of a pleasant greenness, as far as Cum-ming's alder swamp; -and these meadows were called the Bow Meadows. If you take the alder -swamp and the Bow Meadows together, they were like this: the swamp was -mysterious and unvisited, except by those who went to fish in the Muck -Hole for turtles and eels. Frogs with solemn voices lived in the swamp. -Herons flew over it slowly, and herons also are uncanny affairs. We -believed that the people of the swamp knew things it was not good to -know, like witchcraft and the insides of the earth. In the meadows, on -the other hand, there were any number of cheerful and busy creatures, -some along the level of the buttercups, but most of them about the roots -of the grasses. The people in the swamp were wet, cold, sluggish, and -not a great many of them. The people of the meadows were dry, warm, -continually doing something, and in number not to be calculated by any -rule in Wentworth's Arithmetic. - -So you see how different were the two, and how it comes about that the -meadows were nearly the best places in the world to be in, both -because of the society there, and because of the swamp near at hand and -interesting to think about. So, too, you see why it was that Bobby Bell -could be found almost any summer day “bobbing” for grasshoppers in the -Bow Meadows--“bobbing” meaning to go up and down like Bobby Bell, to -talk to one's self and not to hear any one shout; and “grasshoppers” - being interesting because of their heads resembling door knobs or green -cheeses, because of the crooks in their legs, and because of their -extraordinary habit of jumping. - -There were in Hagar at this time four ladies who lived at a little -distance from the Salem Road and Mr. Atherton Bell's house, on a road -which goes over a hill and off to a district called Scrabble Up and -Down, where huckleberries and sweet fern mostly grow. They were known as -the Tuttle Four Women, being old Mrs. Tuttle and the three Miss Tuttles, -of whom Miss Rachel was the eldest. - -It is easy to understand why Miss Rachel and the children of the village -of Hagar did not get along well together, when you consider how clean -she was, how she walked so as never to fall over anything, nor took -any interest in squat tag, nor resembled the children of the village of -Hagar in any respect. And so you can understand how it was that, when -she came down the hill that Saturday afternoon and saw Bobby Bell -through the bars in the Bow Meadows, she did not understand his actions, -and disapproved of them, whatever they were. - -The facts were these: In the first place a green grasshopper, who was -reckless or had not been brought up rightly, had gone down Bobby's back -next the skin, where he had no business to be; and naturally Bobby stood -on his head to induce him to come out. That seems plain enough, for, if -you are a grasshopper and down a boy's back, and the boy stands on his -head, you almost always come out to see what he is about; because it -makes you curious, if not ill, to be down a boy's back and have him -stand on his head. Any one can see that. And this is the reason I had -to explain about Miss Rachel, in order to show you why she did not -understand it, nor understand what followed after. - -In the next place, Bobby knew that when you go where you have no -business to, you are sometimes spanked, but usually you are talked to -unpleasantly, and tied up to something by the leg, and said to be in -disgrace. Usually you are tied to the sewing machine, and “disgrace” - means the corner of the sewing-room between the machine and the sofa. It -never occurred to him but that this was the right and natural order of -things. Very likely it is. It seemed so to Bobby. - -Now it is difficult to spank a grasshopper properly. And so there was -nothing to do but to tie him up and talk to him unpleasantly. That seems -quite simple and plain. But the trouble was that it was a long time -since Miss Rachel had stood on her head, or been spanked, or tied up to -anything. This was unfortunate, of course. And when she saw Bobby -stand violently on his head and then tie a string to a grasshopper, she -thought it was extraordinary business, and probably bad, and she came up -to the bars in haste. - -“Bobby!” she said, “you naughty boy, are you pulling off that -grasshopper's leg?” - -Bobby thought this absurd. “Gasshoppers,” he said calmly, “ithn't any -good 'ith their legth off.” - -This was plain enough, too, because grasshoppers are intended to jump, -and cannot jump without their legs; consequently it would be quite -absurd to pull them off. Miss Rachel thought one could not know this -without trying it, and especially know it in such a calm, matter-of-fact -way as Bobby seemed to do, without trying it a vast number of times; -therefore she became very much excited. “You wicked, wicked boy!” she -cried. “I shall tell your father!” Then she went off. - -Bobby wondered awhile what his father would say when Miss Rachel told -him that grasshoppers were no good with their legs off. When Bobby told -him that kind of thing, he generally chuckled to himself and called -Bobby “a queer little chicken.” If his father called Miss Rachel “a -queer little chicken,” Bobby felt that it would seem strange. But he had -to look after the discipline of the grasshopper, and it is no use trying -to think of two things at once. He tied the grasshopper to a mullein -stalk and talked to him unpleasantly, and the grasshopper behaved very -badly all the time; so that Bobby was disgusted and went away to leave -him for a time--went down to the western end of the meadows, which is a -drowsy place. And there it came about that he fell asleep, because his -legs were tired, because the bees hummed continually, and because the -sun was warm and the grass deep around him. - -Miss Rachel went into the village and saw Mr. Atherton Bell on the steps -of the post-office. He was much astonished at being attacked in such -a disorderly manner by such an orderly person as Miss Rachel; but -he admitted, when it was put to him, that pulling off the legs of -grasshoppers was interfering with the rights of grasshoppers. Then Miss -Rachel went on her way, thinking that a good seed had been sown and the -morality of the community distinctly advanced. - -The parents of other boys stood on the post-office steps in great -number, for it was near mail-time; and here you might have seen what -varieties of human nature there are. For some were taken with the -conviction that the attraction of the Bow Meadows to their children was -all connected with the legs of grasshoppers; some suspected it only, and -were uneasy; some refused to imagine such a thing, and were indignant. -But they nearly all started for the Bow Meadows with a vague idea of -doing something, Mr. Atherton Bell and Father Durfey leading. It was not -a well-planned expedition, nor did any one know what was intended to be -done. They halted at the bars, but no Bobby Bell was in sight, nor -did the Bow Meadows seem to have anything to say about the matter. The -grasshoppers in sight had all the legs that rightly belonged to them. -Mr. Atherton Bell got up on the wall and shouted for Bobby. Father -Durfey climbed over the bars. - -It happened that there was no one in the Bow Meadows at this time, -except Bobby, Moses Durfey, Chub Leroy, and one other. Bobby was asleep, -on account of the bumblebees humming in the sunlight; and the other -three were far up the farther side, on account of an expedition through -the alder swamp, supposing it to be Africa. There was a desperate battle -somewhere; but the expedition turned out badly in the end, and in this -place is neither here nor there. They heard Mr. Atherton Bell shouting, -but they did not care about it. It is more to the point that Father -Durfey, walking around in the grass, did not see the grasshopper who was -tied to the mullein stalk and as mad as he could be. For when tied up -in disgrace, one is always exceedingly mad at this point; but repentance -comes afterwards. The grasshopper never got that far, for Father Durfey -stepped on him with a boot as big as--big enough for Father Durfey to be -comfortable in--so that the grasshopper was quite dead. It was to him as -if a precipice were to fall on you, when you were thinking of something -else. Then they all went away. - -Bobby Bell woke up with a start, and was filled with remorse, -remembering his grasshopper. The sun had slipped behind the shoulder of -Windless Mountain. There was a faint light across the Bow Meadows, that -made them sweet to look on, but a little ghostly. Also it was dark in -the roots of the grasses, and difficult to find a green grasshopper -who was dead; at least it would have been if he had not been tied to a -mullein stalk. Bobby found him at last sunk deep in the turf, with his -poor legs limp and crookless, and his head, which had been like a -green cheese or a door knob, no longer looking even like the head of a -grasshopper. - -Then Bobby Bell sat down and wept. Miss Rachel, who had turned the corner -and was half way up to the house of the Tuttle Four Women, heard him, -and turned back to the bars. She wondered if Mr. Atherton Bell had not -been too harsh. The Bow Meadows looked dim and mournful in the twilight. -Miss Rachel was feeling a trifle sad about herself, too, as she -sometimes did; and the round-cheeked cherub weeping in the wide -shadowy meadows seemed to her something like her own life in the great -world--not very well understood. - -“He wath geen!” wailed Bobby, looking up at her, but not allowing his -grief to be interrupted. “He wath my geen bug!” - -Miss Rachel melted still further, without knowing why. - -“What was green?” - -She pulled down a bar and crawled through. She hoped Mr. Atherton Bell -was not looking from a window, for it was difficult to avoid making -one's self amusing to Mr. Atherton Bell. But Bobby was certainly in some -kind of trouble. - -“He'th dead!” wailed Bobby again. “He'th thtepped on!” - -Miss Rachel bent over him stiffly. It was hard for one so austerely -ladylike as Miss Rachel to seem gracious and compassionate, but she did -pretty well. - -“Oh, it's a grasshopper!” Then more severely: “Why did you tie him up?” - -Bobby's sobs subsided into hiccoughs. - -“It'th a disgace. I put him in disgace, and I forgotted him. He went -down my back.” - -“Did you step on him?” - -“N-O-O-O!” The hiccoughs rose into sobs again. “He wath the geenest -gasshopper!” - -This was not strictly true; there were others just as green; but it was -a generous tribute to the dead and a credit to Bobby Bell that he felt -that way. - -Now there was much in all this that Miss Rachel did not understand; but -she understood enough to feel sharp twinges for the wrong that she had -done Bobby Bell, and whatever else may be said of Miss Rachel, up to her -light she was square. In fact, I should say that she had an acute-angled -conscience. It was more than square; it was one of those consciences -that you are always spearing yourself on. She felt very humble, and went -with Bobby Bell to dig a grave for the green grasshopper under the lee -of the wall. She dug it herself with her parasol, thinking how she must -go up with Bobby Bell, what she must say to Mr. Atherton Bell, and how -painful it would be, because Mr. Atherton Bell was so easily amused. - -Bobby patted the grave with his chubby palm and cooed contentedly. Then -they went up the hill in the twilight hand in hand. - - - - -THE ENEMIES - - -THE great fluted pillars in Ramoth church were taken away. They -interfered with the view and rental of the pews behind them. Albion Dee -was loud and persuasive for removing them, and Jay Dee secret, shy and -resistant against it. That was their habit and method of hostility. - -Then in due season Jay Dee rented the first seat in the pew in front -of Albion's pew. This was thought to be an act of hostility, subtle, -noiseless, far-reaching. - -He was a tall man, Jay Dee, and wore a wide flapping coat, had flowing -white hair, and walked with a creeping step; a bachelor, a miser, he -had gathered a property slowly with persistent fingers; a furtive, -meditating, venerable man, with a gentle piping voice. He lived on the -hill in the old house of the Dees, built in the last century by one -“John Griswold Dee, who married Sarah Ballister and begat two sons,” - who respectively begat Jay and Albion Dee; and Albion founded Ironville, -three or four houses in the hollow at the west of Diggory Gorge, and a -bolt and nail factory. He was a red-faced, burly man, with short legs -and thick neck, who sought determined means to ends, stood squarely and -stated opinions. - -The beginnings of the feud lay backward in time, little underground -resentments that trickled and collected. In Albion they foamed up and -disappeared. He called himself modern and progressive, and the bolt and -nail factory was thought to be near bankruptcy. He liked to look men in -the eyes. If one could not see the minister, one could not tell if he -meant what he said, or preached shoddy doctrine. As regards all view and -rental behind him, Jay Dee was as bad as one of the old fluted pillars. -Albion could not see the minister. He felt the act to be an act of -hostility. - -But he was progressive, and interested at the time in a question of the -service, as respected the choir which sang from the rear gallery. It -seemed to him more determined and effective to hymnal devotion that the -congregation should rise and turn around during the singing, to the end -that congregation and choir might each see that all things were done -decently. He fixed on the idea and found it written as an interlinear to -his gospels, an imperative codicil to the duty of man. - -But the congregation was satiated with change. They had still to make -peace between their eyes and the new slender pillars, to convince -themselves by contemplation that the church was still not unstable, not -doctrinally weaker. - -So it came about that Albion Dee stood up sternly and faced the choir -alone, with the old red, fearless, Protestant face one knows of Luther -and Cromwell. The congregation thought him within his rights there -to bear witness to his conviction. Sabbaths came and went in Ramoth -peacefully, milestones of the passing time, and all seemed well. - -Pseudo-classic architecture is a pale, inhuman allegory of forgotten -meaning. If buildings like Ramoth church could in some plastic way -assimilate their communicants, what gargoyles would be about the -cornices, what wall paintings of patient saints, mystical and realistic. -On one of the roof cornices of an old church in France is the carved -stone face of a demon with horns and a forked tongue, and around its -eyes a wrinkled smile of immense kindness. And within the church is the -mural painting of a saint, some Beata Ursula or Catherine, with upturned -eyes; a likeable girl, capable of her saintship, of turning up her eyes -with sincerity because it fell to her to see a celestial vision; -as capable of a blush and twittering laugh, and the better for her -capabilities. - -It is not stated what Albion symbolized. He stood overtopping the -bonnets and the gray heads of deacons, respected by the pews, popular -with the choir, protesting his conviction. - -And all the while secretly, with haunch and elbow, he nudged, bumped -and rubbed the shoulders and silvery head of Jay Dee. It is here -claimed that he stood there in the conviction that it was his duty so -to testify. It is not denied that he so bumped and squatted against Jay -Dee, cautiously, but with relish and pleasure. - -In the bowed silver head, behind the shy, persistent eyes of Jay Dee, -what were his thoughts, his purposes, coiling and constricting? None -but the two were aware of the locked throat grip of the spirit. In the -droning Sabbath peace the congregation pursued the minister through -the subdivisions of his text, and dragged the hymn behind the dragging -choir. - -It was a June day and the orioles gurgled their warm nesting notes in -the maples. The boys in the gallery searched the surface of the quiet -assembly for points of interest; only here and there nodding heads, -wavering fans, glazed, abstracted eyes. They twisted and yawned. What to -them were brethren in unity, or the exegesis of a text, as if one were -to count and classify, prickle by prickle, to no purpose the irritating -points of a chestnut burr? The sermon drowsed to its close. The choir -and Albion rose. It was an outworn sight now, little more curious than -Monday morning. The sunlight shone through the side windows, slanting -down over the young, worldly and impatient, and one selected ray fell on -Jay Dee's hair with spiritual radiance, and on Albion's red face, turned -choirward for a testimony. - -Suddenly Albion gave a guttural shout. He turned, he grasped Jay Dee's -collar, dragged him headlong into the aisle, and shook him to and fro, -protesting, “You stuck me! I'll teach you!” - -His red face worked with passion; Jay Dee's venerable head bobbed, -helpless, mild, piteous. The choir broke down. The minister rose with -lifted hands and open mouth, the gallery in revelry, the body of -the church in exclamatory confusion. Albion saw outstretched hands -approaching, left his enemy, and hat in hand strode down the aisle with -red, glowering face, testifying, “He stuck me.” - -Jay Dee sat on the floor, his meek head swaying dizzily. - -On Monday morning Albion set out for Hamilton down the narrow valley -of the Pilgrim River. The sudden hills hid him and his purposes from -Ramoth. He came in time to sit in the office of Simeon Ballister, and -Simeon's eyes gleamed. He took notes and snuffed the battle afar. - -“Ha! Witnesses to pin protruding from coat in region adjoining haunch. -Hum! Affidavits to actual puncture of inflamed character, arguing -possibly venom of pin. Ha! Hum! Motive of concurrent animosity. A very -respectable case. I will come up and see your witnesses--Ha!--in a day -or two. Good morning.” - -Ballister was a shining light in the county courts in those days, -but few speak of him now. Yet he wrote a Life of Byron, a History of -Hamilton County, and talked a half century with unflagging charm. Those -who remember will have in mind his long white beard and inflamed and -swollen nose, his voice of varied melody. Alien whiskey and natural -indolence kept his fame local. His voice is silent forever that once -rose in the court-rooms like a fountain shot with rainbow fancies, in -musical enchantment, in liquid cadence. “I have laid open, gentlemen, -the secret of a human heart, shadowed and mourning, to the illumination -of your justice. You are the repository and temple of that sacred light. -Not merely as a plaintiff, a petitioner, my client comes; but as a -worshipper, in reverence of your function, he approaches the balm and -radiance of that steadfast torch and vestal fire of civilization, an -intelligent jury.” Such was Ballister's inspired manner, such his habit -of rhythm and climax, whenever he found twenty-four eyes fixed on his -swollen nose, the fiery mesmeric core of his oratory beaconing juries to -follow it and discover truth. - -But the Case of Dee v. Dee came only before a justice of the peace, in -the Town Hall of Ramoth, and Justice Kernegan was but a stout man with -hairy ears and round, spectacled, benevolent eyes. Jay Dee brought no -advocate. His silvery hair floated about his head. His pale eyes gazed -in mild terror at Ballister. He said it must have been a wasp stung -Albion. - -“A wasp, sir! Your Honor, does a wasp carry for penetration, for -puncture, for malignant attack or justifiable defence, for any purpose -whatsoever, a brass pin of palpable human manufacture, drawn, headed and -pointed by machinery, such as was inserted in my client's person? Does -the defendant wish your Honor to infer that wasps carry papers of brass -pins in their anatomies? I will ask the defendant, whose venerable -though dishonored head bears witness to his age, if, in his long -experience, he has ever met a wasp of such military outfit and arsenal? -Not a wasp, your Honor, but a serpent; a serpent in human form.” - -Jay Dee had no answer to all this. He murmured-- - -“Sat on me.” - -“I didn't catch your remark, sir.” - -“Why, you see,” explained the Justice, “Jay says Albion's been squatting -on him, Mr. Ballister, every Sunday for six months. You see, Albion gets -up when the choir sings, and watches 'em sharp to see they sing correct, -because his ear ain't well tuned, but his eye's all right.” - -The Justice's round eyes blinked pleasantly. The court-room murmured -with approval, and Albion started to his feet. - -“Now don't interrupt the Court,” continued the Justice. “You see, Mr. -Ballister, sometimes Jay says it was a wasp and sometimes he says it -was because Albion squatted on him, don't you see, bumped him on the -ear with his elbow. You see, Jay sets just in front of Albion. Now, you -see--” - -“Then, does it not appear to your Honor that a witness who voluntarily -offers to swear to two contradictory explanations; first, that the -operation in question, the puncture or insertion, was performed by a -wasp; secondly, that, though he did it himself with a pin and in his -haste allowed that pin in damnatory evidence to remain, it was because, -he alleges, of my client's posture toward, and intermittent contact -with him--does it not seem to your Honor that such a witness is to be -discredited in any statement he may make?” - -“Well, really, Mr. Ballister, but you see Albion oughtn't to've squatted -on him.” - -“I find myself in a singular position. It has not been usual in my -experience to find the Court a pleader in opposition. I came hoping to -inform and persuade your Honor regarding this case. I find myself in -the position of being informed and persuaded. I hope the Court sees -no discourtesy in the remark, but if the Court is prepared already to -discuss the case there seems little for me to do.” - -The Justice looked alarmed. He felt his popularity trembling. It would -not do to balk the public interest in Ballister's oratory. Doubtless Jay -Dee had stuck a pin into Albion, but maybe Albion had mussed Jay's hair -and jabbed his ear, had dragged and shaken him in the aisle at least. -The rights of it did not seem difficult. They ought not to have acted -that way. No man has the right to sit on another man's head from the -standpoint or advantage of his own religious conviction. Nor has a man -a right to use another man for a pincushion whenever, as it may be, -he finds something about him in a way that's like a pincushion. But -Ballister's oratory was critical and important. - -“Why,” said Kemegan hastily, “this Court is in a mighty uncertain state -of mind. It couldn't make it up without hearing what you were going to -say.” - -Again the Court murmured with approval. Ballister rose. - -“This case presents singular features. The secret and sunless caverns, -where human motives lie concealed, it is the function of justice to lay -open to vivifying light. Not only evil or good intentions are moving -forces of apparent action, but mistakes and misjudgments. -I conclude that your Honor puts down the defendant's fanciful and -predatory wasp to the defendant's neglect of legal advice, to his feeble -and guilty inepitude. I am willing to leave it there. I assume that he -confesses the assault on my client's person with a pin, an insidious and -lawless pin, pointed with cruelty and propelled with spite; I infer -and understand that he offers in defence a certain alleged provocation, -certain insertions of my client's elbow into the defendant's ear, -certain trespasses and disturbance of the defendant's hair, finally, -certain approximations and contacts between my client's adjacent quarter -and the defendant's shoulders, denominated by him--and here we demur or -object--as an act of sitting or squatting, whereby the defendant alleges -himself to have been touched, grieved and annoyed. In the defendant's -parsimonious neglect of counsel we generously supply him with a fair -statement of his case. I return to my client. - -“Your Honor, what nobler quality is there in our defective nature than -that which enables the earnest man, whether as a citizen or in divine -worship, whether in civil matters or religious, to abide steadfastly by -his conscience and convictions. He stands a pillar of principle, a rock -in the midst of uncertain waters. The feeble look up to him and are -encouraged, the false and shifty are ashamed. His eye is fixed on the -future. Posterity shall judge him. Small matters of his environment -escape his notice. His mind is on higher things. - -“I am not prepared to forecast the judgment of posterity on that point -of ritualistic devotion to which my client is so devoted an advocate. -Neither am I anxious or troubled to seek opinion whether my client -inserted his elbow into the defendant's ear, or the defendant, -maliciously or inadvertently, by some rotatory motion, applied, bumped -or banged his ear against my client's elbow; whether the defendant -rubbed or impinged with his head on the appendant coat tails of -my client, or the reverse. I am uninterested in the alternative, -indifferent to the whole matter. It seems to me an academic question. If -the defendant so acted, it is not the action of which we complain. If -my client once, twice, or even at sundry times, in his stern absorption, -did not observe what may in casual accident have taken place behind, -what then? I ask your Honor, what then? Did the defendant by a slight -removal, by suggestion, by courteous remonstrance, attempt to obviate -the difficulty? No! Did he remember those considerate virtues enjoined -in Scripture, or the sacred place and ceremony in which he shared? No! -Like a serpent, he coiled and waited. He hid his hypocrisy in white -hairs, his venomous purpose in attitudes of reverence. He darkened his -morbid malice till it festered, corroded, corrupted. He brooded over his -fancied injury and developed his base design. Resolved and prepared, -he watched his opportunity. With brazen and gangrened pin of malicious -point and incensed propulsion, with averted eye and perfidious hand, -with sudden, secret, backward thrust, with all the force of accumulated, -diseased, despicable spite, he darted like a serpent's fang this -misapplied instrument into the unprotected posterior, a sensitive -portion, most outlying and exposed, of my client's person. - -“This action, your Honor, I conceive to be in intent and performance a -felonious, injurious and sufficient assault. For this injury, for -pain, indignity and insult, for the vindication of justice in state and -community, for the protection of the citizen from bold or treacherous -attack, anterior or posterior, vanguard or rear, I ask your Honor that -damages be given my client adequate to that injury, adequate to that -vindication and protection.” - -So much and more Ballister spoke. Mr. Kernegan took off his spectacles -and rubbed his forehead. - -“Well,” he said, “I guess Mr. Ballister'll charge Albion about forty -dollars--” - -Ballister started up. - -“Don't interrupt the Court. It's worth all that. Albion and Jay haven't -been acting right and they ought to pay for it between 'em. The Court -decides Jay Dee shall pay twenty dollars damages and costs.” - -The court-room murmured with approval. - -* * * * * - -The twilight was gathering as Albion drove across the old covered bridge -and turned into the road that leads to Ironville through a gloomy gorge -of hemlock trees and low-browed rocks. The road keeps to the left above -Diggory Brook, which murmurs in recesses below and waves little ghostly -white garments over its waterfalls. Such is this murmur and the soft -noise of the wind in the hemlocks, that the gorge is ever filled with -a sound of low complaint. Twilight in the open sky is night below the -hemlocks. At either end of the avenue you note where the light still -glows fadingly. There lie the hopes and possibilities of a worldly day, -skies, fields and market-places, to-days, to-morrows and yesterdays, -and men walking about with confidence in their footing. But here the -hemlocks stand beside in black order of pillars and whisper together -distrustfully. The man who passes you is a nameless shadow with an -intrusive, heavy footfall. Low voices float up from the pit of the -gorge, intimations, regrets, discouragements, temptations. - -A house and mill once stood at the lower end of it, and there, a century -ago, was a wild crime done on a certain night; the dead bodies of the -miller and his children lay on the floor, except one child, who hid and -crept out in the grass; little trickles of blood stole along the cracks; -house and mill blazed and fell down into darkness; a maniac cast his -dripping axe into Diggory Brook and fled away yelling among the hills. -Not that this had made the gorge any darker, or that its whispers are -supposed to relate to any such memories. The brook comes from swamps -and meadows like other brooks, and runs into the Pilgrim River. It is -shallow and rapid, though several have contrived to fall and be drowned -in it. One wonders how it could have happened. The old highway leading -from Ramoth village to the valley has been grass-grown for generations, -but that is because the other road is more direct to the Valley -settlement and the station. The water of the brook is clear and pleasant -enough. Much trillium, with its leaves like dark red splashes, a plant -of sullen color and solitary station, used to grow there, but does so no -more. Slender birches now creep down almost to the mouth of the gorge, -and stand with white stems and shrinking, trembling leaves. But birches -grow nearly everywhere. - -Albion drove steadily up the darkened road, till his horse dropped -into a walk behind an indistinguishable object that crept in front with -creaking wheels. He shouted for passage and turned into the ditch on the -side away from the gorge. The shadowy vehicle drifted slantingly aside. -Albion started his horse; the front wheels of the two clicked, grated, -slid inside each other and locked. Albion spoke impatiently. He was ever -for quick decisions. He backed his horse, and the lock became hopeless. -The unknown made no comment, no noise. The hemlocks whispered, the -brook muttered in its pit and shook the little white garments of its -waterfalls. - -“Crank your wheel a trifle now.” - -The other did not move. - -“Who are you? Can't ye speak?” - -No answer. - -Albion leaned over his wheel, felt the seat rail of the other vehicle, -and brought his face close to something white--white hair about the -approximate outline of a face. By the hair crossed by the falling hat -brim, by the shoulders seen vaguely to be bent forward, by the loose -creaking wheels of the buck-board he knew Jay Dee. The two stood -close and breathless, face to face, but featureless and apart by the -unmeasured distance of obscurity. - -Albion felt a sudden uneasy thrill and drew back. He dreaded to hear -Jay Dee's spiritless complaining voice, too much in the nature of that -dusky, uncanny place. He felt as if something cold, damp and impalpable -were drawing closer to him, whispering, calling his attention to the -gorge, how black and steep! to the presence of Jay Dee, how near! to -the close secret hemlocks covering the sky. This was not agreeable to a -positive man, a man without fancies. Jay Dee sighed at last, softly, and -spoke, piping, thin, half-moaning: - -“You're following me. Let me alone!” - -“I'm not following you,” said Albion hoarsely. “Crank your wheel!” - -“You're following me. I'm an old man. You're only fifty.” - -Albion breathed hard in the darkness. He did not understand either Jay -Dee or himself. After a silence Jay Dee went on: - -“I haven't any kin but you, Albion, except Stephen Ballister and the -Winslows. They're only fourth cousins.” - -Albion growled. - -“What do you mean?” - -“Without my making a will it'd come to you, wouldn't it? Seems to me as -if you oughtn't to pester me, being my nearest kin, and me, I ain't made -any will. I got a little property, though it ain't much. 'Twould clear -your mortgage and make you easy.” - -“What d'you mean?” - -“Twenty dollars and costs,” moaned Jay Dee. “And me an old man, getting -ready for his latter end soon. I ain't made my will, either. I ought -to've done it.” - -What could Jay Dee mean? If he made no will his property would come to -Albion. No will made yet. A hinted intention to make one in favor of -Stephen Ballister or the Winslows. The foundry was mortgaged.--Jay -was worth sixty thousand. Diggory Gorge was a dark whispering place -of ancient crime, of more than one unexplained accident. The hemlocks -whispered, the brook gurgled and glimmered. Such darkness might well -cloak and cover the sunny instincts that look upwards, scruples of the -social daylight. Would Jay Dee trap him to his ruin? Jay Dee would not -expect to enjoy it if he were dead himself. But accidents befall, and -men not seldom meet sudden deaths, and an open, free-speaking neighbor -is not suspected. Success lies before him in the broad road. - -It rushed through Albion's mind, a flood, sudden, stupefying--thoughts -that he could not master, push back, or stamp down. - -He started and roused himself; his hands were cold and shaking. He -sprang from his buggy and cried angrily: - -“What d'ye mean by all that? Tempt me, a God-fearing man? Throw ye off'n -the gorge! Break your old neck! I've good notion to it, if I wasn't a -God-fearing man. Crank your wheel there!” - -He jerked his buggy free, sprang in, and lashed his horse. The horse -leaped, the wheels locked again. Jay Dee's buckboard, thrust slanting -aside, went over the edge, slid and stopped with a thud, caught by the -hemlock trunks. A ghostly glimmer of white hair one instant, and Jay Dee -was gone down the black pit of the gorge. A wheezing moan, and nothing -more was heard in the confusion. Then only the complaining murmur of the -brook, the hemlocks at their secrets. - -“Jay! Jay!” called Albion, and then leaped out, ran and whispered, -“Jay!” - -Only the mutter of the brook and the shimmer of foam could be made out -as he stared and listened, leaning over, clinging to a tree, feeling -about for the buckboard. He fumbled, lit a match and lifted it. The -seat was empty, the left wheels still in the road. The two horses, with -twisted necks and glimmering eyes, were looking back quietly at him, -Albion Dee, a man of ideas and determination, now muttering things -unintelligible in the same tone with the muttering water, with wet -forehead and nerveless hands, heir of Jay Dee's thousands, staring down -the gorge of Diggory Brook, the scene of old crime. He gripped with -difficulty as he let himself slide past the first row of trees, and felt -for some footing below. He noticed dully that it was a steep slope, not -a precipice at that point. He lit more matches as he crept down, and -peered around to find something crushed and huddled against some tree, a -lifeless, fearful thing. The slope grew more moderate. There were thick -ferns. And closely above the brook, that gurgled and laughed quietly, -now near at hand, sat Jay Dee. He looked up and blinked dizzily, -whispered and piped: - -“Twenty dollars and costs! You oughtn't to pester me. I ain't made my -will.” - -Albion sat down. They sat close together in the darkness some moments -and were silent. - -“You ain't hurt?” Albion asked at last. “We'll get out.” - -They went up the steep, groping and stumbling. - -Albion half lifted his enemy into the buckboard, and led the horse, his -own following. They were out into the now almost faded daylight. Jay sat -holding his lines, bowed over, meek and venerable. The front of his coat -was torn. Albion came to his wheel. - -“Will twenty dollars make peace between you and me, Jay Dee?” - -“The costs was ten,” piping sadly. - -“Thirty dollars, Jay Dee? Here it is.” - -He jumped into his buggy and drove rapidly. In sight of the foundry he -drew a huge breath. - -“I been a sinner and a fool,” and slapped his knee. “It's sixty thousand -dollars, maybe seventy. A self-righteous sinner and a cocksure fool. God -forgive me!” - -Between eight and nine Jay Dee sat down before his meagre fire and rusty -stove, drank his weak tea and toasted his bread. The windows clicked -with the night wind. The furniture was old, worn, unstable, except the -large desk behind him full of pigeonholes and drawers. Now and then -he turned and wrote on scraps of paper. Tea finished, he collected the -scraps and copied: - -Mr. Stephen Ballister: I feel, as growing somewhat old, I ought to make -my will, and sometime, leaving this world for a better, would ask you -to make my will for me, for which reasonable charge, putting this so -it cannot be broken by lawyers, who will talk too much and are vain -of themselves, that is, leaving all my property of all kinds to my -relative, James Winslow of Wimberton, and not anything to Albion Dee; -for he has not much sense but is hasty; for to look after the choir is -not his business, and to sit on an old man and throw him from his own -wagon and pay him thirty dollars is hasty, for it is not good sense, and -not anything to Stephen Ballister, for he must be rich with talking so -much in courts of this world. Put this all in my will, but if unable or -unwilling on account of remorse for speaking so in the court, please to -inform that I may get another lawyer. Yours, - -Jay Dee. - -He sealed and addressed the letter, put it in his pocket, and noticed -the ruinous rent in his coat. He sighed, murmured over it complainingly, -and turned up the lapel of the coat. Pins in great variety and number -were there in careful order, some new, some small, some long and old and -yellow. He selected four and pinned the rent together, sighing. Then he -took three folded bills from his vest pocket, unfolded, counted and put -them back, felt of the letter in his coat gently, murmured, “I had the -best of Albion there; I had him there,” took his candle and went up -peacefully and venerably to bed. - - - - -A NIGHT'S LODGING - - -FATHER WILISTON was a retired clergyman, so distinguished from his -son Timothy, whose house stood on the ridge north of the old village -of Win-throp, and whose daily path lay between his house and the new -growing settlement around the valley station. It occurred at odd times -to Father Wiliston that Timothy's path was somewhat undeviating. The -clergyman had walked widely since Win-throp was first left behind -fifty-five years back, at a time when the town was smaller and cows -cropped the Green but never a lawn mower. - -After college and seminary had come the frontier, which lay this side -of the Great Lakes until Clinton stretched his ribbon of waterway to -the sea; then a mission in Wisconsin, intended to modify the restless -profanity of lumbermen who broke legs under logs and drank disastrous -whiskey. A city and twenty mills were on the spot now, though the same -muddy river ran into the same blue lake. Some skidders and saw-tenders -of old days were come to live in stone mansions and drive in -nickel-plated carriages; some were dead; some drifting like the refuse -on the lake front; some skidding and saw-tending still. Distinction -of social position was an idea that Father Wiliston never was able to -grasp. - -In the memories of that raw city on the lake he had his place among its -choicest incongruities; and when his threescore and ten years were full, -the practical tenderness of his nickel-plated and mansioned parishioners -packed him one day into an upholstered sleeping car, drew an astonishing -check to his credit, and mailed it for safety to Timothy Wiliston of -Winthrop. So Father Wiliston returned to Winthrop, where Timothy, his -son, had been sent to take root thirty years before. - -One advantage of single-mindedness is that life keeps on presenting us -with surprises. Father Wiliston occupied his own Arcadia, and Wisconsin -or Winthrop merely sent in to him a succession of persons and events -of curious interest. “The parson”--Wisconsin so spoke of him, leaning -sociably over its bar, or pausing among scented slabs and sawdust--“the -parson resembles an egg as respects that it's innocent and some -lopsided, but when you think he must be getting addled, he ain't. He -says to me, 'You'll make the Lord a deal of trouble, bless my soul!' -he says. I don't see how the Lord's going to arrange for you. -But'--thinking he might hurt my feelings--'I guess he'll undertake it by -and by.' Then he goes wabbling down-street, picks up Mike Riley, who's -considerable drunk, and takes him to see his chickens. And Mike gets so -interested in those chickens you'd like to die. Then parson goes off, -absent-minded and forgets him, and Mike sleeps the balmy night in the -barnyard, and steals a chicken in the morning, and parson says, 'Bless -my soul! How singular!' Well,” concluded Wisconsin, “he's getting pretty -young for his years. I hear they're going to send him East before he -learns bad habits.” - -The steadiness and repetition of Timothy's worldly career and semi-daily -walk to and from his business therefore seemed to Father Wiliston -phenomenal, a problem not to be solved by algebra, for if _a_ equalled -Timothy, _b_ his house, _c_ his business, _a + b + c_ was still not -a far-reaching formula, and there seemed no advantage in squaring it. -Geometrically it was evident that by walking back and forth over the -same straight line you never so much as obtained an angle. Now, -by arithmetic, “Four times thirty, multiplied by--leaving out -Sundays--Bless me! How singular! Thirty-seven thousand five hundred and -sixty times!” - -He wondered if it had ever occurred to Timothy to walk it backward, or, -perhaps, to hop, partly on one foot, and then, of course, partly on -the other. Sixty years ago there was a method of progress known as -“hop-skip-and-jump,” which had variety and interest. Drawn in the train -of this memory came other memories floating down the afternoon's slant -sunbeams, rising from every meadow and clump of woods; from the elder -swamp where the brown rabbits used to run zigzag, possibly still ran -in the same interesting way; from the great sand bank beyond the Indian -graves. The old Wiliston house, with roof that sloped like a well-sweep, -lay yonder, a mile or two. He seemed to remember some one said it was -empty, but he could not associate it with emptiness. The bough apples -there, if he remembered rightly, were an efficacious balm for regret. - -He sighed and took up his book. It was another cure for regret, a -Scott novel, “The Pirate.” It had points of superiority over Cruden's -Concordance. The surf began to beat on the Shetland Islands, and trouble -was imminent between Cleveland and Mor-daunt Mertoun. - -Timothy and his wife drove away visiting that afternoon, not to -return till late at night, and Bettina, the Scandinavian, laid Father -Wiliston's supper by the open window, where he could look out across the -porch and see the chickens clucking in the road. - -“You mus' eat, fater,” she commanded. - -“Yes, yes, Bettina. Thank you, my dear. Quite right.” - -He came with his book and sat down at the table, but Bettina was -experienced and not satisfied. - -“You mus' eat firs'.” - -He sighed and laid down “The Pirate.” Bettina captured and carried it to -the other end of the room, lit the lamp though it was still light, and -departed after the mail. It was a rare opportunity for her to linger in -the company of one of her Scandinavian admirers. “Fater” would not know -the difference between seven and nine or ten. - -He leaned in the window and watched her safely out of sight, then went -across the room, recaptured “The Pirate,” and chuckled in the tickling -pleasure of a forbidden thing, “asked the blessing,” drank his tea -shrewdly, knowing it would deteriorate, and settled to his book. The -brown soft dusk settled, shade by shade; moths fluttered around the -lamp; sleepy birds twittered in the maples. But the beat of the surf -on the Shetland Islands was closer than these. Cleveland and Mordaunt -Mertoun were busy, and Norna--“really, Norna was a remarkable -woman”--and an hour slipped past. - -Some one hemmed! close by and scraped his feet. It was a large man -who stood there, dusty and ragged, one boot on the porch, with a red -handkerchief knotted under his thick tangled beard and jovial red face. -He had solid limbs and shoulders, and a stomach of sloth and heavy -feeding. - -The stranger did not resemble the comely pirate, Cleveland; his linen -was not “seventeen hun'red;” it seemed doubtful if there were any linen. -And yet, in a way there was something not inappropriate about him, a -certain chaotic ease; not piratical, perhaps, although he looked like -an adventurous person. Father Wiliston took time to pass from one -conception of things to another. He gazed mildly through his glasses. - -“I ain't had no supper,” began the stranger in a deep moaning bass; and -Father Wiliston started. - -“Bless my soul! Neither have I.” He shook out his napkin. “Bettina, you -see “-- - -“Looks like there's enough for two,” moaned and grumbled the other. -He mounted the porch and approached the window, so that the lamplight -glimmered against his big, red, oily face. - -“Why, so there is!” cried Father Wiliston, looking about the table in -surprise. “I never could eat all that. Come in.” And the stranger rolled -muttering and wheezing around through the door. - -“Will you not bring a chair? And you might use the bread knife. These -are fried eggs. And a little cold chicken? Really, I'm very glad you -dropped in, Mr.”-- - -“Del Toboso.” By this time the stranger's mouth was full and his -enunciation confused. - -“Why”--Father Wiliston helped himself to an egg--“I don't think I caught -the name.” - -“Del Toboso. Boozy's what they calls me in the push.” - -“I'm afraid your tea is quite cold. Boozy? How singular! I hope it -doesn't imply alcoholic habits.” - -“No,” shaking his head gravely, so that his beard wagged to the judicial -negation. “Takes so much to tank me up I can't afford it, let alone it -ain't moral.” - -The two ate with haste, the stranger from habit and experience, Father -Wiliston for fear of Bettina's sudden return. When the last egg and -slice of bread had disappeared, the stranger sat back with a wheezing -sigh. - -“I wonder,” began Father Wiliston mildly, “Mr. Toboso--Toboso is the -last name, isn't it, and Del the first?” - -“Ah,” the other wheezed mysteriously, “I don't know about that, Elder. -That's always a question.” - -“You don't know! You don't know!” - -“Got it off'n another man,” went on Toboso sociably. “He said he -wouldn't take fifty dollars for it. I didn't have no money nor him -either, and he rolled off'n the top of the train that night or maybe the -next I don't know. I didn't roll him. It was in Dakota, over a canyon -with no special bottom. He scattered himself on the way down. But I -says, if that name's worth fifty dollars, it's mine. Del Toboso. That's -mine. Sounds valuable, don't it?” - -Father Wiliston fell into a reverie. “To-boso? Why, yes. Dulcinea del -Toboso. I remember, now.” - -“What's that? Dulcinea, was it? And you knowed him?” - -“A long while ago when I was younger. It was in a green cover. 'Don -Quixote'--he was in a cage, 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.' He -had his face between the bars.” - -“Well,” said Toboso, “you must have knowed him. He always looked glum, -and I've seen him in quad myself.” - -“Yes. Sancho Panza. Dulcinea del Toboso.” - -“I never knowed that part of it. Dulcinea del Toboso! Well, that's me. -You know a ruck of fine names, Elder. It sounds like thirteen trumps, -now, don't it?” - -Father Wiliston roused himself, and discriminated. “But you look more -like Sancho Panza.” - -“Do? Well, I never knowed that one. Must've been a Greaser. Dulcinea's -good enough.” - -Father Wiliston began to feel singularly happy and alive. The regular -and even paced Timothy, his fidgeting wife, and the imperious Bettina -were to some extent shadows and troubles in the evening of his life. -They were careful people, who were hemmed in and restricted, who somehow -hemmed in and restricted him. They lived up to precedents. Toboso did -not seem to depend on precedents. He had the free speech, the casual -inconsequence, the primitive mystery, desired of the boy's will and the -wind's will, and travelled after by the long thoughts of youth. He was -wind-beaten, burned red by the sun, ragged of coat and beard, huge, fat, -wallowing in the ease of his flesh. One looked at him and remembered the -wide world full of crossed trails and slumbering swamps. - -Father Wiliston had long, straight white hair, falling beside his -pale-veined and spiritual forehead and thin cheeks. He propped -his forehead on one bony hand, and looked at Toboso with eyes of -speculation. If both men were what some would call eccentric, to each -other they seemed only companionable, which, after all, is the main -thing. - -“I have thought of late,” continued Father Wiliston after a pause, “that -I should like to travel, to examine human life, say, on the highway. I -should think, now, your manner of living most interesting. You go from -house to house, do you not?--from city to city? Like Ulysses, you see -men and their labors, and you pass on. Like the apostles--who surely -were wise men, besides that were especially maintained of God--like -them, and the pilgrims to shrines, you go with wallet and staff or -merely with Faith for your baggage.” - -“There don't nothing bother you in warm weather, that's right,” said -Toboso, “except your grub. And that ain't any more than's interesting. -If it wasn't for looking after meals, a man on the road might get right -down lazy.” - -“Why, just so! How wonderful! Now, do you suppose, Mr. Toboso, do you -suppose it feasible? I should very much like, if it could be equably -arranged, I should very much like to have this experience.” - -Toboso reflected. “There ain't many of your age on the road.” An -idea struck him suddenly. “But supposing you were going sort of -experimenting, like that--and there's some folks that do--supposing you -could lay your hands on a little bunch of money for luck, I don't see -nothing to stop.” - -“Why, I think there is some in my desk.” Toboso leaned forward and -pulled his beard. The table creaked under his elbow. “How much?” - -“I will see. Of course you are quite right.” - -“At your age, Elder.” - -“It is not as if I were younger.” - -Father Wiliston rose and hurried out. - -Toboso sat still and blinked at the lamp. “My Gord!” he murmured and -moaned confidentially, “here's a game!” - -After some time Father Wiliston returned. “Do you think we could start -now?” he asked eagerly. - -“Why sure, Elder. What's hindering?” - -“I am fortunate to find sixty dollars. Really, I didn't remember. And -here's a note I have written to my son to explain. I wonder what Bettina -did with my hat.” - -He hurried back into the hall. Toboso took the note from the table and -pocketed it. “Ain't no use taking risks.” - -They went out into the warm night, under pleasant stars, and along the -road together arm in arm. - -“I feel pretty gay, Elder.” He broke into bellowing song, “Hey, Jinny! -Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me.” - -“Really, I feel cheerful, too, Mr. Toboso, wonderfully cheerful.” - -“Dulcinea, Elder. Dulcinea's me name. Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” - -“How singular it is! I feel very cheerful. I think--really, I think I -should like to learn that song about Jinny. It seems such a cheerful -song.” - -“Hit her up, Elder,” wheezed Toboso jovially. “Now then”-- - -“Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me.” - -So they went arm in arm with a roaring and a tremulous piping. - -The lamp flickered by the open window as the night breeze rose. Bettina -came home betimes and cleared the table. The memory of a Scandinavian -caress was too recent to leave room for her to remark that there were -signs of devastating appetite, that dishes had been used unaccountably, -and that “Fater” had gone somewhat early to bed. Timothy and his wife -returned late. All windows and doors in the house of Timothy were -closed, and the last lamp was extinguished. - -Father Wiliston and Toboso went down the hill, silently, with furtive, -lawless steps through the cluster of houses in the hollow, called -Ironville, and followed then the road up the chattering hidden brook. -The road came from the shadows of this gorge at last to meadows and wide -glimmering skies, and joined the highway to Redfield. Presently they -came to where a grassy side road slipped into the highway from the -right, out of a land of bush and swamp and small forest trees of twenty -or thirty years' growth. A large chestnut stood at the corner. - -“Hey, Jinny!” wheezed Toboso. “Let's look at that tree, Elder.” - -“Look at it? Yes, yes. What for?” Toboso examined the bark by the dim -starlight; Father Wiliston peered anxiously through his glasses to where -Toboso's finger pointed. - -“See those marks?” - -“I'm afraid I don't. Really, I'm sorry.” - -“Feel 'em, then.” - -And Father Wiliston felt, with eager, excited finger. - -“Them there mean there's lodging out here; empty house, likely.” - -“Do they, indeed. Very singular! Most interesting!” And they turned into -the grassy road. The brushwood in places had grown close to it, though -it seemed to be still used as a cart path. They came to a swamp, rank -with mouldering vegetation, then to rising ground where once had been -meadows, pastures, and plough lands. - -Father Wiliston was aware of vaguely stirring memories. Four vast and -aged maple trees stood close by the road, and their leaves whispered to -the night; behind them, darkly, was a house with a far sloping roof in -the rear. The windows were all glassless, all dark and dead-looking, -except two in a front room, in which a wavering light from somewhere -within trembled and cowered. They crept up, and looking through saw -tattered wall paper and cracked plaster, and two men sitting on the -floor, playing cards in the ghostly light of a fire of boards in the -huge fireplace. - -“Hey, Jinny!” roared Toboso, and the two jumped up with startled oaths. -“Why, it's Boston Alley and the Newark Kid!” cried Toboso. “Come on, -Elder.” - -The younger man cast forth zigzag flashes of blasphemy. “You big fat -fool! Don't know no mor' 'n to jump like that on _me!_ Holy Jims! I -ain't made of copper.” - -Toboso led Father Wiliston round by the open door. “Hold your face, Kid. -Gents, this here's a friend of mine we'll call the Elder, and let -that go. I'm backing him, and I hold that goes. The Kid,” he went on -descriptively, addressing Father Wiliston, “is what you see afore you, -Elder. His mouth is hot, his hands is cold, his nerves is shaky, he's -always feeling the cops gripping his shirt-collar. He didn't see no -clergy around. He begs your pardon. Don't he? I says, don't he?” - -He laid a heavy red hand on the Newark Kid's shoulder, who wiped his -pallid mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and nodded. - -Boston Alley seemed in his way an agreeable man. He was tall and slender -limbed, with a long, thin black mustache, sinewy neck and hollow chest, -and spoke gently with a sweet, resonant voice, saying, “Glad to see you, -Elder.” - -These two wore better clothes than Toboso, but he seemed to dominate -them with his red health and windy voice, his stomach and feet, and -solidity of standing on the earth. - -Father Wiliston stood the while gazing vaguely through his spectacles. -The sense of happy freedom and congenial companionship that had been -with him during the starlit walk had given way gradually to a stream of -confused memories, and now these memories stood ranged about, looking at -him with sad, faded eyes, asking him to explain the scene. The language -of the Newark Kid had gone by him like a white hot blast. The past and -present seemed to have about the same proportions of vision and reality. -He could not explain them to each other. He looked up to Toboso, -pathetically, trusting in his help. - -“It was my house.” - -Toboso stared surprised. “I ain't on to you, Elder.” - -“I was born here.” - -Indeed Toboso was a tower of strength even against the ghosts of other -days, reproachful for their long durance in oblivion. - -“Oh! Well, by Jinny! I reckon you'll give us lodging, Elder,” he puffed -cheerfully. He took the coincidence so pleasantly and naturally that -Father Wiliston was comforted, and thought that after all it was -pleasant and natural enough. - -The only furniture in the room was a high-backed settle and an -overturned kitchen table, with one leg gone, and the other three -helplessly in the air--so it had lain possibly many years. Boston Alley -drew forward the settle and threw more broken clapboards on the fire, -which blazed up and filled the room with flickering cheer. Soon the -three outcasts were smoking their pipes and the conversation became -animated. - -“When I was a boy,” said Father Wiliston--“I remember so -distinctly--there were remarkable early bough apples growing in the -orchard.” - -“The pot's yours, Elder,” thundered To-boso. They went out groping under -the old apple trees, and returned laden with plump pale green fruit. -Boston Alley and the Newark Kid stretched themselves on the floor on -heaps of pulled grass. Toboso and Father Wiliston sat on the settle. The -juice of the bough apples ran with a sweet tang. The palate rejoiced and -the soul responded. The Newark Kid did swift, cunning card tricks that -filled Father Wiliston with wonder and pleasure. - -“My dear young man, I don't see how you do it!” - -The Kid was lately out of prison from a two years' sentence, “only for -getting into a house by the window instead of the door,” as Boston Alley -delicately explained, and the “flies,” meaning officers of the law, “are -after him again for reasons he ain't quite sure of.” The pallor of slum -birth and breeding, and the additional prison pallor, made his skin -look curious where the grime had not darkened it. He had a short-jawed, -smooth-shaven face, a flat mouth and light hair, and was short and -stocky, but lithe and noiseless in movement, and inclined to say little. -Boston Alley was a man of some slight education, who now sometimes sung -in winter variety shows, such songs as he picked up here and there in -summer wanderings, for in warm weather he liked footing the road better, -partly because the green country sights were pleasant to him, and partly -because he was irresolute and keeping engagements was a distress. He -seemed agreeable and sympathetic. - -“He ain't got no more real feelings 'n a fish,” said Toboso, gazing -candidly at Boston, but speaking to Father Wiliston, “and yet he looks -like he had 'em, and a man's glad to see him. Ain't seen you since -fall, Boston, but I see the Kid last week at a hang-out in Albany. Well, -gents, this ain't a bad lay.” - -Toboso himself had been many years on the road. He was in a way a man -of much force and decision, and probably it was another element in -him, craving sloth and easy feeding, which kept him in this submerged -society; although here, too, there seemed room for the exercise of his -dominance. He leaned back in the settle, and had his hand on Father -Wiliston's shoulder. His face gleamed redly over his bison beard. - -“It's a good lay. And we're gay, Elder. Ain't we gay? Hey, Jinny!” - -“Yes, yes, Toboso. But this young man--I'm sure he must have great -talents, great talents, quite remarkable. Ah--yes, Jinny!” - -“Hey, Jinny,” they sang together, “Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me. I'll -sing to you, and play to you, a dulcet melode-e-e”--while Boston danced -a shuffle and the Kid snapped the cards in time. Then, at Toboso's -invitation and command, Boston sang a song, called “The Cheerful Man,” - resembling a ballad, to a somewhat monotonous tune, and perhaps known -in the music halls of the time--all with a sweet, resonant voice and a -certain pathos of intonation:-- - - “I knew a man across this land - - Came waving of a cheerful hand, - - Who drew a gun and gave some one - - A violent contus-i-on, - - This cheerful man. - - - “They sent him up, he fled from 'quad' - - By a window and the grace of God, - - Picked up a wife and children six, - - And wandered into politics, - - This cheerful man. - - - “'In politics he was, I hear, - - A secret, subtle financier-- - - So the jury says, 'But we agree - - He quits this sad community, - - This cheerful man.' - - - “His wife and six went on the town, - - And he went off; without a frown - - Reproaching Providence, went he - - And got another wife and three, - - This cheerful man. - - - “He runs a cross-town car to-day - - From Bleecker Street to Avenue A. - - He swipes the fares with skilful ease, - - Keeps up his hope, and tries to please, - - This cheerful man. - - - “Our life is mingled woe and bliss, - - Man that is born of woman is - - Short-lived and goes to his long home. - - Take heart, and learn a lesson from - - This cheerful man.” - - -“But,” said Father Wiliston, “don't you think really, Mr. Alley, that -the moral is a little confused? I don't mean intentionally,” he -added, with anxious precaution, “but don't you think he should have -reflected”-- - -“You're right, Elder,” said Toboso, with decision. “It's like that. -It ain't moral. When a thing ain't moral that settles it.” And Boston -nodded and looked sympathetic with every one. - -“I was sure you would agree with me,” said Father Wiliston. He felt -himself growing weary now and heavy-eyed. Presently somehow he was -leaning on Toboso with his head on his shoulder. Toboso's arm was around -him, and Toboso began to hum in a kind of wheezing lullaby, “Hey, Jinny! -Ho, Jinny!” - -“I am very grateful, my dear friends,” murmured Father Wiliston. “I have -lived a long time. I fear I have not always been careful in my course, -and am often forgetful. I think”--drowsily--“I think that happiness must -in itself be pleasing to God. I was often happy before in this room. I -remember--my dear mother sat here--who is now dead. We have been quite, -really quite cheerful to-night. My mother--was very judicious--an -excellent wise woman--she died long ago.” So he was asleep before any -one was aware, while Toboso crooned huskily, “Hey, Jinny!” and Boston -Alley and the Newark Kid sat upright and stared curiously. - -“Holy Jims!” said the Kid. - -Toboso motioned them to bring the pulled grass. They piled it on the -settle, let Father Wiliston down softly, brought the broken table, and -placed it so that he could not roll off. - -“Well,” said Toboso, after a moment's silence, “I guess we'd better pick -him and be off. He's got sixty in his pocket.” - -“Oh,” said Boston, “that's it, is it?” - -“It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen -apiece.” - -“Well, that's right.” - -“And I guess the Kid can take it out.” - -The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled -it out. Toboso counted and divided the bills. - -“Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years -younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the -night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't -got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. -Heeled all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice -in him.” - -“Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. -“I ain't got nothing against him.” - -Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket. - -It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few -flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only -sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing. - -When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment -confused in mind, then sat up and looked around. - -“Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare -say”--getting on his feet--“I dare say they thought it would be unkind -to tell me so.” - -He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking -stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than -the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then -out into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, -kneeling under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which -included in petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent -phrase and broken tones among eldest memories. - -He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and -humming, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” He examined the tree at the highway -with fresh interest. “How singular! It means an empty house. Very -intelligent man, Toboso.” - -Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat -tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one -side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and -crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering -gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top -of the hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he -stopped, turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably -on the state and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card -tricks of the Newark Kid. - -“Really,” he murmured, “I have had a very good time.” - -He met Timothy in the hall. - -“Been out to walk early, father? Wait--there's grass and sticks on your -coat.” - -It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to -Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent. - -“Did you enjoy it?--Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it. Breakfast -is ready.” - -Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter. - -“No matter, my dear, no matter. I--really, I've had a very good time.” - -Afterward he came out on the porch with his Bible and Concordance, -sat down and heard Bettina brushing his hat and ejaculating, “Fater!” - Presently he began to nod drowsily and his head dropped low over the -Concordance. The chickens clucked drowsily in the road. - - - - -ON EDOM HILL - - -I. - - -CHARLIE SEBASTIAN was a turfman, meaning that he had something to do -with race-horses, and knew property as rolls of bank bills, of which one -now and then suddenly has none at all; or as pacers and trotters that -are given to breaking and unaccountably to falling off in their nervous -systems; or as “Association Shares” and partnership investments in a -training stable; all capable of melting and going down in one vortex. So -it happened at the October races. And from this it arose that in going -between two heated cities and low by the sea he stopped among the high -hills that were cold. - -He was a tall man with a pointed beard, strong of shoulder and foot, and -without fear in his eyes. After two hours' riding he woke from a doze -and argued once more that he was a “phenomenally busted man.” It made -no difference, after all, which city he was in. Looking out at the white -hills that showed faintly in the storm, it occurred to him that this was -not the railway line one usually travelled to the end in view. It was -singular, the little difference between choices. You back the wrong -horse; then you drink beer instead of fizz, and the results of either -are tolerable. Let a man live lustily and there's little to regret. He -had found ruin digestible before, and never yet gone to the dogs that -wait to devour human remnants, but had gotten up and fallen again, and -on the whole rejoiced. Stomach and lungs of iron, a torrent of red -blood in vein and artery maintain their consolations; hopes rise again, -blunders and evil doings seem to be practically outlived. So without -theory ran Sebastian's experience. The theory used to be that his sin -would find a man out. There were enough of Sebastian's that had gone -out, and never returned to look for him. So too with mistakes and -failures. A little while, a year or more, and you are busy with other -matters. It is a stirring world, and offers no occupation for ghosts. -The dragging sense of depression that he felt seemed natural enough; not -to be argued down, but thrown aside in due time. Yet it was a feeling of -pallid and cold futility, like the spectral hills and wavering snow. - -“I might as well go back!” - -He tossed a coin to see whether it was fated he should drop off at the -next station, and it was. - -“Ramoth!” cried the brakeman. - -Sebastian held in his surprise as a matter of habit. - -But on the platform in the drift and float of the snow-storm he stared -around at the white January valley, at the disappearing train, at the -sign above the station door, “Ramoth.” - -“That's the place,” he remarked. “There wasn't any railroad then.” - -There were hidden virtues in a flipped coin. Sebastian had his -superstitions. - -The road to Ramoth village from the station curves about to the south -of the great bare dome that is called Edom Hill, but Sebastian, without -inquiry, took the fork to the left which climbed up the hill without -compromise, and seemed to be little used. - -Yet in past times Edom Hill was noted in a small way as a hill that -upheld the house of a stern abolitionist, and in a more secret way as a -station in the “underground railroad,” or system by which runaway slaves -were passed on to Canada. But when Charlie Sebastian remembered his -father and Edom Hill, the days of those activities were passed. The -abolitionist had nothing to exercise resistance and aggression on but -his wind-blown farm and a boy, who was aggressive to seek out mainly the -joys of this world, and had faculties of resistance. There were bitter -clashes; young Sebastian fled, and came upon a stable on a stud farm, -and from there in due time went far and wide, and found tolerance in -time and wrote, offering to “trade grudges and come to see how he was.” - -The answer, in a small, faint, cramped, unskilful hand, stated the -abolitionist's death. “Won't you come back, Mr. Sebastian. It is lonely. -Harriet Sebastian.” And therefore Sebastian remarked: - -“You bet it is! Who's she? The old man must have married again.” - -In his new-found worldly tolerance he had admired such aggressive -enterprise, but seeing no interest in the subject, had gone his way and -forgotten it. - -Beating up Edom Hill through the snow was no easier than twenty years -before. David Sebastian had built his house in a high place, and looking -widely over the top of the land, saw that it was evil. - -The drifts were unbroken and lay in long barrows and windy ridges over -the roadway. The half-buried fences went parallel up the white breast -and barren heave of the hill, and disappeared in the storm. Sebastian -passed a house with closed blinds, then at a long interval a barn and -a stiff red chimney with a snow-covered heap of ruins at its foot. The -station was now some miles behind and the dusk was coming on. The broad -top of the hill was smooth and rounded gradually. Brambles, bushes, -reeds, and the tops of fences broke the surface of the snow, and beside -these only a house by the road, looking dingy and gray, with a blackish -bam attached, four old maples in front, an orchard behind. Far down the -hill to the right lay the road to Ramoth, too far for its line of naked -trees to be seen in the storm. The house on Edom Hill had its white -throne to itself, and whatever dignity there might be in solitude. - -He did not pause to examine the house, only noticed the faint smoke in -one chimney, opened the gate, and pushed through untrodden snow to -the side door and knocked. The woman who came and stood in the door -surprised him even more than “Ramoth!” called by the brakeman. Without -great reason for seeming remarkable, it seemed remarkable. He stepped -back and stared, and the two, looking at each other, said nothing. -Sebastian recovered. - -“My feet are cold,” he said slowly. “I shouldn't like to freeze them.” - -She drew back and let him in, left him to find a chair and put his feet -against the stove. She sat down near the window and went on knitting. -The knitting needles glittered and clicked. Her face was outlined -against the gray window, the flakes too glittered and clicked. It -looked silent, secret, repressed, as seen against the gray window; like -something chilled and snowed under, cold and sweet, smooth pale hair and -forehead, deep bosom and slender waist. She looked young enough to be -called in the early June of her years. - -“There's good proportion and feature, but not enough nerves for a -thoroughbred. But,” he thought, “she looks as if she needed, as you -might say, revelry,” and he spoke aloud. - -“Once I was in this section and there was a man named Sebastian lived -here, or maybe it was farther on.” - -She said, “It was here” in a low voice. - -“David Sebastian now, that was it, or something that way. Stiff, sort -of grim old--oh, but you might be a relative, you see. Likely enough. So -you might.” - -“I might be.” - -“Just so. You might be.” - -He rubbed his hands and leaned back, staring at the window. The wind was -rising outside and blew the snow in whirls and sheets. - -“Going to be a bad night I came up from the station. If a man's going -anywhere tonight, he'll be apt not to get there.” - -“You ought to have taken the right hand at the fork.” - -“Well, I don't know.” - -She rose and took a cloak from the table. Sebastian watched her. - -“I must feed the pony and shut up the chickens.” - -She hesitated. A refusal seemed to have been hinted to the hinted -request for hospitality. But Sebastian saw another point. - -“Now, that's what I'm going to do for you.” - -She looked on silently, as he passed her with assured step, not -hesitating at doors, but through the kitchen to the woodshed, and there -in the darkness of a pitch-black corner took down a jingling lantern and -lit it. She followed him silently into the yard, that was full of drifts -and wild storm, to the barn, where she listened to him shake down hay -and bedding, measure oats, slap the pony's flank and chirp cheerfully. -Then he plunged through a low door and she heard the bolt in the chicken -shed rattle. It had grown dark outside. He came out and held the barn -door, waiting for her to step out, and they stood side by side on the -edge of the storm. - -“How did you know the lantern was there?” - -“Lantern! Oh, farmhouses always keep the lantern in the nearest corner -of the woodshed, if it isn't behind the kitchen door.” - -But she did not move to let him close the bam. He looked down at her a -moment and then out at the white raging night. - -“Can't see forty feet, can you? But, of course, if you don't want to -give me a roof I'll have to take my chances. Look poor, don't they? -Going to let me shut this door?” - -“I am quite alone here.” - -“So am I. That's the trouble.” - -“I don't think you understand,” she said quietly, speaking in a manner -low, cool, and self-contained. - -“I've got more understanding now than I'll have in an hour, maybe.” - -“I will lend you the lantern.” - -“Oh, you mightn't get it back.” He drew the barn door to, which -forced her to step forward. A gust of wind about the corner of the bam -staggered and threw her back. He caught her about her shoulders and held -her steadily, and shot the bolt with the hand that held the lantern. - -“That's all right. A man has to take his chances. I dare say a woman had -better not.” - -If Sebastian exaggerated the dangers of the night, if there were any -for him, looked at from her standpoint they might seem large and full of -dread. The wind howled with wild hunting sound, and shrieked against the -eaves of the house. The snow drove thick and blinding. The chimneys -were invisible. A woman easily transfers her own feelings to a man and -interprets them there. In the interest of that interpretation it might -no longer seem possible that man's ingratitude, or his failings and -passions, could be as unkind as winter wind and bitter sky. - -She caught her breath in a moment. - -“You will stay to supper,” she said, and stepped aside. - -“No. As I'm going, I'd better go.” - -She went before him across the yard, opened the woodshed door and stood -in it. He held out the lantern, but she did not take it. He lifted it to -look at her face, and she smiled faintly. - -“Please come in.” - -“Better go on, if I'm going. Am I?” - -“I'm very cold. Please come in.” - -They went in and closed the doors against the storm. The house was -wrapped round, and shut away from the sight of Edom Hill, and Edom Hill -was wrapped round and shut away from the rest of the world. - - -II. - - -Revelry has need of a certain co-operation. Sebastian drew heavily on -his memory for entertainment, told of the combination that had “cleaned -him out,” and how he might get in again in the Spring, only he felt -a bit tired in mind now, and things seemed dead. He explained the -mysteries of “short prices, selling allowances, past choices, hurdles -and handicaps,” and told of the great October races, where Decatur won -from Clifford and Lady Mary, and Lady Mary ran through the fence and -destroyed the features of the jockey. But the quiet, smooth-haired woman -maintained her calm, and offered neither question nor comment, only -smiled and flushed faintly now and then. She seemed as little stirred by -new tumultuous things as the white curtains at the windows, that moved -slightly when the storm, which danced and shouted on Edom Hill, managed -to force a whistling breath through a chink. - -Sebastian decided she was frozen up with loneliness and the like. “She's -got no conversation, let alone revelry.” He thought he knew what her -life was like. “She's sort of empty. Nothing doing any time. It's the -off season all the year. No troubles. Sort of like a fish, as being -chilly and calm, that lives in cold water till you have to put pepper on -to taste it. I know how it goes on this old hill.” - -She left him soon. He heard her moving about in the kitchen, and -sometimes the clink of a dish. He sat by the stove and mused and -muttered. She came and told him his room was on the left of the stair; -it had a stove; would he not carry up wood and have his fire there? -She seemed to imply a preference that he should. But the burden -and oppression of his musings kept him from wondering when she had -compromised her scruples and fears, or why she kept any of them. He -mounted the stair with his wood. She followed with a lamp and left him. -He stared at the closed door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then went -to work with his fire. The house became silent, except for the outer -tumult. She did not mount the stair again; it followed that she slept -below. - -Sebastian took a daguerreotype from the mantel and stared at it. It -was the likeness of a shaven, grim-faced man in early middle life. He -examined it long with a quizzical frown; finally went to the washstand, -opened the drawer and took out a razor with a handle of yellow bone, -carried the washstand to the stove, balanced the mirror against the -pitcher, stropped the razor on his hand, heated water in a cup, slowly -dismantled his face of beard and mustache, cast them in the stove, put -the daguerreotype beside the mirror, and compared critically. Except -that the face in the daguerreotype had a straight, set mouth, and the -face in the mirror was one full-lipped and humorous and differently -lined, they were nearly the same. - -“I wouldn't have believed it” - -He put it aside and looked around, whistling in meditation. Then he went -back again to wondering who the pale-haired woman was. Probably the -farm had changed hands. A man whose father had been dead going on -twenty years couldn't have that kind of widowed stepmother. He was -disqualified. - -A cold, unchanging place, Edom Hill, lifted out of the warm, sapping -currents of life. It might be a woman could keep indefinitely there, -looking much the same. If her pulse beat once to an ordinary twice, she -ought to last twice as long. The house seemed unchanged. The old things -were in their old familiar places, David Sebastian's books on their -shelves in the room below, on the side table there his great Bible, in -which he used to write all family records, with those of his reforming -activity. Sebastian wondered what record stood of his own flight. - -He sat a few moments longer, then took his lamp and crept softly out of -the room and down the stairs. The sitting-room was icily cold now; the -white curtains stirred noiselessly. He sat down before the little side -table and opened the great book. - -There were some thirty leaves between the Old and New Testaments, most -of them stitched in. A few at the end were blank. Some of the records -were obscure. - -“March 5th, 1840. Saw light on this subject.” - -Others ran: - -“Sept. 1 st, 1843. Rec. Peter Cavendish, fugitive.” - -“Dec. 3d, ditto. Rec. Robert Henry.” - -“April 15th, ditto. Rec. one, Æsop,” and so on. - -“Dec. 14th, 1848. Have had consolation from prayer for public evil.” - -“April 20th, 1858. My son, Charles Sebastian, born.” - -“April 7th, 1862. My wife, Jane Sebastian, died.” - -“July 5th, 1862. Rec. Keziah Andrews to keep my house.” - -The dates of the entries from that point grew further apart, random and -obscure; here and there a fact. - -“Nov. 4th, 1876. Charles Sebastian departed.” - -“June 9th, 1877. Rec. Harriet.” - -“Jan. 19th, 1880. Have wrestled in prayer without consolation for -Charles Sebastian.” - -This was the last entry. A faint line ran down across the page -connecting the end of “Harriet” with the beginning of “Charles.” - Between the two blank leaves at the end was a photograph of himself -at seventeen. He remembered suddenly how it was taken by a travelling -photographer, who had stirred his soul with curiosity and given him the -picture; and David Sebastian had taken it and silently put it away among -blank leaves of the Bible. - -Sebastian shivered. The written leaves, the look of himself of twenty -years before, the cold, the wail of the wind, the clicking flakes on the -window panes, these seemed now to be the dominant facts of life. Narrow -was it, poor and meagre, to live and labor with a barren farm? The old -abolitionist had cut deeper into existence than he had. If to deal with -the fate of races, and wrestle alone with God on Edom Hill, were not -knowledge and experience, what was knowledge or experience, or what -should a man call worth the trial of his brain and nerve? - -“He passed me. He won hands down,” he muttered, bending over the page -again. “'Rec. Harriet.' That's too much for me.” And he heard a quick -noise behind him and turned. - -She stood in the door, wide-eyed, smooth, pale hair falling over one -shoulder, long cloak half slipped from the other, holding a shotgun, -threatening and stem. - -“What are you doing here?” - -“Out gunning for me?” asked Sebastian gravely. - -She stared wildly, put the gun down, cried: - -“You're Charlie Sebastian!” and fell on her knees beside the stove, -choking, sobbing and shaking, crouching against the cold sheet iron in a -kind of blind memory of its warmth and protection. - -“You still have the drop on me,” said Sebastian. - -She shivered and crouched still and whispered: - -“I'm cold.” - -“How long have you been here freezing?” - -Sebastian thrust anything inflammable at hand into the stove, lit it and -piled in the wood. - -“Not long. Only--only a few moments.” - -“You still have the advantage of me. Who are you?” - -“Why, I'm Harriet,” she said simply, and looked up. - -“Just so. 'Received, 1877.' How old were you then?” - -“Why, I was eight.” - -“Just so. Don't tell lies, Harriet. You've been freezing a long while.” - -She drew her cloak closer over the thin white linen of her gown with -shaking hand. - -“I don't understand. I'm very cold. Why didn't you come before? It has -been so long waiting.” - - -III. - - -The draft began to roar and the dampers to glow. She crept in front of -the glow. He drew a chair and sat down close behind her. - -“Why didn't you come before?” - -The question was startling, for Sebastian was only conscious of a lack -of reason for coming. If David Sebastian had left him the farm he would -have heard from it, and being prosperous, he had not cared. But the -question seemed to imply some strong assumption and further knowledge. - -“You'd better tell me about it.” - -“About what? At the beginning?” - -“Aren't you anything except 'Received, Harriet'?” - -“Oh, I hadn't any father or mother when Mr. Sebastian brought me here. -Is that what you mean? But he taught me to say 'Harriet Sebastian,' and -a great many things he taught me. Didn't you know? And about his life -and what he wanted you to do? Because, of course, we talked about you -nearly always in the time just before he died. He said you would be sure -to come, but he died, don't you see? only a few years after, and that -disappointed him. He gave me the picture and said, 'He'll come, and -you'll know him by this,' and he said, 'He will come poor and miserable. -My only son, so I leave him to you; and so, as I did, you will pray for -him twice each day.' It was just like that, 'Tell Charles there is no -happiness but in duty. Tell him I found it so.' It was a night like this -when he died, and Kezzy was asleep in her chair out here, and I sat by -the bed. Then he told me I would pay him all in that way by doing what -he meant to do for you. I was so little, but I seemed to understand that -I was to live for it, as he had lived to help free the slaves. Don't you -see? Then he began calling, 'Charles! Charles!' as if you were somewhere -near, and I fell asleep, and woke and lay still and listened to the -wind; and when I tried to get up I couldn't, because he held my hair, -and he was dead. But why didn't you come?” - -“It looks odd enough now,” Sebastian admitted, and wondered at the -change from still impassiveness, pale and cool silence, to eager speech, -swift question, lifted and flushed face. - -“Then you remember the letters? But you didn't come then. But I began -to fancy how it would be when you came, and then somehow it seemed as -if you were here. Out in the orchard sometimes, don't you see? And more -often when Kezzy was cross. And when she went to sleep by the fire -at night--she was so old--we were quite alone and talked. Don't you -remember?--I mean--But Kezzy didn't like to hear me talking to myself. -'Mutter, mutter!' like that. 'Never was such a child!' And then she -died, too, seven--seven years ago, and it was quite different. I--I grew -older. You seemed to be here quite and quite close to me always. There -was no one else, except--But, I don't know why, I had an aching from -having to wait, and it has been a long time, hasn't it?” - -“Rather long. Go on. There was no one else?” - -“No. We lived here--I mean--it grew that way, and you changed from the -picture, too, and became like Mr. Sebastian, only younger, and just as -you are now, only--not quite.” - -She looked at him with sudden fear, then dropped her eyes, drew her long -hair around under her cloak and leaned closer to the fire. - -“But there is so much to tell you it comes out all mixed.” - -Sebastian sat silently looking down at her, and felt the burden of his -thinking grow heavier; the pondering how David Sebastian had left him an -inheritance of advice, declaring his own life full and brimming, and to -Harriet the inheritance of a curious duty that had grown to people her -nights and days with intense sheltered dreams, and made her life, -too, seem to her full and brimming, multitudinous with events and -interchanges, himself so close and cherished an actor in it that his own -parallel unconsciousness of it had almost dropped out of conception. -And the burden grew heavier still with the weight of memories, and -the record between the Old and New Testaments; with the sense of the -isolation and covert of the midnight, and the storm; with the sight of -Harriet crouching by the fire, her story, how David Sebastian left this -world and went out into the wild night crying, “Charles! Charles!” It -was something not logical, but compelling. It forced him to remark that -his own cup appeared partially empty from this point of view. Harriet -seemed to feel that her hour had come and he was given to her hands.. -Success even in methods of living is a convincing thing over unsuccess. -Ah, well! too late to remodel to David Sebastian's notion. It was -singular, though, a woman silent, restrained, scrupulous, moving -probably to the dictates of village opinion--suddenly the key was -turned, and she threw back the gates of her prison; threw open doors, -windows, intimate curtains; asked him to look in and explore everywhere -and know all the history and the forecasts; became simple, primitive, -unrestrained, willing to sit there at his feet and as innocent as her -white linen gown. How smooth and pale her hair was and gentle cheek, and -there were little sleepy smiles in the corners of the lips. He thought -he would like most of all to put out his hand and touch her cheek and -sleepy smiles, and draw her hair, long and soft and pale, from under the -cloak. On the whole, it seemed probable that he might. - -“Harriet,” he said slowly, “I'm going to play this hand.” - -“Why, I don't know what you mean.” - -“Take it, I'm not over and above a choice selection. I don't mention -details, but take it as a general fact. Would you want to marry that -kind of a selection, meaning me?” - -“Oh, yes! Didn't you come for that? I thought you would.” - -“And I thought you needed revelry! You must have had a lot of it.” - -“I don't know what you mean. Listen! It keeps knocking at the door!” - -“Oh, that's all right. Let it knock. Do you expect any more vagrants?” - -“Vagrants?” - -“Like me.” - -“Like you? You only came home. Listen! It was like this when he died. -But he wouldn't come to-night and stand outside and knock, would he? Not -to-night, when you've come at last. But he used to. Of course, I fancied -things. It's the storm. There's no one else now.” - -A thousand spectres go whirling across Edom Hill such winter nights and -come with importunate messages, but if the door is close and the fire -courageous, it matters little. They are but wind and drift and out in -the dark, and if one is in the light, it is a great point to keep the -door fast against them and all forebodings, and let the coming days be -what they will. - -Men are not born in a night, or a year. - -But if David Sebastian were a spectre there at the door, and thought -differently on any question, or had more to say, he was not articulate. -There is no occupation for ghosts in a stirring world, nor efficiency in -their repentance. - -Has any one more than a measure of hope, and a door against the storm? -There was that much, at least, on Edom Hill. - - - - -SONS OF R. RAND - - -SOME years ago, of a summer afternoon, a perspiring organ-grinder and -a leathery ape plodded along the road that goes between thin-soiled -hillsides and the lake which is known as Elbow Lake and lies to the -northeast of the village of Salem. In those days it was a well-travelled -highway, as could be seen from its breadth and' dustiness. At about half -the length of its bordering on the lake there was a spring set in the -hillside, and a little pool continually rippled by its inflow. Some -settler or later owner of the thin-soiled hillsides had left a clump of -trees about it, making as sightly and refreshing an Institute of -Charity as could be found. Another philanthropist had added half a -cocoanut-shell to the foundation. - -The organ-grinder turned in under the trees with a smile, in which his -front teeth played a large part, and suddenly drew back with a guttural -exclamation; the leathery ape bumped against his legs, and both assumed -attitudes expressing respectively, in an Italian and tropical manner, -great surprise and abandonment of ideas. A tall man lay stretched on -his back beside the spring, with a felt hat over his face. Pietro, the -grinder, hesitated. The American, if disturbed and irascible, takes by -the collar and kicks with the foot: it has sometimes so happened. The -tall man pushed back his hat and sat up, showing a large-boned and -sun-browned face, shaven except for a black mustache, clipped close. He -looked not irascible, though grave perhaps, at least unsmiling. He said: -“It's free quarters, Dago. Come in. Entrez. Have a drink.” - -Pietro bowed and gesticulated with amiable violence. “Dry!” he said. -“Oh, hot!” - -“Just so. That a friend of yours?”--pointing to the ape. “He ain't got a -withering sorrow, has he? Take a seat.” - -Elbow Lake is shaped as its name implies. If one were to imagine the arm -to which the elbow belonged, it would be the arm of a muscular person in -the act of smiting a peaceable-looking farmhouse a quarter of a mile to -the east. Considering the bouldered front of the hill behind the house, -the imaginary blow would be bad for the imaginary knuckles. It is -a large house, with brown, unlikely looking hillsides around it, -huckleberry knobs and ice-grooved boulders here and there. The land -between it and the lake is low, and was swampy forty years ago, before -the Rand boys began to drain it, about the time when R. Rand entered the -third quarter century of his unpleasant existence. - -R. Rand was, I suppose, a miser, if the term does not imply too definite -a type. The New England miser is seldom grotesque. He seems more like -congealed than distorted humanity. He does not pinch a penny so hard as -some of other races are said to do, but he pinches a dollar harder, and -is quite as unlovely as any. R. Rand's methods of obtaining dollars -to pinch were not altogether known, or not, at least, recorded--which -accounts perhaps for the tradition that they were of doubtful -uprightness. He held various mortgages about the county, and his -farm represented little to him except a means of keeping his two sons -inexpensively employed in rooting out stones. - -At the respective ages of sixteen and seventeen the two sons, Bob and -Tom Rand, discovered the rooting out of stones to be unproductive labor, -if nothing grew, or was expected to grow, in their place, except more -stones; and the nature of the counsels they took may be accurately -imagined. In the autumn of '56 they began ditching the swamp in the -direction of the lake, and in the summer of '57 raised a crop of tobacco -in the northeast corner, R. Rand, the father, making no comment the -while. At the proper time he sold the tobacco to Packard & Co., cigar -makers, of the city of Hamilton, still making no comment, probably -enjoying some mental titillation. Tom Rand then flung a rock of the size -of his fist through one of the front windows, and ran away, also -making no comment further than that. The broken window remained broken -twenty-five years, Tom returning neither to mend it nor to break -another. Bob Rand, by some bargain with his father, continued the -ditching and planting of the swamp with some profit to himself. - -He evidently classed at least a portion of his father's manner of life -among the things that are to be avoided. He acquired a family, and was -in the way to bring it up in a reputable way. He further cultivated and -bulwarked his reputation. Society, manifesting itself politically, made -him sheriff; society, manifesting itself ecclesiastically, made him -deacon. Society seldom fails to smile on systematic courtship. - -The old man continued to go his way here and there, giving account of -himself to no one, contented enough no doubt to have one reputable son -who looked after his own children and paid steady rent for, or bought -piece by piece, the land he used; and another floating between the -Rockies and the Mississippi, whose doings were of no importance in the -village of Salem. But I doubt, on the whole, whether he was softened -in heart by the deacon's manner or the ordering of the deacon's life to -reflect unfilially on his own. Without claiming any great knowledge of -the proprieties, he may have thought the conduct of his younger son the -more filial of the two. Such was the history of the farmhouse between -the years '56 and '82. - -One wet April day, the sixth of the month, in the year '82, R. Rand went -grimly elsewhere--where, his neighbors had little doubt. With true New -England caution we will say that he went to the cemetery, the little -grass-grown cemetery of Salem, with its meagre memorials and absurd, -pathetic epitaphs. The minister preached a funeral sermon, out of -deference to his deacon, in which he said nothing whatever about R. -Rand, deceased; and R. Rand, sheriff and deacon, reigned in his stead. - -Follow certain documents and one statement of fact: - -_Document 1._ - -_Codicil to the Will of R. Rand._ - -The Will shall stand as above, to wit, my son, Robert Rand, sole -legatee, failing the following condition: namely, I bequeath all my -property as above mentioned, with the exception of this house and -farm, to my son, Thomas Rand, provided, that within three months of the -present date he returns and mends with his own hands the front window, -third from the north, previously broken by him. - -(Signed) R. Rand. - -_Statement of fact._ On the morning of the day following the funeral -the “condition” appeared in singularly problematical shape, the broken -window, third from the north, having been in fact promptly replaced _by -the hands of Deacon Rand himself_. The new pane stared defiantly across -the lake, westward. - -_Document 2_. - -Leadville, Cal., May 15. - -Dear Bob: I hear the old man is gone. Saw it in a paper. I reckon maybe -I didn't treat him any squarer than he did me. I'll go halves on a -bang-up good monument, anyhow. Can we settle affairs without my coming -East? How are you, Bob? - -Tom. - -_Document 3._ - -Salem, May 29. - -Dear Brother: The conditions of our father's will are such, I am -compelled to inform you, as to result in leaving the property wholly -to me. My duty to a large and growing family gives me no choice but -to accept it as it stands, and I trust and have no doubt that you will -regard that result with fortitude. I remain yours, - -Robert Rand. - -_Document 4._ - -Leadville, June 9. - -A. L. Moore. - -Dear Sir: I have your name as a lawyer in Wimberton. Think likely there -isn't any other. If you did not draw up the will of R. Rand, Salem, can -you forward this letter to the man who did? If you did, will you tell me -what in thunder it was? - -Yours, Thomas Rand. - -_Document 5._ - -Wimberton, June 18. - -Thomas Rand. - -Dear Sir: I did draw your father's will and enclose copy of the same, -with its codicil, which may truly be called remarkable. I think it right -to add, that the window in question has been mended by your brother, -with evident purpose. Your letter comes opportunely, my efforts to find -you having been heretofore unsuccessful. I will add further, that I -think the case actionable, to say the least. In case you should see fit -to contest, your immediate return is of course necessary. Very truly -yours, - -A. L. Moore, - -Attorney-at-Law. - -_Document 6. Despatch._ - -New York, July 5. - -To Robert Rand, Salem. - -Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not. - -T. Rand. - -The deacon was a tall meagre man with a goatee that seemed to accentuate -him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering -line of rectitude. - -He drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of -July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake, -except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. His lips -looked even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one -were to come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments. - -Opposite the spring he drew up, hearing the sound of a hand-organ under -the trees. The tall man with a clipped mustache sat up deliberately -and looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also -looked at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and -forth between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, -and followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up. - -“I reckon it's Bob,” he said. “It's free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in. -Have a drink.” - -The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an -extra stiffening of the back. - -“The train--I did not suppose--I was going to meet you.” - -“Just so. I came by way of Wimberton.” - -The younger brother stretched himself again beside the spring and drew -his hat over his eyes. The elder stood up straight and not altogether -unimpressive in front of it. Pietro in the rear of the spring reflected -at this point that he and the ape could conduct a livelier conversation -if it were left to them. Pietro could not imagine a conversation in -which it was not desirable to be lively. The silence was long and, -Pietro thought, not pleasant. - -“Bob,” said the apparent sleeper at last, “ever hear of the prodigal -son?” - -The deacon frowned sharply, but said nothing. The other lifted the edge -of his hat brim. - -“Never heard of him? Oh--have I Then I won't tell about him. Too long. -That elder brother, now, he had good points;--no doubt of it, eh?” - -“I confess I don't see your object--” - -“Don't? Well, I was just saying he had good points. I suppose he and the -prodigal had an average good time together, knockin' around, stubbin' -their toes, fishin' maybe, gettin' licked at inconvenient times, hookin' -apples most anytime. That sort of thing. Just so. He had something of -an argument. Now, the prodigal had no end of fun, and the elder brother -stayed at home and chopped wood; understood himself to be cultivating -the old man. I take it he didn't have a very soft job of it?”--lifting -his hat brim once more. - -The deacon said nothing, but observed the hat brim. - -“Now I think of it, maybe strenuous sobriety wasn't a thing he naturally -liked any more than the prodigal did. I've a notion there was more -family likeness between 'em than other folks thought. What might be your -idea?” - -The deacon still stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind him. - -“I would rather,” he said, “you would explain yourself without parable. -You received my letter. It referred to our father's will. I have -received a telegram which I take to be threatening.” - -The other sat up and pulled a large satchel around from behind him. - -“You're a man of business, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “I like you, Bob. -That's so. That will--I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, I take it -you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play -this here Will, Codicil attached. You play,--window already mended; time -expired at twelve o'clock to-night. Good cards, Bob--first-rate. I play -here”--opening the satchel--“two panes of glass--allowin' for -accidents--putty, et cetera, proposing to bust that window again. Good -cards, Bob. How are you coming on?” - -The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something -came into his face which suggested the family likeness. He drew a paper -from his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the -grass. - -“Sheriff's warrant,” he said, “for--hem--covering possible trespassing -on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention--hem.” - -“Good,” said his brother briskly. “I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if -I don't. I play again.” He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the -glass. “Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off.” - -“Hem,” said the deacon. “Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying -of concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it -is--hem--permissible for me.” He placed a revolver on top of the -warrant. - -“Bob,” said his brother, in huge delight, “I'm proud of you. But--I -judge you ain't on to the practical drop. _Stand back there!_” The -deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and -retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and -the two faced each other, the deacon looking as dangerous a man as the -Westerner. - -Suddenly, the wheezy hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly -trying to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as -desperately as if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him. - -“Hi, you monk! Dance!” cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it -solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of -the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, -first over the younger's, then over the deacon's. - -The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face -and groaned. - -“I'm an evil-minded man,” he said; “I'm beaten.” - -The other cocked his head on one side and listened. “Know what that tune -is, Bob? I don't.” - -He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the -copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down. - -“I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your -hand yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had.” - -“Five.” - -“Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument.” - -But the deacon only muttered to himself: “I'm an evil-minded man.” - -Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers. - -“Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!” which Pietro did, perspiring -freely. “Shake all that. Come along.” - -The two walked slowly toward the yellow road. Pietro raised his voice -despairingly. “No cent! Not a nicka!” - -“That's so,” said Tom, pausing. “Five, by thunder! Come along, Dago. -It's free quarters. Entrez. Take a seat.” - -The breeze was blowing up over Elbow Lake, and the butterflies bobbed -about in the sunshine, as they drove along the yellow road. Pietro sat -at the back of the buck-board, the leathery ape on his knee and a smile -on his face, broad, non-professional, and consisting largely of front -teeth. - - - - -CONLON - - -CONLON, the strong, lay sick unto death with fever. The Water -Commissioners sent champagne to express their sympathy. It was an -unforced impulse of feeling. - -But Conlon knew nothing of it. His lips were white, his cheeks sunken; -his eyes glared and wandered; he muttered, and clutched with his big -fingers at nothing visible. - -The doctor worked all day to force a perspiration. At six o'clock he -said: “I'm done. Send for the priest.” - -When Kelly and Simon Harding came, Father Ryan and the doctor were going -down the steps. - -“'Tis a solemn duty ye have, Kelly,” said the priest, “to watch the last -moments of a dying man, now made ready for his end.” - -“Ah, not Conlon! He'll not give up, not him,” cried Kelly, “the shtrong -man wid the will in him!” - -“An' what's the sthrength of man in the hands of his Creathor?” said the -priest, turning to Harding, oratorically. - -“I don' know,” said Harding, calmly. “Do you?” - -“'Tis naught!” - -Kelly murmured submissively. - -“Kind of monarchical institution, ain't it, what Conlon's run up -against?” Harding remarked. “Give him a fair show in a caucus, an' he'd -win, sure.” - -“He'll die if he don't sweat,” said the doctor, wiping his forehead. -“It's hot enough.” Conlon lay muttering and glaring at the ceiling. The -big knuckles of his hands stood out like rope-knots. His wife nodded to -Kelly and Harding, and went out. She was a good-looking woman, large, -massive, muscular. Kelly looked after her, rubbing his short nose -and blinking his watery eyes. He was small, with stooping shoulders, -affectionate eyes, wavering knees. He had followed Conlon, the strong, -and served him many years. Admiration of Conlon was a strenuous business -in which to be engaged. - -“Ah!” he said, “his wife ten year, an' me his inchimate friend.” - -It was ten by the clock. The subsiding noise of the city came up over -housetops and vacant lots. The windows of the sickroom looked off the -verge of a bluff; one saw the lights of the little city below, the -lights of the stars above, and the hot black night between. - -Kelly and Harding sat down by a window, facing each other. The lamplight -was dim. A screen shaded it from the bed, where Conlon muttered and -cried out faintly, intermittently, as though in conversation with some -one who was present only to himself. His voice was like the ghost or -shadow of a voice, not a whisper, but strained of all resonance. One -might fancy him standing on the bank of the deadly river and talking -across to some one beyond the fog, and fancy that the voices would so -creep through the fog stealthily, not leaping distances like earthly -sounds, but struggling slowly through nameless obstruction. - -Kelly rubbed his hands before the fire. - -“I was his inchimate friend.” - -Harding said: “Are you going to talk like a blanked idiot all night, or -leave off maybe about twelve?” - -“I know ye for a hard man, too, Simmy,” said Kelly, pathetically; “an' -'tis the nathur of men, for an Irishman is betther for blow-in' off his -shteam, be it the wrath or the sorrow of him, an' the Yankee is betther -for bottlin' it up.” - -“Uses it for driving his engine mostly.” - -“So. But Conlon--” - -“Conlon,” said Harding slowly, “that's so. He had steam to drive with, -and steam to blow with, and plenty left over to toot his whistle and -scald his fingers and ache in his belly. Expanding that there figure, he -carried suction after him like the 1:40 express, he did.” - -“'Tis thrue.” Kelly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I mind me -when I first saw him I hadn't seen him before, unless so be when he was -puttin' the wather-main through the sand-hills up the river an' bossin' -a gang o' men with a fog-horn voice till they didn't own their souls, -an' they didn't have any, what's more, the dirty Polocks. But he -come into me shop one day, an' did I want the job o' plumbin' the -court-house? - -“'Have ye the court-house in your pocket?' says I, jokin'. - -“'I have,' says he, onexpected, 'an' any plumbin' that's done for the -court-house is done in the prisint risidence of the same.' - -“An' I looks up, an' 'O me God!' I says to meself, ''tis a man!' wid -the black eyebrows of him, an' the shoulders an' the legs of him. An' he -took me into the shwale of his wake from that day to this. But I niver -thought to see him die.” - -“That's so. You been his heeler straight through. I don't know but I -like your saying so. But I don't see the how. Why, look here; when I bid -for the old water contract he comes and offers to sell it to me, sort -of personal asset. I don't know how. By the unbroke faces of the other -Water Commissioners he didn't use his pile-driving fist to persuade -'em, and what I paid him was no more'n comfortable for himself. How'd -he fetch it? How'd he do those things? Why, look here, Kelly, ain't he -bullied you? Ain't you done dirty jobs for him, and small thanks?” - -“I have that.” - -Kelly's hands trembled. He was bowed down and thoughtful, but not angry. -“Suppose I ask you what for?” - -“Suppose ye do. Suppose I don' know. Maybe he was born to be king over -me. Maybe he wasn't. But I know he was a mastherful man, an' he's dyin' -here, an' me blood's sour an' me bones sad wid thinkin' of it. Don' -throuble me, Simmy.” - -Harding leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, where the -lamp made a nebulous circle of light. - -“Why, that's so,” he said at last, in conclusion of some unmentioned -train of thought. “Why, I got a pup at home, and his affection ain't -measured by the bones he's had, nor the licks he's had, not either of -'em.” - -Kelly was deep in a reverie. - -“Nor it ain't measured by my virtues. Look here, now; I don' see what -his measure is.” - -“Hey?” Kelly roused himself. - -“Oh, I was just thinking.” - -Harding thought he had known other men who had had in some degree -a magnetic power that seemed to consist in mere stormy energy of -initiative. They were like strong drink to weaker men. It was more -physical than mental. Conlon was to Kelly a stimulant, then an appetite. -And Conlon was a bad lot. Fellows that had heeled for him were mostly -either wrecked or dead now. Why, there was a chap named Patterson that -used to be decent till he struck Conlon, when he went pretty low; and -Nora Reimer drowned herself on account of Patterson, when he got himself -shot in a row at some shanty up the railroad. The last had seemed a -good enough riddance. But Nora went off her head and jumped in the new -reservoir. Harding remembered it the more from being one of the Water -Company. They had had to empty the reservoir, which was expensive. And -there were others. A black, blustering sort of beast, Conlon. He had -more steam than was natural. Harding wondered vaguely at Kelly, who was -spelling out the doctor's directions from a piece of paper. - -“A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle. 'Tis no tin-course -dinner wid the champagne an' entries he's givin' Conlon the night. Hey? -A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle.” - -Harding's mind wandered on among memories of the little city below, an -intricate, irregular history, full of incidents, stories that were never -finished or dribbled off anywhere, black spots that he knew of in white -lives, white spots in dark lives. He did not happen to know any white -spots on Conlon. - -“Course if a man ain't in politics for his health he ain't in it for the -health of the community, either, and that's all right. And if he opens -the morning by clumping Mrs. Conlon on the head, why, she clumps him -back more or less, and that's all right.” Then, if he went down-town and -lied here and there ingeniously in the way of business, and came home at -night pretty drunk, but no more than was popular with his constituency, -why, Conlon's life was some cluttered, but never dull. Still, Harding's -own ways being quieter and less cluttered, he felt that if Conlon were -going off naturally now, it was not, on the whole, a bad idea. It would -conduce to quietness. It would perhaps be a pity if anything interfered. - -The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, a dull, unechoing sound. - -“Simmy,” said Kelly, pointing with his thumb, “what do he be sayin', -talkin'--talkin' like one end of a tiliphone?” - -They both turned toward the bed and listened. - -“Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the -other end?” - -“I don' know,” whispered Kelly. “But I have this in me head, for ye -know, when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his -man at the front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of -inthroduction in his hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the -same to be read an' him certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful -of boilin' impatience in himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' -the time o' day through the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?” - -“'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?” - -“Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye -mind?” - -Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and -muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed -tremulously. - -“Listen, will ye?” said Kelly, suddenly leaning down. - -“I don' know,” said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. “I don' -know as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't -healthy to mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a -bank--ain't any more'n likely. What of it?” - -“Listen, will ye?” - -“Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly.” - -“'Sh!” - -“_Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom_,” babbled the ghostly voice, a thin, -distant sound. - -“What'd he say? What'd he say?” Kelly was white and trembling. - -Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to -himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close -to Conlon to study the matter. - -“_What's the heart-scald, mother?_” babbled Conlon. “_Where'd ye get it -from? Me! Wirra!_” - -“'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd.” - -“Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid.” - -Kelly shook his head solemnly. - -“He's spheakin' to ghosteses.” - -“_What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see. -Where'm I goin'?_' - -“You got me,” muttered Harding. “I don' know.” - -“_Tom'll be good. It's main dark. Hold Tom's hand_.” - -Kelly was on his knees, saying prayers at terrific speed. - -“Hear to him!” he stopped to whisper. “Ghosteses! Ora pro nobis--” - -“_Tom ain't afraid. Naw, he ain't afraid._” - -Harding went back to his window. The air was heavy and motionless, the -stars a little dim. He could see the dark line of the river with an -occasional glint upon it, and the outline of the hills beyond. - -The little city had drawn a robe of innocent obscurity over it. Only a -malicious sparkle gleamed here and there. He thought he knew that city -inside and out, from end to end. He had lived in it, dealt with it, -loved it, cheated it, helped to build it, shared its fortunes. Who knew -it better than he? But every now and then it surprised with some hidden -detail or some impulse of civic emotion. And Kelly and Conlon, surely he -knew them, as men may know men. But he never had thought to see -Conlon as to-night. It was odd. But there was some fact in the social -constitution, in human nature, at the basis of all the outward oddities -of each. - -“Maybe when a man's gettin' down to his reckonin' it's needful to show -up what he's got at the bottom. Then he begins to peel off layers of -himself like an onion, and 'less there ain't anything to him but layers, -by and by he comes to something that resembles a sort of aboriginal boy, -which is mostly askin' questions and bein' surprised.” - -Maybe there was more boyishness in Conlon than in most men. Come -to think of it, there was. Conlon's leadership was ever of the -maybe-you-think-I-can't-lick-you order; and men followed him, admitting -that he could, in admiration and simplicity. You might see the same -thing in the public-school yard. Maybe that was the reason. The sins of -Conlon were not sophisticated. - -The low, irregular murmur from the bed, the heavy heat of the night, -made Harding drowsy. Kelly repeating the formula of his prayers, a kind -of incantation against ghosts, Conlon with his gaunt face in the shadow -and his big hands on the sheet clutching at nothing visible, both faded -away, and Harding fell asleep. - -He woke with a start. Kelly was dancing about the bed idiotically. - -“He's shweatin'!” he gabbled. “He's shweatin'! He'll be well--Conlon.” - -It made Harding think of the “pup,” and how he would dance about him, -when he went home, in the crude expression of joy. Conlon's face was -damp. He muttered no more. They piled the blankets on him till the -perspiration stood out in drops. Conlon breathed softly and slept. Kelly -babbled gently, “Conlon! Conlon!” - -Harding went back to the window and rubbed his eyes sleepily. - -“Kind of too bad, after all that trouble to get him peeled.” - -The morning was breaking, solemn, noiseless, with lifted banners and -wide pageantries, over river and city. - -Harding yawned. - -“It's one on Father Ryan, anyway. That's a good thing. Blamed old -windbag!” - -Kelly murmured ecstatically, “Conlon will get well--Conlon!” - - - - -ST CATHERINE'S - - -ST. CATHERINE'S was the life work of an old priest, who is remembered -now and presently will be forgotten. There are gargoyles over the -entrance aside, with their mouths open to express astonishment. They -spout rain water at times, but you need not get under them; and there -are towers, and buttresses, a great clock, a gilded cross, and roofs -that go dimly heavenward. - -St. Catherine's is new. The neighborhood squats around it in different -pathetic attitudes. Opposite is the saloon of the wooden-legged man; then -the three groceries whose cabbages all look unpleasant; the parochial -school with the green lattice; and all those little wooden houses--where -lives, for instance, the dressmaker who funnily calls herself “Modiste.” - Beyond the street the land drops down to the freight yards. - -But Father Connell died about the time they finished the east oriel, and -Father Harra reigned over the house of the old man's dreams--a red-faced -man, a high feeder, who looked as new as the church and said the virtues -of Father Connell were reducing his flesh. That would seem to be no -harm; but Father Harra meant it humorously. Father Connell had stumped -about too much among the workmen in the cold and wet, else there had -been no need of his dying at eighty-eight. His tall black hat became a -relic that hung in the tiring room, and he cackled no more in his thin -voice the noble Latin of the service. Peace to his soul! The last -order he wrote related to the position of the Christ figure and the -inscription, “Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden: I will give you -rest.” But the figure was not in place till the mid-December following. - -And it was the day before Christmas that Father Harra had a fine -service, with his boy choir and all; and Chubby Locke sang a solo, -“Angels ever bright and fair,” that was all dripping with tears, so to -speak. Chubby Locke was an imp too. All around the altar the candles -were lighted, and there hung a cluster of gas jets over the head of the -Christ figure on the edge of the south transept. So fine it was that -Father Harra came out of his room into the aisle (when the people were -gone, saying how fine it was, and the sexton was putting out the gas -here and there), to walk up and down and think about it, especially -how he should keep up with the virtues of Father Connell. Duskier and -duskier it grew, as the candles went out cluster by cluster till only -those in the south transept were left; and Dennis, coming there, stopped -and grunted. - -“What!” said Father Harra. - -“It's asleep he is,” said the sexton. “It's a b'y, yer riverence.” - -“Why, so it is! He went to sleep during the service. H'm--well--they -often do that, Dennis.” - -“Anyways he don't belong here,” said Dennis. - -“Think so? I don't know about that. Wait a bit. I don't know about that -Dennis.” - -The boy lay curled up on the seat--a newsboy, by the papers that had -slipped from his arms. But he did not look businesslike, and he did not -suggest the advantages of being poor in America. One does not become a -capitalist or president by going to church and to sleep in the best of -business hours, from four to six, when the streets are stirring with -men on their way to dinners, cigars and evening papers. The steps of St. -Catherine's are not a bad place to sell papers after Vespers, and one -might as well go in, to be sure, and be warm while the service lasts; -only, as I said, if one falls asleep, one does not become a capitalist -or president immediately. Father Harra considered, and Dennis waited -respectfully. - -“It's making plans I am against your natural rest, Dennis. I'm that -inconsiderate of your feelings to think of keeping St. Catherine's open -this night. And why? Look ye, Dennis. St. Catherine's is getting itself -consecrated these days, being new, and of course--But I tell ye, Dennis, -it's a straight church doctrine that the blessings of the poor are a -good assistance to the holy wather.” - -“An' me wid children of me own to be missin' their father this Christmas -Eve!” began Dennis indignantly. - -“Who wouldn't mind, the little villains, if their father had another -dollar of Christmas morning to buy 'em presents.” - -“Ah, well,” said the sexton, “yer riverence is that persuadin'.” - -“It's plain enough for ye to see yourself, Dennis, though thick-headed -somewhat. There you are: 'Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden;' and -here he is. Plain enough. And who are the weary and heavy-laden in this -city?” - -“Yer riverence will be meanin' everybody,” chuckled Dennis. - -“Think so? Rich and poor and all? Stuff! I don't believe it. Not -to-night. It'll be the outcasts, I'm thinking, Dennis. Come on.” - -“An' the b'y, yer riverence?” - -“The what? Oh, why, yes, yes. He's all right. I don't see anything the -matter with him. He's come.” - -It was better weather to go with the wind than against it, for the -snow drove in gritty particles, and the sidewalks made themselves -disagreeable and apt to slip out from under a person. Little spurts -of snow danced up St. Catherine's roofs and went off the ridgepoles in -puffs. It ought to snow on Christmas Eve; but it rightly should snow -with better manners and not be so cold. The groceries closed early. -Freiburger, the saloon man, looked over the curtains of his window. - -“I don't know vat for Fater Harra tack up dings dis time by his kirch -door, 'Come--come in here.' Himmel! der Irishman!” - -Father Harra turned in to his supper, and thought how he would trouble -Father Conner's reputation for enterprise and what a fine bit of -constructive ability himself was possessed of. - -The great central door of St. Catherine's stood open, so that the drift -blew in and piled in windrows on the cold floor of the vestibule. The -tall front of the church went up into the darkness, pointing to no -visible stars; but over the doors two gas jets flickered across the big -sign they use for fairs at the parochial school. “Come in here.” The -vestibule was dark, barring another gas jet over a side door, with -another sign, “Come in here,” and within the great church was dark as -well, except for a cluster over the Christ figure. That was all; but -Father Harra thought it a neat symbol, looking toward those who go from -meagre light to light through the darkness. - -Little noises were in the church all night far up in the pitch darkness -of rafter and buttress, as if people were whispering and crying softly -to one another. Now and again, too, the swing door would open and remain -so for a moment, suspicious, hesitating. But what they did, or who they -were that opened it, could hardly be told in the dusk and distance. -Dennis went to sleep in a chair by the chancel rail, and did not care -what they did or who they were, granted they kept away from the chancel. - -How the wind blew!--and the snow tapped impatiently at stained windows -with a multitude of little fingers. But if the noises among the rafters -were not merely echoes of the crying and calling wind without, if any -presences moved and whispered there, and looked down on flat floor and -straight lines of pews, they must have seen the Christ figure, with -welcoming hands, dominant by reason of the light about it; and, just on -the edge of the circle of light, shapeless things stretched on cushions -of pews, and motionless or stirring uneasily. Something now came dimly -up the aisle from the swing door, stopped at a pew, and hesitated. - -“Git out!” growled a hoarse voice. “Dis my bunk.” - -The intruder gave a nervous giggle. “Begawd!” muttered the hoarse voice. -“It's a lady!” - -Another voice said something angrily. “Well,” said the first, “it ain't -behavin' nice to come into me boodwer.” - -The owner of the giggle had slipped away and disappeared in a distant -pew. In another pew to the right of the aisle a smaller shadow whispered -to another: - -“Jimmy, that's a statoo up there.” - -“Who?” - -“That. I bet 'e's a king.” - -“Aw, no 'e ain't. Kings has crowns an' wallups folks.” - -“Gorry! What for?” - -“I don' know.” - -The other sighed plaintively. “I thought 'e might be a king.” - -The rest were mainly silent. Some one had a bad cough. Once a sleeper -rolled from the seat and fell heavily to the floor. There was an oath -or two, a smothered laugh, and the distant owner of the giggle used it -nervously. The last was an uncanny sound. The wakened sleeper objected -to it. He said he would “like to get hold of her,” and then lay down -cautiously on his cushion. - -Architects have found that their art is cunning to play tricks with -them; whence come whispering galleries, comers of echoes, roofs that -crush the voice of the speaker, and roofs that enlarge it. Father -Connell gave no orders to shape the roofs of St. Catherine's, that on -stormy nights so many odd noises might congregate there, whispering, -calling, murmuring, now over the chancel, now the organ, now far up in -the secret high places of the roof, now seeming to gather in confidence -above the Christ figure and the circle of sleepers; or, if one vaguely -imagined some inquisitively errant beings moving overhead, it would seem -that newcomers constantly entered, to whom it had all to be explained. - -But against that eager motion in the darkness above the Christ figure -below was bright in his long garment, and quiet and secure. The cluster -of gas jets over his head made light but a little distance around, then -softened the dusk for another distance, and beyond seemed not to touch -the darkness at all. The dusk was a debatable space. The sleepers all -lay in the debatable space. They may have sought it by instinct; but -the more one looked at them the more they seemed like dull, half-animate -things, over whom the light and the darkness made their own compromises -and the people up in the roof their own comments. - -The clock in the steeple struck the hours; in the church the tremble was -felt more than the sound was heard. The chimes each hour started their -message, “Good will and peace;” but the wind went after it and howled it -down, and the snow did not cease its petulance at the windows. - -***** - -The clock in the steeple struck five. The man with the hoarse voice sat -up, leaned over the back of the seat and touched his neighbor, who rose -noiselessly, a huge fat man and unkempt. - -“Time to slope,” whispered the first, motioning toward the chancel. - -The other followed his motion. - -“What's up there?” - -“You're ignorance, you are. That's where they gives the show. There's -pickin's there.” - -The two slipped out and stole up the aisle with a peculiar noiseless -tread. Even Fat Bill's step could not be heard a rod away. The aisle -entered the circle of light before the Christ figure; but the two -thieves glided through without haste and without looking up. The -smaller, in front, drew up at the end of the aisle, and Fat Bill ran -into him. Dennis sat in his chair against the chancel rail, asleep. - -“Get onto his whiskers, Bill. Mebbe you'll have to stuff them whiskers -down his throat.” - -There was a nervous giggle behind them. Fat Bill shot into a pew, -dragging his comrade after him, and crouched down. “It ain't no use,” - he whispered, shaking the other angrily. “Church business is bad luck. I -alius said so. What's for them blemed noises all night? How'd come they -stick that thing up there with the gas over it? What for'd they leave -the doors open, an' tell ye to come in, an' keep their damn devils -gigglin' around? 'Taint straight I won't stand it.” - -“It's only a woman, Bill,” said the other patiently. - -He rose on his knees and looked over the back of the seat. “'Tain't -straight. I won't stand it.” - -“We won't fight, Bill. We'll get out, if you say so.” - -The owner of the giggle was sitting up, as they glided back, Fat Bill -leading. - -“I'll smash yer face,” the smaller man said to her. - -Bill turned and grabbed his collar. - -“You come along.” - -The woman stared stupidly after, till the swing door closed behind them. -Then she put on her hat, decorated with too many disorderly flowers. -Most of the sleepers were wakened. The wind outside had died in the -night, and the church was quite still. A man in a dress suit and -overcoat sat up in a pew beneath a window, and stared about him. His -silk hat lay on the floor. He leaned over the back of the seat and spoke -to his neighbor, a tramp in checked trousers. - -“How'd I g-get here?” he asked thickly. - -“Don' know, pardner,” said the tramp cheerfully. “Floated in, same as -me?” He caught sight of the white tie and shirt front. “Maybe you'd -give a cove a shiner to steady ye out They don't give breakfasts with -lodgin's here.” - -The woman with the giggle and the broken-down flowers on her hat went -out next; then a tall, thin man with a beard and a cough; the newsboy -with his papers shuffled after, his shoes being too large; then a lame -man--something seemed the matter with his hip; and a decent-looking -woman, who wore a faded shawl over her head and kept it drawn across her -face--she seemed ashamed to be there, as if it did not appear to her a -respectable place; last, two boys, one of them small, but rather stunted -than very young. He said: - -“'E ain't a king, is 'e, Jimmy? You don' know who 'e is, do you, Jimmy?” - -“Naw.” - -“Say, Jimmy, it was warm, warn't it?” - -***** - -Dennis came down the aisle, put out the gas, and began to brush the -cushions. The clock struck a quarter of six, and Father Harra came in. - -“Christmas, Dennis, Christmas! H'm--anybody been here? What did they -think of it?” - -Dennis rubbed his nose sheepishly. - -“They wint to shleep, sor, an'--an' thin they wint out.” - -Father Harra looked up at the Christ figure and stroked his red chin. - -“I fancied they might see the point,” he said slowly. “Well, well, I -hope they were warm.” - -The colored lights from the east oriel fell over the Christ figure and -gave it a cheerful look; and from other windows blue and yellow and -magical deep-sea tints floated in the air, as if those who had whispered -unseen in the darkness were now wandering about, silent but curiously -visible. - -“Yer riverince,” said Dennis, “will not be forgettin' me dollar.” - - - - -THE SPIRAL STONE - - -THE graveyard on the brow of the hill was white with snow. The marbles -were white, the evergreens black. One tall spiral stone stood painfully -near the centre. The little brown church outside the gates turned its -face in the more comfortable direction of the village. - -Only three were out among the graves: “Ambrose Chillingworth, ætat 30, -1675;” - -“Margaret Vane, ætat 19, 1839;” and “Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,” - from the Mercer Lot. It is called the “Mercer Lot,” but the Mercers are -all dead or gone from the village. - -The Little One trotted around busily, putting his tiny finger in the -letterings and patting the faces of the cherubs. The other two sat on -the base of the spiral, which twisted in the moonlight over them. - -“I wonder why it is?” Margaret said. “Most of them never come out at -all. We and the Little One come out so often. You were wise and learned. -I knew so little. Will you tell me?” - -“Learning is not wisdom,” Ambrose answered. “But of this matter it was -said that our containment in the grave depended on the spirit in which -we departed. I made certain researches. It appeared by common report -that only those came out whom desperate sin tormented, or labors -incomplete and great desire at the point of death made restless. I -had doubts the matter were more subtle, the reasons of it reaching out -distantly.” He sighed faintly, following with his eyes, tomb by tomb, -the broad white path that dropped down the hillside to the church. “I -desired greatly to live.” - -“I, too. Is it because we desired it so much, then? But the Little -One”--- - -“I do not know,” he said. - -The Little One trotted gravely here and there, seeming to know very well -what he was about, and presently came to the spiral stone. The lettering -on it was new, and there was no cherub. He dropped down suddenly on the -snow, with a faint whimper. His small feet came out from under his gown, -as he sat upright, gazing at the letters with round troubled eyes, and -up to the top of the monument for the solution of some unstated problem. - -“The stone is but newly placed,” said Ambrose, “and the newcomer would -seem to be of those who rest in peace.” - -They went and sat down on either side of him, on the snow. The peculiar -cutting of the stone, with spirally ascending lines, together with the -moon's illusion, gave it a semblance of motion. Something twisted and -climbed continually, and vanished continually from the point. But the -base was broad, square, and heavily lettered: “John Mareschelli Vane.” - -“Vane? That was thy name,” said Ambrose. - -1890. Ætat 72. - -An Eminent Citizen, a Public Benefactor, and Widely Esteemed. - -For the Love of his Native Place returned to lay his Dust therein. - -The Just Made Perfect. - -“It would seem he did well, and rounded his labors to a goodly end, -lying down among his kindred as a sheaf that is garnered in the autumn. -He was fortunate.” - -And Margaret spoke, in the thin, emotionless voice which those who are -long in the graveyard use: “He was my brother.” - -“Thy brother?” said Ambrose. - -The Little One looked up and down the spiral with wide eyes. The other -two looked past it into the deep white valley, where the river, covered -with ice and snow, was marked only by the lines of skeleton willows and -poplars. A night wind, listless but continual, stirred the evergreens. -The moon swung low over the opposite hills, and for a moment slipped -behind a cloud. - -“Says it not so, 'For the Love of his Native Place'?” murmured Ambrose. - -And as the moon came out, there leaned against the pedestal, pointing -with a finger at the epitaph, one that seemed an old man, with bowed -shoulders and keen, restless face, but in his manner cowed and weary. - -“It is a lie,” he said slowly. “I hated it, Margaret. I came because -Ellen Mercer called me.” - -“Ellen isn't buried here.” - -“Not here!” - -“Not here.” - -“Was it you, then, Margaret? Why?” - -“I didn't call you.” - -“Who then?” he shrieked. “Who called me?” - -The night wind moved on monotonously, and the moonlight was undisturbed, -like glassy water. - -“When I came away,” she said, “I thought you would marry her. You -didn't, then? But why should she call you?” - -“I left the village suddenly!” he cried. “I grew to dread, and then to -hate it. I buried myself from the knowledge of it, and the memory of it -was my enemy. I wished for a distant death, and these fifty years have -heard the summons to come and lay my bones in this graveyard. I thought -it was Ellen. You, sir, wear an antique dress; you have been long in -this strange existence. Can you tell who called me? If not Ellen, where -is Ellen?” He wrung his hands, and rocked to and fro. - -“The mystery is with the dead as with the living,” said Ambrose. “The -shadows of the future and the past come among us. We look in their eyes, -and understand them not. Now and again there is a call even here, and -the grave is henceforth untenanted of its spirit. Here, too, we know a -necessity which binds us, which speaks not with audible voice and will -not be questioned.” - -“But tell me,” moaned the other, “does the weight of sin depend upon its -consequences? Then what weight do I bear? I do not know whether it was -ruin or death, or a thing gone by and forgotten. Is there no answer here -to this?” - -“Death is but a step in the process of life,” answered Ambrose. “I know -not if any are ruined or anything forgotten. Look up, to the order of -the stars, an handwriting on the wall of the firmament. But who hath -read it? Mark this night wind, a still small voice. But what speaketh -it? The earth is clothed in white garments as a bride. What mean the -ceremonials of the seasons? The will from without is only known as it is -manifested. Nor does it manifest where the consequences of the deed end -or its causes began. Have they any end or a beginning? I cannot answer -you.” - -“Who called me, Margaret?” - -And she said again monotonously, “I didn't call you.” - -The Little One sat between Ambrose and Margaret, chuckling to himself -and gazing up at the newcomer, who suddenly bent forward and looked into -his eyes, with a gasp. - -“What is this?” he whispered. “'Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,' from -the Mercer Lot,” returned Ambrose gently. “He is very quiet. Art not -neglecting thy business, Little One? The lower walks are unvisited -to-night.” - -“They are Ellen's eyes!” cried the other, moaning and rocking. “Did you -call me? Were you mine?” - -“It is, written, 'Thy Little One, O God,'” murmured Ambrose. - -But the Little One only curled his feet up under his gown, and now -chuckled contentedly. - - - - -THE MUSIDORA SONNET - - -THE clock in some invisible steeple struck one. The great snowflakes -fell thickly, wavering and shrinking, delicate, barren seeds, conscious -of their unfruitfulness. The sputter of the arc lights seemed explosive -to the muffled silence of the street. With a bright corner at either end, -the block was a canon, a passage in a nether world of lurking ghosts, -where a frightened gaslight trembled, hesitated midway. And Noel -Endicott conceived suddenly, between curb and curb, a sonnet, to be -entitled “Dante in Tenth Street,” the appearance of it occupying, -in black letter, a half page in the _Monthly Illustrated_, a gloomy -pencilling above, and below it “Noel Endicott.” The noiselessness of his -steps enlarged his imagination. - - I walked in 19th Street, not the Florentine, - - With ghosts more sad, and one like Beatrice - - Laid on my lips the sanction of her kiss. - - 'Twas---- - -It should be in a purgatorial key, in effect something cold, white and -spiritual, portraying “her” with Dantesque symbolism, a definite being, -a vision with a name. “'Twas--” In fact, who was she? - -He stopped. Tenth Street was worth more than a sonnet's confined -austerity. It should be a story. Noel was one who beat tragic -conceptions into manuscript, suffering rejection for improbability. -Great actions thrilled him, great desires and despairs. The massive -villainies of Borgia had fallen in days when art was strenuous. Of old, -men threw a world away for a passion, an ambition. Intense and abundant -life--one was compelled now to spin their symbols out of thin air, be -rejected for improbability, and in the midst of a bold conception, in a -snowstorm on canoned Tenth Street, be hungry and smitten with doubts of -one's landlady. - -Mrs. Tibbett had been sharp that morning relative to a bill, and he -had remonstrated but too rashly: “Why discuss it, Mrs. Tibbett? It's -a negative, an unfruitful subject.” And she had, in effect, raved, and -without doubt now had locked the outer door. Her temper, roused at one -o'clock, would be hasty in action, final in result. - -He stood still and looked about him. Counting two half blocks as one, it -was now one block to Mrs. Tibbett and that ambushed tragedy. - -In his last novel, “The Sunless Treasure” (to his own mind his -greatest), young Humphrey stands but a moment hesitating before the -oaken door, believing his enemies to be behind it with ready daggers. He -hesitates but a moment. The die is cast. He enters. His enemies are not -there. But Mrs. Tibbett seemed different. For instance, she would be -there. - -The house frontage of this, like the house frontage of the fatal next -block, was various, of brick, brownstone or dingy white surface, -with doorways at the top of high steps, doorways on the ground level, -doorways flush with the front, or sunken in pits. Not a light in any -window, not a battlement that on its restless front bore a star, but -each house stood grim as Child Roland's squat tower. The incessant -snowflakes fell past, no motion or method of any Byzantine palace -intrigue so silken, so noiseless, so mysterious in beginnings and -results. All these locked caskets wedged together contained problems -and solutions, to which Bassanio's was a simple chance of three with a -pointed hint. Noel decided that Tenth Street was too large for a story. -It was a literature. One must select. - -Meanwhile the snow fell and lay thickly, and there was no doubt that by -persistent standing in the snow one's feet became wet. He stepped into -the nearest doorway, which was on the level of the street, one of three -doorways alike, all low, arched and deep. - -They would be less noticeable in the daytime than in the night, when -their cavernous gaping and exact repetition seemed either ominous or -grotesque, according to the observer. The outer door was open. He felt -his way in beyond the drift to the hard footing of the vestibule, kicked -his shoes free of snow and brushed his beard. - -The heroes of novels were sometimes hungry and houseless, but it seemed -to Noel that they seldom or never faced a problem such as Mrs. Tibbett -presented. Desperate fortunes should be carried on the point of one's -sword, but with Mrs. Tibbett the point was not to provoke her. She was -incongruous. She must be thrust aside, put out of the plot. He made a -gesture dismissing Mrs. Tibbett. His hand in the darkness struck the -jamb of the inner door, which swung back with a click of the half-caught -latch. His heart thumped, and he peered into the darkness, where a thin -yellow pencil of light stretched level from a keyhole at the farther end -of a long hall. - -Dismissing Mrs. Tibbett, it was a position of dramatic advantage to -stand in so dark and deep an arched entrance, between the silence and -incessant motion of the snow on the one hand, and the yellow pencil -of light, pointing significantly to something unknown, some crisis -of fortune. He felt himself in a tale that had both force and form, -responsible for its progress. - -He stepped in, closed the half door behind him softly, and crept through -the hall. The thin line of light barred the way, and seemed to say, -“Here is the place. Be bold, ready-minded, full of subtlety and -resource.” There was no sound within that he could hear, and no sound -without, except his own oppressed breathing and pulses throbbing in his -ears. - -Faint heart never won anything, and as for luck, it belonged to those -who adventured with various chances, and of the blind paths that led -away from their feet into the future, chose one, and another, and so -kept on good terms with possibility. If one but cried saucily, “Open -this odd little box, you three gray women!” And this, and this the -gray Fates smiled indulgently, showing a latent motherliness. How many -destinies had been decided by the opening and shutting of a door, which -to better or worse, never opened again for retreat? A touch on this door -and Mrs. Tibbett might vanish from the story forever, to the benefit of -the story. - -He lifted his hand, having in mind to tap lightly, with tact and -insinuation, but struck the door, in fact, nervously, with a bang that -echoed in the hall. Some one spoke within. He opened and made entry in a -prepared manner, which gave way to merely blinking wonder. - -It was a large dining-room, brightly lit by a chandelier, warm from -a glowing grate, sumptuous with pictures and hangings, on the table a -glitter of glass and silver, with meat, cakes and wine. - -On the farther side of the table stood a woman in a black evening dress, -with jewels on her hair and bosom. She seemed to have just risen, and -grasped the back of her chair with one hand, while the other held open a -book on the table. The length of her white arm was in relief against her -black dress. - -Noel's artistic slouch hat, now taken off with uncertain hand, showed -wavy brown hair over eyes not at all threatening, a beard pointed, -somewhat profuse, a face interestingly featured and astonished. No -mental preparation to meet whatever came, of Arabic or mediaeval -incident, availed him. He felt dumb, futile, blinking. The lady's -surprise, the startled fear on her face, was hardly seen before it -changed to relief, as if the apparition of Noel, compared with some -foreboding of her own, were a mild event. She half smiled when he -began:-- - -“I am an intruder, madam,” and stopped with that embarrassed platitude. -“I passed your first door by accident, and your second by impulse.” - -“That doesn't explain why you stay.” - -“May I stay to explain?” - -When two have exchanged remarks that touch the borders of wit, they -have passed a mental introduction. To each the mind of the other is a -possible shade and bubbling spring by the dusty road of conversation. -Noel felt the occasion. He bowed with a side sweep of his hat. - -“Madam, I am a writer of poems, essays, stories. If you ask, What do I -write in poems, essays, stories, I answer, My perception of things. If -you ask, In what form would I cast my present perceptions of things, I -say, Without doubt a poem.” - -“You are able to carry both sides of a conversation. I have not asked -any of these.” - -“You have asked why I stay. I am explaining.” - -The lady's attitude relaxed its stiffness by a shade, her half smile -became a degree more balmy. - -“I think you must be a successful writer.” - -“You touch the point,” he said slowly. “I am not. I am hungry and -probably houseless. And worse than that, I find hunger and houselessness -are sordid, tame. The taste of them in the mouth is flat, like stale -beer. It is not like the bitter tang of a new experience, but like -something the world shows its weariness of in me.” - -The amused smile vanished in large-eyed surprise, and something -more than surprise, as if his words gave her some intimate, personal -information. - -“You say strange things in a very strange way. And you came in by an -accident?” - -“And an impulse?” - -“I don't understand. But you must sit down, and I can find you more to -eat, if this isn't enough.” - -Noel could not have explained the strangeness of his language, if it was -strange, further than that he felt the need of saying something in -order to find an opportunity of saying something to the point, and so -digplayed whatever came to his mind as likely to arrest attention. It -was a critical lesson in vagabondage, as familiar there as hunger and -houselessness. He attacked the cold meat, cakes and fruit with fervor, -and the claret in the decanter. But what should be the next step in the -pursuit of fortune? At this point should there not come some revelation? - -The lady did not seem to think so, but sat looking now at Noel and now -at her own white hands in her lap. That she should have youth and beauty -seemed to Noel as native to the issue as her jewels, the heavy curtains, -the silver and glass. As for youth, she might be twenty, twenty-one, -two. All such ages, he observed to himself with a mental flourish, -were one in beauty. It was not a rosy loveliness like the claret in the -decanter, nor plump like the fruit in the silver basket, but dark-eyed, -white and slender, with black hair drawn across the temples; of a -fragile delicacy like the snowflakes, the frost flower of the century's -culture, the symbol of its ultimate luxury. The rich room was her -setting. She was the center and reason for it, and the yellow point of -a diamond over her heart, glittering, but with a certain mellowness, was -still more central, intimate, interpretative, symbolic of all desirable -things. He began to see the story in it, to glow with the idea. - -“Madam,” he said, “I am a writer of whose importance I have not as yet -been able to persuade the public. The way I should naturally have gone -to-night seemed to me something to avoid. I took another, which brought -me here. The charm of existence--” She seemed curiously attentive. “The -charm of existence is the unforeseen, and of all things our moods are -the most unforeseen. One's plans are not always and altogether futile. -If you propose to have salad for lunch, and see your way to it, it -is not so improbable that you will have salad for lunch. But if you -prefigure how it will all seem to you at lunch, you are never quite -right. Man proposes and God disposes. I add that there is a third and -final disposal, namely, what man is to think of the disposition after it -is made. I hope, since you proposed or prefigured to-night, perhaps as -I did, something different from this--this disposition”--he lifted his -glass of claret between him and the light--“that your disposition what -to think of it is, perhaps, something like mine.” - -The lady was leaning forward with parted lips, listening intently, -absorbed in his words. For the life of him Noel could not see why she -should be absorbed in his words, but the fact filled him with happy -pride. - -“Tell me,” she said quickly. “You speak so well--” - -Noel filled in her pause of hesitation. - -“That means that my wisdom may be all in my mouth.” - -“No, indeed! I mean you must have experience. Will you tell me, is it so -dreadful not to have money? People say different things.” - -“They do.” He felt elevated, borne along on a wave of ornamental -expression. “It is their salvation. Their common proverbs contradict -each other. A man looks after his pence and trusts one proverb that the -pounds will look after themselves, till presently he is called penny -wise and pound foolish, and brought up by another. And consider how less -noticeable life would be without its jostle of opinion, its conflicting -lines of wisdom, its following of one truth to meet with another going -a different way. Give me for finest companionship some half truth, some -ironic veracity.” - -She shook her head. It came to him with a shock that it was not his -ornamental expression which interested her, but only as it might bear on -something in her own mind more simple, direct and serious, something -not yet disclosed. “In fact,” he thought, “she is right. One must get on -with the plot” It was a grievous literary fault to break continuity, to -be led away from the issue by niceties of expression. The proper issue -of a plot was simple, direct, serious, drawn from the motive which began -it. Why did she sit here with her jewels, her white arms and black dress -these weird, still hours of the night? Propriety hinted his withdrawal, -but one must resist the commonplace. - -“The answer to the question does not satisfy you. But do you not see -that I only enlarged on your own answer? People say different things -because they are different. The answer depends on temperaments, more -narrowly on moods; on tenses, too, whether it is present poverty -and houselessness or past or future. And so it has to be answered -particularly, and you haven't made me able to answer it particularly to -you. And then one wouldn't imagine it could be a question particular to -you.” - -“You are very clever,” she murmured, half smiling again. “Are you not -too clever for the purpose? You say so many things.” - -“That is true,” said Noel plaintively. “The story has come to a -standstill. It has all run out into diction.” - -At that moment there was a loud noise in the hall. - -The smile, which began hopefully, grew old while he watched it, and -withered away. The noise that echoed in the hall was of a banging door, -then of laden, dragging steps. The hall door was thrown open, and two -snowy hackmen entered, holding up between them a man wearing a tall hat. - -“He's some loaded, ma'am,” said one of them cheerfully. “I ain't seen -him so chucked in six months.” - -They dropped him in a chair, from which, after looking about him with -half-open, glassy eyes, and closing them again, he slid limply to the -floor. The hackman regarded that choice of position with sympathy. - -“Wants to rest his load, he does,” and backed out of the door with his -companion. - -“It goes on the bill. Ain't seen him so chucked in six months.” - -The lady had not moved from her chair, but had sat white and still, -looking down into her lap. She gave a hard little laugh. - -“Isn't it nice he's so 'chucked'? He would have acted dreadfully.” She -was leaning on the table now, her dark eyes reading him intently. The -man on the floor snorted and gurgled in his sleep. - -“I couldn't kill anybody,” she said. “Could you?” - -Noel shook his head. - -“It's so funny,” she went on in a soft, speculative way, “one can't do -it. I'm afraid to go away and be alone and poor. I wish he would die.” - -“It wouldn't work out that way,” said Noel, struggling with his wits. -“He's too healthy.” - -It seemed to him immediately that the comment was not the right one. It -was not even an impersonal fact to himself, an advantage merely to the -plot, that the sleeper was unable to object to him and discard him from -it, as he had resolved to discard Mrs. Tibbett, but with such brutal -energy as the sleeper's face indicated. For it repelled not so much by -its present relaxed degradation as by its power, its solidity of flesh, -its intolerant self-assertion, the physical vigor of the short bull -neck, bulky shoulders, heavy mustache, heavy cheeks and jaw, bluish -with the shaving of a thick growth. He was dressed, barring his damp -dishevelment, like a well-groomed clubman. - -But the lady was looking Noel in the eyes, and her own seemed strangely -large, but as if covering a spiritual rather than a physical space, -settled in melancholy, full of clouds, moving lights and dusky -distances. - -“I was waiting for him because he ordered me. I'm so afraid of him,” she -said, shrinking with the words. “He likes me to be here and afraid of -him.” - -“Tell me what I am to do?” he said eagerly. - -“I suppose you are not to do anything.” - -Noel caught the thread of his fluency. He drew a ten-cent piece from -his pocket, tossed it on the table, gestured toward it with one hand -and swung the other over the back of his chair with an air of polished -recklessness. - -“But your case seems desperate to you. Is it more than mine? You have -followed this thing about to 'the end of the passage,' and there is my -last coin. My luck might change to-morrow. Who knows? Perhaps tonight. -I would take it without question and full of hope. Will you experiment -with fortune and--and me?” - -The dark eyes neither consented nor refused. They looked at him gravely. - -“It is a black, cold night. The snow is thick in the air and deep on the -street Put it so at the worst, but fortune and wit will go far.” - -“Your wit goes farther than your fortune, doesn't it?” she said, -smiling. - -“I don't conceal.” - -“You don't conceal either of them, do you? You spread them both out,” - and she laughed a pleasant little ripple of sound. - -Noel rose with distinction and bent toward her across the table. - -“My fortune is this ten-cent piece. As you see, on the front of it is -stamped a throned woman.” - -“Oh, how clever.” She laughed, and Noel flushed with the applause. - -“Shall we trust fortune and spin the coin? Heads, the throned woman, I -shall presently worship you, an earthly divinity. Tails, a barren wreath -and the denomination of a money value, meaning I take my fortunes away, -and you,” pointing in turn to the sleeper and the jewels, “put up with -yours as you can.” - -She seemed to shiver as he pointed. “No,” she said, “I couldn't do that. -A woman never likes to spin a coin seriously.” - -“Will you go, then?” - -The sleeper grunted and turned over. She turned pale, put her hand to -her throat, said hurriedly, “Wait here,” and left the room, lifting and -drawing her skirt aside as she passed the sleeper. - -She opened the door at last and came again, wrapped in a fur mantle, -carrying a travelling case, and stood looking down at the sleeper as if -with some struggle of the soul, some reluctant surrender. - -They went out, shutting the door behind them. - -The snow was falling still on Tenth Street, out of the crowding -night. He held her hand on his arm close to him. She glided beside him -noiselessly. - -The express office was at the corner, a little dingy, gas-lit room. - -“Carriage? Get it in a minute,” said the sleepy clerk. “It's just round -the corner.” - -They stood together by a window, half opaque with dust. Her face was -turned away, and he watched the slant of her white cheek. - -“You will have so much to tell me,” he whispered at last. - -“I am really very grateful. You helped me to resolve.” - -“Your carriage, sir.” - -The electric light sputtered over them standing on the curb. - -“But,” she said, smiling up at him, “I have nothing to tell you. There -is nothing more. It ends here. Forgive me. It is my plot and it wouldn't -work out your way. There are too many conflicting lines of wisdom in -your way. My life lately has been what you would call, perhaps, a study -in realism, and you want me to be, perhaps, a symbolic romance. I am -sure you would express it very cleverly. But I think one lives by -taking resolutions rather than by spinning coins, which promise either -a throned woman, or a wreath and the denomination of a money value. One -turns up so much that is none of these things. Men don't treat women -that way. I married to be rich, and was very wretched, and perhaps your -fame, when it comes, will be as sad to you. Perhaps the trouble lies in -what you called 'the third disposal.' But I did not like being a study -in realism. I should not mind being something symbolic, if I might prove -my gratitude”--she took her hand from his arm, put one foot on the step -and laughed, a pleasant little ripple of sound--“by becoming literary -material.” The door shut to, and the carriage moved away into the storm -with a muffled roll of wheels. - -Noel stared after it blankly, and then looked around him. It was half -a block now to Mrs. Tibbett. He walked on mechanically, and mounted the -steps by habit. The outer door was not locked. A touch of compunction -had visited Mrs. Tibbett. - -He crept into his bed, and lay noting the growing warmth and sense of -sleep, and wondering whether that arched doorway was the third of the -three or the second. Strictly speaking he seemed to have gone in at the -middle one and come out at the third, or was it not the first rather -than the middle entrance that he had sheltered in? The three arched -entrances capered and contorted before him in the dark, piled themselves -into the portal of a Moorish palace, twisted themselves in a kind of -mystical trinity and seal of Solomon, floated apart and became thin, -filmy, crescent moons over a frozen sea. He sat up in bed and smote the -coverlet. - -“I don't know her name! She never told me!” He clutched his hair, and -then released it cautiously. “It's Musidora! I forgot that sonnet!” - - 'Twas Musidora, whom the mystic nine - - Gave to my soul to be forever mine, - - And, as through shadows manifold of Dis, - - Showed in her eyes, through dusky distances - - And clouds, the moving lights about their shrine; - - Now ever on my soul her touch shall be - - As on the cheek are touches of the snow, - - Incessant, cool, and gone; so guiding me - - From sorrow's house and triple portico. - - And prone recumbrance of brute tyranny, - - In a strict path shall teach my feet to go. - - -The clock in the invisible steeple struck three. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - -***** This file should be named 50271-0.txt or 50271-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50271/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tioba and Other Tales - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Illustrator: A. B. Frost - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50271] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - -TIOBA - -AND OTHER TALES - -By Arthur Colton - -With a Frontispiece by A. B. Frost - -New York - -Henry Holt And Company - -1903 - - -[Illustration: 0002] - - -[Illustration: 0009] - - -[Illustration: 0010] - - - -DEDICATED TO - -A. G. BRINSMADE - - - - -TIOBA - -FROM among the birches and pines, where we pitched our moving tent, you -looked over the flat meadow-lands; and through these went a river, -slow and almost noiseless, wandering in the valley as if there were -no necessity of arriving anywhere at appointed times. "What is the -necessity?" it said softly to any that would listen. And there was none; -so that for many days the white tent stood among the trees, overlooking -the haycocks in the meadows. It was enough business in hand to study the -philosophy and the subtle rhetoric of Still River. - -Opposite rose a strangely ruined mountain-side. There was a nobly-poised -head and plenteous chest, the head three thousand feet nearer the -stars--which was little enough from their point of view, no doubt, but -to us it seemed a symbol of something higher than the stars, something -beyond them forever waiting and watching. - -From its feet upward half a mile the mountain was one raw wound. The -shivered roots and tree-trunks stuck out helplessly from reddish soil, -boulders were crushed and piled in angry heaps, veins of granite ripped -open--the skin and flesh of the mountain tom off with a curse, and the -bones made a mockery. The wall of the precipice rose far above this -desolation, and, beyond, the hazy forests went up a mile or more clear -to the sky-line. The peak stood over all, not with triumph or with -shame, but with the clouds and stars. - -It was a cloudy day, with rifts of sunlight. An acre of light crept -down the mountain: so you have seen, on the river-boats at night, the -search-light feeling, fingering along the shore. - -In the evening an Arcadian, an elderly man and garrulous, came up to see -what it might be that glimmered among his pulp-trees. He was a surprise, -and not as Arcadian as at first one might presume, for he sold milk and -eggs and blueberries at a price to make one suddenly rich. His name was -Fargus, and he it was whose hay-cutter clicked like a locust all day -in the meadow-lands. He came and made himself amiable beside us, and -confided anything we might care to know which experience had left with -him. - -"That's Tioba," he said. "That's the name of that mountain." And he -told us the story of one whom he called "Jim Hawks," and of the fall of -Tioba. - -She's a skinned mountain [he said]. She got wet inside and slid. Still -River used to run ten rods further in, and there was a cemetery, -too, and Jim Hawks's place; and the cemetery's there yet, six rods -underground, but the creek shied off and went through my plough-land -scandalous. - -Now, Jim Hawks was a get-there kind, with a clawed face--by a wildcat, -yes, sir. Tioba got there; and Jim he was a wicked one. I've been -forty years in this valley, with the Petersons and the Storrses and the -Merimys at Canada Center, all good, quiet folk. And nothing happened to -us, for we did nothing to blame, till Jim came, and Tioba ups and drops -on him. - -Now look at it, this valley! There've been landslides over beyond in -Helder's valley, but there's only one in mine. Looks as if the devil -gone spit on it. It's Jim Hawks's trail. - -He come one day with a buckboard and a yellow horse, and he says: - -"Sell me that land from here up the mountain." - -"Who be you?" says I. - -"Jim Hawks," says he, and that's all he appeared to know about it. And -he bought the land, and put up a house close to the mountain, so you -could throw a cat down his chimney if you wanted to, or two cats if you -had 'em. - -He was a long, swing-shouldered man, with a light-colored mustache and a -kind of flat gray eye that you couldn't see into. You look into a man's -eye naturally to see what his intentions are. Well, Jim Hawks's eye -appeared to have nothing to say on the subject. And as to that, I told -my wife it was none of our business if he didn't bring into the valley -anything but his name and a bit of money sufficient. - -He got his face clawed by a wildcat by being reckless with it; and he -ran a deer into Helder's back yard once and shot it, and licked Helder -for claiming the deer. He was the recklessest chap! He swings his fist -into Helder's face, and he says: - -"Shoot, if you got a gun. If you hain't, get out!" - -I told Jim that was no place to put a house, on account of Tioba -dropping rocks off herself whenever it rained hard and the soil got -mushy. I told him Tioba'd as soon drop a rock on his head as into his -gridiron. - -You can't see Canada Center from here. There's a post-office there, and -three houses, the Petersons', the Storrses' and the Merimys'. Merimy's -house got a peaked roof on it. I see Jeaney Merimy climb it after her -kitten a-yowling on the ridge. She wasn't but six years old then, and -she was gritty the day she was born. Her mother--she's old Peterson's -daughter--she whooped, and I fetched Jeaney down with Peterson's ladder. -Jeaney Merimy grew up, and she was a tidy little thing. The Storrs boys -calculated to marry her, one of 'em, only they weren't enterprising; and -Jeaney ups and goes over to Eastport one day with Jim Hawks--cuts out -early in the morning, and asks nobody. Pretty goings on in this valley! -Then they come back when they were ready, and Jim says: - -"What you got to say about it, Merimy?" - -Merimy hadn't nothing to say about it, nor his wife hadn't nothing -to say, nor Peterson, nor the Storrs boys. Dog-gone it! Nobody hadn't -nothing to say; that is, they didn't say it to Jim. - -That was five years ago, the spring they put up the Redman Hotel at -Helder's. People's come into these parts now thicker'n bugs. They have -a band that plays music at the Redman Hotel. But in my time I've seen -sights. The bears used to scoop my chickens. You could hear wildcats -'most any night crying in the brush. I see a black bear come down -Jumping Brook over there, slapping his toes in the water and grunting -like a pig. Me, I was ploughing for buckwheat. - -Jeaney Merimy went over to Eastport with her hair in a braid, and came -back with it put up like a crow's nest on top of her head. She was a -nice-looking girl, Jeaney, and born gritty, and it didn't do her any -good. - -I says to Jim: "Now, you're always looking for fighting," says I. "Now, -me, I'm for peaceable doings. If you're looking for fighting any time, -you start in beyond me. - -"You!" says Jim. "I'd as soon scrap with a haystack." - -I do know how it would be, doing with a haystack that way, but you take -it from Jim's point of view, and you see it wouldn't be what he'd care -for; and you take it from my point of view, and you see I didn't poke -into Jim's business. That's natural good sense. Only I'm free to say -he was a wicked one, 'stilling whiskey on the back side of Tioba, and -filling up the Storrs boys with it, and them gone to the devil off East -where the railroads are. And laying Peterson to his front door, drunk. -My, he didn't know any more'n his front door! "He's my grandfather," -says Jim. "That's the humor of it"--meaning he was Jeaney's grandfather. -And mixing the singularest drinks, and putting 'em into an old man named -Fargus, as ought to known better. My wife she said so, and she knew. I -do' know what Jeaney Merimy thought, but I had my point of view on that. -Jim got drunk himself on and off, and went wilder'n a wildcat, and -slid over the mountains the Lord knows where. Pretty goings on in this -valley! - -This is a good climate if you add it all up and take the average. But -sometimes it won't rain till you're gray waiting for it, and sometimes -it will snow so the only way to get home is to stay inside, and -sometimes it will rain like the bottom fallen out of a tub. The way of -it is that when you've lived with it forty years you know how to add up -and take the average. - -That summer Tioba kept her head out of sight from June to September -mainly. She kept it done up in cotton, as you might say, and she leaked -in her joints surprising. She's a queer mountain that way. Every now and -then she busts out a spring and dribbles down into Still River from a -new place. - -In September they were all dark days and drizzly nights, and there was -often the two sounds of the wind on Tioba that you hear on a bad night. -One of 'em is a kind of steady grumble and hiss that's made with the -pine-needles and maybe the tons of leaves shaking and falling. The other -is the toot of the wind in the gullies on edges of rock. But if you -stand in the open on a bad night and listen, you'd think Tioba was -talking to you. Maybe she is. - -It come along the middle of September, and it was a bad night, drizzly, -and Tioba talking double. I went over to the Hawkses' place early to -borrow lantern-oil, and I saw Jeaney Merimy sitting over the fire -alone, and the wind singing in the chimney. "Jim hasn't come," she says, -speaking quiet; and she gets me the lantern-oil. After, when I went -away, she didn't seem to notice; and what with the wind in the chimney, -and Jeaney sitting alone with her big black eyes staring, and Tioba -talking double, and the rain drizzling, and the night falling, I felt -queer enough to expect a ghost to be standing at my gate. And I came -along the road, and there _was_ one! - -Yes, sir; she was a woman in a gray, wet cloak, standing at my gate, and -a horse and buggy in the middle of the road. - -"'Mighty!" says I, and drops my oil-can smack in the mud. - -"Does Mr. Hawks live here?" she says, seeing me standing like a tomfool -in the mud. - -"No, ma'am," says I. "That's his place across the flat half a mile. He -ain't at home, but his wife is." - -The wind blew her cloak around her sharp, and I could see her face, -though it was more or less dark. She was some big and tall, and her face -was white and wet with the rain. After a while she says: - -"He's married?" - -"Yes, ma'am. You'd better not--'Mighty, ma'am!" says I, "where you -going?" - -She swung herself into the buggy quicker'n women are apt to do, and she -whops the horse around and hits him a lick, and off he goes, splashing -and galloping. Me, I was beat. But I got so far as to think if she -wasn't a ghost, maybe Jim Hawks would as lief she would be, and if -she didn't drive more careful she'd be liable to oblige him that way. -Because it stands to reason a woman don't come looking for a man on a -bad night, and cut away like that, unless she has something uncommon -on her mind. I heard the buggy-wheels and the splash of the horse dying -away; and then there was nothing in the night but the drip of the rain -and Tioba talking double--_um-hiss, toot-toot._ - -Then I went into the house, and didn't tell my wife about it, she -disliking Jim on account of his singular drinks, which had a tidy taste, -but affecting a man sudden and surprising. My wife she went off to bed, -and I sat by the fire, feeling like there was more wrong in the world -than common. And I kept thinking of Jeaney Merimy sitting by herself off -there beyond the rain, with the wind singing in the chimney, and Tioba -groaning and tooting over her. Then there was the extra woman looking -for Jim; and it seemed to me if I was looking for Jim on a dark night, -I'd want to let him know beforehand it was all peaceable, so there -wouldn't be a mistake, Jim being a sudden man and not particular. I had -the extra woman on my mind, so that after some while it seemed to me she -had come back and was driving _splish-splash_ around my house, though it -was only the wind. I was that foolish I kept counting how many times she -went round the house, and it was more than forty; and sometimes she came -so close to the front door I thought she'd come through it--_bang!_ - -Then somebody rapped sudden at the door, and I jumped, and my chair went -slap under the table, and I says, "Come in," though I'd rather it would -have stayed out, and in walks Jim Hawks. "'Mighty!" says I. "I thought -you was a horse and buggy." - -He picked up my chair and sat in it himself, rather cool, and began to -dry off. - -"Horse and buggy?" says he. "Looking for me?" - -I just nodded, seeing he appeared to know all about it. - -"Saw 'em in Eastport," says he. "I suppose she's over there"--meaning -his place. "Gone down the road! You don't say! Now, I might have known -she wouldn't do what you might call a rational thing. Never could bet -on that woman. If there was one of two things she'd be likely to do, she -wouldn't do either of 'em." - -"Well," says I, "speaking generally, what might she want of you?" - -Jim looks at me kind of absent minded, rubbing his hair the wrong way. - -"Now, look at it, Fargus," he says. "It ain't reasonable. Now, she and -me, we got married about five years ago. And she had a brother named Tom -Cheever, and Tom and I didn't agree, and naturally he got hurt; not -but that he got well again--that is, partly. And she appeared to have -different ideas from me, and she appeared to think she'd had enough of -me, and I took that to be reasonable. Now, here she wants me to come -back and behave myself, cool as you please. And me inquiring why, she -acts like the country was too small for us both. I don't see it that way -myself." And he shook his head, stretching his hands out over the fire. - -"I don't see either end of it," says I. "You're a bad one, Jim, a -downright bad one." - -"That's so. It's Jeaney you mean," he says, looking kind of interested. -"It'll be hell for Jeaney, won't it?" - -The wind and rain was whooping round the house so we could hardly hear -each other. It was like a wild thing trying to get in, which didn't know -how to do it, and wouldn't give up; and then you'd hear like something -whimpering, and little fingers tapping at the window-glass. - -My opinion of Jim Hawks was that I didn't seem to get on to him, and -that's my opinion up to now; and it appeared to me then that Jim might -be the proper explanation himself of anything the extra woman did which -seemed unreasonable; but I didn't tell him that, because I didn't see -rightly what it would mean if I said it. - -Jim got up and stretched his legs. "Now, I tell you, Fargus," says he, -"I'm going to put the thing to Jeaney, being a clipper little woman, -not to say sharp. If it comes to the worst, I daresay Canada Center will -give us a burying; or if she wants to slide over the mountains with me, -there's no trouble about it; or if she'd rather go her own way, and me -mine, that's reasonable; or if she says to do nothing but hold the fort, -why, that's all right, too, only Canada Center would be likely to take a -hand, and then there'd surely be trouble, on account of me getting mad. -Now, I have to say to you, Fargus, that you've been as friendly as a man -could be, as things are; and maybe you've seen the last of me, and maybe -you wouldn't mind if you had." - -"Speaking generally," says I, "you're about right, Jim." - -With that he laughed, and went out, pulling the door to hard against the -storm. - -Next day the rain came streaming down, and my cellar was flooded, and -the valley was full of the noise of the flood brooks. I kept looking -toward the Hawkses' place, having a kind of notion something would blow -up there. It appeared to me there was too much gunpowder in that family -for the house to stay quiet. Besides, I saw Tioba had been dropping -rocks in the night, and there were new boulders around. One had ploughed -through Jim's yard, and the road was cut up frightful. The boulder in -Jim's yard looked as if it might be eight feet high. I told my wife the -Hawkses ought to get out of there, and she said she didn't care, she -being down on Jim on account of his mixed drinks, which had a way of -getting under a man, I'm free to say, and heaving him up. - -About four o'clock in the afternoon it come off misty, and I started -over to tell Jim he'd better get out; and sudden I stops and looks, -for there was a crowd coming from Canada Center--the Storrses and the -Petersons and the Merimys, and the extra woman in a buggy with Henry -Hall, who was county sheriff then. "Well, 'Mighty!" says I. - -They pulled up in front of Jim's place, and I took it they were going to -walk in and settle things prompt. But you see, when I got there, it was -Jim a-standing by his door with his rifle, and the sheriff and Canada -Center was squeezing themselves through the gate and Jim shooting off -sideways at the pickets on his fence. And the sheriff ups and yelled: - -"Here, you Jim Hawks! That ain't any way to do." - -Then Jim walks down the road with his rifle over his arm, and Jeaney -Merimy comes to the door. She looked some mad and some crying, a little -of both. - -"Hall," says he, "you turn your horse and go back where you come from. -Maybe I'll see you by and by. The rest of you go back to Canada Center, -and if Jeaney wants anything of you she'll come and say so. You go, -now!" - -And they went. The extra woman drove off with the sheriff, hanging her -head, and the sheriff saying, "You'll have to come to time, Jim Hawks, -soon or late." Jeaney Merimy sat in the door with her head hung down, -too; and the only one as ought to have been ashamed, he was walking -around uppish, like he meant to call down Tioba for throwing rocks into -his yard. Then Jeaney sees me, and she says: - -"You're all down on Jim. There's no one but me to stand up for Jim." - -She began to cry, while Jim cocked his head and looked at her curious. -And she kept saying, "There's no one but me to stand up for Jim." - -That was a queer way for her to look at it. - -Now, that night set in, like the one before, with a drizzling rain. It -was the longest wet weather I ever knew. I kept going to the window to -look at the light over at the Hawkses' and wonder what would come of -it, till it made my wife nervous, and she's apt to be sharp when she's -nervous, so I quit. And the way Tioba talked double that night was -terrible--_um-hiss, toot-toot_, hour after hour; and no sleep for me and -my wife, being nervous. - -I do' know what time it was, or what we heard. All I know is, my wife -jumps up with a yell, and I jumps up too, and I know we were terrible -afraid and stood listening maybe a minute. It seemed like there was -almost dead silence in the night, only the um-m went on, but no hissing -and no tooting, and if there was any sound of the rain or wind I -don't recollect it. And then, "Um!" says Tioba, louder and louder and -_louder!_ till there was no top nor bottom to it, and the whole infernal -world went to pieces, and pitched me and my wife flat on the floor. - -The first I knew, there was dead silence again; or maybe my hearing was -upset, for soon after I began to hear the rain buzzing away quietly. -Then I got up and took a lantern, and my wife grabs me. - -"You ain't going a step!" says she, and the upshot was we both went, two -old folks that was badly scared and bound to find out why. We went along -the road, looking about us cautious; and of a sudden, where the road -ought to be, we ran into a bank of mud that went up out of seeing in the -night. Then my wife sat down square in the road and began a-crying, and -I knew Tioba had fallen down. - -Now, there's Tioba, and that's how she looked next morning, only -worse--more mushy and generally clawed up, with the rain still falling -dismal, and running little gullies in the mud like a million snakes. - -According to my guess, Jim and Jeaney and the cemetery were about ten -rods in, or maybe not more than eight. Anyway, I says to Peterson, and -he agreed with me, that there wasn't any use for a funeral. I says: "God -A'mighty buried 'em to suit himself." It looked like he didn't think -much of the way Canada Center did its burying, seeing the cemetery was -took in and buried over again. Peterson and me thought the same on that -point. And we put up the white stone, sort of on top of things, that -maybe you've noticed, and lumped the folk in the cemetery together, and -put their names on it, and a general epitaph; but not being strong -on the dates, we left them out mostly. We put Jeaney Merimy with her -family, but Canada Center was singularly united against letting Jim in. - -"You puts his name on no stone with me or mine," says Merimy, and -I'm not saying but what he was right. Yes, sir; Merimy had feelings, -naturally. But it seemed to me when a man was a hundred and fifty feet -underground, more or less, there ought to be some charity; and maybe I -had a weakness for Jim, though my wife wouldn't hear of him, on account -of his drinks, which were slippery things. Anyway, I takes a chisel -and a mallet, and I picks out a boulder on the slide a decent ways from -Canada Center's monument, and I cuts in it, "Jim Hawks"; and then I cuts -in it an epitaph that I made myself, and it's there yet: - - - HERE LIES JIM HAWKS, KILLED BY ROCKS. - - HE DIDN'T ACT THE WAY HE OUGHT. - - THAT'S ALL I'll SAY OF JIM. - - HERE HE LIES, WHAT'S LEFT OF HIM. - - -And I thought that stated the facts, though the second line didn't -rhyme really even. Speaking generally, Tioba appeared to have dropped -on things about the right time, and that being so, why not let it pass, -granting Merimy had a right to his feelings? - -Now, neither Sheriff Hall nor the extra woman showed up in the valley -any more, so it seemed likely they had heard of Tioba falling, and -agreed Jim wouldn't be any good, if they could find him. It was two -weeks more before I saw the sheriff, him driving through, going over to -Helder's. I saw him get out of his buggy to see the monument, and I went -up after, and led him over to show Jim's epitaph, which I took to be a -good epitaph, except the second line. - -Now, what do you think he did? Why, he busted out a-haw-hawing -ridiculous, and it made me mad. - -"Shut up!" says I. "What's ailing you?" - -"Haw-haw!" says he. "Jim ain't there! He's gone down the road." - -"I believe you're a blamed liar," says I; and the sheriff sobered up, -being mad himself, and he told me this. - -"Jim Hawks," says he, "came into East-port that night, meaning business. -He routed me out near twelve o'clock, and the lady staying at my house -she came into it, too, and there we had it in the kitchen at twelve -o'clock, the lady uncommon hot, and Jim steaming wet in his clothes and -rather cool. He says: 'I'm backing Jeaney now, and she tells me to come -in and settle it to let us alone, and she says we'll hand over all we've -got and leave. That appears to be her idea, and being hers, I'll put it -as my own.' Now, the lady, if you'd believe it, she took on fearful, and -wouldn't hear to reason unless he'd go with her, though what her idea -was of a happy time with Jim Hawks, the way he was likely to act, I give -it up. But she cried and talked foolish, till I see Jim was awful bored, -but I didn't see there was much for me to do. Then Jim got up at last, -and laughed very unpleasant, and he says: 'It's too much bother. I'll go -with you, Annie, but I think you're a fool.' And they left next morning, -going south by train." - -That's what Sheriff Hall said to me then and there. Well, now, I'm an -old man, and I don't know as I'm particular clever, but it looks to me -as if God A'mighty and Tioba had made a mistake between 'em. Else how -come they hit at Jim Hawks so close as that and missed him? And what was -the use of burying Jeaney Merimy eight rods deep, who was a good girl -all her life, and was for standing up for Jim, and him leaving her -because the extra woman got him disgusted? Maybe she'd rather Tioba -would light on her, that being the case--maybe she would have; but she -never knew what the case was. - -That epitaph is there yet, as you might say, waiting for him to come -and get under it; but it don't seem to have the right point now, and it -don't state the facts any more, except the second line, which is more -facts than rhyme. And Tioba is the messiest-look-ing mountain in these -parts. And now, I say, Jim Hawks was in this valley little more than a -year, and he blazed his trail through the Merimy family, and the Storrs -family, and the Peterson family, and there's Tioba Mountain, and that's -his trail. - -No, sir; I don't get on to it. I hear Tioba talking double some nights, -sort of uneasy, and it seems to me she isn't on to it either, and has -her doubts maybe she throwed herself away. And there's the cemetery six -to ten rods underground, with a monument to forty-five people on top, -and an epitaph to Jim Hawks that ain't so, except the second line, there -being no corpse to fit it. - -Canada Center thinks they'd fit Jim to it if he came round again; but -they wouldn't: for he was a wicked one, but sudden to act, and he was -reckless, and he kept his luck. For Tioba drawed off and hit at him, -slap! and he dodged her. - - - - -A MAN FOR A' THAT - - -COMPANY A was cut up at Antietam, so that there was not enough of it -left for useful purposes, and Deacon Andrew Terrell became a member -of Company G, which nicknamed him "'is huliness." Company A came from -Dutchess County. There was a little white church in the village of -Brewster, and a little white house with a meagre porch where that good -woman, Mrs. Terrell, had stood and shed several tears as the deacon -walked away down the street, looking extraordinary in his regimentals. -She dried her eyes, settled down to her sewing in that quiet south -window, and hoped he would remember to keep his feet dry and not lose -the cough drops. That part of Dutchess County was a bit of New England -spilled over. New England has been spilling over these many years. - -The deacon took the cough drops regularly; he kept his gray chin beard -trimmed with a pair of domestic scissors, and drilling never persuaded -him to move his large frame with other than the same self-conscious -restraint; his sallow face had the same set lines. There is something in -the Saxon's blood that will not let him alter with circumstances, and it -is by virtue of it that he conquers in the end. - -But no doorkeeper in the house of God--the deacon's service in the -meeting-house at Brewster--who should come perforce to dwell in the -tents of wickedness would pretend to like it. Besides, Company G had no -tents. It came from the lower wards of the great city. Dinkey Cott, that -thin-legged, stunted, imp-faced, hardened little Bowery sprout, put his -left fist in the deacon's eye the first day of their acquaintance, and -swore in the pleasantest manner possible. - -The deacon cuffed him, because he had been a schoolmaster in his day, -and did not understand how he would be despised for knocking Dinkey down -in that amateur fashion, and the lieutenant gave them both guard duty -for fighting in the ranks. - -The deacon declared "that young man Cott hadn't no moral ideas," and did -his guard duty in bitterness and strict conscience to the last minute of -it. Dinkey put his thumb to his nose and offered to show the lieutenant -how the thing should have been done, and that big man laughed, and both -forgot about the guard duty. - -Dinkey had no sense whatever of personal dignity, which was partly what -the deacon meant by "moral ideas," nor reverence for anything above or -beneath. He did not harbor any special anger, either, and only enough -malice to point his finger at the elder man, whenever he saw him, and -snicker loudly to the entertainment of Company G. - -Dinkey's early recollections had to do with the cobblestones of Mulberry -Bend and bootblacking on Pearl Street. Deacon Terrell's began with a -lonely farm where there were too many potato hills to hoe, a little -schoolhouse where arithmetic was taught with a ferrule, a white -meeting-house where the wrath of God was preached with enthusiasm; both -seemed far enough away from the weary tramp, tramp, the picket duty, and -the camp at last one misty night in thick woods on the Stafford hills, -looking over the Rappahannock to the town of Fredericksburg. - -What happened there was not clear to Company G. There seemed to be a -deal of noise and hurrying about, cannon smoke in the valley and cannon -smoke on the terraces across the valley. Somebody was building pontoon -bridges, therefore it seemed likely somebody wanted to get across. They -were having hard luck with the bridges. That was probably the enemy on -the ridge beyond. - -There seemed to be no end to him, anyway; up and down the valley, mile -beyond mile, the same line of wooded heights and drifting smoke. - -And the regiment found itself crossing a shaky pontoon bridge on a -Saturday morning in the mist and climbing the bank into a most battered -and tired-looking little town, which was smoldering sulkily with burned -buildings and thrilling with enormous noise. There they waited for -something else to happen. The deacon felt a lump in his throat, stopping -his breath. - -"Git out o' me tracks!" snickered Dinkey Cott behind him. "I'll step on -yer." - -Dinkey had never seemed more impish, unholy and incongruous. They seemed -to stand there a long time. The shells kept howling and whizzing around; -they howled till they burst, and then they whizzed. And now and then -some one would cry out and fall. It was bad for the nerves. The men were -growling. - -"Aw, cap, give us a chance!" - -"It ain't my fault, boys. I got to wait for orders, same as you." - -Dinkey poked the deacon's legs with the butt of his rifle. - -"Say, it's rotten, ain't it? Say, cully, my ma don't like me full o' -holes. How's yours?" - -The other gripped his rifle tight and thought of nothing in particular. - -Was it five hours that passed, or twenty, or one? Then they started, and -the town was gone behind their hurrying feet. Over a stretch of broken -level, rush and tramp and gasping for breath; fences and rocks ahead, -clumps of trees and gorges; ground growing rougher and steeper, but that -was nothing. If there was anything in the way you went at it and left -it behind. You plunged up a hill, and didn't notice it. You dove into a -gully, and it wasn't there. Time was a liar, obstacles were scared and -ran away. But half-way up the last pitch ran a turnpike, with a stone -wall in front that spit fire and came nearer and nearer. It seemed -creeping down viciously to meet you. Up, up, till the powder of the guns -almost burned the deacon's face, and the smoke was so thick he could -only see the red flashes. - -And then suddenly he was alone. At least there was no one in sight, for -the smoke was very thick. Company G all dead, or fallen, or gone back. -There was a clump of brambles to his left. He dropped to the ground, -crept behind it and lay still. The roar went on, the smoke rolled down -over him and sometimes a bullet would clip through the brambles, but -after a time the small fire dropped off little by little, though the -cannon still boomed on. - -His legs were numb and his heart beating his sides like a drum. The -smoke was blowing away down the slope. He lifted his head and peered -through the brambles; there was the stone wall not five rods away, all -lined along the top with grimy faces. A thousand rifles within as -many yards, wanting nothing better than to dig a round hole in him. He -dropped his head and closed his eyes. - -His thoughts were so stunned that the slowly lessening cannonade seemed -like a dream, and he hardly noticed when it had ceased, and he began -to hear voices, cries of wounded men and other men talking. There was -a clump of trees to the right, and two or three crows in the treetops -cawing familiarly. An hour or two must have passed, for the sun was down -and the river mist creeping up. He lay on his back, staring blankly at -the pale sky and shivering a little with the chill. - -A group of men came down and stood on the rocks above. They could -probably see him, but a man on his back with his toes up was nothing -particular there. They talked with a soft drawl. "Doggonedest clean-up I -ever saw." - -"They hadn't no business to come up heah, yuh know. They come some -distance, now." - -"Shuah! We ain't huntin' rabbits. What'd yuh suppose?" - -Then they went on. - -The mist came up white and cold and covered it all over. He could not -see the wall any longer, though he could hear the voices. He turned on -his face and crawled along below the brambles and rocks to where the -clump of trees stood with a deep hollow below them. They were chestnut -trees. Some one was sitting in the hollow with his back against the -roots. - -During the rush Dinkey Cott fairly enjoyed himself. The sporting blood -in him sang in his ears, an old song that the leopard knows, it may be, -waiting in the mottled shadow, that the rider knows on the race course, -the hunter in the snow--the song of a craving that only excitement -satisfies. The smoke blew in his face. He went down a hollow and up the -other side. Then something hot and sudden came into the middle of him -and he rolled back against the roots of a great tree. - -"Hully gee! I'm plunked!" he grumbled disgustedly. - -For the time he felt no pain, but his blood ceased to sing in his ears. -Everything seemed to settle down around him, blank and dull and angry. -He felt as if either the army of the North or the army of the South had -not treated him rightly. If they had given him a minute more he might -have clubbed something worth while. He sat up against a tree, wondered -what his chance was to pull through, thought it poor, and thought he -would sell it for a drink. - -The firing dropped off little by little, and the mist was coming up. -Dinkey began to see sights. His face and hands were hot, and things -seemed to be riproaring inside him generally. The mist was full of -flickering lights, which presently seemed to be street lamps down the -Bowery. The front windows of Reilly's saloon were glaring, and opposite -was Gottstein's jewelry store, where he had happened to hit one Halligan -in the eye for saying that Babby Reilly was his girl and not Dinkey's; -and he bought Babby a 90-cent gold ring of Gottstein, which proved -Halligan to be a liar. The cop saw him hit Halligan, too, and said -nothing, being his friend. And Halligan enlisted in Company G with the -rest of the boys, and was keeled over in the dark one night on picket -duty, somewhere up country. All the gang went into Company G. The -captain was one of the boys, and so was Pete Murphy, the big lieutenant. -He was a sort of ward sub-boss, was Pete. - -"Reilly, he's soured on me, Pete. I dun-no wot's got the ol' man." - -The lights seemed to grow thick, till everything was ablaze. - -"Aw, come off! Dis ain't de Bowery," he muttered, and started and rubbed -his eyes. - -The mist was cold and white all around him, ghostly and still, except -that there was a low, continual mutter of voices above, and now and then -a soft moan rose up from somewhere. And it seemed natural enough that a -ghost should come creeping out of the ghostly mist, even that it should -creep near to him and peer into his face, a ghost with a gray chin beard -and haggard eyes. - -"I'm going down," it whispered. "Come on. Don't make any noise." - -"Hully gee!" thought Dinkey. "It's the Pope!" - -A number of things occurred to him in confusion. The deacon did not see -he was hit. He said to himself: - -"I ain't no call to spoil 'is luck, if he is country." - -He blinked a moment, then nodded and whispered hoarsely: "Go on." - -The deacon crept away into the mist. Dinkey leaned back feebly and -closed his eyes. - -"Wished I'd die quick. It's rotten luck. Wished I could see Pete." - -The deacon crept down about two hundred yards, then stopped and waited -for the young man Cott. The night was closing in fast A cry in the -darkness made him shiver. He had never imagined anything could be so -desolate and sad. He thought he had better see what was the matter with -Dinkey. He never could make out afterward why it had seemed necessary -to look after Dinkey. There were hundreds of better men on the slopes. -Dinkey might have passed him. It did not seem very sensible business -to go back after that worthless little limb of Satan. The deacon never -thought the adventure a credit to his judgment. - -But he went back, guiding himself by the darker gloom of the trees -against the sky, and groped his way down the hollow, and heard Dinkey -muttering and babbling things without sense. It made the deacon mad -to have to do with irresponsible people, such as go to sleep under the -enemy's rifles and talk aloud in dreams. He pulled him roughly by the -boots, and he fell over, babbling and muttering. Then it came upon the -deacon that it was not sleep, but fever. He guessed the young man was -hit somewhere. They had better be going, anyway. The Johnnies must have -out a picket line somewhere. He slipped his hands under Dinkey and got -up. He tried to climb out quietly, but fell against the bank. Some one -took a shot at the noise, spattering the dirt under his nose. He lifted -Dinkey higher and went on. Dinkey's mutterings ceased. He made no sound -at all for a while, and at last said huskily: - -"Wot's up?" - -"It's me." - -"Hully gee! Wot yer doin'?" - -His voice was weak and thin now. He felt as if he were being pulled in -two in the middle. - -"Say, ol' man, I won't jolly yer. Les' find Pete. There's a minie ball -messed up in me stomick awful." - -"'Tain't far, Dinkey," said the deacon, gently. - -And he thought of Pete Murphy's red, fleshy face and black, oily -mustache. It occurred to him that he had noticed most men in Company -G, if they fell into trouble, wanted to find Pete. He thought he should -want to himself, though he could not tell why. If he happened to be -killed anywhere he thought he should like Pete Murphy to tell his wife -about it. - -Dinkey lay limp and heavy in his arms. The wet blackness seemed like -something pressed against his face. He could not realize that he was -walking, though in the night, down the same slope to a river called the -Rappahannock and a town called Fredericksburg. It was strange business -for him, Deacon Terrell of Brewster, to be in, stumbling down the -battlefield in the pit darkness, with a godless little brat like Dinkey -Cott in his arms. - -And why godless, if the same darkness were around us all, and the same -light, while we lived, would come to all in the morning? It was borne -upon the deacon that no man was elected to the salvation of the sun or -condemned to the night apart from other men. - -The deacon never could recall the details of his night's journey, except -that he fell down more than once, and ran against stone walls in the -dark. It seemed to him that he had gone through an unknown, supernatural -country. Dinkey lay so quiet that he thought he might be dead, but he -could not make up his mind to leave him. He wished he could find Pete -Murphy. Pete would tell him if Dinkey was dead. - -He walked not one mile, but several, in the blind night Dinkey had long -been a limp weight. The last thing he said was, "Les' find Pete," and -that was long before. - -At last the deacon saw a little glow in the darkness, and, coming near, -found a dying campfire with a few flames only flickering, and beside it -two men asleep. He might have heard the ripple of the Rappahannock, but, -being so worn and dull in his mind, he laid Dinkey down by the fire and -fell heavily to sleep himself before he knew it. - -When he woke Pete Murphy stood near him with a corporal and a guard. -They were looking for the pieces of Company G. "Dead, ain't he?" said -Pete. - -The deacon got up and brushed his clothes. The two men who were sleeping -woke up also, and they all stood around looking at Dinkey in awkward -silence. - -"Who's his folks?" - -"Him!" said the big lieutenant. "He ain't got any folks. Tell you what, -ol' man, I see a regiment drummer somewhere a minute ago. He'll do a -roll over Dinkey, for luck, sure!" - -They put Dinkey's coat over his face and buried him on the bank of the -Rappahannock, and the drummer beat a roll over him. - -Then they sat down on the bank and waited for the next thing. - -The troops were moving back now across the bridge hurriedly. Company G -had to take its turn. The deacon felt in his pockets and found the cough -drops and Mrs. Terrell's scissors. He took a cough drop and fell to -trimming his beard. - - - - -THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER - - -ANY one would have called Bobby Bell a comfortable boy--that is, any -one who did not mind bugs; and I am sure I do not see why any one should -mind bugs, except the kind that taste badly in raspberries and some -other kinds. It was among the things that are entertaining to see Bobby -Bell bobbing around among the buttercups looking for grasshoppers. -Grasshoppers are interesting when you consider that they have heads -like door knobs or green cheeses and legs with crooks to them. "Bobbing" -means to go like Bobby Bell--that is, to go up and down, to talk to -one's self, and not to hear any one shout, unless it is some one whom -not to hear is to get into difficulties. - -Across the Salem Road from Mr. Atherton Bell's house there were many -level meadows of a pleasant greenness, as far as Cum-ming's alder swamp; -and these meadows were called the Bow Meadows. If you take the alder -swamp and the Bow Meadows together, they were like this: the swamp was -mysterious and unvisited, except by those who went to fish in the Muck -Hole for turtles and eels. Frogs with solemn voices lived in the swamp. -Herons flew over it slowly, and herons also are uncanny affairs. We -believed that the people of the swamp knew things it was not good to -know, like witchcraft and the insides of the earth. In the meadows, on -the other hand, there were any number of cheerful and busy creatures, -some along the level of the buttercups, but most of them about the roots -of the grasses. The people in the swamp were wet, cold, sluggish, and -not a great many of them. The people of the meadows were dry, warm, -continually doing something, and in number not to be calculated by any -rule in Wentworth's Arithmetic. - -So you see how different were the two, and how it comes about that the -meadows were nearly the best places in the world to be in, both -because of the society there, and because of the swamp near at hand and -interesting to think about. So, too, you see why it was that Bobby Bell -could be found almost any summer day "bobbing" for grasshoppers in the -Bow Meadows--"bobbing" meaning to go up and down like Bobby Bell, to -talk to one's self and not to hear any one shout; and "grasshoppers" -being interesting because of their heads resembling door knobs or green -cheeses, because of the crooks in their legs, and because of their -extraordinary habit of jumping. - -There were in Hagar at this time four ladies who lived at a little -distance from the Salem Road and Mr. Atherton Bell's house, on a road -which goes over a hill and off to a district called Scrabble Up and -Down, where huckleberries and sweet fern mostly grow. They were known as -the Tuttle Four Women, being old Mrs. Tuttle and the three Miss Tuttles, -of whom Miss Rachel was the eldest. - -It is easy to understand why Miss Rachel and the children of the village -of Hagar did not get along well together, when you consider how clean -she was, how she walked so as never to fall over anything, nor took -any interest in squat tag, nor resembled the children of the village of -Hagar in any respect. And so you can understand how it was that, when -she came down the hill that Saturday afternoon and saw Bobby Bell -through the bars in the Bow Meadows, she did not understand his actions, -and disapproved of them, whatever they were. - -The facts were these: In the first place a green grasshopper, who was -reckless or had not been brought up rightly, had gone down Bobby's back -next the skin, where he had no business to be; and naturally Bobby stood -on his head to induce him to come out. That seems plain enough, for, if -you are a grasshopper and down a boy's back, and the boy stands on his -head, you almost always come out to see what he is about; because it -makes you curious, if not ill, to be down a boy's back and have him -stand on his head. Any one can see that. And this is the reason I had -to explain about Miss Rachel, in order to show you why she did not -understand it, nor understand what followed after. - -In the next place, Bobby knew that when you go where you have no -business to, you are sometimes spanked, but usually you are talked to -unpleasantly, and tied up to something by the leg, and said to be in -disgrace. Usually you are tied to the sewing machine, and "disgrace" -means the corner of the sewing-room between the machine and the sofa. It -never occurred to him but that this was the right and natural order of -things. Very likely it is. It seemed so to Bobby. - -Now it is difficult to spank a grasshopper properly. And so there was -nothing to do but to tie him up and talk to him unpleasantly. That seems -quite simple and plain. But the trouble was that it was a long time -since Miss Rachel had stood on her head, or been spanked, or tied up to -anything. This was unfortunate, of course. And when she saw Bobby -stand violently on his head and then tie a string to a grasshopper, she -thought it was extraordinary business, and probably bad, and she came up -to the bars in haste. - -"Bobby!" she said, "you naughty boy, are you pulling off that -grasshopper's leg?" - -Bobby thought this absurd. "Gasshoppers," he said calmly, "ithn't any -good 'ith their legth off." - -This was plain enough, too, because grasshoppers are intended to jump, -and cannot jump without their legs; consequently it would be quite -absurd to pull them off. Miss Rachel thought one could not know this -without trying it, and especially know it in such a calm, matter-of-fact -way as Bobby seemed to do, without trying it a vast number of times; -therefore she became very much excited. "You wicked, wicked boy!" she -cried. "I shall tell your father!" Then she went off. - -Bobby wondered awhile what his father would say when Miss Rachel told -him that grasshoppers were no good with their legs off. When Bobby told -him that kind of thing, he generally chuckled to himself and called -Bobby "a queer little chicken." If his father called Miss Rachel "a -queer little chicken," Bobby felt that it would seem strange. But he had -to look after the discipline of the grasshopper, and it is no use trying -to think of two things at once. He tied the grasshopper to a mullein -stalk and talked to him unpleasantly, and the grasshopper behaved very -badly all the time; so that Bobby was disgusted and went away to leave -him for a time--went down to the western end of the meadows, which is a -drowsy place. And there it came about that he fell asleep, because his -legs were tired, because the bees hummed continually, and because the -sun was warm and the grass deep around him. - -Miss Rachel went into the village and saw Mr. Atherton Bell on the steps -of the post-office. He was much astonished at being attacked in such -a disorderly manner by such an orderly person as Miss Rachel; but -he admitted, when it was put to him, that pulling off the legs of -grasshoppers was interfering with the rights of grasshoppers. Then Miss -Rachel went on her way, thinking that a good seed had been sown and the -morality of the community distinctly advanced. - -The parents of other boys stood on the post-office steps in great -number, for it was near mail-time; and here you might have seen what -varieties of human nature there are. For some were taken with the -conviction that the attraction of the Bow Meadows to their children was -all connected with the legs of grasshoppers; some suspected it only, and -were uneasy; some refused to imagine such a thing, and were indignant. -But they nearly all started for the Bow Meadows with a vague idea of -doing something, Mr. Atherton Bell and Father Durfey leading. It was not -a well-planned expedition, nor did any one know what was intended to be -done. They halted at the bars, but no Bobby Bell was in sight, nor -did the Bow Meadows seem to have anything to say about the matter. The -grasshoppers in sight had all the legs that rightly belonged to them. -Mr. Atherton Bell got up on the wall and shouted for Bobby. Father -Durfey climbed over the bars. - -It happened that there was no one in the Bow Meadows at this time, -except Bobby, Moses Durfey, Chub Leroy, and one other. Bobby was asleep, -on account of the bumblebees humming in the sunlight; and the other -three were far up the farther side, on account of an expedition through -the alder swamp, supposing it to be Africa. There was a desperate battle -somewhere; but the expedition turned out badly in the end, and in this -place is neither here nor there. They heard Mr. Atherton Bell shouting, -but they did not care about it. It is more to the point that Father -Durfey, walking around in the grass, did not see the grasshopper who was -tied to the mullein stalk and as mad as he could be. For when tied up -in disgrace, one is always exceedingly mad at this point; but repentance -comes afterwards. The grasshopper never got that far, for Father Durfey -stepped on him with a boot as big as--big enough for Father Durfey to be -comfortable in--so that the grasshopper was quite dead. It was to him as -if a precipice were to fall on you, when you were thinking of something -else. Then they all went away. - -Bobby Bell woke up with a start, and was filled with remorse, -remembering his grasshopper. The sun had slipped behind the shoulder of -Windless Mountain. There was a faint light across the Bow Meadows, that -made them sweet to look on, but a little ghostly. Also it was dark in -the roots of the grasses, and difficult to find a green grasshopper -who was dead; at least it would have been if he had not been tied to a -mullein stalk. Bobby found him at last sunk deep in the turf, with his -poor legs limp and crookless, and his head, which had been like a -green cheese or a door knob, no longer looking even like the head of a -grasshopper. - -Then Bobby Bell sat down and wept. Miss Rachel, who had turned the corner -and was half way up to the house of the Tuttle Four Women, heard him, -and turned back to the bars. She wondered if Mr. Atherton Bell had not -been too harsh. The Bow Meadows looked dim and mournful in the twilight. -Miss Rachel was feeling a trifle sad about herself, too, as she -sometimes did; and the round-cheeked cherub weeping in the wide -shadowy meadows seemed to her something like her own life in the great -world--not very well understood. - -"He wath geen!" wailed Bobby, looking up at her, but not allowing his -grief to be interrupted. "He wath my geen bug!" - -Miss Rachel melted still further, without knowing why. - -"What was green?" - -She pulled down a bar and crawled through. She hoped Mr. Atherton Bell -was not looking from a window, for it was difficult to avoid making -one's self amusing to Mr. Atherton Bell. But Bobby was certainly in some -kind of trouble. - -"He'th dead!" wailed Bobby again. "He'th thtepped on!" - -Miss Rachel bent over him stiffly. It was hard for one so austerely -ladylike as Miss Rachel to seem gracious and compassionate, but she did -pretty well. - -"Oh, it's a grasshopper!" Then more severely: "Why did you tie him up?" - -Bobby's sobs subsided into hiccoughs. - -"It'th a disgace. I put him in disgace, and I forgotted him. He went -down my back." - -"Did you step on him?" - -"N-O-O-O!" The hiccoughs rose into sobs again. "He wath the geenest -gasshopper!" - -This was not strictly true; there were others just as green; but it was -a generous tribute to the dead and a credit to Bobby Bell that he felt -that way. - -Now there was much in all this that Miss Rachel did not understand; but -she understood enough to feel sharp twinges for the wrong that she had -done Bobby Bell, and whatever else may be said of Miss Rachel, up to her -light she was square. In fact, I should say that she had an acute-angled -conscience. It was more than square; it was one of those consciences -that you are always spearing yourself on. She felt very humble, and went -with Bobby Bell to dig a grave for the green grasshopper under the lee -of the wall. She dug it herself with her parasol, thinking how she must -go up with Bobby Bell, what she must say to Mr. Atherton Bell, and how -painful it would be, because Mr. Atherton Bell was so easily amused. - -Bobby patted the grave with his chubby palm and cooed contentedly. Then -they went up the hill in the twilight hand in hand. - - - - -THE ENEMIES - - -THE great fluted pillars in Ramoth church were taken away. They -interfered with the view and rental of the pews behind them. Albion Dee -was loud and persuasive for removing them, and Jay Dee secret, shy and -resistant against it. That was their habit and method of hostility. - -Then in due season Jay Dee rented the first seat in the pew in front -of Albion's pew. This was thought to be an act of hostility, subtle, -noiseless, far-reaching. - -He was a tall man, Jay Dee, and wore a wide flapping coat, had flowing -white hair, and walked with a creeping step; a bachelor, a miser, he -had gathered a property slowly with persistent fingers; a furtive, -meditating, venerable man, with a gentle piping voice. He lived on the -hill in the old house of the Dees, built in the last century by one -"John Griswold Dee, who married Sarah Ballister and begat two sons," -who respectively begat Jay and Albion Dee; and Albion founded Ironville, -three or four houses in the hollow at the west of Diggory Gorge, and a -bolt and nail factory. He was a red-faced, burly man, with short legs -and thick neck, who sought determined means to ends, stood squarely and -stated opinions. - -The beginnings of the feud lay backward in time, little underground -resentments that trickled and collected. In Albion they foamed up and -disappeared. He called himself modern and progressive, and the bolt and -nail factory was thought to be near bankruptcy. He liked to look men in -the eyes. If one could not see the minister, one could not tell if he -meant what he said, or preached shoddy doctrine. As regards all view and -rental behind him, Jay Dee was as bad as one of the old fluted pillars. -Albion could not see the minister. He felt the act to be an act of -hostility. - -But he was progressive, and interested at the time in a question of the -service, as respected the choir which sang from the rear gallery. It -seemed to him more determined and effective to hymnal devotion that the -congregation should rise and turn around during the singing, to the end -that congregation and choir might each see that all things were done -decently. He fixed on the idea and found it written as an interlinear to -his gospels, an imperative codicil to the duty of man. - -But the congregation was satiated with change. They had still to make -peace between their eyes and the new slender pillars, to convince -themselves by contemplation that the church was still not unstable, not -doctrinally weaker. - -So it came about that Albion Dee stood up sternly and faced the choir -alone, with the old red, fearless, Protestant face one knows of Luther -and Cromwell. The congregation thought him within his rights there -to bear witness to his conviction. Sabbaths came and went in Ramoth -peacefully, milestones of the passing time, and all seemed well. - -Pseudo-classic architecture is a pale, inhuman allegory of forgotten -meaning. If buildings like Ramoth church could in some plastic way -assimilate their communicants, what gargoyles would be about the -cornices, what wall paintings of patient saints, mystical and realistic. -On one of the roof cornices of an old church in France is the carved -stone face of a demon with horns and a forked tongue, and around its -eyes a wrinkled smile of immense kindness. And within the church is the -mural painting of a saint, some Beata Ursula or Catherine, with upturned -eyes; a likeable girl, capable of her saintship, of turning up her eyes -with sincerity because it fell to her to see a celestial vision; -as capable of a blush and twittering laugh, and the better for her -capabilities. - -It is not stated what Albion symbolized. He stood overtopping the -bonnets and the gray heads of deacons, respected by the pews, popular -with the choir, protesting his conviction. - -And all the while secretly, with haunch and elbow, he nudged, bumped -and rubbed the shoulders and silvery head of Jay Dee. It is here -claimed that he stood there in the conviction that it was his duty so -to testify. It is not denied that he so bumped and squatted against Jay -Dee, cautiously, but with relish and pleasure. - -In the bowed silver head, behind the shy, persistent eyes of Jay Dee, -what were his thoughts, his purposes, coiling and constricting? None -but the two were aware of the locked throat grip of the spirit. In the -droning Sabbath peace the congregation pursued the minister through -the subdivisions of his text, and dragged the hymn behind the dragging -choir. - -It was a June day and the orioles gurgled their warm nesting notes in -the maples. The boys in the gallery searched the surface of the quiet -assembly for points of interest; only here and there nodding heads, -wavering fans, glazed, abstracted eyes. They twisted and yawned. What to -them were brethren in unity, or the exegesis of a text, as if one were -to count and classify, prickle by prickle, to no purpose the irritating -points of a chestnut burr? The sermon drowsed to its close. The choir -and Albion rose. It was an outworn sight now, little more curious than -Monday morning. The sunlight shone through the side windows, slanting -down over the young, worldly and impatient, and one selected ray fell on -Jay Dee's hair with spiritual radiance, and on Albion's red face, turned -choirward for a testimony. - -Suddenly Albion gave a guttural shout. He turned, he grasped Jay Dee's -collar, dragged him headlong into the aisle, and shook him to and fro, -protesting, "You stuck me! I'll teach you!" - -His red face worked with passion; Jay Dee's venerable head bobbed, -helpless, mild, piteous. The choir broke down. The minister rose with -lifted hands and open mouth, the gallery in revelry, the body of -the church in exclamatory confusion. Albion saw outstretched hands -approaching, left his enemy, and hat in hand strode down the aisle with -red, glowering face, testifying, "He stuck me." - -Jay Dee sat on the floor, his meek head swaying dizzily. - -On Monday morning Albion set out for Hamilton down the narrow valley -of the Pilgrim River. The sudden hills hid him and his purposes from -Ramoth. He came in time to sit in the office of Simeon Ballister, and -Simeon's eyes gleamed. He took notes and snuffed the battle afar. - -"Ha! Witnesses to pin protruding from coat in region adjoining haunch. -Hum! Affidavits to actual puncture of inflamed character, arguing -possibly venom of pin. Ha! Hum! Motive of concurrent animosity. A very -respectable case. I will come up and see your witnesses--Ha!--in a day -or two. Good morning." - -Ballister was a shining light in the county courts in those days, -but few speak of him now. Yet he wrote a Life of Byron, a History of -Hamilton County, and talked a half century with unflagging charm. Those -who remember will have in mind his long white beard and inflamed and -swollen nose, his voice of varied melody. Alien whiskey and natural -indolence kept his fame local. His voice is silent forever that once -rose in the court-rooms like a fountain shot with rainbow fancies, in -musical enchantment, in liquid cadence. "I have laid open, gentlemen, -the secret of a human heart, shadowed and mourning, to the illumination -of your justice. You are the repository and temple of that sacred light. -Not merely as a plaintiff, a petitioner, my client comes; but as a -worshipper, in reverence of your function, he approaches the balm and -radiance of that steadfast torch and vestal fire of civilization, an -intelligent jury." Such was Ballister's inspired manner, such his habit -of rhythm and climax, whenever he found twenty-four eyes fixed on his -swollen nose, the fiery mesmeric core of his oratory beaconing juries to -follow it and discover truth. - -But the Case of Dee v. Dee came only before a justice of the peace, in -the Town Hall of Ramoth, and Justice Kernegan was but a stout man with -hairy ears and round, spectacled, benevolent eyes. Jay Dee brought no -advocate. His silvery hair floated about his head. His pale eyes gazed -in mild terror at Ballister. He said it must have been a wasp stung -Albion. - -"A wasp, sir! Your Honor, does a wasp carry for penetration, for -puncture, for malignant attack or justifiable defence, for any purpose -whatsoever, a brass pin of palpable human manufacture, drawn, headed and -pointed by machinery, such as was inserted in my client's person? Does -the defendant wish your Honor to infer that wasps carry papers of brass -pins in their anatomies? I will ask the defendant, whose venerable -though dishonored head bears witness to his age, if, in his long -experience, he has ever met a wasp of such military outfit and arsenal? -Not a wasp, your Honor, but a serpent; a serpent in human form." - -Jay Dee had no answer to all this. He murmured-- - -"Sat on me." - -"I didn't catch your remark, sir." - -"Why, you see," explained the Justice, "Jay says Albion's been squatting -on him, Mr. Ballister, every Sunday for six months. You see, Albion gets -up when the choir sings, and watches 'em sharp to see they sing correct, -because his ear ain't well tuned, but his eye's all right." - -The Justice's round eyes blinked pleasantly. The court-room murmured -with approval, and Albion started to his feet. - -"Now don't interrupt the Court," continued the Justice. "You see, Mr. -Ballister, sometimes Jay says it was a wasp and sometimes he says it -was because Albion squatted on him, don't you see, bumped him on the -ear with his elbow. You see, Jay sets just in front of Albion. Now, you -see--" - -"Then, does it not appear to your Honor that a witness who voluntarily -offers to swear to two contradictory explanations; first, that the -operation in question, the puncture or insertion, was performed by a -wasp; secondly, that, though he did it himself with a pin and in his -haste allowed that pin in damnatory evidence to remain, it was because, -he alleges, of my client's posture toward, and intermittent contact -with him--does it not seem to your Honor that such a witness is to be -discredited in any statement he may make?" - -"Well, really, Mr. Ballister, but you see Albion oughtn't to've squatted -on him." - -"I find myself in a singular position. It has not been usual in my -experience to find the Court a pleader in opposition. I came hoping to -inform and persuade your Honor regarding this case. I find myself in -the position of being informed and persuaded. I hope the Court sees -no discourtesy in the remark, but if the Court is prepared already to -discuss the case there seems little for me to do." - -The Justice looked alarmed. He felt his popularity trembling. It would -not do to balk the public interest in Ballister's oratory. Doubtless Jay -Dee had stuck a pin into Albion, but maybe Albion had mussed Jay's hair -and jabbed his ear, had dragged and shaken him in the aisle at least. -The rights of it did not seem difficult. They ought not to have acted -that way. No man has the right to sit on another man's head from the -standpoint or advantage of his own religious conviction. Nor has a man -a right to use another man for a pincushion whenever, as it may be, -he finds something about him in a way that's like a pincushion. But -Ballister's oratory was critical and important. - -"Why," said Kemegan hastily, "this Court is in a mighty uncertain state -of mind. It couldn't make it up without hearing what you were going to -say." - -Again the Court murmured with approval. Ballister rose. - -"This case presents singular features. The secret and sunless caverns, -where human motives lie concealed, it is the function of justice to lay -open to vivifying light. Not only evil or good intentions are moving -forces of apparent action, but mistakes and misjudgments. -I conclude that your Honor puts down the defendant's fanciful and -predatory wasp to the defendant's neglect of legal advice, to his feeble -and guilty inepitude. I am willing to leave it there. I assume that he -confesses the assault on my client's person with a pin, an insidious and -lawless pin, pointed with cruelty and propelled with spite; I infer -and understand that he offers in defence a certain alleged provocation, -certain insertions of my client's elbow into the defendant's ear, -certain trespasses and disturbance of the defendant's hair, finally, -certain approximations and contacts between my client's adjacent quarter -and the defendant's shoulders, denominated by him--and here we demur or -object--as an act of sitting or squatting, whereby the defendant alleges -himself to have been touched, grieved and annoyed. In the defendant's -parsimonious neglect of counsel we generously supply him with a fair -statement of his case. I return to my client. - -"Your Honor, what nobler quality is there in our defective nature than -that which enables the earnest man, whether as a citizen or in divine -worship, whether in civil matters or religious, to abide steadfastly by -his conscience and convictions. He stands a pillar of principle, a rock -in the midst of uncertain waters. The feeble look up to him and are -encouraged, the false and shifty are ashamed. His eye is fixed on the -future. Posterity shall judge him. Small matters of his environment -escape his notice. His mind is on higher things. - -"I am not prepared to forecast the judgment of posterity on that point -of ritualistic devotion to which my client is so devoted an advocate. -Neither am I anxious or troubled to seek opinion whether my client -inserted his elbow into the defendant's ear, or the defendant, -maliciously or inadvertently, by some rotatory motion, applied, bumped -or banged his ear against my client's elbow; whether the defendant -rubbed or impinged with his head on the appendant coat tails of -my client, or the reverse. I am uninterested in the alternative, -indifferent to the whole matter. It seems to me an academic question. If -the defendant so acted, it is not the action of which we complain. If -my client once, twice, or even at sundry times, in his stern absorption, -did not observe what may in casual accident have taken place behind, -what then? I ask your Honor, what then? Did the defendant by a slight -removal, by suggestion, by courteous remonstrance, attempt to obviate -the difficulty? No! Did he remember those considerate virtues enjoined -in Scripture, or the sacred place and ceremony in which he shared? No! -Like a serpent, he coiled and waited. He hid his hypocrisy in white -hairs, his venomous purpose in attitudes of reverence. He darkened his -morbid malice till it festered, corroded, corrupted. He brooded over his -fancied injury and developed his base design. Resolved and prepared, -he watched his opportunity. With brazen and gangrened pin of malicious -point and incensed propulsion, with averted eye and perfidious hand, -with sudden, secret, backward thrust, with all the force of accumulated, -diseased, despicable spite, he darted like a serpent's fang this -misapplied instrument into the unprotected posterior, a sensitive -portion, most outlying and exposed, of my client's person. - -"This action, your Honor, I conceive to be in intent and performance a -felonious, injurious and sufficient assault. For this injury, for -pain, indignity and insult, for the vindication of justice in state and -community, for the protection of the citizen from bold or treacherous -attack, anterior or posterior, vanguard or rear, I ask your Honor that -damages be given my client adequate to that injury, adequate to that -vindication and protection." - -So much and more Ballister spoke. Mr. Kernegan took off his spectacles -and rubbed his forehead. - -"Well," he said, "I guess Mr. Ballister'll charge Albion about forty -dollars--" - -Ballister started up. - -"Don't interrupt the Court. It's worth all that. Albion and Jay haven't -been acting right and they ought to pay for it between 'em. The Court -decides Jay Dee shall pay twenty dollars damages and costs." - -The court-room murmured with approval. - -* * * * * - -The twilight was gathering as Albion drove across the old covered bridge -and turned into the road that leads to Ironville through a gloomy gorge -of hemlock trees and low-browed rocks. The road keeps to the left above -Diggory Brook, which murmurs in recesses below and waves little ghostly -white garments over its waterfalls. Such is this murmur and the soft -noise of the wind in the hemlocks, that the gorge is ever filled with -a sound of low complaint. Twilight in the open sky is night below the -hemlocks. At either end of the avenue you note where the light still -glows fadingly. There lie the hopes and possibilities of a worldly day, -skies, fields and market-places, to-days, to-morrows and yesterdays, -and men walking about with confidence in their footing. But here the -hemlocks stand beside in black order of pillars and whisper together -distrustfully. The man who passes you is a nameless shadow with an -intrusive, heavy footfall. Low voices float up from the pit of the -gorge, intimations, regrets, discouragements, temptations. - -A house and mill once stood at the lower end of it, and there, a century -ago, was a wild crime done on a certain night; the dead bodies of the -miller and his children lay on the floor, except one child, who hid and -crept out in the grass; little trickles of blood stole along the cracks; -house and mill blazed and fell down into darkness; a maniac cast his -dripping axe into Diggory Brook and fled away yelling among the hills. -Not that this had made the gorge any darker, or that its whispers are -supposed to relate to any such memories. The brook comes from swamps -and meadows like other brooks, and runs into the Pilgrim River. It is -shallow and rapid, though several have contrived to fall and be drowned -in it. One wonders how it could have happened. The old highway leading -from Ramoth village to the valley has been grass-grown for generations, -but that is because the other road is more direct to the Valley -settlement and the station. The water of the brook is clear and pleasant -enough. Much trillium, with its leaves like dark red splashes, a plant -of sullen color and solitary station, used to grow there, but does so no -more. Slender birches now creep down almost to the mouth of the gorge, -and stand with white stems and shrinking, trembling leaves. But birches -grow nearly everywhere. - -Albion drove steadily up the darkened road, till his horse dropped -into a walk behind an indistinguishable object that crept in front with -creaking wheels. He shouted for passage and turned into the ditch on the -side away from the gorge. The shadowy vehicle drifted slantingly aside. -Albion started his horse; the front wheels of the two clicked, grated, -slid inside each other and locked. Albion spoke impatiently. He was ever -for quick decisions. He backed his horse, and the lock became hopeless. -The unknown made no comment, no noise. The hemlocks whispered, the -brook muttered in its pit and shook the little white garments of its -waterfalls. - -"Crank your wheel a trifle now." - -The other did not move. - -"Who are you? Can't ye speak?" - -No answer. - -Albion leaned over his wheel, felt the seat rail of the other vehicle, -and brought his face close to something white--white hair about the -approximate outline of a face. By the hair crossed by the falling hat -brim, by the shoulders seen vaguely to be bent forward, by the loose -creaking wheels of the buck-board he knew Jay Dee. The two stood -close and breathless, face to face, but featureless and apart by the -unmeasured distance of obscurity. - -Albion felt a sudden uneasy thrill and drew back. He dreaded to hear -Jay Dee's spiritless complaining voice, too much in the nature of that -dusky, uncanny place. He felt as if something cold, damp and impalpable -were drawing closer to him, whispering, calling his attention to the -gorge, how black and steep! to the presence of Jay Dee, how near! to -the close secret hemlocks covering the sky. This was not agreeable to a -positive man, a man without fancies. Jay Dee sighed at last, softly, and -spoke, piping, thin, half-moaning: - -"You're following me. Let me alone!" - -"I'm not following you," said Albion hoarsely. "Crank your wheel!" - -"You're following me. I'm an old man. You're only fifty." - -Albion breathed hard in the darkness. He did not understand either Jay -Dee or himself. After a silence Jay Dee went on: - -"I haven't any kin but you, Albion, except Stephen Ballister and the -Winslows. They're only fourth cousins." - -Albion growled. - -"What do you mean?" - -"Without my making a will it'd come to you, wouldn't it? Seems to me as -if you oughtn't to pester me, being my nearest kin, and me, I ain't made -any will. I got a little property, though it ain't much. 'Twould clear -your mortgage and make you easy." - -"What d'you mean?" - -"Twenty dollars and costs," moaned Jay Dee. "And me an old man, getting -ready for his latter end soon. I ain't made my will, either. I ought -to've done it." - -What could Jay Dee mean? If he made no will his property would come to -Albion. No will made yet. A hinted intention to make one in favor of -Stephen Ballister or the Winslows. The foundry was mortgaged.--Jay -was worth sixty thousand. Diggory Gorge was a dark whispering place -of ancient crime, of more than one unexplained accident. The hemlocks -whispered, the brook gurgled and glimmered. Such darkness might well -cloak and cover the sunny instincts that look upwards, scruples of the -social daylight. Would Jay Dee trap him to his ruin? Jay Dee would not -expect to enjoy it if he were dead himself. But accidents befall, and -men not seldom meet sudden deaths, and an open, free-speaking neighbor -is not suspected. Success lies before him in the broad road. - -It rushed through Albion's mind, a flood, sudden, stupefying--thoughts -that he could not master, push back, or stamp down. - -He started and roused himself; his hands were cold and shaking. He -sprang from his buggy and cried angrily: - -"What d'ye mean by all that? Tempt me, a God-fearing man? Throw ye off'n -the gorge! Break your old neck! I've good notion to it, if I wasn't a -God-fearing man. Crank your wheel there!" - -He jerked his buggy free, sprang in, and lashed his horse. The horse -leaped, the wheels locked again. Jay Dee's buckboard, thrust slanting -aside, went over the edge, slid and stopped with a thud, caught by the -hemlock trunks. A ghostly glimmer of white hair one instant, and Jay Dee -was gone down the black pit of the gorge. A wheezing moan, and nothing -more was heard in the confusion. Then only the complaining murmur of the -brook, the hemlocks at their secrets. - -"Jay! Jay!" called Albion, and then leaped out, ran and whispered, -"Jay!" - -Only the mutter of the brook and the shimmer of foam could be made out -as he stared and listened, leaning over, clinging to a tree, feeling -about for the buckboard. He fumbled, lit a match and lifted it. The -seat was empty, the left wheels still in the road. The two horses, with -twisted necks and glimmering eyes, were looking back quietly at him, -Albion Dee, a man of ideas and determination, now muttering things -unintelligible in the same tone with the muttering water, with wet -forehead and nerveless hands, heir of Jay Dee's thousands, staring down -the gorge of Diggory Brook, the scene of old crime. He gripped with -difficulty as he let himself slide past the first row of trees, and felt -for some footing below. He noticed dully that it was a steep slope, not -a precipice at that point. He lit more matches as he crept down, and -peered around to find something crushed and huddled against some tree, a -lifeless, fearful thing. The slope grew more moderate. There were thick -ferns. And closely above the brook, that gurgled and laughed quietly, -now near at hand, sat Jay Dee. He looked up and blinked dizzily, -whispered and piped: - -"Twenty dollars and costs! You oughtn't to pester me. I ain't made my -will." - -Albion sat down. They sat close together in the darkness some moments -and were silent. - -"You ain't hurt?" Albion asked at last. "We'll get out." - -They went up the steep, groping and stumbling. - -Albion half lifted his enemy into the buckboard, and led the horse, his -own following. They were out into the now almost faded daylight. Jay sat -holding his lines, bowed over, meek and venerable. The front of his coat -was torn. Albion came to his wheel. - -"Will twenty dollars make peace between you and me, Jay Dee?" - -"The costs was ten," piping sadly. - -"Thirty dollars, Jay Dee? Here it is." - -He jumped into his buggy and drove rapidly. In sight of the foundry he -drew a huge breath. - -"I been a sinner and a fool," and slapped his knee. "It's sixty thousand -dollars, maybe seventy. A self-righteous sinner and a cocksure fool. God -forgive me!" - -Between eight and nine Jay Dee sat down before his meagre fire and rusty -stove, drank his weak tea and toasted his bread. The windows clicked -with the night wind. The furniture was old, worn, unstable, except the -large desk behind him full of pigeonholes and drawers. Now and then -he turned and wrote on scraps of paper. Tea finished, he collected the -scraps and copied: - -Mr. Stephen Ballister: I feel, as growing somewhat old, I ought to make -my will, and sometime, leaving this world for a better, would ask you -to make my will for me, for which reasonable charge, putting this so -it cannot be broken by lawyers, who will talk too much and are vain -of themselves, that is, leaving all my property of all kinds to my -relative, James Winslow of Wimberton, and not anything to Albion Dee; -for he has not much sense but is hasty; for to look after the choir is -not his business, and to sit on an old man and throw him from his own -wagon and pay him thirty dollars is hasty, for it is not good sense, and -not anything to Stephen Ballister, for he must be rich with talking so -much in courts of this world. Put this all in my will, but if unable or -unwilling on account of remorse for speaking so in the court, please to -inform that I may get another lawyer. Yours, - -Jay Dee. - -He sealed and addressed the letter, put it in his pocket, and noticed -the ruinous rent in his coat. He sighed, murmured over it complainingly, -and turned up the lapel of the coat. Pins in great variety and number -were there in careful order, some new, some small, some long and old and -yellow. He selected four and pinned the rent together, sighing. Then he -took three folded bills from his vest pocket, unfolded, counted and put -them back, felt of the letter in his coat gently, murmured, "I had the -best of Albion there; I had him there," took his candle and went up -peacefully and venerably to bed. - - - - -A NIGHT'S LODGING - - -FATHER WILISTON was a retired clergyman, so distinguished from his -son Timothy, whose house stood on the ridge north of the old village -of Win-throp, and whose daily path lay between his house and the new -growing settlement around the valley station. It occurred at odd times -to Father Wiliston that Timothy's path was somewhat undeviating. The -clergyman had walked widely since Win-throp was first left behind -fifty-five years back, at a time when the town was smaller and cows -cropped the Green but never a lawn mower. - -After college and seminary had come the frontier, which lay this side -of the Great Lakes until Clinton stretched his ribbon of waterway to -the sea; then a mission in Wisconsin, intended to modify the restless -profanity of lumbermen who broke legs under logs and drank disastrous -whiskey. A city and twenty mills were on the spot now, though the same -muddy river ran into the same blue lake. Some skidders and saw-tenders -of old days were come to live in stone mansions and drive in -nickel-plated carriages; some were dead; some drifting like the refuse -on the lake front; some skidding and saw-tending still. Distinction -of social position was an idea that Father Wiliston never was able to -grasp. - -In the memories of that raw city on the lake he had his place among its -choicest incongruities; and when his threescore and ten years were full, -the practical tenderness of his nickel-plated and mansioned parishioners -packed him one day into an upholstered sleeping car, drew an astonishing -check to his credit, and mailed it for safety to Timothy Wiliston of -Winthrop. So Father Wiliston returned to Winthrop, where Timothy, his -son, had been sent to take root thirty years before. - -One advantage of single-mindedness is that life keeps on presenting us -with surprises. Father Wiliston occupied his own Arcadia, and Wisconsin -or Winthrop merely sent in to him a succession of persons and events -of curious interest. "The parson"--Wisconsin so spoke of him, leaning -sociably over its bar, or pausing among scented slabs and sawdust--"the -parson resembles an egg as respects that it's innocent and some -lopsided, but when you think he must be getting addled, he ain't. He -says to me, 'You'll make the Lord a deal of trouble, bless my soul!' -he says. I don't see how the Lord's going to arrange for you. -But'--thinking he might hurt my feelings--'I guess he'll undertake it by -and by.' Then he goes wabbling down-street, picks up Mike Riley, who's -considerable drunk, and takes him to see his chickens. And Mike gets so -interested in those chickens you'd like to die. Then parson goes off, -absent-minded and forgets him, and Mike sleeps the balmy night in the -barnyard, and steals a chicken in the morning, and parson says, 'Bless -my soul! How singular!' Well," concluded Wisconsin, "he's getting pretty -young for his years. I hear they're going to send him East before he -learns bad habits." - -The steadiness and repetition of Timothy's worldly career and semi-daily -walk to and from his business therefore seemed to Father Wiliston -phenomenal, a problem not to be solved by algebra, for if _a_ equalled -Timothy, _b_ his house, _c_ his business, _a + b + c_ was still not -a far-reaching formula, and there seemed no advantage in squaring it. -Geometrically it was evident that by walking back and forth over the -same straight line you never so much as obtained an angle. Now, -by arithmetic, "Four times thirty, multiplied by--leaving out -Sundays--Bless me! How singular! Thirty-seven thousand five hundred and -sixty times!" - -He wondered if it had ever occurred to Timothy to walk it backward, or, -perhaps, to hop, partly on one foot, and then, of course, partly on -the other. Sixty years ago there was a method of progress known as -"hop-skip-and-jump," which had variety and interest. Drawn in the train -of this memory came other memories floating down the afternoon's slant -sunbeams, rising from every meadow and clump of woods; from the elder -swamp where the brown rabbits used to run zigzag, possibly still ran -in the same interesting way; from the great sand bank beyond the Indian -graves. The old Wiliston house, with roof that sloped like a well-sweep, -lay yonder, a mile or two. He seemed to remember some one said it was -empty, but he could not associate it with emptiness. The bough apples -there, if he remembered rightly, were an efficacious balm for regret. - -He sighed and took up his book. It was another cure for regret, a -Scott novel, "The Pirate." It had points of superiority over Cruden's -Concordance. The surf began to beat on the Shetland Islands, and trouble -was imminent between Cleveland and Mor-daunt Mertoun. - -Timothy and his wife drove away visiting that afternoon, not to -return till late at night, and Bettina, the Scandinavian, laid Father -Wiliston's supper by the open window, where he could look out across the -porch and see the chickens clucking in the road. - -"You mus' eat, fater," she commanded. - -"Yes, yes, Bettina. Thank you, my dear. Quite right." - -He came with his book and sat down at the table, but Bettina was -experienced and not satisfied. - -"You mus' eat firs'." - -He sighed and laid down "The Pirate." Bettina captured and carried it to -the other end of the room, lit the lamp though it was still light, and -departed after the mail. It was a rare opportunity for her to linger in -the company of one of her Scandinavian admirers. "Fater" would not know -the difference between seven and nine or ten. - -He leaned in the window and watched her safely out of sight, then went -across the room, recaptured "The Pirate," and chuckled in the tickling -pleasure of a forbidden thing, "asked the blessing," drank his tea -shrewdly, knowing it would deteriorate, and settled to his book. The -brown soft dusk settled, shade by shade; moths fluttered around the -lamp; sleepy birds twittered in the maples. But the beat of the surf -on the Shetland Islands was closer than these. Cleveland and Mordaunt -Mertoun were busy, and Norna--"really, Norna was a remarkable -woman"--and an hour slipped past. - -Some one hemmed! close by and scraped his feet. It was a large man -who stood there, dusty and ragged, one boot on the porch, with a red -handkerchief knotted under his thick tangled beard and jovial red face. -He had solid limbs and shoulders, and a stomach of sloth and heavy -feeding. - -The stranger did not resemble the comely pirate, Cleveland; his linen -was not "seventeen hun'red;" it seemed doubtful if there were any linen. -And yet, in a way there was something not inappropriate about him, a -certain chaotic ease; not piratical, perhaps, although he looked like -an adventurous person. Father Wiliston took time to pass from one -conception of things to another. He gazed mildly through his glasses. - -"I ain't had no supper," began the stranger in a deep moaning bass; and -Father Wiliston started. - -"Bless my soul! Neither have I." He shook out his napkin. "Bettina, you -see "-- - -"Looks like there's enough for two," moaned and grumbled the other. -He mounted the porch and approached the window, so that the lamplight -glimmered against his big, red, oily face. - -"Why, so there is!" cried Father Wiliston, looking about the table in -surprise. "I never could eat all that. Come in." And the stranger rolled -muttering and wheezing around through the door. - -"Will you not bring a chair? And you might use the bread knife. These -are fried eggs. And a little cold chicken? Really, I'm very glad you -dropped in, Mr."-- - -"Del Toboso." By this time the stranger's mouth was full and his -enunciation confused. - -"Why"--Father Wiliston helped himself to an egg--"I don't think I caught -the name." - -"Del Toboso. Boozy's what they calls me in the push." - -"I'm afraid your tea is quite cold. Boozy? How singular! I hope it -doesn't imply alcoholic habits." - -"No," shaking his head gravely, so that his beard wagged to the judicial -negation. "Takes so much to tank me up I can't afford it, let alone it -ain't moral." - -The two ate with haste, the stranger from habit and experience, Father -Wiliston for fear of Bettina's sudden return. When the last egg and -slice of bread had disappeared, the stranger sat back with a wheezing -sigh. - -"I wonder," began Father Wiliston mildly, "Mr. Toboso--Toboso is the -last name, isn't it, and Del the first?" - -"Ah," the other wheezed mysteriously, "I don't know about that, Elder. -That's always a question." - -"You don't know! You don't know!" - -"Got it off'n another man," went on Toboso sociably. "He said he -wouldn't take fifty dollars for it. I didn't have no money nor him -either, and he rolled off'n the top of the train that night or maybe the -next I don't know. I didn't roll him. It was in Dakota, over a canyon -with no special bottom. He scattered himself on the way down. But I -says, if that name's worth fifty dollars, it's mine. Del Toboso. That's -mine. Sounds valuable, don't it?" - -Father Wiliston fell into a reverie. "To-boso? Why, yes. Dulcinea del -Toboso. I remember, now." - -"What's that? Dulcinea, was it? And you knowed him?" - -"A long while ago when I was younger. It was in a green cover. 'Don -Quixote'--he was in a cage, 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.' He -had his face between the bars." - -"Well," said Toboso, "you must have knowed him. He always looked glum, -and I've seen him in quad myself." - -"Yes. Sancho Panza. Dulcinea del Toboso." - -"I never knowed that part of it. Dulcinea del Toboso! Well, that's me. -You know a ruck of fine names, Elder. It sounds like thirteen trumps, -now, don't it?" - -Father Wiliston roused himself, and discriminated. "But you look more -like Sancho Panza." - -"Do? Well, I never knowed that one. Must've been a Greaser. Dulcinea's -good enough." - -Father Wiliston began to feel singularly happy and alive. The regular -and even paced Timothy, his fidgeting wife, and the imperious Bettina -were to some extent shadows and troubles in the evening of his life. -They were careful people, who were hemmed in and restricted, who somehow -hemmed in and restricted him. They lived up to precedents. Toboso did -not seem to depend on precedents. He had the free speech, the casual -inconsequence, the primitive mystery, desired of the boy's will and the -wind's will, and travelled after by the long thoughts of youth. He was -wind-beaten, burned red by the sun, ragged of coat and beard, huge, fat, -wallowing in the ease of his flesh. One looked at him and remembered the -wide world full of crossed trails and slumbering swamps. - -Father Wiliston had long, straight white hair, falling beside his -pale-veined and spiritual forehead and thin cheeks. He propped -his forehead on one bony hand, and looked at Toboso with eyes of -speculation. If both men were what some would call eccentric, to each -other they seemed only companionable, which, after all, is the main -thing. - -"I have thought of late," continued Father Wiliston after a pause, "that -I should like to travel, to examine human life, say, on the highway. I -should think, now, your manner of living most interesting. You go from -house to house, do you not?--from city to city? Like Ulysses, you see -men and their labors, and you pass on. Like the apostles--who surely -were wise men, besides that were especially maintained of God--like -them, and the pilgrims to shrines, you go with wallet and staff or -merely with Faith for your baggage." - -"There don't nothing bother you in warm weather, that's right," said -Toboso, "except your grub. And that ain't any more than's interesting. -If it wasn't for looking after meals, a man on the road might get right -down lazy." - -"Why, just so! How wonderful! Now, do you suppose, Mr. Toboso, do you -suppose it feasible? I should very much like, if it could be equably -arranged, I should very much like to have this experience." - -Toboso reflected. "There ain't many of your age on the road." An -idea struck him suddenly. "But supposing you were going sort of -experimenting, like that--and there's some folks that do--supposing you -could lay your hands on a little bunch of money for luck, I don't see -nothing to stop." - -"Why, I think there is some in my desk." Toboso leaned forward and -pulled his beard. The table creaked under his elbow. "How much?" - -"I will see. Of course you are quite right." - -"At your age, Elder." - -"It is not as if I were younger." - -Father Wiliston rose and hurried out. - -Toboso sat still and blinked at the lamp. "My Gord!" he murmured and -moaned confidentially, "here's a game!" - -After some time Father Wiliston returned. "Do you think we could start -now?" he asked eagerly. - -"Why sure, Elder. What's hindering?" - -"I am fortunate to find sixty dollars. Really, I didn't remember. And -here's a note I have written to my son to explain. I wonder what Bettina -did with my hat." - -He hurried back into the hall. Toboso took the note from the table and -pocketed it. "Ain't no use taking risks." - -They went out into the warm night, under pleasant stars, and along the -road together arm in arm. - -"I feel pretty gay, Elder." He broke into bellowing song, "Hey, Jinny! -Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me." - -"Really, I feel cheerful, too, Mr. Toboso, wonderfully cheerful." - -"Dulcinea, Elder. Dulcinea's me name. Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!" - -"How singular it is! I feel very cheerful. I think--really, I think I -should like to learn that song about Jinny. It seems such a cheerful -song." - -"Hit her up, Elder," wheezed Toboso jovially. "Now then"-- - -"Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me." - -So they went arm in arm with a roaring and a tremulous piping. - -The lamp flickered by the open window as the night breeze rose. Bettina -came home betimes and cleared the table. The memory of a Scandinavian -caress was too recent to leave room for her to remark that there were -signs of devastating appetite, that dishes had been used unaccountably, -and that "Fater" had gone somewhat early to bed. Timothy and his wife -returned late. All windows and doors in the house of Timothy were -closed, and the last lamp was extinguished. - -Father Wiliston and Toboso went down the hill, silently, with furtive, -lawless steps through the cluster of houses in the hollow, called -Ironville, and followed then the road up the chattering hidden brook. -The road came from the shadows of this gorge at last to meadows and wide -glimmering skies, and joined the highway to Redfield. Presently they -came to where a grassy side road slipped into the highway from the -right, out of a land of bush and swamp and small forest trees of twenty -or thirty years' growth. A large chestnut stood at the corner. - -"Hey, Jinny!" wheezed Toboso. "Let's look at that tree, Elder." - -"Look at it? Yes, yes. What for?" Toboso examined the bark by the dim -starlight; Father Wiliston peered anxiously through his glasses to where -Toboso's finger pointed. - -"See those marks?" - -"I'm afraid I don't. Really, I'm sorry." - -"Feel 'em, then." - -And Father Wiliston felt, with eager, excited finger. - -"Them there mean there's lodging out here; empty house, likely." - -"Do they, indeed. Very singular! Most interesting!" And they turned into -the grassy road. The brushwood in places had grown close to it, though -it seemed to be still used as a cart path. They came to a swamp, rank -with mouldering vegetation, then to rising ground where once had been -meadows, pastures, and plough lands. - -Father Wiliston was aware of vaguely stirring memories. Four vast and -aged maple trees stood close by the road, and their leaves whispered to -the night; behind them, darkly, was a house with a far sloping roof in -the rear. The windows were all glassless, all dark and dead-looking, -except two in a front room, in which a wavering light from somewhere -within trembled and cowered. They crept up, and looking through saw -tattered wall paper and cracked plaster, and two men sitting on the -floor, playing cards in the ghostly light of a fire of boards in the -huge fireplace. - -"Hey, Jinny!" roared Toboso, and the two jumped up with startled oaths. -"Why, it's Boston Alley and the Newark Kid!" cried Toboso. "Come on, -Elder." - -The younger man cast forth zigzag flashes of blasphemy. "You big fat -fool! Don't know no mor' 'n to jump like that on _me!_ Holy Jims! I -ain't made of copper." - -Toboso led Father Wiliston round by the open door. "Hold your face, Kid. -Gents, this here's a friend of mine we'll call the Elder, and let -that go. I'm backing him, and I hold that goes. The Kid," he went on -descriptively, addressing Father Wiliston, "is what you see afore you, -Elder. His mouth is hot, his hands is cold, his nerves is shaky, he's -always feeling the cops gripping his shirt-collar. He didn't see no -clergy around. He begs your pardon. Don't he? I says, don't he?" - -He laid a heavy red hand on the Newark Kid's shoulder, who wiped his -pallid mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and nodded. - -Boston Alley seemed in his way an agreeable man. He was tall and slender -limbed, with a long, thin black mustache, sinewy neck and hollow chest, -and spoke gently with a sweet, resonant voice, saying, "Glad to see you, -Elder." - -These two wore better clothes than Toboso, but he seemed to dominate -them with his red health and windy voice, his stomach and feet, and -solidity of standing on the earth. - -Father Wiliston stood the while gazing vaguely through his spectacles. -The sense of happy freedom and congenial companionship that had been -with him during the starlit walk had given way gradually to a stream of -confused memories, and now these memories stood ranged about, looking at -him with sad, faded eyes, asking him to explain the scene. The language -of the Newark Kid had gone by him like a white hot blast. The past and -present seemed to have about the same proportions of vision and reality. -He could not explain them to each other. He looked up to Toboso, -pathetically, trusting in his help. - -"It was my house." - -Toboso stared surprised. "I ain't on to you, Elder." - -"I was born here." - -Indeed Toboso was a tower of strength even against the ghosts of other -days, reproachful for their long durance in oblivion. - -"Oh! Well, by Jinny! I reckon you'll give us lodging, Elder," he puffed -cheerfully. He took the coincidence so pleasantly and naturally that -Father Wiliston was comforted, and thought that after all it was -pleasant and natural enough. - -The only furniture in the room was a high-backed settle and an -overturned kitchen table, with one leg gone, and the other three -helplessly in the air--so it had lain possibly many years. Boston Alley -drew forward the settle and threw more broken clapboards on the fire, -which blazed up and filled the room with flickering cheer. Soon the -three outcasts were smoking their pipes and the conversation became -animated. - -"When I was a boy," said Father Wiliston--"I remember so -distinctly--there were remarkable early bough apples growing in the -orchard." - -"The pot's yours, Elder," thundered To-boso. They went out groping under -the old apple trees, and returned laden with plump pale green fruit. -Boston Alley and the Newark Kid stretched themselves on the floor on -heaps of pulled grass. Toboso and Father Wiliston sat on the settle. The -juice of the bough apples ran with a sweet tang. The palate rejoiced and -the soul responded. The Newark Kid did swift, cunning card tricks that -filled Father Wiliston with wonder and pleasure. - -"My dear young man, I don't see how you do it!" - -The Kid was lately out of prison from a two years' sentence, "only for -getting into a house by the window instead of the door," as Boston Alley -delicately explained, and the "flies," meaning officers of the law, "are -after him again for reasons he ain't quite sure of." The pallor of slum -birth and breeding, and the additional prison pallor, made his skin -look curious where the grime had not darkened it. He had a short-jawed, -smooth-shaven face, a flat mouth and light hair, and was short and -stocky, but lithe and noiseless in movement, and inclined to say little. -Boston Alley was a man of some slight education, who now sometimes sung -in winter variety shows, such songs as he picked up here and there in -summer wanderings, for in warm weather he liked footing the road better, -partly because the green country sights were pleasant to him, and partly -because he was irresolute and keeping engagements was a distress. He -seemed agreeable and sympathetic. - -"He ain't got no more real feelings 'n a fish," said Toboso, gazing -candidly at Boston, but speaking to Father Wiliston, "and yet he looks -like he had 'em, and a man's glad to see him. Ain't seen you since -fall, Boston, but I see the Kid last week at a hang-out in Albany. Well, -gents, this ain't a bad lay." - -Toboso himself had been many years on the road. He was in a way a man -of much force and decision, and probably it was another element in -him, craving sloth and easy feeding, which kept him in this submerged -society; although here, too, there seemed room for the exercise of his -dominance. He leaned back in the settle, and had his hand on Father -Wiliston's shoulder. His face gleamed redly over his bison beard. - -"It's a good lay. And we're gay, Elder. Ain't we gay? Hey, Jinny!" - -"Yes, yes, Toboso. But this young man--I'm sure he must have great -talents, great talents, quite remarkable. Ah--yes, Jinny!" - -"Hey, Jinny," they sang together, "Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me. I'll -sing to you, and play to you, a dulcet melode-e-e"--while Boston danced -a shuffle and the Kid snapped the cards in time. Then, at Toboso's -invitation and command, Boston sang a song, called "The Cheerful Man," -resembling a ballad, to a somewhat monotonous tune, and perhaps known -in the music halls of the time--all with a sweet, resonant voice and a -certain pathos of intonation:-- - - "I knew a man across this land - - Came waving of a cheerful hand, - - Who drew a gun and gave some one - - A violent contus-i-on, - - This cheerful man. - - - "They sent him up, he fled from 'quad' - - By a window and the grace of God, - - Picked up a wife and children six, - - And wandered into politics, - - This cheerful man. - - - "'In politics he was, I hear, - - A secret, subtle financier-- - - So the jury says, 'But we agree - - He quits this sad community, - - This cheerful man.' - - - "His wife and six went on the town, - - And he went off; without a frown - - Reproaching Providence, went he - - And got another wife and three, - - This cheerful man. - - - "He runs a cross-town car to-day - - From Bleecker Street to Avenue A. - - He swipes the fares with skilful ease, - - Keeps up his hope, and tries to please, - - This cheerful man. - - - "Our life is mingled woe and bliss, - - Man that is born of woman is - - Short-lived and goes to his long home. - - Take heart, and learn a lesson from - - This cheerful man." - - -"But," said Father Wiliston, "don't you think really, Mr. Alley, that -the moral is a little confused? I don't mean intentionally," he -added, with anxious precaution, "but don't you think he should have -reflected"-- - -"You're right, Elder," said Toboso, with decision. "It's like that. -It ain't moral. When a thing ain't moral that settles it." And Boston -nodded and looked sympathetic with every one. - -"I was sure you would agree with me," said Father Wiliston. He felt -himself growing weary now and heavy-eyed. Presently somehow he was -leaning on Toboso with his head on his shoulder. Toboso's arm was around -him, and Toboso began to hum in a kind of wheezing lullaby, "Hey, Jinny! -Ho, Jinny!" - -"I am very grateful, my dear friends," murmured Father Wiliston. "I have -lived a long time. I fear I have not always been careful in my course, -and am often forgetful. I think"--drowsily--"I think that happiness must -in itself be pleasing to God. I was often happy before in this room. I -remember--my dear mother sat here--who is now dead. We have been quite, -really quite cheerful to-night. My mother--was very judicious--an -excellent wise woman--she died long ago." So he was asleep before any -one was aware, while Toboso crooned huskily, "Hey, Jinny!" and Boston -Alley and the Newark Kid sat upright and stared curiously. - -"Holy Jims!" said the Kid. - -Toboso motioned them to bring the pulled grass. They piled it on the -settle, let Father Wiliston down softly, brought the broken table, and -placed it so that he could not roll off. - -"Well," said Toboso, after a moment's silence, "I guess we'd better pick -him and be off. He's got sixty in his pocket." - -"Oh," said Boston, "that's it, is it?" - -"It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen -apiece." - -"Well, that's right." - -"And I guess the Kid can take it out." - -The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled -it out. Toboso counted and divided the bills. - -"Well," whispered Toboso thoughtfully, "if the Elder now was forty years -younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner." They tiptoed out into the -night. "But," he continued, "looking at it that way, o' course he ain't -got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. -Heeled all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice -in him." - -"Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night," said the Kid, plodding in front. -"I ain't got nothing against him." - -Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket. - -It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few -flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only -sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing. - -When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment -confused in mind, then sat up and looked around. - -"Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare -say"--getting on his feet--"I dare say they thought it would be unkind -to tell me so." - -He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking -stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than -the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then -out into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, -kneeling under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which -included in petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent -phrase and broken tones among eldest memories. - -He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and -humming, "Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!" He examined the tree at the highway -with fresh interest. "How singular! It means an empty house. Very -intelligent man, Toboso." - -Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat -tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one -side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and -crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering -gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top -of the hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he -stopped, turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably -on the state and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card -tricks of the Newark Kid. - -"Really," he murmured, "I have had a very good time." - -He met Timothy in the hall. - -"Been out to walk early, father? Wait--there's grass and sticks on your -coat." - -It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to -Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent. - -"Did you enjoy it?--Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it. Breakfast -is ready." - -Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter. - -"No matter, my dear, no matter. I--really, I've had a very good time." - -Afterward he came out on the porch with his Bible and Concordance, -sat down and heard Bettina brushing his hat and ejaculating, "Fater!" -Presently he began to nod drowsily and his head dropped low over the -Concordance. The chickens clucked drowsily in the road. - - - - -ON EDOM HILL - - -I. - - -CHARLIE SEBASTIAN was a turfman, meaning that he had something to do -with race-horses, and knew property as rolls of bank bills, of which one -now and then suddenly has none at all; or as pacers and trotters that -are given to breaking and unaccountably to falling off in their nervous -systems; or as "Association Shares" and partnership investments in a -training stable; all capable of melting and going down in one vortex. So -it happened at the October races. And from this it arose that in going -between two heated cities and low by the sea he stopped among the high -hills that were cold. - -He was a tall man with a pointed beard, strong of shoulder and foot, and -without fear in his eyes. After two hours' riding he woke from a doze -and argued once more that he was a "phenomenally busted man." It made -no difference, after all, which city he was in. Looking out at the white -hills that showed faintly in the storm, it occurred to him that this was -not the railway line one usually travelled to the end in view. It was -singular, the little difference between choices. You back the wrong -horse; then you drink beer instead of fizz, and the results of either -are tolerable. Let a man live lustily and there's little to regret. He -had found ruin digestible before, and never yet gone to the dogs that -wait to devour human remnants, but had gotten up and fallen again, and -on the whole rejoiced. Stomach and lungs of iron, a torrent of red -blood in vein and artery maintain their consolations; hopes rise again, -blunders and evil doings seem to be practically outlived. So without -theory ran Sebastian's experience. The theory used to be that his sin -would find a man out. There were enough of Sebastian's that had gone -out, and never returned to look for him. So too with mistakes and -failures. A little while, a year or more, and you are busy with other -matters. It is a stirring world, and offers no occupation for ghosts. -The dragging sense of depression that he felt seemed natural enough; not -to be argued down, but thrown aside in due time. Yet it was a feeling of -pallid and cold futility, like the spectral hills and wavering snow. - -"I might as well go back!" - -He tossed a coin to see whether it was fated he should drop off at the -next station, and it was. - -"Ramoth!" cried the brakeman. - -Sebastian held in his surprise as a matter of habit. - -But on the platform in the drift and float of the snow-storm he stared -around at the white January valley, at the disappearing train, at the -sign above the station door, "Ramoth." - -"That's the place," he remarked. "There wasn't any railroad then." - -There were hidden virtues in a flipped coin. Sebastian had his -superstitions. - -The road to Ramoth village from the station curves about to the south -of the great bare dome that is called Edom Hill, but Sebastian, without -inquiry, took the fork to the left which climbed up the hill without -compromise, and seemed to be little used. - -Yet in past times Edom Hill was noted in a small way as a hill that -upheld the house of a stern abolitionist, and in a more secret way as a -station in the "underground railroad," or system by which runaway slaves -were passed on to Canada. But when Charlie Sebastian remembered his -father and Edom Hill, the days of those activities were passed. The -abolitionist had nothing to exercise resistance and aggression on but -his wind-blown farm and a boy, who was aggressive to seek out mainly the -joys of this world, and had faculties of resistance. There were bitter -clashes; young Sebastian fled, and came upon a stable on a stud farm, -and from there in due time went far and wide, and found tolerance in -time and wrote, offering to "trade grudges and come to see how he was." - -The answer, in a small, faint, cramped, unskilful hand, stated the -abolitionist's death. "Won't you come back, Mr. Sebastian. It is lonely. -Harriet Sebastian." And therefore Sebastian remarked: - -"You bet it is! Who's she? The old man must have married again." - -In his new-found worldly tolerance he had admired such aggressive -enterprise, but seeing no interest in the subject, had gone his way and -forgotten it. - -Beating up Edom Hill through the snow was no easier than twenty years -before. David Sebastian had built his house in a high place, and looking -widely over the top of the land, saw that it was evil. - -The drifts were unbroken and lay in long barrows and windy ridges over -the roadway. The half-buried fences went parallel up the white breast -and barren heave of the hill, and disappeared in the storm. Sebastian -passed a house with closed blinds, then at a long interval a barn and -a stiff red chimney with a snow-covered heap of ruins at its foot. The -station was now some miles behind and the dusk was coming on. The broad -top of the hill was smooth and rounded gradually. Brambles, bushes, -reeds, and the tops of fences broke the surface of the snow, and beside -these only a house by the road, looking dingy and gray, with a blackish -bam attached, four old maples in front, an orchard behind. Far down the -hill to the right lay the road to Ramoth, too far for its line of naked -trees to be seen in the storm. The house on Edom Hill had its white -throne to itself, and whatever dignity there might be in solitude. - -He did not pause to examine the house, only noticed the faint smoke in -one chimney, opened the gate, and pushed through untrodden snow to -the side door and knocked. The woman who came and stood in the door -surprised him even more than "Ramoth!" called by the brakeman. Without -great reason for seeming remarkable, it seemed remarkable. He stepped -back and stared, and the two, looking at each other, said nothing. -Sebastian recovered. - -"My feet are cold," he said slowly. "I shouldn't like to freeze them." - -She drew back and let him in, left him to find a chair and put his feet -against the stove. She sat down near the window and went on knitting. -The knitting needles glittered and clicked. Her face was outlined -against the gray window, the flakes too glittered and clicked. It -looked silent, secret, repressed, as seen against the gray window; like -something chilled and snowed under, cold and sweet, smooth pale hair and -forehead, deep bosom and slender waist. She looked young enough to be -called in the early June of her years. - -"There's good proportion and feature, but not enough nerves for a -thoroughbred. But," he thought, "she looks as if she needed, as you -might say, revelry," and he spoke aloud. - -"Once I was in this section and there was a man named Sebastian lived -here, or maybe it was farther on." - -She said, "It was here" in a low voice. - -"David Sebastian now, that was it, or something that way. Stiff, sort -of grim old--oh, but you might be a relative, you see. Likely enough. So -you might." - -"I might be." - -"Just so. You might be." - -He rubbed his hands and leaned back, staring at the window. The wind was -rising outside and blew the snow in whirls and sheets. - -"Going to be a bad night I came up from the station. If a man's going -anywhere tonight, he'll be apt not to get there." - -"You ought to have taken the right hand at the fork." - -"Well, I don't know." - -She rose and took a cloak from the table. Sebastian watched her. - -"I must feed the pony and shut up the chickens." - -She hesitated. A refusal seemed to have been hinted to the hinted -request for hospitality. But Sebastian saw another point. - -"Now, that's what I'm going to do for you." - -She looked on silently, as he passed her with assured step, not -hesitating at doors, but through the kitchen to the woodshed, and there -in the darkness of a pitch-black corner took down a jingling lantern and -lit it. She followed him silently into the yard, that was full of drifts -and wild storm, to the barn, where she listened to him shake down hay -and bedding, measure oats, slap the pony's flank and chirp cheerfully. -Then he plunged through a low door and she heard the bolt in the chicken -shed rattle. It had grown dark outside. He came out and held the barn -door, waiting for her to step out, and they stood side by side on the -edge of the storm. - -"How did you know the lantern was there?" - -"Lantern! Oh, farmhouses always keep the lantern in the nearest corner -of the woodshed, if it isn't behind the kitchen door." - -But she did not move to let him close the bam. He looked down at her a -moment and then out at the white raging night. - -"Can't see forty feet, can you? But, of course, if you don't want to -give me a roof I'll have to take my chances. Look poor, don't they? -Going to let me shut this door?" - -"I am quite alone here." - -"So am I. That's the trouble." - -"I don't think you understand," she said quietly, speaking in a manner -low, cool, and self-contained. - -"I've got more understanding now than I'll have in an hour, maybe." - -"I will lend you the lantern." - -"Oh, you mightn't get it back." He drew the barn door to, which -forced her to step forward. A gust of wind about the corner of the bam -staggered and threw her back. He caught her about her shoulders and held -her steadily, and shot the bolt with the hand that held the lantern. - -"That's all right. A man has to take his chances. I dare say a woman had -better not." - -If Sebastian exaggerated the dangers of the night, if there were any -for him, looked at from her standpoint they might seem large and full of -dread. The wind howled with wild hunting sound, and shrieked against the -eaves of the house. The snow drove thick and blinding. The chimneys -were invisible. A woman easily transfers her own feelings to a man and -interprets them there. In the interest of that interpretation it might -no longer seem possible that man's ingratitude, or his failings and -passions, could be as unkind as winter wind and bitter sky. - -She caught her breath in a moment. - -"You will stay to supper," she said, and stepped aside. - -"No. As I'm going, I'd better go." - -She went before him across the yard, opened the woodshed door and stood -in it. He held out the lantern, but she did not take it. He lifted it to -look at her face, and she smiled faintly. - -"Please come in." - -"Better go on, if I'm going. Am I?" - -"I'm very cold. Please come in." - -They went in and closed the doors against the storm. The house was -wrapped round, and shut away from the sight of Edom Hill, and Edom Hill -was wrapped round and shut away from the rest of the world. - - -II. - - -Revelry has need of a certain co-operation. Sebastian drew heavily on -his memory for entertainment, told of the combination that had "cleaned -him out," and how he might get in again in the Spring, only he felt -a bit tired in mind now, and things seemed dead. He explained the -mysteries of "short prices, selling allowances, past choices, hurdles -and handicaps," and told of the great October races, where Decatur won -from Clifford and Lady Mary, and Lady Mary ran through the fence and -destroyed the features of the jockey. But the quiet, smooth-haired woman -maintained her calm, and offered neither question nor comment, only -smiled and flushed faintly now and then. She seemed as little stirred by -new tumultuous things as the white curtains at the windows, that moved -slightly when the storm, which danced and shouted on Edom Hill, managed -to force a whistling breath through a chink. - -Sebastian decided she was frozen up with loneliness and the like. "She's -got no conversation, let alone revelry." He thought he knew what her -life was like. "She's sort of empty. Nothing doing any time. It's the -off season all the year. No troubles. Sort of like a fish, as being -chilly and calm, that lives in cold water till you have to put pepper on -to taste it. I know how it goes on this old hill." - -She left him soon. He heard her moving about in the kitchen, and -sometimes the clink of a dish. He sat by the stove and mused and -muttered. She came and told him his room was on the left of the stair; -it had a stove; would he not carry up wood and have his fire there? -She seemed to imply a preference that he should. But the burden -and oppression of his musings kept him from wondering when she had -compromised her scruples and fears, or why she kept any of them. He -mounted the stair with his wood. She followed with a lamp and left him. -He stared at the closed door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then went -to work with his fire. The house became silent, except for the outer -tumult. She did not mount the stair again; it followed that she slept -below. - -Sebastian took a daguerreotype from the mantel and stared at it. It -was the likeness of a shaven, grim-faced man in early middle life. He -examined it long with a quizzical frown; finally went to the washstand, -opened the drawer and took out a razor with a handle of yellow bone, -carried the washstand to the stove, balanced the mirror against the -pitcher, stropped the razor on his hand, heated water in a cup, slowly -dismantled his face of beard and mustache, cast them in the stove, put -the daguerreotype beside the mirror, and compared critically. Except -that the face in the daguerreotype had a straight, set mouth, and the -face in the mirror was one full-lipped and humorous and differently -lined, they were nearly the same. - -"I wouldn't have believed it" - -He put it aside and looked around, whistling in meditation. Then he went -back again to wondering who the pale-haired woman was. Probably the -farm had changed hands. A man whose father had been dead going on -twenty years couldn't have that kind of widowed stepmother. He was -disqualified. - -A cold, unchanging place, Edom Hill, lifted out of the warm, sapping -currents of life. It might be a woman could keep indefinitely there, -looking much the same. If her pulse beat once to an ordinary twice, she -ought to last twice as long. The house seemed unchanged. The old things -were in their old familiar places, David Sebastian's books on their -shelves in the room below, on the side table there his great Bible, in -which he used to write all family records, with those of his reforming -activity. Sebastian wondered what record stood of his own flight. - -He sat a few moments longer, then took his lamp and crept softly out of -the room and down the stairs. The sitting-room was icily cold now; the -white curtains stirred noiselessly. He sat down before the little side -table and opened the great book. - -There were some thirty leaves between the Old and New Testaments, most -of them stitched in. A few at the end were blank. Some of the records -were obscure. - -"March 5th, 1840. Saw light on this subject." - -Others ran: - -"Sept. 1 st, 1843. Rec. Peter Cavendish, fugitive." - -"Dec. 3d, ditto. Rec. Robert Henry." - -"April 15th, ditto. Rec. one, sop," and so on. - -"Dec. 14th, 1848. Have had consolation from prayer for public evil." - -"April 20th, 1858. My son, Charles Sebastian, born." - -"April 7th, 1862. My wife, Jane Sebastian, died." - -"July 5th, 1862. Rec. Keziah Andrews to keep my house." - -The dates of the entries from that point grew further apart, random and -obscure; here and there a fact. - -"Nov. 4th, 1876. Charles Sebastian departed." - -"June 9th, 1877. Rec. Harriet." - -"Jan. 19th, 1880. Have wrestled in prayer without consolation for -Charles Sebastian." - -This was the last entry. A faint line ran down across the page -connecting the end of "Harriet" with the beginning of "Charles." -Between the two blank leaves at the end was a photograph of himself -at seventeen. He remembered suddenly how it was taken by a travelling -photographer, who had stirred his soul with curiosity and given him the -picture; and David Sebastian had taken it and silently put it away among -blank leaves of the Bible. - -Sebastian shivered. The written leaves, the look of himself of twenty -years before, the cold, the wail of the wind, the clicking flakes on the -window panes, these seemed now to be the dominant facts of life. Narrow -was it, poor and meagre, to live and labor with a barren farm? The old -abolitionist had cut deeper into existence than he had. If to deal with -the fate of races, and wrestle alone with God on Edom Hill, were not -knowledge and experience, what was knowledge or experience, or what -should a man call worth the trial of his brain and nerve? - -"He passed me. He won hands down," he muttered, bending over the page -again. "'Rec. Harriet.' That's too much for me." And he heard a quick -noise behind him and turned. - -She stood in the door, wide-eyed, smooth, pale hair falling over one -shoulder, long cloak half slipped from the other, holding a shotgun, -threatening and stem. - -"What are you doing here?" - -"Out gunning for me?" asked Sebastian gravely. - -She stared wildly, put the gun down, cried: - -"You're Charlie Sebastian!" and fell on her knees beside the stove, -choking, sobbing and shaking, crouching against the cold sheet iron in a -kind of blind memory of its warmth and protection. - -"You still have the drop on me," said Sebastian. - -She shivered and crouched still and whispered: - -"I'm cold." - -"How long have you been here freezing?" - -Sebastian thrust anything inflammable at hand into the stove, lit it and -piled in the wood. - -"Not long. Only--only a few moments." - -"You still have the advantage of me. Who are you?" - -"Why, I'm Harriet," she said simply, and looked up. - -"Just so. 'Received, 1877.' How old were you then?" - -"Why, I was eight." - -"Just so. Don't tell lies, Harriet. You've been freezing a long while." - -She drew her cloak closer over the thin white linen of her gown with -shaking hand. - -"I don't understand. I'm very cold. Why didn't you come before? It has -been so long waiting." - - -III. - - -The draft began to roar and the dampers to glow. She crept in front of -the glow. He drew a chair and sat down close behind her. - -"Why didn't you come before?" - -The question was startling, for Sebastian was only conscious of a lack -of reason for coming. If David Sebastian had left him the farm he would -have heard from it, and being prosperous, he had not cared. But the -question seemed to imply some strong assumption and further knowledge. - -"You'd better tell me about it." - -"About what? At the beginning?" - -"Aren't you anything except 'Received, Harriet'?" - -"Oh, I hadn't any father or mother when Mr. Sebastian brought me here. -Is that what you mean? But he taught me to say 'Harriet Sebastian,' and -a great many things he taught me. Didn't you know? And about his life -and what he wanted you to do? Because, of course, we talked about you -nearly always in the time just before he died. He said you would be sure -to come, but he died, don't you see? only a few years after, and that -disappointed him. He gave me the picture and said, 'He'll come, and -you'll know him by this,' and he said, 'He will come poor and miserable. -My only son, so I leave him to you; and so, as I did, you will pray for -him twice each day.' It was just like that, 'Tell Charles there is no -happiness but in duty. Tell him I found it so.' It was a night like this -when he died, and Kezzy was asleep in her chair out here, and I sat by -the bed. Then he told me I would pay him all in that way by doing what -he meant to do for you. I was so little, but I seemed to understand that -I was to live for it, as he had lived to help free the slaves. Don't you -see? Then he began calling, 'Charles! Charles!' as if you were somewhere -near, and I fell asleep, and woke and lay still and listened to the -wind; and when I tried to get up I couldn't, because he held my hair, -and he was dead. But why didn't you come?" - -"It looks odd enough now," Sebastian admitted, and wondered at the -change from still impassiveness, pale and cool silence, to eager speech, -swift question, lifted and flushed face. - -"Then you remember the letters? But you didn't come then. But I began -to fancy how it would be when you came, and then somehow it seemed as -if you were here. Out in the orchard sometimes, don't you see? And more -often when Kezzy was cross. And when she went to sleep by the fire -at night--she was so old--we were quite alone and talked. Don't you -remember?--I mean--But Kezzy didn't like to hear me talking to myself. -'Mutter, mutter!' like that. 'Never was such a child!' And then she -died, too, seven--seven years ago, and it was quite different. I--I grew -older. You seemed to be here quite and quite close to me always. There -was no one else, except--But, I don't know why, I had an aching from -having to wait, and it has been a long time, hasn't it?" - -"Rather long. Go on. There was no one else?" - -"No. We lived here--I mean--it grew that way, and you changed from the -picture, too, and became like Mr. Sebastian, only younger, and just as -you are now, only--not quite." - -She looked at him with sudden fear, then dropped her eyes, drew her long -hair around under her cloak and leaned closer to the fire. - -"But there is so much to tell you it comes out all mixed." - -Sebastian sat silently looking down at her, and felt the burden of his -thinking grow heavier; the pondering how David Sebastian had left him an -inheritance of advice, declaring his own life full and brimming, and to -Harriet the inheritance of a curious duty that had grown to people her -nights and days with intense sheltered dreams, and made her life, -too, seem to her full and brimming, multitudinous with events and -interchanges, himself so close and cherished an actor in it that his own -parallel unconsciousness of it had almost dropped out of conception. -And the burden grew heavier still with the weight of memories, and -the record between the Old and New Testaments; with the sense of the -isolation and covert of the midnight, and the storm; with the sight of -Harriet crouching by the fire, her story, how David Sebastian left this -world and went out into the wild night crying, "Charles! Charles!" It -was something not logical, but compelling. It forced him to remark that -his own cup appeared partially empty from this point of view. Harriet -seemed to feel that her hour had come and he was given to her hands.. -Success even in methods of living is a convincing thing over unsuccess. -Ah, well! too late to remodel to David Sebastian's notion. It was -singular, though, a woman silent, restrained, scrupulous, moving -probably to the dictates of village opinion--suddenly the key was -turned, and she threw back the gates of her prison; threw open doors, -windows, intimate curtains; asked him to look in and explore everywhere -and know all the history and the forecasts; became simple, primitive, -unrestrained, willing to sit there at his feet and as innocent as her -white linen gown. How smooth and pale her hair was and gentle cheek, and -there were little sleepy smiles in the corners of the lips. He thought -he would like most of all to put out his hand and touch her cheek and -sleepy smiles, and draw her hair, long and soft and pale, from under the -cloak. On the whole, it seemed probable that he might. - -"Harriet," he said slowly, "I'm going to play this hand." - -"Why, I don't know what you mean." - -"Take it, I'm not over and above a choice selection. I don't mention -details, but take it as a general fact. Would you want to marry that -kind of a selection, meaning me?" - -"Oh, yes! Didn't you come for that? I thought you would." - -"And I thought you needed revelry! You must have had a lot of it." - -"I don't know what you mean. Listen! It keeps knocking at the door!" - -"Oh, that's all right. Let it knock. Do you expect any more vagrants?" - -"Vagrants?" - -"Like me." - -"Like you? You only came home. Listen! It was like this when he died. -But he wouldn't come to-night and stand outside and knock, would he? Not -to-night, when you've come at last. But he used to. Of course, I fancied -things. It's the storm. There's no one else now." - -A thousand spectres go whirling across Edom Hill such winter nights and -come with importunate messages, but if the door is close and the fire -courageous, it matters little. They are but wind and drift and out in -the dark, and if one is in the light, it is a great point to keep the -door fast against them and all forebodings, and let the coming days be -what they will. - -Men are not born in a night, or a year. - -But if David Sebastian were a spectre there at the door, and thought -differently on any question, or had more to say, he was not articulate. -There is no occupation for ghosts in a stirring world, nor efficiency in -their repentance. - -Has any one more than a measure of hope, and a door against the storm? -There was that much, at least, on Edom Hill. - - - - -SONS OF R. RAND - - -SOME years ago, of a summer afternoon, a perspiring organ-grinder and -a leathery ape plodded along the road that goes between thin-soiled -hillsides and the lake which is known as Elbow Lake and lies to the -northeast of the village of Salem. In those days it was a well-travelled -highway, as could be seen from its breadth and' dustiness. At about half -the length of its bordering on the lake there was a spring set in the -hillside, and a little pool continually rippled by its inflow. Some -settler or later owner of the thin-soiled hillsides had left a clump of -trees about it, making as sightly and refreshing an Institute of -Charity as could be found. Another philanthropist had added half a -cocoanut-shell to the foundation. - -The organ-grinder turned in under the trees with a smile, in which his -front teeth played a large part, and suddenly drew back with a guttural -exclamation; the leathery ape bumped against his legs, and both assumed -attitudes expressing respectively, in an Italian and tropical manner, -great surprise and abandonment of ideas. A tall man lay stretched on -his back beside the spring, with a felt hat over his face. Pietro, the -grinder, hesitated. The American, if disturbed and irascible, takes by -the collar and kicks with the foot: it has sometimes so happened. The -tall man pushed back his hat and sat up, showing a large-boned and -sun-browned face, shaven except for a black mustache, clipped close. He -looked not irascible, though grave perhaps, at least unsmiling. He said: -"It's free quarters, Dago. Come in. Entrez. Have a drink." - -Pietro bowed and gesticulated with amiable violence. "Dry!" he said. -"Oh, hot!" - -"Just so. That a friend of yours?"--pointing to the ape. "He ain't got a -withering sorrow, has he? Take a seat." - -Elbow Lake is shaped as its name implies. If one were to imagine the arm -to which the elbow belonged, it would be the arm of a muscular person in -the act of smiting a peaceable-looking farmhouse a quarter of a mile to -the east. Considering the bouldered front of the hill behind the house, -the imaginary blow would be bad for the imaginary knuckles. It is -a large house, with brown, unlikely looking hillsides around it, -huckleberry knobs and ice-grooved boulders here and there. The land -between it and the lake is low, and was swampy forty years ago, before -the Rand boys began to drain it, about the time when R. Rand entered the -third quarter century of his unpleasant existence. - -R. Rand was, I suppose, a miser, if the term does not imply too definite -a type. The New England miser is seldom grotesque. He seems more like -congealed than distorted humanity. He does not pinch a penny so hard as -some of other races are said to do, but he pinches a dollar harder, and -is quite as unlovely as any. R. Rand's methods of obtaining dollars -to pinch were not altogether known, or not, at least, recorded--which -accounts perhaps for the tradition that they were of doubtful -uprightness. He held various mortgages about the county, and his -farm represented little to him except a means of keeping his two sons -inexpensively employed in rooting out stones. - -At the respective ages of sixteen and seventeen the two sons, Bob and -Tom Rand, discovered the rooting out of stones to be unproductive labor, -if nothing grew, or was expected to grow, in their place, except more -stones; and the nature of the counsels they took may be accurately -imagined. In the autumn of '56 they began ditching the swamp in the -direction of the lake, and in the summer of '57 raised a crop of tobacco -in the northeast corner, R. Rand, the father, making no comment the -while. At the proper time he sold the tobacco to Packard & Co., cigar -makers, of the city of Hamilton, still making no comment, probably -enjoying some mental titillation. Tom Rand then flung a rock of the size -of his fist through one of the front windows, and ran away, also -making no comment further than that. The broken window remained broken -twenty-five years, Tom returning neither to mend it nor to break -another. Bob Rand, by some bargain with his father, continued the -ditching and planting of the swamp with some profit to himself. - -He evidently classed at least a portion of his father's manner of life -among the things that are to be avoided. He acquired a family, and was -in the way to bring it up in a reputable way. He further cultivated and -bulwarked his reputation. Society, manifesting itself politically, made -him sheriff; society, manifesting itself ecclesiastically, made him -deacon. Society seldom fails to smile on systematic courtship. - -The old man continued to go his way here and there, giving account of -himself to no one, contented enough no doubt to have one reputable son -who looked after his own children and paid steady rent for, or bought -piece by piece, the land he used; and another floating between the -Rockies and the Mississippi, whose doings were of no importance in the -village of Salem. But I doubt, on the whole, whether he was softened -in heart by the deacon's manner or the ordering of the deacon's life to -reflect unfilially on his own. Without claiming any great knowledge of -the proprieties, he may have thought the conduct of his younger son the -more filial of the two. Such was the history of the farmhouse between -the years '56 and '82. - -One wet April day, the sixth of the month, in the year '82, R. Rand went -grimly elsewhere--where, his neighbors had little doubt. With true New -England caution we will say that he went to the cemetery, the little -grass-grown cemetery of Salem, with its meagre memorials and absurd, -pathetic epitaphs. The minister preached a funeral sermon, out of -deference to his deacon, in which he said nothing whatever about R. -Rand, deceased; and R. Rand, sheriff and deacon, reigned in his stead. - -Follow certain documents and one statement of fact: - -_Document 1._ - -_Codicil to the Will of R. Rand._ - -The Will shall stand as above, to wit, my son, Robert Rand, sole -legatee, failing the following condition: namely, I bequeath all my -property as above mentioned, with the exception of this house and -farm, to my son, Thomas Rand, provided, that within three months of the -present date he returns and mends with his own hands the front window, -third from the north, previously broken by him. - -(Signed) R. Rand. - -_Statement of fact._ On the morning of the day following the funeral -the "condition" appeared in singularly problematical shape, the broken -window, third from the north, having been in fact promptly replaced _by -the hands of Deacon Rand himself_. The new pane stared defiantly across -the lake, westward. - -_Document 2_. - -Leadville, Cal., May 15. - -Dear Bob: I hear the old man is gone. Saw it in a paper. I reckon maybe -I didn't treat him any squarer than he did me. I'll go halves on a -bang-up good monument, anyhow. Can we settle affairs without my coming -East? How are you, Bob? - -Tom. - -_Document 3._ - -Salem, May 29. - -Dear Brother: The conditions of our father's will are such, I am -compelled to inform you, as to result in leaving the property wholly -to me. My duty to a large and growing family gives me no choice but -to accept it as it stands, and I trust and have no doubt that you will -regard that result with fortitude. I remain yours, - -Robert Rand. - -_Document 4._ - -Leadville, June 9. - -A. L. Moore. - -Dear Sir: I have your name as a lawyer in Wimberton. Think likely there -isn't any other. If you did not draw up the will of R. Rand, Salem, can -you forward this letter to the man who did? If you did, will you tell me -what in thunder it was? - -Yours, Thomas Rand. - -_Document 5._ - -Wimberton, June 18. - -Thomas Rand. - -Dear Sir: I did draw your father's will and enclose copy of the same, -with its codicil, which may truly be called remarkable. I think it right -to add, that the window in question has been mended by your brother, -with evident purpose. Your letter comes opportunely, my efforts to find -you having been heretofore unsuccessful. I will add further, that I -think the case actionable, to say the least. In case you should see fit -to contest, your immediate return is of course necessary. Very truly -yours, - -A. L. Moore, - -Attorney-at-Law. - -_Document 6. Despatch._ - -New York, July 5. - -To Robert Rand, Salem. - -Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not. - -T. Rand. - -The deacon was a tall meagre man with a goatee that seemed to accentuate -him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering -line of rectitude. - -He drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of -July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake, -except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. His lips -looked even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one -were to come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments. - -Opposite the spring he drew up, hearing the sound of a hand-organ under -the trees. The tall man with a clipped mustache sat up deliberately -and looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also -looked at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and -forth between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, -and followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up. - -"I reckon it's Bob," he said. "It's free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in. -Have a drink." - -The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an -extra stiffening of the back. - -"The train--I did not suppose--I was going to meet you." - -"Just so. I came by way of Wimberton." - -The younger brother stretched himself again beside the spring and drew -his hat over his eyes. The elder stood up straight and not altogether -unimpressive in front of it. Pietro in the rear of the spring reflected -at this point that he and the ape could conduct a livelier conversation -if it were left to them. Pietro could not imagine a conversation in -which it was not desirable to be lively. The silence was long and, -Pietro thought, not pleasant. - -"Bob," said the apparent sleeper at last, "ever hear of the prodigal -son?" - -The deacon frowned sharply, but said nothing. The other lifted the edge -of his hat brim. - -"Never heard of him? Oh--have I Then I won't tell about him. Too long. -That elder brother, now, he had good points;--no doubt of it, eh?" - -"I confess I don't see your object--" - -"Don't? Well, I was just saying he had good points. I suppose he and the -prodigal had an average good time together, knockin' around, stubbin' -their toes, fishin' maybe, gettin' licked at inconvenient times, hookin' -apples most anytime. That sort of thing. Just so. He had something of -an argument. Now, the prodigal had no end of fun, and the elder brother -stayed at home and chopped wood; understood himself to be cultivating -the old man. I take it he didn't have a very soft job of it?"--lifting -his hat brim once more. - -The deacon said nothing, but observed the hat brim. - -"Now I think of it, maybe strenuous sobriety wasn't a thing he naturally -liked any more than the prodigal did. I've a notion there was more -family likeness between 'em than other folks thought. What might be your -idea?" - -The deacon still stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind him. - -"I would rather," he said, "you would explain yourself without parable. -You received my letter. It referred to our father's will. I have -received a telegram which I take to be threatening." - -The other sat up and pulled a large satchel around from behind him. - -"You're a man of business, Bob," he said cheerfully. "I like you, Bob. -That's so. That will--I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, I take it -you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play -this here Will, Codicil attached. You play,--window already mended; time -expired at twelve o'clock to-night. Good cards, Bob--first-rate. I play -here"--opening the satchel--"two panes of glass--allowin' for -accidents--putty, et cetera, proposing to bust that window again. Good -cards, Bob. How are you coming on?" - -The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something -came into his face which suggested the family likeness. He drew a paper -from his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the -grass. - -"Sheriff's warrant," he said, "for--hem--covering possible trespassing -on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention--hem." - -"Good," said his brother briskly. "I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if -I don't. I play again." He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the -glass. "Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off." - -"Hem," said the deacon. "Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying -of concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it -is--hem--permissible for me." He placed a revolver on top of the -warrant. - -"Bob," said his brother, in huge delight, "I'm proud of you. But--I -judge you ain't on to the practical drop. _Stand back there!_" The -deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and -retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and -the two faced each other, the deacon looking as dangerous a man as the -Westerner. - -Suddenly, the wheezy hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly -trying to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as -desperately as if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him. - -"Hi, you monk! Dance!" cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it -solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of -the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, -first over the younger's, then over the deacon's. - -The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face -and groaned. - -"I'm an evil-minded man," he said; "I'm beaten." - -The other cocked his head on one side and listened. "Know what that tune -is, Bob? I don't." - -He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the -copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down. - -"I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your -hand yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had." - -"Five." - -"Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument." - -But the deacon only muttered to himself: "I'm an evil-minded man." - -Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers. - -"Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!" which Pietro did, perspiring -freely. "Shake all that. Come along." - -The two walked slowly toward the yellow road. Pietro raised his voice -despairingly. "No cent! Not a nicka!" - -"That's so," said Tom, pausing. "Five, by thunder! Come along, Dago. -It's free quarters. Entrez. Take a seat." - -The breeze was blowing up over Elbow Lake, and the butterflies bobbed -about in the sunshine, as they drove along the yellow road. Pietro sat -at the back of the buck-board, the leathery ape on his knee and a smile -on his face, broad, non-professional, and consisting largely of front -teeth. - - - - -CONLON - - -CONLON, the strong, lay sick unto death with fever. The Water -Commissioners sent champagne to express their sympathy. It was an -unforced impulse of feeling. - -But Conlon knew nothing of it. His lips were white, his cheeks sunken; -his eyes glared and wandered; he muttered, and clutched with his big -fingers at nothing visible. - -The doctor worked all day to force a perspiration. At six o'clock he -said: "I'm done. Send for the priest." - -When Kelly and Simon Harding came, Father Ryan and the doctor were going -down the steps. - -"'Tis a solemn duty ye have, Kelly," said the priest, "to watch the last -moments of a dying man, now made ready for his end." - -"Ah, not Conlon! He'll not give up, not him," cried Kelly, "the shtrong -man wid the will in him!" - -"An' what's the sthrength of man in the hands of his Creathor?" said the -priest, turning to Harding, oratorically. - -"I don' know," said Harding, calmly. "Do you?" - -"'Tis naught!" - -Kelly murmured submissively. - -"Kind of monarchical institution, ain't it, what Conlon's run up -against?" Harding remarked. "Give him a fair show in a caucus, an' he'd -win, sure." - -"He'll die if he don't sweat," said the doctor, wiping his forehead. -"It's hot enough." Conlon lay muttering and glaring at the ceiling. The -big knuckles of his hands stood out like rope-knots. His wife nodded to -Kelly and Harding, and went out. She was a good-looking woman, large, -massive, muscular. Kelly looked after her, rubbing his short nose -and blinking his watery eyes. He was small, with stooping shoulders, -affectionate eyes, wavering knees. He had followed Conlon, the strong, -and served him many years. Admiration of Conlon was a strenuous business -in which to be engaged. - -"Ah!" he said, "his wife ten year, an' me his inchimate friend." - -It was ten by the clock. The subsiding noise of the city came up over -housetops and vacant lots. The windows of the sickroom looked off the -verge of a bluff; one saw the lights of the little city below, the -lights of the stars above, and the hot black night between. - -Kelly and Harding sat down by a window, facing each other. The lamplight -was dim. A screen shaded it from the bed, where Conlon muttered and -cried out faintly, intermittently, as though in conversation with some -one who was present only to himself. His voice was like the ghost or -shadow of a voice, not a whisper, but strained of all resonance. One -might fancy him standing on the bank of the deadly river and talking -across to some one beyond the fog, and fancy that the voices would so -creep through the fog stealthily, not leaping distances like earthly -sounds, but struggling slowly through nameless obstruction. - -Kelly rubbed his hands before the fire. - -"I was his inchimate friend." - -Harding said: "Are you going to talk like a blanked idiot all night, or -leave off maybe about twelve?" - -"I know ye for a hard man, too, Simmy," said Kelly, pathetically; "an' -'tis the nathur of men, for an Irishman is betther for blow-in' off his -shteam, be it the wrath or the sorrow of him, an' the Yankee is betther -for bottlin' it up." - -"Uses it for driving his engine mostly." - -"So. But Conlon--" - -"Conlon," said Harding slowly, "that's so. He had steam to drive with, -and steam to blow with, and plenty left over to toot his whistle and -scald his fingers and ache in his belly. Expanding that there figure, he -carried suction after him like the 1:40 express, he did." - -"'Tis thrue." Kelly leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I mind me -when I first saw him I hadn't seen him before, unless so be when he was -puttin' the wather-main through the sand-hills up the river an' bossin' -a gang o' men with a fog-horn voice till they didn't own their souls, -an' they didn't have any, what's more, the dirty Polocks. But he -come into me shop one day, an' did I want the job o' plumbin' the -court-house? - -"'Have ye the court-house in your pocket?' says I, jokin'. - -"'I have,' says he, onexpected, 'an' any plumbin' that's done for the -court-house is done in the prisint risidence of the same.' - -"An' I looks up, an' 'O me God!' I says to meself, ''tis a man!' wid -the black eyebrows of him, an' the shoulders an' the legs of him. An' he -took me into the shwale of his wake from that day to this. But I niver -thought to see him die." - -"That's so. You been his heeler straight through. I don't know but I -like your saying so. But I don't see the how. Why, look here; when I bid -for the old water contract he comes and offers to sell it to me, sort -of personal asset. I don't know how. By the unbroke faces of the other -Water Commissioners he didn't use his pile-driving fist to persuade -'em, and what I paid him was no more'n comfortable for himself. How'd -he fetch it? How'd he do those things? Why, look here, Kelly, ain't he -bullied you? Ain't you done dirty jobs for him, and small thanks?" - -"I have that." - -Kelly's hands trembled. He was bowed down and thoughtful, but not angry. -"Suppose I ask you what for?" - -"Suppose ye do. Suppose I don' know. Maybe he was born to be king over -me. Maybe he wasn't. But I know he was a mastherful man, an' he's dyin' -here, an' me blood's sour an' me bones sad wid thinkin' of it. Don' -throuble me, Simmy." - -Harding leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, where the -lamp made a nebulous circle of light. - -"Why, that's so," he said at last, in conclusion of some unmentioned -train of thought. "Why, I got a pup at home, and his affection ain't -measured by the bones he's had, nor the licks he's had, not either of -'em." - -Kelly was deep in a reverie. - -"Nor it ain't measured by my virtues. Look here, now; I don' see what -his measure is." - -"Hey?" Kelly roused himself. - -"Oh, I was just thinking." - -Harding thought he had known other men who had had in some degree -a magnetic power that seemed to consist in mere stormy energy of -initiative. They were like strong drink to weaker men. It was more -physical than mental. Conlon was to Kelly a stimulant, then an appetite. -And Conlon was a bad lot. Fellows that had heeled for him were mostly -either wrecked or dead now. Why, there was a chap named Patterson that -used to be decent till he struck Conlon, when he went pretty low; and -Nora Reimer drowned herself on account of Patterson, when he got himself -shot in a row at some shanty up the railroad. The last had seemed a -good enough riddance. But Nora went off her head and jumped in the new -reservoir. Harding remembered it the more from being one of the Water -Company. They had had to empty the reservoir, which was expensive. And -there were others. A black, blustering sort of beast, Conlon. He had -more steam than was natural. Harding wondered vaguely at Kelly, who was -spelling out the doctor's directions from a piece of paper. - -"A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle. 'Tis no tin-course -dinner wid the champagne an' entries he's givin' Conlon the night. Hey? -A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle." - -Harding's mind wandered on among memories of the little city below, an -intricate, irregular history, full of incidents, stories that were never -finished or dribbled off anywhere, black spots that he knew of in white -lives, white spots in dark lives. He did not happen to know any white -spots on Conlon. - -"Course if a man ain't in politics for his health he ain't in it for the -health of the community, either, and that's all right. And if he opens -the morning by clumping Mrs. Conlon on the head, why, she clumps him -back more or less, and that's all right." Then, if he went down-town and -lied here and there ingeniously in the way of business, and came home at -night pretty drunk, but no more than was popular with his constituency, -why, Conlon's life was some cluttered, but never dull. Still, Harding's -own ways being quieter and less cluttered, he felt that if Conlon were -going off naturally now, it was not, on the whole, a bad idea. It would -conduce to quietness. It would perhaps be a pity if anything interfered. - -The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, a dull, unechoing sound. - -"Simmy," said Kelly, pointing with his thumb, "what do he be sayin', -talkin'--talkin' like one end of a tiliphone?" - -They both turned toward the bed and listened. - -"Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the -other end?" - -"I don' know," whispered Kelly. "But I have this in me head, for ye -know, when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his -man at the front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of -inthroduction in his hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the -same to be read an' him certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful -of boilin' impatience in himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' -the time o' day through the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?" - -"'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?" - -"Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye -mind?" - -Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and -muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed -tremulously. - -"Listen, will ye?" said Kelly, suddenly leaning down. - -"I don' know," said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. "I don' -know as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't -healthy to mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a -bank--ain't any more'n likely. What of it?" - -"Listen, will ye?" - -"Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly." - -"'Sh!" - -"_Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom_," babbled the ghostly voice, a thin, -distant sound. - -"What'd he say? What'd he say?" Kelly was white and trembling. - -Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to -himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close -to Conlon to study the matter. - -"_What's the heart-scald, mother?_" babbled Conlon. "_Where'd ye get it -from? Me! Wirra!_" - -"'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd." - -"Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid." - -Kelly shook his head solemnly. - -"He's spheakin' to ghosteses." - -"_What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see. -Where'm I goin'?_' - -"You got me," muttered Harding. "I don' know." - -"_Tom'll be good. It's main dark. Hold Tom's hand_." - -Kelly was on his knees, saying prayers at terrific speed. - -"Hear to him!" he stopped to whisper. "Ghosteses! Ora pro nobis--" - -"_Tom ain't afraid. Naw, he ain't afraid._" - -Harding went back to his window. The air was heavy and motionless, the -stars a little dim. He could see the dark line of the river with an -occasional glint upon it, and the outline of the hills beyond. - -The little city had drawn a robe of innocent obscurity over it. Only a -malicious sparkle gleamed here and there. He thought he knew that city -inside and out, from end to end. He had lived in it, dealt with it, -loved it, cheated it, helped to build it, shared its fortunes. Who knew -it better than he? But every now and then it surprised with some hidden -detail or some impulse of civic emotion. And Kelly and Conlon, surely he -knew them, as men may know men. But he never had thought to see -Conlon as to-night. It was odd. But there was some fact in the social -constitution, in human nature, at the basis of all the outward oddities -of each. - -"Maybe when a man's gettin' down to his reckonin' it's needful to show -up what he's got at the bottom. Then he begins to peel off layers of -himself like an onion, and 'less there ain't anything to him but layers, -by and by he comes to something that resembles a sort of aboriginal boy, -which is mostly askin' questions and bein' surprised." - -Maybe there was more boyishness in Conlon than in most men. Come -to think of it, there was. Conlon's leadership was ever of the -maybe-you-think-I-can't-lick-you order; and men followed him, admitting -that he could, in admiration and simplicity. You might see the same -thing in the public-school yard. Maybe that was the reason. The sins of -Conlon were not sophisticated. - -The low, irregular murmur from the bed, the heavy heat of the night, -made Harding drowsy. Kelly repeating the formula of his prayers, a kind -of incantation against ghosts, Conlon with his gaunt face in the shadow -and his big hands on the sheet clutching at nothing visible, both faded -away, and Harding fell asleep. - -He woke with a start. Kelly was dancing about the bed idiotically. - -"He's shweatin'!" he gabbled. "He's shweatin'! He'll be well--Conlon." - -It made Harding think of the "pup," and how he would dance about him, -when he went home, in the crude expression of joy. Conlon's face was -damp. He muttered no more. They piled the blankets on him till the -perspiration stood out in drops. Conlon breathed softly and slept. Kelly -babbled gently, "Conlon! Conlon!" - -Harding went back to the window and rubbed his eyes sleepily. - -"Kind of too bad, after all that trouble to get him peeled." - -The morning was breaking, solemn, noiseless, with lifted banners and -wide pageantries, over river and city. - -Harding yawned. - -"It's one on Father Ryan, anyway. That's a good thing. Blamed old -windbag!" - -Kelly murmured ecstatically, "Conlon will get well--Conlon!" - - - - -ST CATHERINE'S - - -ST. CATHERINE'S was the life work of an old priest, who is remembered -now and presently will be forgotten. There are gargoyles over the -entrance aside, with their mouths open to express astonishment. They -spout rain water at times, but you need not get under them; and there -are towers, and buttresses, a great clock, a gilded cross, and roofs -that go dimly heavenward. - -St. Catherine's is new. The neighborhood squats around it in different -pathetic attitudes. Opposite is the saloon of the wooden-legged man; then -the three groceries whose cabbages all look unpleasant; the parochial -school with the green lattice; and all those little wooden houses--where -lives, for instance, the dressmaker who funnily calls herself "Modiste." -Beyond the street the land drops down to the freight yards. - -But Father Connell died about the time they finished the east oriel, and -Father Harra reigned over the house of the old man's dreams--a red-faced -man, a high feeder, who looked as new as the church and said the virtues -of Father Connell were reducing his flesh. That would seem to be no -harm; but Father Harra meant it humorously. Father Connell had stumped -about too much among the workmen in the cold and wet, else there had -been no need of his dying at eighty-eight. His tall black hat became a -relic that hung in the tiring room, and he cackled no more in his thin -voice the noble Latin of the service. Peace to his soul! The last -order he wrote related to the position of the Christ figure and the -inscription, "Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden: I will give you -rest." But the figure was not in place till the mid-December following. - -And it was the day before Christmas that Father Harra had a fine -service, with his boy choir and all; and Chubby Locke sang a solo, -"Angels ever bright and fair," that was all dripping with tears, so to -speak. Chubby Locke was an imp too. All around the altar the candles -were lighted, and there hung a cluster of gas jets over the head of the -Christ figure on the edge of the south transept. So fine it was that -Father Harra came out of his room into the aisle (when the people were -gone, saying how fine it was, and the sexton was putting out the gas -here and there), to walk up and down and think about it, especially -how he should keep up with the virtues of Father Connell. Duskier and -duskier it grew, as the candles went out cluster by cluster till only -those in the south transept were left; and Dennis, coming there, stopped -and grunted. - -"What!" said Father Harra. - -"It's asleep he is," said the sexton. "It's a b'y, yer riverence." - -"Why, so it is! He went to sleep during the service. H'm--well--they -often do that, Dennis." - -"Anyways he don't belong here," said Dennis. - -"Think so? I don't know about that. Wait a bit. I don't know about that -Dennis." - -The boy lay curled up on the seat--a newsboy, by the papers that had -slipped from his arms. But he did not look businesslike, and he did not -suggest the advantages of being poor in America. One does not become a -capitalist or president by going to church and to sleep in the best of -business hours, from four to six, when the streets are stirring with -men on their way to dinners, cigars and evening papers. The steps of St. -Catherine's are not a bad place to sell papers after Vespers, and one -might as well go in, to be sure, and be warm while the service lasts; -only, as I said, if one falls asleep, one does not become a capitalist -or president immediately. Father Harra considered, and Dennis waited -respectfully. - -"It's making plans I am against your natural rest, Dennis. I'm that -inconsiderate of your feelings to think of keeping St. Catherine's open -this night. And why? Look ye, Dennis. St. Catherine's is getting itself -consecrated these days, being new, and of course--But I tell ye, Dennis, -it's a straight church doctrine that the blessings of the poor are a -good assistance to the holy wather." - -"An' me wid children of me own to be missin' their father this Christmas -Eve!" began Dennis indignantly. - -"Who wouldn't mind, the little villains, if their father had another -dollar of Christmas morning to buy 'em presents." - -"Ah, well," said the sexton, "yer riverence is that persuadin'." - -"It's plain enough for ye to see yourself, Dennis, though thick-headed -somewhat. There you are: 'Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden;' and -here he is. Plain enough. And who are the weary and heavy-laden in this -city?" - -"Yer riverence will be meanin' everybody," chuckled Dennis. - -"Think so? Rich and poor and all? Stuff! I don't believe it. Not -to-night. It'll be the outcasts, I'm thinking, Dennis. Come on." - -"An' the b'y, yer riverence?" - -"The what? Oh, why, yes, yes. He's all right. I don't see anything the -matter with him. He's come." - -It was better weather to go with the wind than against it, for the -snow drove in gritty particles, and the sidewalks made themselves -disagreeable and apt to slip out from under a person. Little spurts -of snow danced up St. Catherine's roofs and went off the ridgepoles in -puffs. It ought to snow on Christmas Eve; but it rightly should snow -with better manners and not be so cold. The groceries closed early. -Freiburger, the saloon man, looked over the curtains of his window. - -"I don't know vat for Fater Harra tack up dings dis time by his kirch -door, 'Come--come in here.' Himmel! der Irishman!" - -Father Harra turned in to his supper, and thought how he would trouble -Father Conner's reputation for enterprise and what a fine bit of -constructive ability himself was possessed of. - -The great central door of St. Catherine's stood open, so that the drift -blew in and piled in windrows on the cold floor of the vestibule. The -tall front of the church went up into the darkness, pointing to no -visible stars; but over the doors two gas jets flickered across the big -sign they use for fairs at the parochial school. "Come in here." The -vestibule was dark, barring another gas jet over a side door, with -another sign, "Come in here," and within the great church was dark as -well, except for a cluster over the Christ figure. That was all; but -Father Harra thought it a neat symbol, looking toward those who go from -meagre light to light through the darkness. - -Little noises were in the church all night far up in the pitch darkness -of rafter and buttress, as if people were whispering and crying softly -to one another. Now and again, too, the swing door would open and remain -so for a moment, suspicious, hesitating. But what they did, or who they -were that opened it, could hardly be told in the dusk and distance. -Dennis went to sleep in a chair by the chancel rail, and did not care -what they did or who they were, granted they kept away from the chancel. - -How the wind blew!--and the snow tapped impatiently at stained windows -with a multitude of little fingers. But if the noises among the rafters -were not merely echoes of the crying and calling wind without, if any -presences moved and whispered there, and looked down on flat floor and -straight lines of pews, they must have seen the Christ figure, with -welcoming hands, dominant by reason of the light about it; and, just on -the edge of the circle of light, shapeless things stretched on cushions -of pews, and motionless or stirring uneasily. Something now came dimly -up the aisle from the swing door, stopped at a pew, and hesitated. - -"Git out!" growled a hoarse voice. "Dis my bunk." - -The intruder gave a nervous giggle. "Begawd!" muttered the hoarse voice. -"It's a lady!" - -Another voice said something angrily. "Well," said the first, "it ain't -behavin' nice to come into me boodwer." - -The owner of the giggle had slipped away and disappeared in a distant -pew. In another pew to the right of the aisle a smaller shadow whispered -to another: - -"Jimmy, that's a statoo up there." - -"Who?" - -"That. I bet 'e's a king." - -"Aw, no 'e ain't. Kings has crowns an' wallups folks." - -"Gorry! What for?" - -"I don' know." - -The other sighed plaintively. "I thought 'e might be a king." - -The rest were mainly silent. Some one had a bad cough. Once a sleeper -rolled from the seat and fell heavily to the floor. There was an oath -or two, a smothered laugh, and the distant owner of the giggle used it -nervously. The last was an uncanny sound. The wakened sleeper objected -to it. He said he would "like to get hold of her," and then lay down -cautiously on his cushion. - -Architects have found that their art is cunning to play tricks with -them; whence come whispering galleries, comers of echoes, roofs that -crush the voice of the speaker, and roofs that enlarge it. Father -Connell gave no orders to shape the roofs of St. Catherine's, that on -stormy nights so many odd noises might congregate there, whispering, -calling, murmuring, now over the chancel, now the organ, now far up in -the secret high places of the roof, now seeming to gather in confidence -above the Christ figure and the circle of sleepers; or, if one vaguely -imagined some inquisitively errant beings moving overhead, it would seem -that newcomers constantly entered, to whom it had all to be explained. - -But against that eager motion in the darkness above the Christ figure -below was bright in his long garment, and quiet and secure. The cluster -of gas jets over his head made light but a little distance around, then -softened the dusk for another distance, and beyond seemed not to touch -the darkness at all. The dusk was a debatable space. The sleepers all -lay in the debatable space. They may have sought it by instinct; but -the more one looked at them the more they seemed like dull, half-animate -things, over whom the light and the darkness made their own compromises -and the people up in the roof their own comments. - -The clock in the steeple struck the hours; in the church the tremble was -felt more than the sound was heard. The chimes each hour started their -message, "Good will and peace;" but the wind went after it and howled it -down, and the snow did not cease its petulance at the windows. - -***** - -The clock in the steeple struck five. The man with the hoarse voice sat -up, leaned over the back of the seat and touched his neighbor, who rose -noiselessly, a huge fat man and unkempt. - -"Time to slope," whispered the first, motioning toward the chancel. - -The other followed his motion. - -"What's up there?" - -"You're ignorance, you are. That's where they gives the show. There's -pickin's there." - -The two slipped out and stole up the aisle with a peculiar noiseless -tread. Even Fat Bill's step could not be heard a rod away. The aisle -entered the circle of light before the Christ figure; but the two -thieves glided through without haste and without looking up. The -smaller, in front, drew up at the end of the aisle, and Fat Bill ran -into him. Dennis sat in his chair against the chancel rail, asleep. - -"Get onto his whiskers, Bill. Mebbe you'll have to stuff them whiskers -down his throat." - -There was a nervous giggle behind them. Fat Bill shot into a pew, -dragging his comrade after him, and crouched down. "It ain't no use," -he whispered, shaking the other angrily. "Church business is bad luck. I -alius said so. What's for them blemed noises all night? How'd come they -stick that thing up there with the gas over it? What for'd they leave -the doors open, an' tell ye to come in, an' keep their damn devils -gigglin' around? 'Taint straight I won't stand it." - -"It's only a woman, Bill," said the other patiently. - -He rose on his knees and looked over the back of the seat."'Tain't -straight. I won't stand it." - -"We won't fight, Bill. We'll get out, if you say so." - -The owner of the giggle was sitting up, as they glided back, Fat Bill -leading. - -"I'll smash yer face," the smaller man said to her. - -Bill turned and grabbed his collar. - -"You come along." - -The woman stared stupidly after, till the swing door closed behind them. -Then she put on her hat, decorated with too many disorderly flowers. -Most of the sleepers were wakened. The wind outside had died in the -night, and the church was quite still. A man in a dress suit and -overcoat sat up in a pew beneath a window, and stared about him. His -silk hat lay on the floor. He leaned over the back of the seat and spoke -to his neighbor, a tramp in checked trousers. - -"How'd I g-get here?" he asked thickly. - -"Don' know, pardner," said the tramp cheerfully. "Floated in, same as -me?" He caught sight of the white tie and shirt front. "Maybe you'd -give a cove a shiner to steady ye out They don't give breakfasts with -lodgin's here." - -The woman with the giggle and the broken-down flowers on her hat went -out next; then a tall, thin man with a beard and a cough; the newsboy -with his papers shuffled after, his shoes being too large; then a lame -man--something seemed the matter with his hip; and a decent-looking -woman, who wore a faded shawl over her head and kept it drawn across her -face--she seemed ashamed to be there, as if it did not appear to her a -respectable place; last, two boys, one of them small, but rather stunted -than very young. He said: - -"'E ain't a king, is 'e, Jimmy? You don' know who 'e is, do you, Jimmy?" - -"Naw." - -"Say, Jimmy, it was warm, warn't it?" - -***** - -Dennis came down the aisle, put out the gas, and began to brush the -cushions. The clock struck a quarter of six, and Father Harra came in. - -"Christmas, Dennis, Christmas! H'm--anybody been here? What did they -think of it?" - -Dennis rubbed his nose sheepishly. - -"They wint to shleep, sor, an'--an' thin they wint out." - -Father Harra looked up at the Christ figure and stroked his red chin. - -"I fancied they might see the point," he said slowly. "Well, well, I -hope they were warm." - -The colored lights from the east oriel fell over the Christ figure and -gave it a cheerful look; and from other windows blue and yellow and -magical deep-sea tints floated in the air, as if those who had whispered -unseen in the darkness were now wandering about, silent but curiously -visible. - -"Yer riverince," said Dennis, "will not be forgettin' me dollar." - - - - -THE SPIRAL STONE - - -THE graveyard on the brow of the hill was white with snow. The marbles -were white, the evergreens black. One tall spiral stone stood painfully -near the centre. The little brown church outside the gates turned its -face in the more comfortable direction of the village. - -Only three were out among the graves: "Ambrose Chillingworth, tat 30, -1675;" - -"Margaret Vane, tat 19, 1839;" and "Thy Little One, O God, tat 2," -from the Mercer Lot. It is called the "Mercer Lot," but the Mercers are -all dead or gone from the village. - -The Little One trotted around busily, putting his tiny finger in the -letterings and patting the faces of the cherubs. The other two sat on -the base of the spiral, which twisted in the moonlight over them. - -"I wonder why it is?" Margaret said. "Most of them never come out at -all. We and the Little One come out so often. You were wise and learned. -I knew so little. Will you tell me?" - -"Learning is not wisdom," Ambrose answered. "But of this matter it was -said that our containment in the grave depended on the spirit in which -we departed. I made certain researches. It appeared by common report -that only those came out whom desperate sin tormented, or labors -incomplete and great desire at the point of death made restless. I -had doubts the matter were more subtle, the reasons of it reaching out -distantly." He sighed faintly, following with his eyes, tomb by tomb, -the broad white path that dropped down the hillside to the church. "I -desired greatly to live." - -"I, too. Is it because we desired it so much, then? But the Little -One"--- - -"I do not know," he said. - -The Little One trotted gravely here and there, seeming to know very well -what he was about, and presently came to the spiral stone. The lettering -on it was new, and there was no cherub. He dropped down suddenly on the -snow, with a faint whimper. His small feet came out from under his gown, -as he sat upright, gazing at the letters with round troubled eyes, and -up to the top of the monument for the solution of some unstated problem. - -"The stone is but newly placed," said Ambrose, "and the newcomer would -seem to be of those who rest in peace." - -They went and sat down on either side of him, on the snow. The peculiar -cutting of the stone, with spirally ascending lines, together with the -moon's illusion, gave it a semblance of motion. Something twisted and -climbed continually, and vanished continually from the point. But the -base was broad, square, and heavily lettered: "John Mareschelli Vane." - -"Vane? That was thy name," said Ambrose. - -1890. tat 72. - -An Eminent Citizen, a Public Benefactor, and Widely Esteemed. - -For the Love of his Native Place returned to lay his Dust therein. - -The Just Made Perfect. - -"It would seem he did well, and rounded his labors to a goodly end, -lying down among his kindred as a sheaf that is garnered in the autumn. -He was fortunate." - -And Margaret spoke, in the thin, emotionless voice which those who are -long in the graveyard use: "He was my brother." - -"Thy brother?" said Ambrose. - -The Little One looked up and down the spiral with wide eyes. The other -two looked past it into the deep white valley, where the river, covered -with ice and snow, was marked only by the lines of skeleton willows and -poplars. A night wind, listless but continual, stirred the evergreens. -The moon swung low over the opposite hills, and for a moment slipped -behind a cloud. - -"Says it not so, 'For the Love of his Native Place'?" murmured Ambrose. - -And as the moon came out, there leaned against the pedestal, pointing -with a finger at the epitaph, one that seemed an old man, with bowed -shoulders and keen, restless face, but in his manner cowed and weary. - -"It is a lie," he said slowly. "I hated it, Margaret. I came because -Ellen Mercer called me." - -"Ellen isn't buried here." - -"Not here!" - -"Not here." - -"Was it you, then, Margaret? Why?" - -"I didn't call you." - -"Who then?" he shrieked. "Who called me?" - -The night wind moved on monotonously, and the moonlight was undisturbed, -like glassy water. - -"When I came away," she said, "I thought you would marry her. You -didn't, then? But why should she call you?" - -"I left the village suddenly!" he cried. "I grew to dread, and then to -hate it. I buried myself from the knowledge of it, and the memory of it -was my enemy. I wished for a distant death, and these fifty years have -heard the summons to come and lay my bones in this graveyard. I thought -it was Ellen. You, sir, wear an antique dress; you have been long in -this strange existence. Can you tell who called me? If not Ellen, where -is Ellen?" He wrung his hands, and rocked to and fro. - -"The mystery is with the dead as with the living," said Ambrose. "The -shadows of the future and the past come among us. We look in their eyes, -and understand them not. Now and again there is a call even here, and -the grave is henceforth untenanted of its spirit. Here, too, we know a -necessity which binds us, which speaks not with audible voice and will -not be questioned." - -"But tell me," moaned the other, "does the weight of sin depend upon its -consequences? Then what weight do I bear? I do not know whether it was -ruin or death, or a thing gone by and forgotten. Is there no answer here -to this?" - -"Death is but a step in the process of life," answered Ambrose. "I know -not if any are ruined or anything forgotten. Look up, to the order of -the stars, an handwriting on the wall of the firmament. But who hath -read it? Mark this night wind, a still small voice. But what speaketh -it? The earth is clothed in white garments as a bride. What mean the -ceremonials of the seasons? The will from without is only known as it is -manifested. Nor does it manifest where the consequences of the deed end -or its causes began. Have they any end or a beginning? I cannot answer -you." - -"Who called me, Margaret?" - -And she said again monotonously, "I didn't call you." - -The Little One sat between Ambrose and Margaret, chuckling to himself -and gazing up at the newcomer, who suddenly bent forward and looked into -his eyes, with a gasp. - -"What is this?" he whispered."'Thy Little One, O God, tat 2,' from -the Mercer Lot," returned Ambrose gently. "He is very quiet. Art not -neglecting thy business, Little One? The lower walks are unvisited -to-night." - -"They are Ellen's eyes!" cried the other, moaning and rocking. "Did you -call me? Were you mine?" - -"It is, written, 'Thy Little One, O God,'" murmured Ambrose. - -But the Little One only curled his feet up under his gown, and now -chuckled contentedly. - - - - -THE MUSIDORA SONNET - - -THE clock in some invisible steeple struck one. The great snowflakes -fell thickly, wavering and shrinking, delicate, barren seeds, conscious -of their unfruitfulness. The sputter of the arc lights seemed explosive -to the muffled silence of the street. With a bright corner at either end, -the block was a canon, a passage in a nether world of lurking ghosts, -where a frightened gaslight trembled, hesitated midway. And Noel -Endicott conceived suddenly, between curb and curb, a sonnet, to be -entitled "Dante in Tenth Street," the appearance of it occupying, -in black letter, a half page in the _Monthly Illustrated_, a gloomy -pencilling above, and below it "Noel Endicott." The noiselessness of his -steps enlarged his imagination. - - I walked in 19th Street, not the Florentine, - - With ghosts more sad, and one like Beatrice - - Laid on my lips the sanction of her kiss. - - 'Twas---- - -It should be in a purgatorial key, in effect something cold, white and -spiritual, portraying "her" with Dantesque symbolism, a definite being, -a vision with a name. "'Twas--" In fact, who was she? - -He stopped. Tenth Street was worth more than a sonnet's confined -austerity. It should be a story. Noel was one who beat tragic -conceptions into manuscript, suffering rejection for improbability. -Great actions thrilled him, great desires and despairs. The massive -villainies of Borgia had fallen in days when art was strenuous. Of old, -men threw a world away for a passion, an ambition. Intense and abundant -life--one was compelled now to spin their symbols out of thin air, be -rejected for improbability, and in the midst of a bold conception, in a -snowstorm on canoned Tenth Street, be hungry and smitten with doubts of -one's landlady. - -Mrs. Tibbett had been sharp that morning relative to a bill, and he -had remonstrated but too rashly: "Why discuss it, Mrs. Tibbett? It's -a negative, an unfruitful subject." And she had, in effect, raved, and -without doubt now had locked the outer door. Her temper, roused at one -o'clock, would be hasty in action, final in result. - -He stood still and looked about him. Counting two half blocks as one, it -was now one block to Mrs. Tibbett and that ambushed tragedy. - -In his last novel, "The Sunless Treasure" (to his own mind his -greatest), young Humphrey stands but a moment hesitating before the -oaken door, believing his enemies to be behind it with ready daggers. He -hesitates but a moment. The die is cast. He enters. His enemies are not -there. But Mrs. Tibbett seemed different. For instance, she would be -there. - -The house frontage of this, like the house frontage of the fatal next -block, was various, of brick, brownstone or dingy white surface, -with doorways at the top of high steps, doorways on the ground level, -doorways flush with the front, or sunken in pits. Not a light in any -window, not a battlement that on its restless front bore a star, but -each house stood grim as Child Roland's squat tower. The incessant -snowflakes fell past, no motion or method of any Byzantine palace -intrigue so silken, so noiseless, so mysterious in beginnings and -results. All these locked caskets wedged together contained problems -and solutions, to which Bassanio's was a simple chance of three with a -pointed hint. Noel decided that Tenth Street was too large for a story. -It was a literature. One must select. - -Meanwhile the snow fell and lay thickly, and there was no doubt that by -persistent standing in the snow one's feet became wet. He stepped into -the nearest doorway, which was on the level of the street, one of three -doorways alike, all low, arched and deep. - -They would be less noticeable in the daytime than in the night, when -their cavernous gaping and exact repetition seemed either ominous or -grotesque, according to the observer. The outer door was open. He felt -his way in beyond the drift to the hard footing of the vestibule, kicked -his shoes free of snow and brushed his beard. - -The heroes of novels were sometimes hungry and houseless, but it seemed -to Noel that they seldom or never faced a problem such as Mrs. Tibbett -presented. Desperate fortunes should be carried on the point of one's -sword, but with Mrs. Tibbett the point was not to provoke her. She was -incongruous. She must be thrust aside, put out of the plot. He made a -gesture dismissing Mrs. Tibbett. His hand in the darkness struck the -jamb of the inner door, which swung back with a click of the half-caught -latch. His heart thumped, and he peered into the darkness, where a thin -yellow pencil of light stretched level from a keyhole at the farther end -of a long hall. - -Dismissing Mrs. Tibbett, it was a position of dramatic advantage to -stand in so dark and deep an arched entrance, between the silence and -incessant motion of the snow on the one hand, and the yellow pencil -of light, pointing significantly to something unknown, some crisis -of fortune. He felt himself in a tale that had both force and form, -responsible for its progress. - -He stepped in, closed the half door behind him softly, and crept through -the hall. The thin line of light barred the way, and seemed to say, -"Here is the place. Be bold, ready-minded, full of subtlety and -resource." There was no sound within that he could hear, and no sound -without, except his own oppressed breathing and pulses throbbing in his -ears. - -Faint heart never won anything, and as for luck, it belonged to those -who adventured with various chances, and of the blind paths that led -away from their feet into the future, chose one, and another, and so -kept on good terms with possibility. If one but cried saucily, "Open -this odd little box, you three gray women!" And this, and this the -gray Fates smiled indulgently, showing a latent motherliness. How many -destinies had been decided by the opening and shutting of a door, which -to better or worse, never opened again for retreat? A touch on this door -and Mrs. Tibbett might vanish from the story forever, to the benefit of -the story. - -He lifted his hand, having in mind to tap lightly, with tact and -insinuation, but struck the door, in fact, nervously, with a bang that -echoed in the hall. Some one spoke within. He opened and made entry in a -prepared manner, which gave way to merely blinking wonder. - -It was a large dining-room, brightly lit by a chandelier, warm from -a glowing grate, sumptuous with pictures and hangings, on the table a -glitter of glass and silver, with meat, cakes and wine. - -On the farther side of the table stood a woman in a black evening dress, -with jewels on her hair and bosom. She seemed to have just risen, and -grasped the back of her chair with one hand, while the other held open a -book on the table. The length of her white arm was in relief against her -black dress. - -Noel's artistic slouch hat, now taken off with uncertain hand, showed -wavy brown hair over eyes not at all threatening, a beard pointed, -somewhat profuse, a face interestingly featured and astonished. No -mental preparation to meet whatever came, of Arabic or mediaeval -incident, availed him. He felt dumb, futile, blinking. The lady's -surprise, the startled fear on her face, was hardly seen before it -changed to relief, as if the apparition of Noel, compared with some -foreboding of her own, were a mild event. She half smiled when he -began:-- - -"I am an intruder, madam," and stopped with that embarrassed platitude. -"I passed your first door by accident, and your second by impulse." - -"That doesn't explain why you stay." - -"May I stay to explain?" - -When two have exchanged remarks that touch the borders of wit, they -have passed a mental introduction. To each the mind of the other is a -possible shade and bubbling spring by the dusty road of conversation. -Noel felt the occasion. He bowed with a side sweep of his hat. - -"Madam, I am a writer of poems, essays, stories. If you ask, What do I -write in poems, essays, stories, I answer, My perception of things. If -you ask, In what form would I cast my present perceptions of things, I -say, Without doubt a poem." - -"You are able to carry both sides of a conversation. I have not asked -any of these." - -"You have asked why I stay. I am explaining." - -The lady's attitude relaxed its stiffness by a shade, her half smile -became a degree more balmy. - -"I think you must be a successful writer." - -"You touch the point," he said slowly. "I am not. I am hungry and -probably houseless. And worse than that, I find hunger and houselessness -are sordid, tame. The taste of them in the mouth is flat, like stale -beer. It is not like the bitter tang of a new experience, but like -something the world shows its weariness of in me." - -The amused smile vanished in large-eyed surprise, and something -more than surprise, as if his words gave her some intimate, personal -information. - -"You say strange things in a very strange way. And you came in by an -accident?" - -"And an impulse?" - -"I don't understand. But you must sit down, and I can find you more to -eat, if this isn't enough." - -Noel could not have explained the strangeness of his language, if it was -strange, further than that he felt the need of saying something in -order to find an opportunity of saying something to the point, and so -digplayed whatever came to his mind as likely to arrest attention. It -was a critical lesson in vagabondage, as familiar there as hunger and -houselessness. He attacked the cold meat, cakes and fruit with fervor, -and the claret in the decanter. But what should be the next step in the -pursuit of fortune? At this point should there not come some revelation? - -The lady did not seem to think so, but sat looking now at Noel and now -at her own white hands in her lap. That she should have youth and beauty -seemed to Noel as native to the issue as her jewels, the heavy curtains, -the silver and glass. As for youth, she might be twenty, twenty-one, -two. All such ages, he observed to himself with a mental flourish, -were one in beauty. It was not a rosy loveliness like the claret in the -decanter, nor plump like the fruit in the silver basket, but dark-eyed, -white and slender, with black hair drawn across the temples; of a -fragile delicacy like the snowflakes, the frost flower of the century's -culture, the symbol of its ultimate luxury. The rich room was her -setting. She was the center and reason for it, and the yellow point of -a diamond over her heart, glittering, but with a certain mellowness, was -still more central, intimate, interpretative, symbolic of all desirable -things. He began to see the story in it, to glow with the idea. - -"Madam," he said, "I am a writer of whose importance I have not as yet -been able to persuade the public. The way I should naturally have gone -to-night seemed to me something to avoid. I took another, which brought -me here. The charm of existence--" She seemed curiously attentive. "The -charm of existence is the unforeseen, and of all things our moods are -the most unforeseen. One's plans are not always and altogether futile. -If you propose to have salad for lunch, and see your way to it, it -is not so improbable that you will have salad for lunch. But if you -prefigure how it will all seem to you at lunch, you are never quite -right. Man proposes and God disposes. I add that there is a third and -final disposal, namely, what man is to think of the disposition after it -is made. I hope, since you proposed or prefigured to-night, perhaps as -I did, something different from this--this disposition"--he lifted his -glass of claret between him and the light--"that your disposition what -to think of it is, perhaps, something like mine." - -The lady was leaning forward with parted lips, listening intently, -absorbed in his words. For the life of him Noel could not see why she -should be absorbed in his words, but the fact filled him with happy -pride. - -"Tell me," she said quickly. "You speak so well--" - -Noel filled in her pause of hesitation. - -"That means that my wisdom may be all in my mouth." - -"No, indeed! I mean you must have experience. Will you tell me, is it so -dreadful not to have money? People say different things." - -"They do." He felt elevated, borne along on a wave of ornamental -expression. "It is their salvation. Their common proverbs contradict -each other. A man looks after his pence and trusts one proverb that the -pounds will look after themselves, till presently he is called penny -wise and pound foolish, and brought up by another. And consider how less -noticeable life would be without its jostle of opinion, its conflicting -lines of wisdom, its following of one truth to meet with another going -a different way. Give me for finest companionship some half truth, some -ironic veracity." - -She shook her head. It came to him with a shock that it was not his -ornamental expression which interested her, but only as it might bear on -something in her own mind more simple, direct and serious, something -not yet disclosed. "In fact," he thought, "she is right. One must get on -with the plot" It was a grievous literary fault to break continuity, to -be led away from the issue by niceties of expression. The proper issue -of a plot was simple, direct, serious, drawn from the motive which began -it. Why did she sit here with her jewels, her white arms and black dress -these weird, still hours of the night? Propriety hinted his withdrawal, -but one must resist the commonplace. - -"The answer to the question does not satisfy you. But do you not see -that I only enlarged on your own answer? People say different things -because they are different. The answer depends on temperaments, more -narrowly on moods; on tenses, too, whether it is present poverty -and houselessness or past or future. And so it has to be answered -particularly, and you haven't made me able to answer it particularly to -you. And then one wouldn't imagine it could be a question particular to -you." - -"You are very clever," she murmured, half smiling again. "Are you not -too clever for the purpose? You say so many things." - -"That is true," said Noel plaintively. "The story has come to a -standstill. It has all run out into diction." - -At that moment there was a loud noise in the hall. - -The smile, which began hopefully, grew old while he watched it, and -withered away. The noise that echoed in the hall was of a banging door, -then of laden, dragging steps. The hall door was thrown open, and two -snowy hackmen entered, holding up between them a man wearing a tall hat. - -"He's some loaded, ma'am," said one of them cheerfully. "I ain't seen -him so chucked in six months." - -They dropped him in a chair, from which, after looking about him with -half-open, glassy eyes, and closing them again, he slid limply to the -floor. The hackman regarded that choice of position with sympathy. - -"Wants to rest his load, he does," and backed out of the door with his -companion. - -"It goes on the bill. Ain't seen him so chucked in six months." - -The lady had not moved from her chair, but had sat white and still, -looking down into her lap. She gave a hard little laugh. - -"Isn't it nice he's so 'chucked'? He would have acted dreadfully." She -was leaning on the table now, her dark eyes reading him intently. The -man on the floor snorted and gurgled in his sleep. - -"I couldn't kill anybody," she said. "Could you?" - -Noel shook his head. - -"It's so funny," she went on in a soft, speculative way, "one can't do -it. I'm afraid to go away and be alone and poor. I wish he would die." - -"It wouldn't work out that way," said Noel, struggling with his wits. -"He's too healthy." - -It seemed to him immediately that the comment was not the right one. It -was not even an impersonal fact to himself, an advantage merely to the -plot, that the sleeper was unable to object to him and discard him from -it, as he had resolved to discard Mrs. Tibbett, but with such brutal -energy as the sleeper's face indicated. For it repelled not so much by -its present relaxed degradation as by its power, its solidity of flesh, -its intolerant self-assertion, the physical vigor of the short bull -neck, bulky shoulders, heavy mustache, heavy cheeks and jaw, bluish -with the shaving of a thick growth. He was dressed, barring his damp -dishevelment, like a well-groomed clubman. - -But the lady was looking Noel in the eyes, and her own seemed strangely -large, but as if covering a spiritual rather than a physical space, -settled in melancholy, full of clouds, moving lights and dusky -distances. - -"I was waiting for him because he ordered me. I'm so afraid of him," she -said, shrinking with the words. "He likes me to be here and afraid of -him." - -"Tell me what I am to do?" he said eagerly. - -"I suppose you are not to do anything." - -Noel caught the thread of his fluency. He drew a ten-cent piece from -his pocket, tossed it on the table, gestured toward it with one hand -and swung the other over the back of his chair with an air of polished -recklessness. - -"But your case seems desperate to you. Is it more than mine? You have -followed this thing about to 'the end of the passage,' and there is my -last coin. My luck might change to-morrow. Who knows? Perhaps tonight. -I would take it without question and full of hope. Will you experiment -with fortune and--and me?" - -The dark eyes neither consented nor refused. They looked at him gravely. - -"It is a black, cold night. The snow is thick in the air and deep on the -street Put it so at the worst, but fortune and wit will go far." - -"Your wit goes farther than your fortune, doesn't it?" she said, -smiling. - -"I don't conceal." - -"You don't conceal either of them, do you? You spread them both out," -and she laughed a pleasant little ripple of sound. - -Noel rose with distinction and bent toward her across the table. - -"My fortune is this ten-cent piece. As you see, on the front of it is -stamped a throned woman." - -"Oh, how clever." She laughed, and Noel flushed with the applause. - -"Shall we trust fortune and spin the coin? Heads, the throned woman, I -shall presently worship you, an earthly divinity. Tails, a barren wreath -and the denomination of a money value, meaning I take my fortunes away, -and you," pointing in turn to the sleeper and the jewels, "put up with -yours as you can." - -She seemed to shiver as he pointed. "No," she said, "I couldn't do that. -A woman never likes to spin a coin seriously." - -"Will you go, then?" - -The sleeper grunted and turned over. She turned pale, put her hand to -her throat, said hurriedly, "Wait here," and left the room, lifting and -drawing her skirt aside as she passed the sleeper. - -She opened the door at last and came again, wrapped in a fur mantle, -carrying a travelling case, and stood looking down at the sleeper as if -with some struggle of the soul, some reluctant surrender. - -They went out, shutting the door behind them. - -The snow was falling still on Tenth Street, out of the crowding -night. He held her hand on his arm close to him. She glided beside him -noiselessly. - -The express office was at the corner, a little dingy, gas-lit room. - -"Carriage? Get it in a minute," said the sleepy clerk. "It's just round -the corner." - -They stood together by a window, half opaque with dust. Her face was -turned away, and he watched the slant of her white cheek. - -"You will have so much to tell me," he whispered at last. - -"I am really very grateful. You helped me to resolve." - -"Your carriage, sir." - -The electric light sputtered over them standing on the curb. - -"But," she said, smiling up at him, "I have nothing to tell you. There -is nothing more. It ends here. Forgive me. It is my plot and it wouldn't -work out your way. There are too many conflicting lines of wisdom in -your way. My life lately has been what you would call, perhaps, a study -in realism, and you want me to be, perhaps, a symbolic romance. I am -sure you would express it very cleverly. But I think one lives by -taking resolutions rather than by spinning coins, which promise either -a throned woman, or a wreath and the denomination of a money value. One -turns up so much that is none of these things. Men don't treat women -that way. I married to be rich, and was very wretched, and perhaps your -fame, when it comes, will be as sad to you. Perhaps the trouble lies in -what you called 'the third disposal.' But I did not like being a study -in realism. I should not mind being something symbolic, if I might prove -my gratitude"--she took her hand from his arm, put one foot on the step -and laughed, a pleasant little ripple of sound--"by becoming literary -material." The door shut to, and the carriage moved away into the storm -with a muffled roll of wheels. - -Noel stared after it blankly, and then looked around him. It was half -a block now to Mrs. Tibbett. He walked on mechanically, and mounted the -steps by habit. The outer door was not locked. A touch of compunction -had visited Mrs. Tibbett. - -He crept into his bed, and lay noting the growing warmth and sense of -sleep, and wondering whether that arched doorway was the third of the -three or the second. Strictly speaking he seemed to have gone in at the -middle one and come out at the third, or was it not the first rather -than the middle entrance that he had sheltered in? The three arched -entrances capered and contorted before him in the dark, piled themselves -into the portal of a Moorish palace, twisted themselves in a kind of -mystical trinity and seal of Solomon, floated apart and became thin, -filmy, crescent moons over a frozen sea. He sat up in bed and smote the -coverlet. - -"I don't know her name! She never told me!" He clutched his hair, and -then released it cautiously. "It's Musidora! I forgot that sonnet!" - - 'Twas Musidora, whom the mystic nine - - Gave to my soul to be forever mine, - - And, as through shadows manifold of Dis, - - Showed in her eyes, through dusky distances - - And clouds, the moving lights about their shrine; - - Now ever on my soul her touch shall be - - As on the cheek are touches of the snow, - - Incessant, cool, and gone; so guiding me - - From sorrow's house and triple portico. - - And prone recumbrance of brute tyranny, - - In a strict path shall teach my feet to go. - - -The clock in the invisible steeple struck three. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - -***** This file should be named 50271-8.txt or 50271-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50271/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/50271-8.zip b/old/50271-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index eebc77c..0000000 --- a/old/50271-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50271-h.zip b/old/50271-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 108b9ca..0000000 --- a/old/50271-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50271-h/50271-h.htm b/old/50271-h/50271-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 81e696a..0000000 --- a/old/50271-h/50271-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5826 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - Tioba, by Arthur Colton - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tioba and Other Tales - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Illustrator: A. B. Frost - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50271] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - TIOBA - </h1> - <h3> - AND OTHER TALES - </h3> - <h2> - By Arthur Colton - </h2> - <h3> - With a Frontispiece by A. B. Frost - </h3> - <h4> - New York - </h4> - <h3> - Henry Holt And Company - </h3> - <h4> - 1903 - </h4> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0002.jpg" alt="0002 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0002.jpg"><i>Original</i></a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><i>Original</i></a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0010.jpg" alt="0010 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0010.jpg"><i>Original</i></a> - </h5> - <h3> - DEDICATED TO - </h3> - <h3> - A. G. BRINSMADE - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TIOBA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A MAN FOR A' THAT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE ENEMIES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A NIGHT'S LODGING </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ON EDOM HILL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> SONS OF R. RAND </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> CONLON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ST CATHERINE'S </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE SPIRAL STONE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE MUSIDORA SONNET </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - TIOBA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ROM among the - birches and pines, where we pitched our moving tent, you looked over the - flat meadow-lands; and through these went a river, slow and almost - noiseless, wandering in the valley as if there were no necessity of - arriving anywhere at appointed times. “What is the necessity?” it said - softly to any that would listen. And there was none; so that for many days - the white tent stood among the trees, overlooking the haycocks in the - meadows. It was enough business in hand to study the philosophy and the - subtle rhetoric of Still River. - </p> - <p> - Opposite rose a strangely ruined mountain-side. There was a nobly-poised - head and plenteous chest, the head three thousand feet nearer the stars—which - was little enough from their point of view, no doubt, but to us it seemed - a symbol of something higher than the stars, something beyond them forever - waiting and watching. - </p> - <p> - From its feet upward half a mile the mountain was one raw wound. The - shivered roots and tree-trunks stuck out helplessly from reddish soil, - boulders were crushed and piled in angry heaps, veins of granite ripped - open—the skin and flesh of the mountain tom off with a curse, and - the bones made a mockery. The wall of the precipice rose far above this - desolation, and, beyond, the hazy forests went up a mile or more clear to - the sky-line. The peak stood over all, not with triumph or with shame, but - with the clouds and stars. - </p> - <p> - It was a cloudy day, with rifts of sunlight. An acre of light crept down - the mountain: so you have seen, on the river-boats at night, the - search-light feeling, fingering along the shore. - </p> - <p> - In the evening an Arcadian, an elderly man and garrulous, came up to see - what it might be that glimmered among his pulp-trees. He was a surprise, - and not as Arcadian as at first one might presume, for he sold milk and - eggs and blueberries at a price to make one suddenly rich. His name was - Fargus, and he it was whose hay-cutter clicked like a locust all day in - the meadow-lands. He came and made himself amiable beside us, and confided - anything we might care to know which experience had left with him. - </p> - <p> - “That's Tioba,” he said. “That's the name of that mountain.” And he told - us the story of one whom he called “Jim Hawks,” and of the fall of Tioba. - </p> - <p> - She's a skinned mountain [he said]. She got wet inside and slid. Still - River used to run ten rods further in, and there was a cemetery, too, and - Jim Hawks's place; and the cemetery's there yet, six rods underground, but - the creek shied off and went through my plough-land scandalous. - </p> - <p> - Now, Jim Hawks was a get-there kind, with a clawed face—by a - wildcat, yes, sir. Tioba got there; and Jim he was a wicked one. I've been - forty years in this valley, with the Petersons and the Storrses and the - Merimys at Canada Center, all good, quiet folk. And nothing happened to - us, for we did nothing to blame, till Jim came, and Tioba ups and drops on - him. - </p> - <p> - Now look at it, this valley! There've been landslides over beyond in - Helder's valley, but there's only one in mine. Looks as if the devil gone - spit on it. It's Jim Hawks's trail. - </p> - <p> - He come one day with a buckboard and a yellow horse, and he says: - </p> - <p> - “Sell me that land from here up the mountain.” - </p> - <p> - “Who be you?” says I. - </p> - <p> - “Jim Hawks,” says he, and that's all he appeared to know about it. And he - bought the land, and put up a house close to the mountain, so you could - throw a cat down his chimney if you wanted to, or two cats if you had 'em. - </p> - <p> - He was a long, swing-shouldered man, with a light-colored mustache and a - kind of flat gray eye that you couldn't see into. You look into a man's - eye naturally to see what his intentions are. Well, Jim Hawks's eye - appeared to have nothing to say on the subject. And as to that, I told my - wife it was none of our business if he didn't bring into the valley - anything but his name and a bit of money sufficient. - </p> - <p> - He got his face clawed by a wildcat by being reckless with it; and he ran - a deer into Helder's back yard once and shot it, and licked Helder for - claiming the deer. He was the recklessest chap! He swings his fist into - Helder's face, and he says: - </p> - <p> - “Shoot, if you got a gun. If you hain't, get out!” - </p> - <p> - I told Jim that was no place to put a house, on account of Tioba dropping - rocks off herself whenever it rained hard and the soil got mushy. I told - him Tioba'd as soon drop a rock on his head as into his gridiron. - </p> - <p> - You can't see Canada Center from here. There's a post-office there, and - three houses, the Petersons', the Storrses' and the Merimys'. Merimy's - house got a peaked roof on it. I see Jeaney Merimy climb it after her - kitten a-yowling on the ridge. She wasn't but six years old then, and she - was gritty the day she was born. Her mother—she's old Peterson's - daughter—she whooped, and I fetched Jeaney down with Peterson's - ladder. Jeaney Merimy grew up, and she was a tidy little thing. The Storrs - boys calculated to marry her, one of 'em, only they weren't enterprising; - and Jeaney ups and goes over to Eastport one day with Jim Hawks—cuts - out early in the morning, and asks nobody. Pretty goings on in this - valley! Then they come back when they were ready, and Jim says: - </p> - <p> - “What you got to say about it, Merimy?” - </p> - <p> - Merimy hadn't nothing to say about it, nor his wife hadn't nothing to say, - nor Peterson, nor the Storrs boys. Dog-gone it! Nobody hadn't nothing to - say; that is, they didn't say it to Jim. - </p> - <p> - That was five years ago, the spring they put up the Redman Hotel at - Helder's. People's come into these parts now thicker'n bugs. They have a - band that plays music at the Redman Hotel. But in my time I've seen - sights. The bears used to scoop my chickens. You could hear wildcats 'most - any night crying in the brush. I see a black bear come down Jumping Brook - over there, slapping his toes in the water and grunting like a pig. Me, I - was ploughing for buckwheat. - </p> - <p> - Jeaney Merimy went over to Eastport with her hair in a braid, and came - back with it put up like a crow's nest on top of her head. She was a - nice-looking girl, Jeaney, and born gritty, and it didn't do her any good. - </p> - <p> - I says to Jim: “Now, you're always looking for fighting,” says I. “Now, - me, I'm for peaceable doings. If you're looking for fighting any time, you - start in beyond me. - </p> - <p> - “You!” says Jim. “I'd as soon scrap with a haystack.” - </p> - <p> - I do know how it would be, doing with a haystack that way, but you take it - from Jim's point of view, and you see it wouldn't be what he'd care for; - and you take it from my point of view, and you see I didn't poke into - Jim's business. That's natural good sense. Only I'm free to say he was a - wicked one, 'stilling whiskey on the back side of Tioba, and filling up - the Storrs boys with it, and them gone to the devil off East where the - railroads are. And laying Peterson to his front door, drunk. My, he didn't - know any more'n his front door! “He's my grandfather,” says Jim. “That's - the humor of it”—meaning he was Jeaney's grandfather. And mixing the - singularest drinks, and putting 'em into an old man named Fargus, as ought - to known better. My wife she said so, and she knew. I do' know what Jeaney - Merimy thought, but I had my point of view on that. Jim got drunk himself - on and off, and went wilder'n a wildcat, and slid over the mountains the - Lord knows where. Pretty goings on in this valley! - </p> - <p> - This is a good climate if you add it all up and take the average. But - sometimes it won't rain till you're gray waiting for it, and sometimes it - will snow so the only way to get home is to stay inside, and sometimes it - will rain like the bottom fallen out of a tub. The way of it is that when - you've lived with it forty years you know how to add up and take the - average. - </p> - <p> - That summer Tioba kept her head out of sight from June to September - mainly. She kept it done up in cotton, as you might say, and she leaked in - her joints surprising. She's a queer mountain that way. Every now and then - she busts out a spring and dribbles down into Still River from a new - place. - </p> - <p> - In September they were all dark days and drizzly nights, and there was - often the two sounds of the wind on Tioba that you hear on a bad night. - One of 'em is a kind of steady grumble and hiss that's made with the - pine-needles and maybe the tons of leaves shaking and falling. The other - is the toot of the wind in the gullies on edges of rock. But if you stand - in the open on a bad night and listen, you'd think Tioba was talking to - you. Maybe she is. - </p> - <p> - It come along the middle of September, and it was a bad night, drizzly, - and Tioba talking double. I went over to the Hawkses' place early to - borrow lantern-oil, and I saw Jeaney Merimy sitting over the fire alone, - and the wind singing in the chimney. “Jim hasn't come,” she says, speaking - quiet; and she gets me the lantern-oil. After, when I went away, she - didn't seem to notice; and what with the wind in the chimney, and Jeaney - sitting alone with her big black eyes staring, and Tioba talking double, - and the rain drizzling, and the night falling, I felt queer enough to - expect a ghost to be standing at my gate. And I came along the road, and - there <i>was</i> one! - </p> - <p> - Yes, sir; she was a woman in a gray, wet cloak, standing at my gate, and a - horse and buggy in the middle of the road. - </p> - <p> - “'Mighty!” says I, and drops my oil-can smack in the mud. - </p> - <p> - “Does Mr. Hawks live here?” she says, seeing me standing like a tomfool in - the mud. - </p> - <p> - “No, ma'am,” says I. “That's his place across the flat half a mile. He - ain't at home, but his wife is.” - </p> - <p> - The wind blew her cloak around her sharp, and I could see her face, though - it was more or less dark. She was some big and tall, and her face was - white and wet with the rain. After a while she says: - </p> - <p> - “He's married?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, ma'am. You'd better not—'Mighty, ma'am!” says I, “where you - going?” - </p> - <p> - She swung herself into the buggy quicker'n women are apt to do, and she - whops the horse around and hits him a lick, and off he goes, splashing and - galloping. Me, I was beat. But I got so far as to think if she wasn't a - ghost, maybe Jim Hawks would as lief she would be, and if she didn't drive - more careful she'd be liable to oblige him that way. Because it stands to - reason a woman don't come looking for a man on a bad night, and cut away - like that, unless she has something uncommon on her mind. I heard the - buggy-wheels and the splash of the horse dying away; and then there was - nothing in the night but the drip of the rain and Tioba talking double—<i>um-hiss, - toot-toot.</i> - </p> - <p> - Then I went into the house, and didn't tell my wife about it, she - disliking Jim on account of his singular drinks, which had a tidy taste, - but affecting a man sudden and surprising. My wife she went off to bed, - and I sat by the fire, feeling like there was more wrong in the world than - common. And I kept thinking of Jeaney Merimy sitting by herself off there - beyond the rain, with the wind singing in the chimney, and Tioba groaning - and tooting over her. Then there was the extra woman looking for Jim; and - it seemed to me if I was looking for Jim on a dark night, I'd want to let - him know beforehand it was all peaceable, so there wouldn't be a mistake, - Jim being a sudden man and not particular. I had the extra woman on my - mind, so that after some while it seemed to me she had come back and was - driving <i>splish-splash</i> around my house, though it was only the wind. - I was that foolish I kept counting how many times she went round the - house, and it was more than forty; and sometimes she came so close to the - front door I thought she'd come through it—<i>bang!</i> - </p> - <p> - Then somebody rapped sudden at the door, and I jumped, and my chair went - slap under the table, and I says, “Come in,” though I'd rather it would - have stayed out, and in walks Jim Hawks. “'Mighty!” says I. “I thought you - was a horse and buggy.” - </p> - <p> - He picked up my chair and sat in it himself, rather cool, and began to dry - off. - </p> - <p> - “Horse and buggy?” says he. “Looking for me?” - </p> - <p> - I just nodded, seeing he appeared to know all about it. - </p> - <p> - “Saw 'em in Eastport,” says he. “I suppose she's over there”—meaning - his place. “Gone down the road! You don't say! Now, I might have known she - wouldn't do what you might call a rational thing. Never could bet on that - woman. If there was one of two things she'd be likely to do, she wouldn't - do either of 'em.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” says I, “speaking generally, what might she want of you?” - </p> - <p> - Jim looks at me kind of absent minded, rubbing his hair the wrong way. - </p> - <p> - “Now, look at it, Fargus,” he says. “It ain't reasonable. Now, she and me, - we got married about five years ago. And she had a brother named Tom - Cheever, and Tom and I didn't agree, and naturally he got hurt; not but - that he got well again—that is, partly. And she appeared to have - different ideas from me, and she appeared to think she'd had enough of me, - and I took that to be reasonable. Now, here she wants me to come back and - behave myself, cool as you please. And me inquiring why, she acts like the - country was too small for us both. I don't see it that way myself.” And he - shook his head, stretching his hands out over the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I don't see either end of it,” says I. “You're a bad one, Jim, a - downright bad one.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so. It's Jeaney you mean,” he says, looking kind of interested. - “It'll be hell for Jeaney, won't it?” - </p> - <p> - The wind and rain was whooping round the house so we could hardly hear - each other. It was like a wild thing trying to get in, which didn't know - how to do it, and wouldn't give up; and then you'd hear like something - whimpering, and little fingers tapping at the window-glass. - </p> - <p> - My opinion of Jim Hawks was that I didn't seem to get on to him, and - that's my opinion up to now; and it appeared to me then that Jim might be - the proper explanation himself of anything the extra woman did which - seemed unreasonable; but I didn't tell him that, because I didn't see - rightly what it would mean if I said it. - </p> - <p> - Jim got up and stretched his legs. “Now, I tell you, Fargus,” says he, - “I'm going to put the thing to Jeaney, being a clipper little woman, not - to say sharp. If it comes to the worst, I daresay Canada Center will give - us a burying; or if she wants to slide over the mountains with me, there's - no trouble about it; or if she'd rather go her own way, and me mine, - that's reasonable; or if she says to do nothing but hold the fort, why, - that's all right, too, only Canada Center would be likely to take a hand, - and then there'd surely be trouble, on account of me getting mad. Now, I - have to say to you, Fargus, that you've been as friendly as a man could - be, as things are; and maybe you've seen the last of me, and maybe you - wouldn't mind if you had.” - </p> - <p> - “Speaking generally,” says I, “you're about right, Jim.” - </p> - <p> - With that he laughed, and went out, pulling the door to hard against the - storm. - </p> - <p> - Next day the rain came streaming down, and my cellar was flooded, and the - valley was full of the noise of the flood brooks. I kept looking toward - the Hawkses' place, having a kind of notion something would blow up there. - It appeared to me there was too much gunpowder in that family for the - house to stay quiet. Besides, I saw Tioba had been dropping rocks in the - night, and there were new boulders around. One had ploughed through Jim's - yard, and the road was cut up frightful. The boulder in Jim's yard looked - as if it might be eight feet high. I told my wife the Hawkses ought to get - out of there, and she said she didn't care, she being down on Jim on - account of his mixed drinks, which had a way of getting under a man, I'm - free to say, and heaving him up. - </p> - <p> - About four o'clock in the afternoon it come off misty, and I started over - to tell Jim he'd better get out; and sudden I stops and looks, for there - was a crowd coming from Canada Center—the Storrses and the Petersons - and the Merimys, and the extra woman in a buggy with Henry Hall, who was - county sheriff then. “Well, 'Mighty!” says I. - </p> - <p> - They pulled up in front of Jim's place, and I took it they were going to - walk in and settle things prompt. But you see, when I got there, it was - Jim a-standing by his door with his rifle, and the sheriff and Canada - Center was squeezing themselves through the gate and Jim shooting off - sideways at the pickets on his fence. And the sheriff ups and yelled: - </p> - <p> - “Here, you Jim Hawks! That ain't any way to do.” - </p> - <p> - Then Jim walks down the road with his rifle over his arm, and Jeaney - Merimy comes to the door. She looked some mad and some crying, a little of - both. - </p> - <p> - “Hall,” says he, “you turn your horse and go back where you come from. - Maybe I'll see you by and by. The rest of you go back to Canada Center, - and if Jeaney wants anything of you she'll come and say so. You go, now!” - </p> - <p> - And they went. The extra woman drove off with the sheriff, hanging her - head, and the sheriff saying, “You'll have to come to time, Jim Hawks, - soon or late.” Jeaney Merimy sat in the door with her head hung down, too; - and the only one as ought to have been ashamed, he was walking around - uppish, like he meant to call down Tioba for throwing rocks into his yard. - Then Jeaney sees me, and she says: - </p> - <p> - “You're all down on Jim. There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.” - </p> - <p> - She began to cry, while Jim cocked his head and looked at her curious. And - she kept saying, “There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.” - </p> - <p> - That was a queer way for her to look at it. - </p> - <p> - Now, that night set in, like the one before, with a drizzling rain. It was - the longest wet weather I ever knew. I kept going to the window to look at - the light over at the Hawkses' and wonder what would come of it, till it - made my wife nervous, and she's apt to be sharp when she's nervous, so I - quit. And the way Tioba talked double that night was terrible—<i>um-hiss, - toot-toot</i>, hour after hour; and no sleep for me and my wife, being - nervous. - </p> - <p> - I do' know what time it was, or what we heard. All I know is, my wife - jumps up with a yell, and I jumps up too, and I know we were terrible - afraid and stood listening maybe a minute. It seemed like there was almost - dead silence in the night, only the um-m went on, but no hissing and no - tooting, and if there was any sound of the rain or wind I don't recollect - it. And then, “Um!” says Tioba, louder and louder and <i>louder!</i> till - there was no top nor bottom to it, and the whole infernal world went to - pieces, and pitched me and my wife flat on the floor. - </p> - <p> - The first I knew, there was dead silence again; or maybe my hearing was - upset, for soon after I began to hear the rain buzzing away quietly. Then - I got up and took a lantern, and my wife grabs me. - </p> - <p> - “You ain't going a step!” says she, and the upshot was we both went, two - old folks that was badly scared and bound to find out why. We went along - the road, looking about us cautious; and of a sudden, where the road ought - to be, we ran into a bank of mud that went up out of seeing in the night. - Then my wife sat down square in the road and began a-crying, and I knew - Tioba had fallen down. - </p> - <p> - Now, there's Tioba, and that's how she looked next morning, only worse—more - mushy and generally clawed up, with the rain still falling dismal, and - running little gullies in the mud like a million snakes. - </p> - <p> - According to my guess, Jim and Jeaney and the cemetery were about ten rods - in, or maybe not more than eight. Anyway, I says to Peterson, and he - agreed with me, that there wasn't any use for a funeral. I says: “God - A'mighty buried 'em to suit himself.” It looked like he didn't think much - of the way Canada Center did its burying, seeing the cemetery was took in - and buried over again. Peterson and me thought the same on that point. And - we put up the white stone, sort of on top of things, that maybe you've - noticed, and lumped the folk in the cemetery together, and put their names - on it, and a general epitaph; but not being strong on the dates, we left - them out mostly. We put Jeaney Merimy with her family, but Canada Center - was singularly united against letting Jim in. - </p> - <p> - “You puts his name on no stone with me or mine,” says Merimy, and I'm not - saying but what he was right. Yes, sir; Merimy had feelings, naturally. - But it seemed to me when a man was a hundred and fifty feet underground, - more or less, there ought to be some charity; and maybe I had a weakness - for Jim, though my wife wouldn't hear of him, on account of his drinks, - which were slippery things. Anyway, I takes a chisel and a mallet, and I - picks out a boulder on the slide a decent ways from Canada Center's - monument, and I cuts in it, “Jim Hawks”; and then I cuts in it an epitaph - that I made myself, and it's there yet: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - HERE LIES JIM HAWKS, KILLED BY ROCKS. - </h3> - <h3> - HE DIDN'T ACT THE WAY HE OUGHT. - </h3> - <h3> - THAT'S ALL I'll SAY OF JIM. - </h3> - <h3> - HERE HE LIES, WHAT'S LEFT OF HIM.= - </h3> - <p> - And I thought that stated the facts, though the second line didn't rhyme - really even. Speaking generally, Tioba appeared to have dropped on things - about the right time, and that being so, why not let it pass, granting - Merimy had a right to his feelings? - </p> - <p> - Now, neither Sheriff Hall nor the extra woman showed up in the valley any - more, so it seemed likely they had heard of Tioba falling, and agreed Jim - wouldn't be any good, if they could find him. It was two weeks more before - I saw the sheriff, him driving through, going over to Helder's. I saw him - get out of his buggy to see the monument, and I went up after, and led him - over to show Jim's epitaph, which I took to be a good epitaph, except the - second line. - </p> - <p> - Now, what do you think he did? Why, he busted out a-haw-hawing ridiculous, - and it made me mad. - </p> - <p> - “Shut up!” says I. “What's ailing you?” - </p> - <p> - “Haw-haw!” says he. “Jim ain't there! He's gone down the road.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you're a blamed liar,” says I; and the sheriff sobered up, - being mad himself, and he told me this. - </p> - <p> - “Jim Hawks,” says he, “came into East-port that night, meaning business. - He routed me out near twelve o'clock, and the lady staying at my house she - came into it, too, and there we had it in the kitchen at twelve o'clock, - the lady uncommon hot, and Jim steaming wet in his clothes and rather - cool. He says: 'I'm backing Jeaney now, and she tells me to come in and - settle it to let us alone, and she says we'll hand over all we've got and - leave. That appears to be her idea, and being hers, I'll put it as my - own.' Now, the lady, if you'd believe it, she took on fearful, and - wouldn't hear to reason unless he'd go with her, though what her idea was - of a happy time with Jim Hawks, the way he was likely to act, I give it - up. But she cried and talked foolish, till I see Jim was awful bored, but - I didn't see there was much for me to do. Then Jim got up at last, and - laughed very unpleasant, and he says: 'It's too much bother. I'll go with - you, Annie, but I think you're a fool.' And they left next morning, going - south by train.” - </p> - <p> - That's what Sheriff Hall said to me then and there. Well, now, I'm an old - man, and I don't know as I'm particular clever, but it looks to me as if - God A'mighty and Tioba had made a mistake between 'em. Else how come they - hit at Jim Hawks so close as that and missed him? And what was the use of - burying Jeaney Merimy eight rods deep, who was a good girl all her life, - and was for standing up for Jim, and him leaving her because the extra - woman got him disgusted? Maybe she'd rather Tioba would light on her, that - being the case—maybe she would have; but she never knew what the - case was. - </p> - <p> - That epitaph is there yet, as you might say, waiting for him to come and - get under it; but it don't seem to have the right point now, and it don't - state the facts any more, except the second line, which is more facts than - rhyme. And Tioba is the messiest-look-ing mountain in these parts. And - now, I say, Jim Hawks was in this valley little more than a year, and he - blazed his trail through the Merimy family, and the Storrs family, and the - Peterson family, and there's Tioba Mountain, and that's his trail. - </p> - <p> - No, sir; I don't get on to it. I hear Tioba talking double some nights, - sort of uneasy, and it seems to me she isn't on to it either, and has her - doubts maybe she throwed herself away. And there's the cemetery six to ten - rods underground, with a monument to forty-five people on top, and an - epitaph to Jim Hawks that ain't so, except the second line, there being no - corpse to fit it. - </p> - <p> - Canada Center thinks they'd fit Jim to it if he came round again; but they - wouldn't: for he was a wicked one, but sudden to act, and he was reckless, - and he kept his luck. For Tioba drawed off and hit at him, slap! and he - dodged her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - A MAN FOR A' THAT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>OMPANY A was cut - up at Antietam, so that there was not enough of it left for useful - purposes, and Deacon Andrew Terrell became a member of Company G, which - nicknamed him “'is huliness.” Company A came from Dutchess County. There - was a little white church in the village of Brewster, and a little white - house with a meagre porch where that good woman, Mrs. Terrell, had stood - and shed several tears as the deacon walked away down the street, looking - extraordinary in his regimentals. She dried her eyes, settled down to her - sewing in that quiet south window, and hoped he would remember to keep his - feet dry and not lose the cough drops. That part of Dutchess County was a - bit of New England spilled over. New England has been spilling over these - many years. - </p> - <p> - The deacon took the cough drops regularly; he kept his gray chin beard - trimmed with a pair of domestic scissors, and drilling never persuaded him - to move his large frame with other than the same self-conscious restraint; - his sallow face had the same set lines. There is something in the Saxon's - blood that will not let him alter with circumstances, and it is by virtue - of it that he conquers in the end. - </p> - <p> - But no doorkeeper in the house of God—the deacon's service in the - meeting-house at Brewster—who should come perforce to dwell in the - tents of wickedness would pretend to like it. Besides, Company G had no - tents. It came from the lower wards of the great city. Dinkey Cott, that - thin-legged, stunted, imp-faced, hardened little Bowery sprout, put his - left fist in the deacon's eye the first day of their acquaintance, and - swore in the pleasantest manner possible. - </p> - <p> - The deacon cuffed him, because he had been a schoolmaster in his day, and - did not understand how he would be despised for knocking Dinkey down in - that amateur fashion, and the lieutenant gave them both guard duty for - fighting in the ranks. - </p> - <p> - The deacon declared “that young man Cott hadn't no moral ideas,” and did - his guard duty in bitterness and strict conscience to the last minute of - it. Dinkey put his thumb to his nose and offered to show the lieutenant - how the thing should have been done, and that big man laughed, and both - forgot about the guard duty. - </p> - <p> - Dinkey had no sense whatever of personal dignity, which was partly what - the deacon meant by “moral ideas,” nor reverence for anything above or - beneath. He did not harbor any special anger, either, and only enough - malice to point his finger at the elder man, whenever he saw him, and - snicker loudly to the entertainment of Company G. - </p> - <p> - Dinkey's early recollections had to do with the cobblestones of Mulberry - Bend and bootblacking on Pearl Street. Deacon Terrell's began with a - lonely farm where there were too many potato hills to hoe, a little - schoolhouse where arithmetic was taught with a ferrule, a white - meeting-house where the wrath of God was preached with enthusiasm; both - seemed far enough away from the weary tramp, tramp, the picket duty, and - the camp at last one misty night in thick woods on the Stafford hills, - looking over the Rappahannock to the town of Fredericksburg. - </p> - <p> - What happened there was not clear to Company G. There seemed to be a deal - of noise and hurrying about, cannon smoke in the valley and cannon smoke - on the terraces across the valley. Somebody was building pontoon bridges, - therefore it seemed likely somebody wanted to get across. They were having - hard luck with the bridges. That was probably the enemy on the ridge - beyond. - </p> - <p> - There seemed to be no end to him, anyway; up and down the valley, mile - beyond mile, the same line of wooded heights and drifting smoke. - </p> - <p> - And the regiment found itself crossing a shaky pontoon bridge on a - Saturday morning in the mist and climbing the bank into a most battered - and tired-looking little town, which was smoldering sulkily with burned - buildings and thrilling with enormous noise. There they waited for - something else to happen. The deacon felt a lump in his throat, stopping - his breath. - </p> - <p> - “Git out o' me tracks!” snickered Dinkey Cott behind him. “I'll step on - yer.” - </p> - <p> - Dinkey had never seemed more impish, unholy and incongruous. They seemed - to stand there a long time. The shells kept howling and whizzing around; - they howled till they burst, and then they whizzed. And now and then some - one would cry out and fall. It was bad for the nerves. The men were - growling. - </p> - <p> - “Aw, cap, give us a chance!” - </p> - <p> - “It ain't my fault, boys. I got to wait for orders, same as you.” - </p> - <p> - Dinkey poked the deacon's legs with the butt of his rifle. - </p> - <p> - “Say, it's rotten, ain't it? Say, cully, my ma don't like me full o' - holes. How's yours?” - </p> - <p> - The other gripped his rifle tight and thought of nothing in particular. - </p> - <p> - Was it five hours that passed, or twenty, or one? Then they started, and - the town was gone behind their hurrying feet. Over a stretch of broken - level, rush and tramp and gasping for breath; fences and rocks ahead, - clumps of trees and gorges; ground growing rougher and steeper, but that - was nothing. If there was anything in the way you went at it and left it - behind. You plunged up a hill, and didn't notice it. You dove into a - gully, and it wasn't there. Time was a liar, obstacles were scared and ran - away. But half-way up the last pitch ran a turnpike, with a stone wall in - front that spit fire and came nearer and nearer. It seemed creeping down - viciously to meet you. Up, up, till the powder of the guns almost burned - the deacon's face, and the smoke was so thick he could only see the red - flashes. - </p> - <p> - And then suddenly he was alone. At least there was no one in sight, for - the smoke was very thick. Company G all dead, or fallen, or gone back. - There was a clump of brambles to his left. He dropped to the ground, crept - behind it and lay still. The roar went on, the smoke rolled down over him - and sometimes a bullet would clip through the brambles, but after a time - the small fire dropped off little by little, though the cannon still - boomed on. - </p> - <p> - His legs were numb and his heart beating his sides like a drum. The smoke - was blowing away down the slope. He lifted his head and peered through the - brambles; there was the stone wall not five rods away, all lined along the - top with grimy faces. A thousand rifles within as many yards, wanting - nothing better than to dig a round hole in him. He dropped his head and - closed his eyes. - </p> - <p> - His thoughts were so stunned that the slowly lessening cannonade seemed - like a dream, and he hardly noticed when it had ceased, and he began to - hear voices, cries of wounded men and other men talking. There was a clump - of trees to the right, and two or three crows in the treetops cawing - familiarly. An hour or two must have passed, for the sun was down and the - river mist creeping up. He lay on his back, staring blankly at the pale - sky and shivering a little with the chill. - </p> - <p> - A group of men came down and stood on the rocks above. They could probably - see him, but a man on his back with his toes up was nothing particular - there. They talked with a soft drawl. “Doggonedest clean-up I ever saw.” - </p> - <p> - “They hadn't no business to come up heah, yuh know. They come some - distance, now.” - </p> - <p> - “Shuah! We ain't huntin' rabbits. What'd yuh suppose?” - </p> - <p> - Then they went on. - </p> - <p> - The mist came up white and cold and covered it all over. He could not see - the wall any longer, though he could hear the voices. He turned on his - face and crawled along below the brambles and rocks to where the clump of - trees stood with a deep hollow below them. They were chestnut trees. Some - one was sitting in the hollow with his back against the roots. - </p> - <p> - During the rush Dinkey Cott fairly enjoyed himself. The sporting blood in - him sang in his ears, an old song that the leopard knows, it may be, - waiting in the mottled shadow, that the rider knows on the race course, - the hunter in the snow—the song of a craving that only excitement - satisfies. The smoke blew in his face. He went down a hollow and up the - other side. Then something hot and sudden came into the middle of him and - he rolled back against the roots of a great tree. - </p> - <p> - “Hully gee! I'm plunked!” he grumbled disgustedly. - </p> - <p> - For the time he felt no pain, but his blood ceased to sing in his ears. - Everything seemed to settle down around him, blank and dull and angry. He - felt as if either the army of the North or the army of the South had not - treated him rightly. If they had given him a minute more he might have - clubbed something worth while. He sat up against a tree, wondered what his - chance was to pull through, thought it poor, and thought he would sell it - for a drink. - </p> - <p> - The firing dropped off little by little, and the mist was coming up. - Dinkey began to see sights. His face and hands were hot, and things seemed - to be riproaring inside him generally. The mist was full of flickering - lights, which presently seemed to be street lamps down the Bowery. The - front windows of Reilly's saloon were glaring, and opposite was - Gottstein's jewelry store, where he had happened to hit one Halligan in - the eye for saying that Babby Reilly was his girl and not Dinkey's; and he - bought Babby a 90-cent gold ring of Gottstein, which proved Halligan to be - a liar. The cop saw him hit Halligan, too, and said nothing, being his - friend. And Halligan enlisted in Company G with the rest of the boys, and - was keeled over in the dark one night on picket duty, somewhere up - country. All the gang went into Company G. The captain was one of the - boys, and so was Pete Murphy, the big lieutenant. He was a sort of ward - sub-boss, was Pete. - </p> - <p> - “Reilly, he's soured on me, Pete. I dun-no wot's got the ol' man.” - </p> - <p> - The lights seemed to grow thick, till everything was ablaze. - </p> - <p> - “Aw, come off! Dis ain't de Bowery,” he muttered, and started and rubbed - his eyes. - </p> - <p> - The mist was cold and white all around him, ghostly and still, except that - there was a low, continual mutter of voices above, and now and then a soft - moan rose up from somewhere. And it seemed natural enough that a ghost - should come creeping out of the ghostly mist, even that it should creep - near to him and peer into his face, a ghost with a gray chin beard and - haggard eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I'm going down,” it whispered. “Come on. Don't make any noise.” - </p> - <p> - “Hully gee!” thought Dinkey. “It's the Pope!” - </p> - <p> - A number of things occurred to him in confusion. The deacon did not see he - was hit. He said to himself: - </p> - <p> - “I ain't no call to spoil 'is luck, if he is country.” - </p> - <p> - He blinked a moment, then nodded and whispered hoarsely: “Go on.” - </p> - <p> - The deacon crept away into the mist. Dinkey leaned back feebly and closed - his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Wished I'd die quick. It's rotten luck. Wished I could see Pete.” - </p> - <p> - The deacon crept down about two hundred yards, then stopped and waited for - the young man Cott. The night was closing in fast A cry in the darkness - made him shiver. He had never imagined anything could be so desolate and - sad. He thought he had better see what was the matter with Dinkey. He - never could make out afterward why it had seemed necessary to look after - Dinkey. There were hundreds of better men on the slopes. Dinkey might have - passed him. It did not seem very sensible business to go back after that - worthless little limb of Satan. The deacon never thought the adventure a - credit to his judgment. - </p> - <p> - But he went back, guiding himself by the darker gloom of the trees against - the sky, and groped his way down the hollow, and heard Dinkey muttering - and babbling things without sense. It made the deacon mad to have to do - with irresponsible people, such as go to sleep under the enemy's rifles - and talk aloud in dreams. He pulled him roughly by the boots, and he fell - over, babbling and muttering. Then it came upon the deacon that it was not - sleep, but fever. He guessed the young man was hit somewhere. They had - better be going, anyway. The Johnnies must have out a picket line - somewhere. He slipped his hands under Dinkey and got up. He tried to climb - out quietly, but fell against the bank. Some one took a shot at the noise, - spattering the dirt under his nose. He lifted Dinkey higher and went on. - Dinkey's mutterings ceased. He made no sound at all for a while, and at - last said huskily: - </p> - <p> - “Wot's up?” - </p> - <p> - “It's me.” - </p> - <p> - “Hully gee! Wot yer doin'?” - </p> - <p> - His voice was weak and thin now. He felt as if he were being pulled in two - in the middle. - </p> - <p> - “Say, ol' man, I won't jolly yer. Les' find Pete. There's a minie ball - messed up in me stomick awful.” - </p> - <p> - “'Tain't far, Dinkey,” said the deacon, gently. - </p> - <p> - And he thought of Pete Murphy's red, fleshy face and black, oily mustache. - It occurred to him that he had noticed most men in Company G, if they fell - into trouble, wanted to find Pete. He thought he should want to himself, - though he could not tell why. If he happened to be killed anywhere he - thought he should like Pete Murphy to tell his wife about it. - </p> - <p> - Dinkey lay limp and heavy in his arms. The wet blackness seemed like - something pressed against his face. He could not realize that he was - walking, though in the night, down the same slope to a river called the - Rappahannock and a town called Fredericksburg. It was strange business for - him, Deacon Terrell of Brewster, to be in, stumbling down the battlefield - in the pit darkness, with a godless little brat like Dinkey Cott in his - arms. - </p> - <p> - And why godless, if the same darkness were around us all, and the same - light, while we lived, would come to all in the morning? It was borne upon - the deacon that no man was elected to the salvation of the sun or - condemned to the night apart from other men. - </p> - <p> - The deacon never could recall the details of his night's journey, except - that he fell down more than once, and ran against stone walls in the dark. - It seemed to him that he had gone through an unknown, supernatural - country. Dinkey lay so quiet that he thought he might be dead, but he - could not make up his mind to leave him. He wished he could find Pete - Murphy. Pete would tell him if Dinkey was dead. - </p> - <p> - He walked not one mile, but several, in the blind night Dinkey had long - been a limp weight. The last thing he said was, “Les' find Pete,” and that - was long before. - </p> - <p> - At last the deacon saw a little glow in the darkness, and, coming near, - found a dying campfire with a few flames only flickering, and beside it - two men asleep. He might have heard the ripple of the Rappahannock, but, - being so worn and dull in his mind, he laid Dinkey down by the fire and - fell heavily to sleep himself before he knew it. - </p> - <p> - When he woke Pete Murphy stood near him with a corporal and a guard. They - were looking for the pieces of Company G. “Dead, ain't he?” said Pete. - </p> - <p> - The deacon got up and brushed his clothes. The two men who were sleeping - woke up also, and they all stood around looking at Dinkey in awkward - silence. - </p> - <p> - “Who's his folks?” - </p> - <p> - “Him!” said the big lieutenant. “He ain't got any folks. Tell you what, - ol' man, I see a regiment drummer somewhere a minute ago. He'll do a roll - over Dinkey, for luck, sure!” - </p> - <p> - They put Dinkey's coat over his face and buried him on the bank of the - Rappahannock, and the drummer beat a roll over him. - </p> - <p> - Then they sat down on the bank and waited for the next thing. - </p> - <p> - The troops were moving back now across the bridge hurriedly. Company G had - to take its turn. The deacon felt in his pockets and found the cough drops - and Mrs. Terrell's scissors. He took a cough drop and fell to trimming his - beard. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>NY one would have - called Bobby Bell a comfortable boy—that is, any one who did not - mind bugs; and I am sure I do not see why any one should mind bugs, except - the kind that taste badly in raspberries and some other kinds. It was - among the things that are entertaining to see Bobby Bell bobbing around - among the buttercups looking for grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are - interesting when you consider that they have heads like door knobs or - green cheeses and legs with crooks to them. “Bobbing” means to go like - Bobby Bell—that is, to go up and down, to talk to one's self, and - not to hear any one shout, unless it is some one whom not to hear is to - get into difficulties. - </p> - <p> - Across the Salem Road from Mr. Atherton Bell's house there were many level - meadows of a pleasant greenness, as far as Cum-ming's alder swamp; and - these meadows were called the Bow Meadows. If you take the alder swamp and - the Bow Meadows together, they were like this: the swamp was mysterious - and unvisited, except by those who went to fish in the Muck Hole for - turtles and eels. Frogs with solemn voices lived in the swamp. Herons flew - over it slowly, and herons also are uncanny affairs. We believed that the - people of the swamp knew things it was not good to know, like witchcraft - and the insides of the earth. In the meadows, on the other hand, there - were any number of cheerful and busy creatures, some along the level of - the buttercups, but most of them about the roots of the grasses. The - people in the swamp were wet, cold, sluggish, and not a great many of - them. The people of the meadows were dry, warm, continually doing - something, and in number not to be calculated by any rule in Wentworth's - Arithmetic. - </p> - <p> - So you see how different were the two, and how it comes about that the - meadows were nearly the best places in the world to be in, both because of - the society there, and because of the swamp near at hand and interesting - to think about. So, too, you see why it was that Bobby Bell could be found - almost any summer day “bobbing” for grasshoppers in the Bow Meadows—“bobbing” - meaning to go up and down like Bobby Bell, to talk to one's self and not - to hear any one shout; and “grasshoppers” being interesting because of - their heads resembling door knobs or green cheeses, because of the crooks - in their legs, and because of their extraordinary habit of jumping. - </p> - <p> - There were in Hagar at this time four ladies who lived at a little - distance from the Salem Road and Mr. Atherton Bell's house, on a road - which goes over a hill and off to a district called Scrabble Up and Down, - where huckleberries and sweet fern mostly grow. They were known as the - Tuttle Four Women, being old Mrs. Tuttle and the three Miss Tuttles, of - whom Miss Rachel was the eldest. - </p> - <p> - It is easy to understand why Miss Rachel and the children of the village - of Hagar did not get along well together, when you consider how clean she - was, how she walked so as never to fall over anything, nor took any - interest in squat tag, nor resembled the children of the village of Hagar - in any respect. And so you can understand how it was that, when she came - down the hill that Saturday afternoon and saw Bobby Bell through the bars - in the Bow Meadows, she did not understand his actions, and disapproved of - them, whatever they were. - </p> - <p> - The facts were these: In the first place a green grasshopper, who was - reckless or had not been brought up rightly, had gone down Bobby's back - next the skin, where he had no business to be; and naturally Bobby stood - on his head to induce him to come out. That seems plain enough, for, if - you are a grasshopper and down a boy's back, and the boy stands on his - head, you almost always come out to see what he is about; because it makes - you curious, if not ill, to be down a boy's back and have him stand on his - head. Any one can see that. And this is the reason I had to explain about - Miss Rachel, in order to show you why she did not understand it, nor - understand what followed after. - </p> - <p> - In the next place, Bobby knew that when you go where you have no business - to, you are sometimes spanked, but usually you are talked to unpleasantly, - and tied up to something by the leg, and said to be in disgrace. Usually - you are tied to the sewing machine, and “disgrace” means the corner of the - sewing-room between the machine and the sofa. It never occurred to him but - that this was the right and natural order of things. Very likely it is. It - seemed so to Bobby. - </p> - <p> - Now it is difficult to spank a grasshopper properly. And so there was - nothing to do but to tie him up and talk to him unpleasantly. That seems - quite simple and plain. But the trouble was that it was a long time since - Miss Rachel had stood on her head, or been spanked, or tied up to - anything. This was unfortunate, of course. And when she saw Bobby stand - violently on his head and then tie a string to a grasshopper, she thought - it was extraordinary business, and probably bad, and she came up to the - bars in haste. - </p> - <p> - “Bobby!” she said, “you naughty boy, are you pulling off that - grasshopper's leg?” - </p> - <p> - Bobby thought this absurd. “Gasshoppers,” he said calmly, “ithn't any good - 'ith their legth off.” - </p> - <p> - This was plain enough, too, because grasshoppers are intended to jump, and - cannot jump without their legs; consequently it would be quite absurd to - pull them off. Miss Rachel thought one could not know this without trying - it, and especially know it in such a calm, matter-of-fact way as Bobby - seemed to do, without trying it a vast number of times; therefore she - became very much excited. “You wicked, wicked boy!” she cried. “I shall - tell your father!” Then she went off. - </p> - <p> - Bobby wondered awhile what his father would say when Miss Rachel told him - that grasshoppers were no good with their legs off. When Bobby told him - that kind of thing, he generally chuckled to himself and called Bobby “a - queer little chicken.” If his father called Miss Rachel “a queer little - chicken,” Bobby felt that it would seem strange. But he had to look after - the discipline of the grasshopper, and it is no use trying to think of two - things at once. He tied the grasshopper to a mullein stalk and talked to - him unpleasantly, and the grasshopper behaved very badly all the time; so - that Bobby was disgusted and went away to leave him for a time—went - down to the western end of the meadows, which is a drowsy place. And there - it came about that he fell asleep, because his legs were tired, because - the bees hummed continually, and because the sun was warm and the grass - deep around him. - </p> - <p> - Miss Rachel went into the village and saw Mr. Atherton Bell on the steps - of the post-office. He was much astonished at being attacked in such a - disorderly manner by such an orderly person as Miss Rachel; but he - admitted, when it was put to him, that pulling off the legs of - grasshoppers was interfering with the rights of grasshoppers. Then Miss - Rachel went on her way, thinking that a good seed had been sown and the - morality of the community distinctly advanced. - </p> - <p> - The parents of other boys stood on the post-office steps in great number, - for it was near mail-time; and here you might have seen what varieties of - human nature there are. For some were taken with the conviction that the - attraction of the Bow Meadows to their children was all connected with the - legs of grasshoppers; some suspected it only, and were uneasy; some - refused to imagine such a thing, and were indignant. But they nearly all - started for the Bow Meadows with a vague idea of doing something, Mr. - Atherton Bell and Father Durfey leading. It was not a well-planned - expedition, nor did any one know what was intended to be done. They halted - at the bars, but no Bobby Bell was in sight, nor did the Bow Meadows seem - to have anything to say about the matter. The grasshoppers in sight had - all the legs that rightly belonged to them. Mr. Atherton Bell got up on - the wall and shouted for Bobby. Father Durfey climbed over the bars. - </p> - <p> - It happened that there was no one in the Bow Meadows at this time, except - Bobby, Moses Durfey, Chub Leroy, and one other. Bobby was asleep, on - account of the bumblebees humming in the sunlight; and the other three - were far up the farther side, on account of an expedition through the - alder swamp, supposing it to be Africa. There was a desperate battle - somewhere; but the expedition turned out badly in the end, and in this - place is neither here nor there. They heard Mr. Atherton Bell shouting, - but they did not care about it. It is more to the point that Father - Durfey, walking around in the grass, did not see the grasshopper who was - tied to the mullein stalk and as mad as he could be. For when tied up in - disgrace, one is always exceedingly mad at this point; but repentance - comes afterwards. The grasshopper never got that far, for Father Durfey - stepped on him with a boot as big as—big enough for Father Durfey to - be comfortable in—so that the grasshopper was quite dead. It was to - him as if a precipice were to fall on you, when you were thinking of - something else. Then they all went away. - </p> - <p> - Bobby Bell woke up with a start, and was filled with remorse, remembering - his grasshopper. The sun had slipped behind the shoulder of Windless - Mountain. There was a faint light across the Bow Meadows, that made them - sweet to look on, but a little ghostly. Also it was dark in the roots of - the grasses, and difficult to find a green grasshopper who was dead; at - least it would have been if he had not been tied to a mullein stalk. Bobby - found him at last sunk deep in the turf, with his poor legs limp and - crookless, and his head, which had been like a green cheese or a door - knob, no longer looking even like the head of a grasshopper. - </p> - <p> - Then Bobby Bell sat down and wept. Miss Rachel, who had turned the corner - and was half way up to the house of the Tuttle Four Women, heard him, and - turned back to the bars. She wondered if Mr. Atherton Bell had not been - too harsh. The Bow Meadows looked dim and mournful in the twilight. Miss - Rachel was feeling a trifle sad about herself, too, as she sometimes did; - and the round-cheeked cherub weeping in the wide shadowy meadows seemed to - her something like her own life in the great world—not very well - understood. - </p> - <p> - “He wath geen!” wailed Bobby, looking up at her, but not allowing his - grief to be interrupted. “He wath my geen bug!” - </p> - <p> - Miss Rachel melted still further, without knowing why. - </p> - <p> - “What was green?” - </p> - <p> - She pulled down a bar and crawled through. She hoped Mr. Atherton Bell was - not looking from a window, for it was difficult to avoid making one's self - amusing to Mr. Atherton Bell. But Bobby was certainly in some kind of - trouble. - </p> - <p> - “He'th dead!” wailed Bobby again. “He'th thtepped on!” - </p> - <p> - Miss Rachel bent over him stiffly. It was hard for one so austerely - ladylike as Miss Rachel to seem gracious and compassionate, but she did - pretty well. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it's a grasshopper!” Then more severely: “Why did you tie him up?” - </p> - <p> - Bobby's sobs subsided into hiccoughs. - </p> - <p> - “It'th a disgace. I put him in disgace, and I forgotted him. He went down - my back.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you step on him?” - </p> - <p> - “N-O-O-O!” The hiccoughs rose into sobs again. “He wath the geenest - gasshopper!” - </p> - <p> - This was not strictly true; there were others just as green; but it was a - generous tribute to the dead and a credit to Bobby Bell that he felt that - way. - </p> - <p> - Now there was much in all this that Miss Rachel did not understand; but - she understood enough to feel sharp twinges for the wrong that she had - done Bobby Bell, and whatever else may be said of Miss Rachel, up to her - light she was square. In fact, I should say that she had an acute-angled - conscience. It was more than square; it was one of those consciences that - you are always spearing yourself on. She felt very humble, and went with - Bobby Bell to dig a grave for the green grasshopper under the lee of the - wall. She dug it herself with her parasol, thinking how she must go up - with Bobby Bell, what she must say to Mr. Atherton Bell, and how painful - it would be, because Mr. Atherton Bell was so easily amused. - </p> - <p> - Bobby patted the grave with his chubby palm and cooed contentedly. Then - they went up the hill in the twilight hand in hand. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE ENEMIES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE great fluted - pillars in Ramoth church were taken away. They interfered with the view - and rental of the pews behind them. Albion Dee was loud and persuasive for - removing them, and Jay Dee secret, shy and resistant against it. That was - their habit and method of hostility. - </p> - <p> - Then in due season Jay Dee rented the first seat in the pew in front of - Albion's pew. This was thought to be an act of hostility, subtle, - noiseless, far-reaching. - </p> - <p> - He was a tall man, Jay Dee, and wore a wide flapping coat, had flowing - white hair, and walked with a creeping step; a bachelor, a miser, he had - gathered a property slowly with persistent fingers; a furtive, meditating, - venerable man, with a gentle piping voice. He lived on the hill in the old - house of the Dees, built in the last century by one “John Griswold Dee, - who married Sarah Ballister and begat two sons,” who respectively begat - Jay and Albion Dee; and Albion founded Ironville, three or four houses in - the hollow at the west of Diggory Gorge, and a bolt and nail factory. He - was a red-faced, burly man, with short legs and thick neck, who sought - determined means to ends, stood squarely and stated opinions. - </p> - <p> - The beginnings of the feud lay backward in time, little underground - resentments that trickled and collected. In Albion they foamed up and - disappeared. He called himself modern and progressive, and the bolt and - nail factory was thought to be near bankruptcy. He liked to look men in - the eyes. If one could not see the minister, one could not tell if he - meant what he said, or preached shoddy doctrine. As regards all view and - rental behind him, Jay Dee was as bad as one of the old fluted pillars. - Albion could not see the minister. He felt the act to be an act of - hostility. - </p> - <p> - But he was progressive, and interested at the time in a question of the - service, as respected the choir which sang from the rear gallery. It - seemed to him more determined and effective to hymnal devotion that the - congregation should rise and turn around during the singing, to the end - that congregation and choir might each see that all things were done - decently. He fixed on the idea and found it written as an interlinear to - his gospels, an imperative codicil to the duty of man. - </p> - <p> - But the congregation was satiated with change. They had still to make - peace between their eyes and the new slender pillars, to convince - themselves by contemplation that the church was still not unstable, not - doctrinally weaker. - </p> - <p> - So it came about that Albion Dee stood up sternly and faced the choir - alone, with the old red, fearless, Protestant face one knows of Luther and - Cromwell. The congregation thought him within his rights there to bear - witness to his conviction. Sabbaths came and went in Ramoth peacefully, - milestones of the passing time, and all seemed well. - </p> - <p> - Pseudo-classic architecture is a pale, inhuman allegory of forgotten - meaning. If buildings like Ramoth church could in some plastic way - assimilate their communicants, what gargoyles would be about the cornices, - what wall paintings of patient saints, mystical and realistic. On one of - the roof cornices of an old church in France is the carved stone face of a - demon with horns and a forked tongue, and around its eyes a wrinkled smile - of immense kindness. And within the church is the mural painting of a - saint, some Beata Ursula or Catherine, with upturned eyes; a likeable - girl, capable of her saintship, of turning up her eyes with sincerity - because it fell to her to see a celestial vision; as capable of a blush - and twittering laugh, and the better for her capabilities. - </p> - <p> - It is not stated what Albion symbolized. He stood overtopping the bonnets - and the gray heads of deacons, respected by the pews, popular with the - choir, protesting his conviction. - </p> - <p> - And all the while secretly, with haunch and elbow, he nudged, bumped and - rubbed the shoulders and silvery head of Jay Dee. It is here claimed that - he stood there in the conviction that it was his duty so to testify. It is - not denied that he so bumped and squatted against Jay Dee, cautiously, but - with relish and pleasure. - </p> - <p> - In the bowed silver head, behind the shy, persistent eyes of Jay Dee, what - were his thoughts, his purposes, coiling and constricting? None but the - two were aware of the locked throat grip of the spirit. In the droning - Sabbath peace the congregation pursued the minister through the - subdivisions of his text, and dragged the hymn behind the dragging choir. - </p> - <p> - It was a June day and the orioles gurgled their warm nesting notes in the - maples. The boys in the gallery searched the surface of the quiet assembly - for points of interest; only here and there nodding heads, wavering fans, - glazed, abstracted eyes. They twisted and yawned. What to them were - brethren in unity, or the exegesis of a text, as if one were to count and - classify, prickle by prickle, to no purpose the irritating points of a - chestnut burr? The sermon drowsed to its close. The choir and Albion rose. - It was an outworn sight now, little more curious than Monday morning. The - sunlight shone through the side windows, slanting down over the young, - worldly and impatient, and one selected ray fell on Jay Dee's hair with - spiritual radiance, and on Albion's red face, turned choirward for a - testimony. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Albion gave a guttural shout. He turned, he grasped Jay Dee's - collar, dragged him headlong into the aisle, and shook him to and fro, - protesting, “You stuck me! I'll teach you!” - </p> - <p> - His red face worked with passion; Jay Dee's venerable head bobbed, - helpless, mild, piteous. The choir broke down. The minister rose with - lifted hands and open mouth, the gallery in revelry, the body of the - church in exclamatory confusion. Albion saw outstretched hands - approaching, left his enemy, and hat in hand strode down the aisle with - red, glowering face, testifying, “He stuck me.” - </p> - <p> - Jay Dee sat on the floor, his meek head swaying dizzily. - </p> - <p> - On Monday morning Albion set out for Hamilton down the narrow valley of - the Pilgrim River. The sudden hills hid him and his purposes from Ramoth. - He came in time to sit in the office of Simeon Ballister, and Simeon's - eyes gleamed. He took notes and snuffed the battle afar. - </p> - <p> - “Ha! Witnesses to pin protruding from coat in region adjoining haunch. - Hum! Affidavits to actual puncture of inflamed character, arguing possibly - venom of pin. Ha! Hum! Motive of concurrent animosity. A very respectable - case. I will come up and see your witnesses—Ha!—in a day or - two. Good morning.” - </p> - <p> - Ballister was a shining light in the county courts in those days, but few - speak of him now. Yet he wrote a Life of Byron, a History of Hamilton - County, and talked a half century with unflagging charm. Those who - remember will have in mind his long white beard and inflamed and swollen - nose, his voice of varied melody. Alien whiskey and natural indolence kept - his fame local. His voice is silent forever that once rose in the - court-rooms like a fountain shot with rainbow fancies, in musical - enchantment, in liquid cadence. “I have laid open, gentlemen, the secret - of a human heart, shadowed and mourning, to the illumination of your - justice. You are the repository and temple of that sacred light. Not - merely as a plaintiff, a petitioner, my client comes; but as a worshipper, - in reverence of your function, he approaches the balm and radiance of that - steadfast torch and vestal fire of civilization, an intelligent jury.” - Such was Ballister's inspired manner, such his habit of rhythm and climax, - whenever he found twenty-four eyes fixed on his swollen nose, the fiery - mesmeric core of his oratory beaconing juries to follow it and discover - truth. - </p> - <p> - But the Case of Dee v. Dee came only before a justice of the peace, in the - Town Hall of Ramoth, and Justice Kernegan was but a stout man with hairy - ears and round, spectacled, benevolent eyes. Jay Dee brought no advocate. - His silvery hair floated about his head. His pale eyes gazed in mild - terror at Ballister. He said it must have been a wasp stung Albion. - </p> - <p> - “A wasp, sir! Your Honor, does a wasp carry for penetration, for puncture, - for malignant attack or justifiable defence, for any purpose whatsoever, a - brass pin of palpable human manufacture, drawn, headed and pointed by - machinery, such as was inserted in my client's person? Does the defendant - wish your Honor to infer that wasps carry papers of brass pins in their - anatomies? I will ask the defendant, whose venerable though dishonored - head bears witness to his age, if, in his long experience, he has ever met - a wasp of such military outfit and arsenal? Not a wasp, your Honor, but a - serpent; a serpent in human form.” - </p> - <p> - Jay Dee had no answer to all this. He murmured— - </p> - <p> - “Sat on me.” - </p> - <p> - “I didn't catch your remark, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, you see,” explained the Justice, “Jay says Albion's been squatting - on him, Mr. Ballister, every Sunday for six months. You see, Albion gets - up when the choir sings, and watches 'em sharp to see they sing correct, - because his ear ain't well tuned, but his eye's all right.” - </p> - <p> - The Justice's round eyes blinked pleasantly. The court-room murmured with - approval, and Albion started to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Now don't interrupt the Court,” continued the Justice. “You see, Mr. - Ballister, sometimes Jay says it was a wasp and sometimes he says it was - because Albion squatted on him, don't you see, bumped him on the ear with - his elbow. You see, Jay sets just in front of Albion. Now, you see—” - </p> - <p> - “Then, does it not appear to your Honor that a witness who voluntarily - offers to swear to two contradictory explanations; first, that the - operation in question, the puncture or insertion, was performed by a wasp; - secondly, that, though he did it himself with a pin and in his haste - allowed that pin in damnatory evidence to remain, it was because, he - alleges, of my client's posture toward, and intermittent contact with him—does - it not seem to your Honor that such a witness is to be discredited in any - statement he may make?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, really, Mr. Ballister, but you see Albion oughtn't to've squatted - on him.” - </p> - <p> - “I find myself in a singular position. It has not been usual in my - experience to find the Court a pleader in opposition. I came hoping to - inform and persuade your Honor regarding this case. I find myself in the - position of being informed and persuaded. I hope the Court sees no - discourtesy in the remark, but if the Court is prepared already to discuss - the case there seems little for me to do.” - </p> - <p> - The Justice looked alarmed. He felt his popularity trembling. It would not - do to balk the public interest in Ballister's oratory. Doubtless Jay Dee - had stuck a pin into Albion, but maybe Albion had mussed Jay's hair and - jabbed his ear, had dragged and shaken him in the aisle at least. The - rights of it did not seem difficult. They ought not to have acted that - way. No man has the right to sit on another man's head from the standpoint - or advantage of his own religious conviction. Nor has a man a right to use - another man for a pincushion whenever, as it may be, he finds something - about him in a way that's like a pincushion. But Ballister's oratory was - critical and important. - </p> - <p> - “Why,” said Kemegan hastily, “this Court is in a mighty uncertain state of - mind. It couldn't make it up without hearing what you were going to say.” - </p> - <p> - Again the Court murmured with approval. Ballister rose. - </p> - <p> - “This case presents singular features. The secret and sunless caverns, - where human motives lie concealed, it is the function of justice to lay - open to vivifying light. Not only evil or good intentions are moving - forces of apparent action, but mistakes and misjudgments. I conclude that - your Honor puts down the defendant's fanciful and predatory wasp to the - defendant's neglect of legal advice, to his feeble and guilty inepitude. I - am willing to leave it there. I assume that he confesses the assault on my - client's person with a pin, an insidious and lawless pin, pointed with - cruelty and propelled with spite; I infer and understand that he offers in - defence a certain alleged provocation, certain insertions of my client's - elbow into the defendant's ear, certain trespasses and disturbance of the - defendant's hair, finally, certain approximations and contacts between my - client's adjacent quarter and the defendant's shoulders, denominated by - him—and here we demur or object—as an act of sitting or - squatting, whereby the defendant alleges himself to have been touched, - grieved and annoyed. In the defendant's parsimonious neglect of counsel we - generously supply him with a fair statement of his case. I return to my - client. - </p> - <p> - “Your Honor, what nobler quality is there in our defective nature than - that which enables the earnest man, whether as a citizen or in divine - worship, whether in civil matters or religious, to abide steadfastly by - his conscience and convictions. He stands a pillar of principle, a rock in - the midst of uncertain waters. The feeble look up to him and are - encouraged, the false and shifty are ashamed. His eye is fixed on the - future. Posterity shall judge him. Small matters of his environment escape - his notice. His mind is on higher things. - </p> - <p> - “I am not prepared to forecast the judgment of posterity on that point of - ritualistic devotion to which my client is so devoted an advocate. Neither - am I anxious or troubled to seek opinion whether my client inserted his - elbow into the defendant's ear, or the defendant, maliciously or - inadvertently, by some rotatory motion, applied, bumped or banged his ear - against my client's elbow; whether the defendant rubbed or impinged with - his head on the appendant coat tails of my client, or the reverse. I am - uninterested in the alternative, indifferent to the whole matter. It seems - to me an academic question. If the defendant so acted, it is not the - action of which we complain. If my client once, twice, or even at sundry - times, in his stern absorption, did not observe what may in casual - accident have taken place behind, what then? I ask your Honor, what then? - Did the defendant by a slight removal, by suggestion, by courteous - remonstrance, attempt to obviate the difficulty? No! Did he remember those - considerate virtues enjoined in Scripture, or the sacred place and - ceremony in which he shared? No! Like a serpent, he coiled and waited. He - hid his hypocrisy in white hairs, his venomous purpose in attitudes of - reverence. He darkened his morbid malice till it festered, corroded, - corrupted. He brooded over his fancied injury and developed his base - design. Resolved and prepared, he watched his opportunity. With brazen and - gangrened pin of malicious point and incensed propulsion, with averted eye - and perfidious hand, with sudden, secret, backward thrust, with all the - force of accumulated, diseased, despicable spite, he darted like a - serpent's fang this misapplied instrument into the unprotected posterior, - a sensitive portion, most outlying and exposed, of my client's person. - </p> - <p> - “This action, your Honor, I conceive to be in intent and performance a - felonious, injurious and sufficient assault. For this injury, for pain, - indignity and insult, for the vindication of justice in state and - community, for the protection of the citizen from bold or treacherous - attack, anterior or posterior, vanguard or rear, I ask your Honor that - damages be given my client adequate to that injury, adequate to that - vindication and protection.” - </p> - <p> - So much and more Ballister spoke. Mr. Kernegan took off his spectacles and - rubbed his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, “I guess Mr. Ballister'll charge Albion about forty - dollars—” - </p> - <p> - Ballister started up. - </p> - <p> - “Don't interrupt the Court. It's worth all that. Albion and Jay haven't - been acting right and they ought to pay for it between 'em. The Court - decides Jay Dee shall pay twenty dollars damages and costs.” - </p> - <p> - The court-room murmured with approval. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The twilight was gathering as Albion drove across the old covered bridge - and turned into the road that leads to Ironville through a gloomy gorge of - hemlock trees and low-browed rocks. The road keeps to the left above - Diggory Brook, which murmurs in recesses below and waves little ghostly - white garments over its waterfalls. Such is this murmur and the soft noise - of the wind in the hemlocks, that the gorge is ever filled with a sound of - low complaint. Twilight in the open sky is night below the hemlocks. At - either end of the avenue you note where the light still glows fadingly. - There lie the hopes and possibilities of a worldly day, skies, fields and - market-places, to-days, to-morrows and yesterdays, and men walking about - with confidence in their footing. But here the hemlocks stand beside in - black order of pillars and whisper together distrustfully. The man who - passes you is a nameless shadow with an intrusive, heavy footfall. Low - voices float up from the pit of the gorge, intimations, regrets, - discouragements, temptations. - </p> - <p> - A house and mill once stood at the lower end of it, and there, a century - ago, was a wild crime done on a certain night; the dead bodies of the - miller and his children lay on the floor, except one child, who hid and - crept out in the grass; little trickles of blood stole along the cracks; - house and mill blazed and fell down into darkness; a maniac cast his - dripping axe into Diggory Brook and fled away yelling among the hills. Not - that this had made the gorge any darker, or that its whispers are supposed - to relate to any such memories. The brook comes from swamps and meadows - like other brooks, and runs into the Pilgrim River. It is shallow and - rapid, though several have contrived to fall and be drowned in it. One - wonders how it could have happened. The old highway leading from Ramoth - village to the valley has been grass-grown for generations, but that is - because the other road is more direct to the Valley settlement and the - station. The water of the brook is clear and pleasant enough. Much - trillium, with its leaves like dark red splashes, a plant of sullen color - and solitary station, used to grow there, but does so no more. Slender - birches now creep down almost to the mouth of the gorge, and stand with - white stems and shrinking, trembling leaves. But birches grow nearly - everywhere. - </p> - <p> - Albion drove steadily up the darkened road, till his horse dropped into a - walk behind an indistinguishable object that crept in front with creaking - wheels. He shouted for passage and turned into the ditch on the side away - from the gorge. The shadowy vehicle drifted slantingly aside. Albion - started his horse; the front wheels of the two clicked, grated, slid - inside each other and locked. Albion spoke impatiently. He was ever for - quick decisions. He backed his horse, and the lock became hopeless. The - unknown made no comment, no noise. The hemlocks whispered, the brook - muttered in its pit and shook the little white garments of its waterfalls. - </p> - <p> - “Crank your wheel a trifle now.” - </p> - <p> - The other did not move. - </p> - <p> - “Who are you? Can't ye speak?” - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - Albion leaned over his wheel, felt the seat rail of the other vehicle, and - brought his face close to something white—white hair about the - approximate outline of a face. By the hair crossed by the falling hat - brim, by the shoulders seen vaguely to be bent forward, by the loose - creaking wheels of the buck-board he knew Jay Dee. The two stood close and - breathless, face to face, but featureless and apart by the unmeasured - distance of obscurity. - </p> - <p> - Albion felt a sudden uneasy thrill and drew back. He dreaded to hear Jay - Dee's spiritless complaining voice, too much in the nature of that dusky, - uncanny place. He felt as if something cold, damp and impalpable were - drawing closer to him, whispering, calling his attention to the gorge, how - black and steep! to the presence of Jay Dee, how near! to the close secret - hemlocks covering the sky. This was not agreeable to a positive man, a man - without fancies. Jay Dee sighed at last, softly, and spoke, piping, thin, - half-moaning: - </p> - <p> - “You're following me. Let me alone!” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not following you,” said Albion hoarsely. “Crank your wheel!” - </p> - <p> - “You're following me. I'm an old man. You're only fifty.” - </p> - <p> - Albion breathed hard in the darkness. He did not understand either Jay Dee - or himself. After a silence Jay Dee went on: - </p> - <p> - “I haven't any kin but you, Albion, except Stephen Ballister and the - Winslows. They're only fourth cousins.” - </p> - <p> - Albion growled. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Without my making a will it'd come to you, wouldn't it? Seems to me as if - you oughtn't to pester me, being my nearest kin, and me, I ain't made any - will. I got a little property, though it ain't much. 'Twould clear your - mortgage and make you easy.” - </p> - <p> - “What d'you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Twenty dollars and costs,” moaned Jay Dee. “And me an old man, getting - ready for his latter end soon. I ain't made my will, either. I ought to've - done it.” - </p> - <p> - What could Jay Dee mean? If he made no will his property would come to - Albion. No will made yet. A hinted intention to make one in favor of - Stephen Ballister or the Winslows. The foundry was mortgaged.—Jay - was worth sixty thousand. Diggory Gorge was a dark whispering place of - ancient crime, of more than one unexplained accident. The hemlocks - whispered, the brook gurgled and glimmered. Such darkness might well cloak - and cover the sunny instincts that look upwards, scruples of the social - daylight. Would Jay Dee trap him to his ruin? Jay Dee would not expect to - enjoy it if he were dead himself. But accidents befall, and men not seldom - meet sudden deaths, and an open, free-speaking neighbor is not suspected. - Success lies before him in the broad road. - </p> - <p> - It rushed through Albion's mind, a flood, sudden, stupefying—thoughts - that he could not master, push back, or stamp down. - </p> - <p> - He started and roused himself; his hands were cold and shaking. He sprang - from his buggy and cried angrily: - </p> - <p> - “What d'ye mean by all that? Tempt me, a God-fearing man? Throw ye off'n - the gorge! Break your old neck! I've good notion to it, if I wasn't a - God-fearing man. Crank your wheel there!” - </p> - <p> - He jerked his buggy free, sprang in, and lashed his horse. The horse - leaped, the wheels locked again. Jay Dee's buckboard, thrust slanting - aside, went over the edge, slid and stopped with a thud, caught by the - hemlock trunks. A ghostly glimmer of white hair one instant, and Jay Dee - was gone down the black pit of the gorge. A wheezing moan, and nothing - more was heard in the confusion. Then only the complaining murmur of the - brook, the hemlocks at their secrets. - </p> - <p> - “Jay! Jay!” called Albion, and then leaped out, ran and whispered, “Jay!” - </p> - <p> - Only the mutter of the brook and the shimmer of foam could be made out as - he stared and listened, leaning over, clinging to a tree, feeling about - for the buckboard. He fumbled, lit a match and lifted it. The seat was - empty, the left wheels still in the road. The two horses, with twisted - necks and glimmering eyes, were looking back quietly at him, Albion Dee, a - man of ideas and determination, now muttering things unintelligible in the - same tone with the muttering water, with wet forehead and nerveless hands, - heir of Jay Dee's thousands, staring down the gorge of Diggory Brook, the - scene of old crime. He gripped with difficulty as he let himself slide - past the first row of trees, and felt for some footing below. He noticed - dully that it was a steep slope, not a precipice at that point. He lit - more matches as he crept down, and peered around to find something crushed - and huddled against some tree, a lifeless, fearful thing. The slope grew - more moderate. There were thick ferns. And closely above the brook, that - gurgled and laughed quietly, now near at hand, sat Jay Dee. He looked up - and blinked dizzily, whispered and piped: - </p> - <p> - “Twenty dollars and costs! You oughtn't to pester me. I ain't made my - will.” - </p> - <p> - Albion sat down. They sat close together in the darkness some moments and - were silent. - </p> - <p> - “You ain't hurt?” Albion asked at last. “We'll get out.” - </p> - <p> - They went up the steep, groping and stumbling. - </p> - <p> - Albion half lifted his enemy into the buckboard, and led the horse, his - own following. They were out into the now almost faded daylight. Jay sat - holding his lines, bowed over, meek and venerable. The front of his coat - was torn. Albion came to his wheel. - </p> - <p> - “Will twenty dollars make peace between you and me, Jay Dee?” - </p> - <p> - “The costs was ten,” piping sadly. - </p> - <p> - “Thirty dollars, Jay Dee? Here it is.” - </p> - <p> - He jumped into his buggy and drove rapidly. In sight of the foundry he - drew a huge breath. - </p> - <p> - “I been a sinner and a fool,” and slapped his knee. “It's sixty thousand - dollars, maybe seventy. A self-righteous sinner and a cocksure fool. God - forgive me!” - </p> - <p> - Between eight and nine Jay Dee sat down before his meagre fire and rusty - stove, drank his weak tea and toasted his bread. The windows clicked with - the night wind. The furniture was old, worn, unstable, except the large - desk behind him full of pigeonholes and drawers. Now and then he turned - and wrote on scraps of paper. Tea finished, he collected the scraps and - copied: - </p> - <p> - Mr. Stephen Ballister: I feel, as growing somewhat old, I ought to make my - will, and sometime, leaving this world for a better, would ask you to make - my will for me, for which reasonable charge, putting this so it cannot be - broken by lawyers, who will talk too much and are vain of themselves, that - is, leaving all my property of all kinds to my relative, James Winslow of - Wimberton, and not anything to Albion Dee; for he has not much sense but - is hasty; for to look after the choir is not his business, and to sit on - an old man and throw him from his own wagon and pay him thirty dollars is - hasty, for it is not good sense, and not anything to Stephen Ballister, - for he must be rich with talking so much in courts of this world. Put this - all in my will, but if unable or unwilling on account of remorse for - speaking so in the court, please to inform that I may get another lawyer. - Yours, - </p> - <p> - Jay Dee. - </p> - <p> - He sealed and addressed the letter, put it in his pocket, and noticed the - ruinous rent in his coat. He sighed, murmured over it complainingly, and - turned up the lapel of the coat. Pins in great variety and number were - there in careful order, some new, some small, some long and old and - yellow. He selected four and pinned the rent together, sighing. Then he - took three folded bills from his vest pocket, unfolded, counted and put - them back, felt of the letter in his coat gently, murmured, “I had the - best of Albion there; I had him there,” took his candle and went up - peacefully and venerably to bed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - A NIGHT'S LODGING - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ATHER WILISTON was - a retired clergyman, so distinguished from his son Timothy, whose house - stood on the ridge north of the old village of Win-throp, and whose daily - path lay between his house and the new growing settlement around the - valley station. It occurred at odd times to Father Wiliston that Timothy's - path was somewhat undeviating. The clergyman had walked widely since - Win-throp was first left behind fifty-five years back, at a time when the - town was smaller and cows cropped the Green but never a lawn mower. - </p> - <p> - After college and seminary had come the frontier, which lay this side of - the Great Lakes until Clinton stretched his ribbon of waterway to the sea; - then a mission in Wisconsin, intended to modify the restless profanity of - lumbermen who broke legs under logs and drank disastrous whiskey. A city - and twenty mills were on the spot now, though the same muddy river ran - into the same blue lake. Some skidders and saw-tenders of old days were - come to live in stone mansions and drive in nickel-plated carriages; some - were dead; some drifting like the refuse on the lake front; some skidding - and saw-tending still. Distinction of social position was an idea that - Father Wiliston never was able to grasp. - </p> - <p> - In the memories of that raw city on the lake he had his place among its - choicest incongruities; and when his threescore and ten years were full, - the practical tenderness of his nickel-plated and mansioned parishioners - packed him one day into an upholstered sleeping car, drew an astonishing - check to his credit, and mailed it for safety to Timothy Wiliston of - Winthrop. So Father Wiliston returned to Winthrop, where Timothy, his son, - had been sent to take root thirty years before. - </p> - <p> - One advantage of single-mindedness is that life keeps on presenting us - with surprises. Father Wiliston occupied his own Arcadia, and Wisconsin or - Winthrop merely sent in to him a succession of persons and events of - curious interest. “The parson”—Wisconsin so spoke of him, leaning - sociably over its bar, or pausing among scented slabs and sawdust—“the - parson resembles an egg as respects that it's innocent and some lopsided, - but when you think he must be getting addled, he ain't. He says to me, - 'You'll make the Lord a deal of trouble, bless my soul!' he says. I don't - see how the Lord's going to arrange for you. But'—thinking he might - hurt my feelings—'I guess he'll undertake it by and by.' Then he - goes wabbling down-street, picks up Mike Riley, who's considerable drunk, - and takes him to see his chickens. And Mike gets so interested in those - chickens you'd like to die. Then parson goes off, absent-minded and - forgets him, and Mike sleeps the balmy night in the barnyard, and steals a - chicken in the morning, and parson says, 'Bless my soul! How singular!' - Well,” concluded Wisconsin, “he's getting pretty young for his years. I - hear they're going to send him East before he learns bad habits.” - </p> - <p> - The steadiness and repetition of Timothy's worldly career and semi-daily - walk to and from his business therefore seemed to Father Wiliston - phenomenal, a problem not to be solved by algebra, for if <i>a</i> - equalled Timothy, <i>b</i> his house, <i>c</i> his business, <i>a + b + c</i> - was still not a far-reaching formula, and there seemed no advantage in - squaring it. Geometrically it was evident that by walking back and forth - over the same straight line you never so much as obtained an angle. Now, - by arithmetic, “Four times thirty, multiplied by—leaving out Sundays—Bless - me! How singular! Thirty-seven thousand five hundred and sixty times!” - </p> - <p> - He wondered if it had ever occurred to Timothy to walk it backward, or, - perhaps, to hop, partly on one foot, and then, of course, partly on the - other. Sixty years ago there was a method of progress known as - “hop-skip-and-jump,” which had variety and interest. Drawn in the train of - this memory came other memories floating down the afternoon's slant - sunbeams, rising from every meadow and clump of woods; from the elder - swamp where the brown rabbits used to run zigzag, possibly still ran in - the same interesting way; from the great sand bank beyond the Indian - graves. The old Wiliston house, with roof that sloped like a well-sweep, - lay yonder, a mile or two. He seemed to remember some one said it was - empty, but he could not associate it with emptiness. The bough apples - there, if he remembered rightly, were an efficacious balm for regret. - </p> - <p> - He sighed and took up his book. It was another cure for regret, a Scott - novel, “The Pirate.” It had points of superiority over Cruden's - Concordance. The surf began to beat on the Shetland Islands, and trouble - was imminent between Cleveland and Mor-daunt Mertoun. - </p> - <p> - Timothy and his wife drove away visiting that afternoon, not to return - till late at night, and Bettina, the Scandinavian, laid Father Wiliston's - supper by the open window, where he could look out across the porch and - see the chickens clucking in the road. - </p> - <p> - “You mus' eat, fater,” she commanded. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, Bettina. Thank you, my dear. Quite right.” - </p> - <p> - He came with his book and sat down at the table, but Bettina was - experienced and not satisfied. - </p> - <p> - “You mus' eat firs'.” - </p> - <p> - He sighed and laid down “The Pirate.” Bettina captured and carried it to - the other end of the room, lit the lamp though it was still light, and - departed after the mail. It was a rare opportunity for her to linger in - the company of one of her Scandinavian admirers. “Fater” would not know - the difference between seven and nine or ten. - </p> - <p> - He leaned in the window and watched her safely out of sight, then went - across the room, recaptured “The Pirate,” and chuckled in the tickling - pleasure of a forbidden thing, “asked the blessing,” drank his tea - shrewdly, knowing it would deteriorate, and settled to his book. The brown - soft dusk settled, shade by shade; moths fluttered around the lamp; sleepy - birds twittered in the maples. But the beat of the surf on the Shetland - Islands was closer than these. Cleveland and Mordaunt Mertoun were busy, - and Norna—“really, Norna was a remarkable woman”—and an hour - slipped past. - </p> - <p> - Some one hemmed! close by and scraped his feet. It was a large man who - stood there, dusty and ragged, one boot on the porch, with a red - handkerchief knotted under his thick tangled beard and jovial red face. He - had solid limbs and shoulders, and a stomach of sloth and heavy feeding. - </p> - <p> - The stranger did not resemble the comely pirate, Cleveland; his linen was - not “seventeen hun'red;” it seemed doubtful if there were any linen. And - yet, in a way there was something not inappropriate about him, a certain - chaotic ease; not piratical, perhaps, although he looked like an - adventurous person. Father Wiliston took time to pass from one conception - of things to another. He gazed mildly through his glasses. - </p> - <p> - “I ain't had no supper,” began the stranger in a deep moaning bass; and - Father Wiliston started. - </p> - <p> - “Bless my soul! Neither have I.” He shook out his napkin. “Bettina, you - see “— - </p> - <p> - “Looks like there's enough for two,” moaned and grumbled the other. He - mounted the porch and approached the window, so that the lamplight - glimmered against his big, red, oily face. - </p> - <p> - “Why, so there is!” cried Father Wiliston, looking about the table in - surprise. “I never could eat all that. Come in.” And the stranger rolled - muttering and wheezing around through the door. - </p> - <p> - “Will you not bring a chair? And you might use the bread knife. These are - fried eggs. And a little cold chicken? Really, I'm very glad you dropped - in, Mr.”— - </p> - <p> - “Del Toboso.” By this time the stranger's mouth was full and his - enunciation confused. - </p> - <p> - “Why”—Father Wiliston helped himself to an egg—“I don't think - I caught the name.” - </p> - <p> - “Del Toboso. Boozy's what they calls me in the push.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm afraid your tea is quite cold. Boozy? How singular! I hope it doesn't - imply alcoholic habits.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” shaking his head gravely, so that his beard wagged to the judicial - negation. “Takes so much to tank me up I can't afford it, let alone it - ain't moral.” - </p> - <p> - The two ate with haste, the stranger from habit and experience, Father - Wiliston for fear of Bettina's sudden return. When the last egg and slice - of bread had disappeared, the stranger sat back with a wheezing sigh. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder,” began Father Wiliston mildly, “Mr. Toboso—Toboso is the - last name, isn't it, and Del the first?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” the other wheezed mysteriously, “I don't know about that, Elder. - That's always a question.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't know! You don't know!” - </p> - <p> - “Got it off'n another man,” went on Toboso sociably. “He said he wouldn't - take fifty dollars for it. I didn't have no money nor him either, and he - rolled off'n the top of the train that night or maybe the next I don't - know. I didn't roll him. It was in Dakota, over a canyon with no special - bottom. He scattered himself on the way down. But I says, if that name's - worth fifty dollars, it's mine. Del Toboso. That's mine. Sounds valuable, - don't it?” - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston fell into a reverie. “To-boso? Why, yes. Dulcinea del - Toboso. I remember, now.” - </p> - <p> - “What's that? Dulcinea, was it? And you knowed him?” - </p> - <p> - “A long while ago when I was younger. It was in a green cover. 'Don - Quixote'—he was in a cage, 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.' - He had his face between the bars.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Toboso, “you must have knowed him. He always looked glum, and - I've seen him in quad myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Sancho Panza. Dulcinea del Toboso.” - </p> - <p> - “I never knowed that part of it. Dulcinea del Toboso! Well, that's me. You - know a ruck of fine names, Elder. It sounds like thirteen trumps, now, - don't it?” - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston roused himself, and discriminated. “But you look more like - Sancho Panza.” - </p> - <p> - “Do? Well, I never knowed that one. Must've been a Greaser. Dulcinea's - good enough.” - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston began to feel singularly happy and alive. The regular and - even paced Timothy, his fidgeting wife, and the imperious Bettina were to - some extent shadows and troubles in the evening of his life. They were - careful people, who were hemmed in and restricted, who somehow hemmed in - and restricted him. They lived up to precedents. Toboso did not seem to - depend on precedents. He had the free speech, the casual inconsequence, - the primitive mystery, desired of the boy's will and the wind's will, and - travelled after by the long thoughts of youth. He was wind-beaten, burned - red by the sun, ragged of coat and beard, huge, fat, wallowing in the ease - of his flesh. One looked at him and remembered the wide world full of - crossed trails and slumbering swamps. - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston had long, straight white hair, falling beside his - pale-veined and spiritual forehead and thin cheeks. He propped his - forehead on one bony hand, and looked at Toboso with eyes of speculation. - If both men were what some would call eccentric, to each other they seemed - only companionable, which, after all, is the main thing. - </p> - <p> - “I have thought of late,” continued Father Wiliston after a pause, “that I - should like to travel, to examine human life, say, on the highway. I - should think, now, your manner of living most interesting. You go from - house to house, do you not?—from city to city? Like Ulysses, you see - men and their labors, and you pass on. Like the apostles—who surely - were wise men, besides that were especially maintained of God—like - them, and the pilgrims to shrines, you go with wallet and staff or merely - with Faith for your baggage.” - </p> - <p> - “There don't nothing bother you in warm weather, that's right,” said - Toboso, “except your grub. And that ain't any more than's interesting. If - it wasn't for looking after meals, a man on the road might get right down - lazy.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, just so! How wonderful! Now, do you suppose, Mr. Toboso, do you - suppose it feasible? I should very much like, if it could be equably - arranged, I should very much like to have this experience.” - </p> - <p> - Toboso reflected. “There ain't many of your age on the road.” An idea - struck him suddenly. “But supposing you were going sort of experimenting, - like that—and there's some folks that do—supposing you could - lay your hands on a little bunch of money for luck, I don't see nothing to - stop.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I think there is some in my desk.” Toboso leaned forward and pulled - his beard. The table creaked under his elbow. “How much?” - </p> - <p> - “I will see. Of course you are quite right.” - </p> - <p> - “At your age, Elder.” - </p> - <p> - “It is not as if I were younger.” - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston rose and hurried out. - </p> - <p> - Toboso sat still and blinked at the lamp. “My Gord!” he murmured and - moaned confidentially, “here's a game!” - </p> - <p> - After some time Father Wiliston returned. “Do you think we could start - now?” he asked eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Why sure, Elder. What's hindering?” - </p> - <p> - “I am fortunate to find sixty dollars. Really, I didn't remember. And - here's a note I have written to my son to explain. I wonder what Bettina - did with my hat.” - </p> - <p> - He hurried back into the hall. Toboso took the note from the table and - pocketed it. “Ain't no use taking risks.” - </p> - <p> - They went out into the warm night, under pleasant stars, and along the - road together arm in arm. - </p> - <p> - “I feel pretty gay, Elder.” He broke into bellowing song, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, - Jinny! Listen, love, to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, I feel cheerful, too, Mr. Toboso, wonderfully cheerful.” - </p> - <p> - “Dulcinea, Elder. Dulcinea's me name. Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” - </p> - <p> - “How singular it is! I feel very cheerful. I think—really, I think I - should like to learn that song about Jinny. It seems such a cheerful - song.” - </p> - <p> - “Hit her up, Elder,” wheezed Toboso jovially. “Now then”— - </p> - <p> - “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me.” - </p> - <p> - So they went arm in arm with a roaring and a tremulous piping. - </p> - <p> - The lamp flickered by the open window as the night breeze rose. Bettina - came home betimes and cleared the table. The memory of a Scandinavian - caress was too recent to leave room for her to remark that there were - signs of devastating appetite, that dishes had been used unaccountably, - and that “Fater” had gone somewhat early to bed. Timothy and his wife - returned late. All windows and doors in the house of Timothy were closed, - and the last lamp was extinguished. - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston and Toboso went down the hill, silently, with furtive, - lawless steps through the cluster of houses in the hollow, called - Ironville, and followed then the road up the chattering hidden brook. The - road came from the shadows of this gorge at last to meadows and wide - glimmering skies, and joined the highway to Redfield. Presently they came - to where a grassy side road slipped into the highway from the right, out - of a land of bush and swamp and small forest trees of twenty or thirty - years' growth. A large chestnut stood at the corner. - </p> - <p> - “Hey, Jinny!” wheezed Toboso. “Let's look at that tree, Elder.” - </p> - <p> - “Look at it? Yes, yes. What for?” Toboso examined the bark by the dim - starlight; Father Wiliston peered anxiously through his glasses to where - Toboso's finger pointed. - </p> - <p> - “See those marks?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm afraid I don't. Really, I'm sorry.” - </p> - <p> - “Feel 'em, then.” - </p> - <p> - And Father Wiliston felt, with eager, excited finger. - </p> - <p> - “Them there mean there's lodging out here; empty house, likely.” - </p> - <p> - “Do they, indeed. Very singular! Most interesting!” And they turned into - the grassy road. The brushwood in places had grown close to it, though it - seemed to be still used as a cart path. They came to a swamp, rank with - mouldering vegetation, then to rising ground where once had been meadows, - pastures, and plough lands. - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston was aware of vaguely stirring memories. Four vast and aged - maple trees stood close by the road, and their leaves whispered to the - night; behind them, darkly, was a house with a far sloping roof in the - rear. The windows were all glassless, all dark and dead-looking, except - two in a front room, in which a wavering light from somewhere within - trembled and cowered. They crept up, and looking through saw tattered wall - paper and cracked plaster, and two men sitting on the floor, playing cards - in the ghostly light of a fire of boards in the huge fireplace. - </p> - <p> - “Hey, Jinny!” roared Toboso, and the two jumped up with startled oaths. - “Why, it's Boston Alley and the Newark Kid!” cried Toboso. “Come on, - Elder.” - </p> - <p> - The younger man cast forth zigzag flashes of blasphemy. “You big fat fool! - Don't know no mor' 'n to jump like that on <i>me!</i> Holy Jims! I ain't - made of copper.” - </p> - <p> - Toboso led Father Wiliston round by the open door. “Hold your face, Kid. - Gents, this here's a friend of mine we'll call the Elder, and let that go. - I'm backing him, and I hold that goes. The Kid,” he went on descriptively, - addressing Father Wiliston, “is what you see afore you, Elder. His mouth - is hot, his hands is cold, his nerves is shaky, he's always feeling the - cops gripping his shirt-collar. He didn't see no clergy around. He begs - your pardon. Don't he? I says, don't he?” - </p> - <p> - He laid a heavy red hand on the Newark Kid's shoulder, who wiped his - pallid mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and nodded. - </p> - <p> - Boston Alley seemed in his way an agreeable man. He was tall and slender - limbed, with a long, thin black mustache, sinewy neck and hollow chest, - and spoke gently with a sweet, resonant voice, saying, “Glad to see you, - Elder.” - </p> - <p> - These two wore better clothes than Toboso, but he seemed to dominate them - with his red health and windy voice, his stomach and feet, and solidity of - standing on the earth. - </p> - <p> - Father Wiliston stood the while gazing vaguely through his spectacles. The - sense of happy freedom and congenial companionship that had been with him - during the starlit walk had given way gradually to a stream of confused - memories, and now these memories stood ranged about, looking at him with - sad, faded eyes, asking him to explain the scene. The language of the - Newark Kid had gone by him like a white hot blast. The past and present - seemed to have about the same proportions of vision and reality. He could - not explain them to each other. He looked up to Toboso, pathetically, - trusting in his help. - </p> - <p> - “It was my house.” - </p> - <p> - Toboso stared surprised. “I ain't on to you, Elder.” - </p> - <p> - “I was born here.” - </p> - <p> - Indeed Toboso was a tower of strength even against the ghosts of other - days, reproachful for their long durance in oblivion. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Well, by Jinny! I reckon you'll give us lodging, Elder,” he puffed - cheerfully. He took the coincidence so pleasantly and naturally that - Father Wiliston was comforted, and thought that after all it was pleasant - and natural enough. - </p> - <p> - The only furniture in the room was a high-backed settle and an overturned - kitchen table, with one leg gone, and the other three helplessly in the - air—so it had lain possibly many years. Boston Alley drew forward - the settle and threw more broken clapboards on the fire, which blazed up - and filled the room with flickering cheer. Soon the three outcasts were - smoking their pipes and the conversation became animated. - </p> - <p> - “When I was a boy,” said Father Wiliston—“I remember so distinctly—there - were remarkable early bough apples growing in the orchard.” - </p> - <p> - “The pot's yours, Elder,” thundered To-boso. They went out groping under - the old apple trees, and returned laden with plump pale green fruit. - Boston Alley and the Newark Kid stretched themselves on the floor on heaps - of pulled grass. Toboso and Father Wiliston sat on the settle. The juice - of the bough apples ran with a sweet tang. The palate rejoiced and the - soul responded. The Newark Kid did swift, cunning card tricks that filled - Father Wiliston with wonder and pleasure. - </p> - <p> - “My dear young man, I don't see how you do it!” - </p> - <p> - The Kid was lately out of prison from a two years' sentence, “only for - getting into a house by the window instead of the door,” as Boston Alley - delicately explained, and the “flies,” meaning officers of the law, “are - after him again for reasons he ain't quite sure of.” The pallor of slum - birth and breeding, and the additional prison pallor, made his skin look - curious where the grime had not darkened it. He had a short-jawed, - smooth-shaven face, a flat mouth and light hair, and was short and stocky, - but lithe and noiseless in movement, and inclined to say little. Boston - Alley was a man of some slight education, who now sometimes sung in winter - variety shows, such songs as he picked up here and there in summer - wanderings, for in warm weather he liked footing the road better, partly - because the green country sights were pleasant to him, and partly because - he was irresolute and keeping engagements was a distress. He seemed - agreeable and sympathetic. - </p> - <p> - “He ain't got no more real feelings 'n a fish,” said Toboso, gazing - candidly at Boston, but speaking to Father Wiliston, “and yet he looks - like he had 'em, and a man's glad to see him. Ain't seen you since fall, - Boston, but I see the Kid last week at a hang-out in Albany. Well, gents, - this ain't a bad lay.” - </p> - <p> - Toboso himself had been many years on the road. He was in a way a man of - much force and decision, and probably it was another element in him, - craving sloth and easy feeding, which kept him in this submerged society; - although here, too, there seemed room for the exercise of his dominance. - He leaned back in the settle, and had his hand on Father Wiliston's - shoulder. His face gleamed redly over his bison beard. - </p> - <p> - “It's a good lay. And we're gay, Elder. Ain't we gay? Hey, Jinny!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, Toboso. But this young man—I'm sure he must have great - talents, great talents, quite remarkable. Ah—yes, Jinny!” - </p> - <p> - “Hey, Jinny,” they sang together, “Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me. I'll - sing to you, and play to you, a dulcet melode-e-e”—while Boston - danced a shuffle and the Kid snapped the cards in time. Then, at Toboso's - invitation and command, Boston sang a song, called “The Cheerful Man,” - resembling a ballad, to a somewhat monotonous tune, and perhaps known in - the music halls of the time—all with a sweet, resonant voice and a - certain pathos of intonation:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “I knew a man across this land - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Came waving of a cheerful hand, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Who drew a gun and gave some one - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A violent contus-i-on, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “They sent him up, he fled from 'quad' - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - By a window and the grace of God, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Picked up a wife and children six, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And wandered into politics, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “'In politics he was, I hear, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A secret, subtle financier— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So the jury says, 'But we agree - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - He quits this sad community, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man.' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “His wife and six went on the town, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And he went off; without a frown - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Reproaching Providence, went he - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And got another wife and three, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “He runs a cross-town car to-day - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - From Bleecker Street to Avenue A. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - He swipes the fares with skilful ease, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Keeps up his hope, and tries to please, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Our life is mingled woe and bliss, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Man that is born of woman is - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Short-lived and goes to his long home. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Take heart, and learn a lesson from - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - This cheerful man.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “But,” said Father Wiliston, “don't you think really, Mr. Alley, that the - moral is a little confused? I don't mean intentionally,” he added, with - anxious precaution, “but don't you think he should have reflected”— - </p> - <p> - “You're right, Elder,” said Toboso, with decision. “It's like that. It - ain't moral. When a thing ain't moral that settles it.” And Boston nodded - and looked sympathetic with every one. - </p> - <p> - “I was sure you would agree with me,” said Father Wiliston. He felt - himself growing weary now and heavy-eyed. Presently somehow he was leaning - on Toboso with his head on his shoulder. Toboso's arm was around him, and - Toboso began to hum in a kind of wheezing lullaby, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, - Jinny!” - </p> - <p> - “I am very grateful, my dear friends,” murmured Father Wiliston. “I have - lived a long time. I fear I have not always been careful in my course, and - am often forgetful. I think”—drowsily—“I think that happiness - must in itself be pleasing to God. I was often happy before in this room. - I remember—my dear mother sat here—who is now dead. We have - been quite, really quite cheerful to-night. My mother—was very - judicious—an excellent wise woman—she died long ago.” So he - was asleep before any one was aware, while Toboso crooned huskily, “Hey, - Jinny!” and Boston Alley and the Newark Kid sat upright and stared - curiously. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Jims!” said the Kid. - </p> - <p> - Toboso motioned them to bring the pulled grass. They piled it on the - settle, let Father Wiliston down softly, brought the broken table, and - placed it so that he could not roll off. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Toboso, after a moment's silence, “I guess we'd better pick - him and be off. He's got sixty in his pocket.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said Boston, “that's it, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen - apiece.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, that's right.” - </p> - <p> - “And I guess the Kid can take it out.” - </p> - <p> - The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled it - out. Toboso counted and divided the bills. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years - younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the - night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't - got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. Heeled - all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice in him.” - </p> - <p> - “Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. “I - ain't got nothing against him.” - </p> - <p> - Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket. - </p> - <p> - It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few - flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only - sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing. - </p> - <p> - When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment confused - in mind, then sat up and looked around. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare say”—getting - on his feet—“I dare say they thought it would be unkind to tell me - so.” - </p> - <p> - He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking - stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than - the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then out - into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, kneeling - under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which included in - petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent phrase and - broken tones among eldest memories. - </p> - <p> - He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and - humming, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” He examined the tree at the highway with - fresh interest. “How singular! It means an empty house. Very intelligent - man, Toboso.” - </p> - <p> - Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat - tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one - side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and - crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering - gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top of the - hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he stopped, - turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably on the state - and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card tricks of the - Newark Kid. - </p> - <p> - “Really,” he murmured, “I have had a very good time.” - </p> - <p> - He met Timothy in the hall. - </p> - <p> - “Been out to walk early, father? Wait—there's grass and sticks on - your coat.” - </p> - <p> - It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to - Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent. - </p> - <p> - “Did you enjoy it?—Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it. - Breakfast is ready.” - </p> - <p> - Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter. - </p> - <p> - “No matter, my dear, no matter. I—really, I've had a very good - time.” - </p> - <p> - Afterward he came out on the porch with his Bible and Concordance, sat - down and heard Bettina brushing his hat and ejaculating, “Fater!” - Presently he began to nod drowsily and his head dropped low over the - Concordance. The chickens clucked drowsily in the road. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - ON EDOM HILL - </h2> - <h3> - I. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>HARLIE SEBASTIAN - was a turfman, meaning that he had something to do with race-horses, and - knew property as rolls of bank bills, of which one now and then suddenly - has none at all; or as pacers and trotters that are given to breaking and - unaccountably to falling off in their nervous systems; or as “Association - Shares” and partnership investments in a training stable; all capable of - melting and going down in one vortex. So it happened at the October races. - And from this it arose that in going between two heated cities and low by - the sea he stopped among the high hills that were cold. - </p> - <p> - He was a tall man with a pointed beard, strong of shoulder and foot, and - without fear in his eyes. After two hours' riding he woke from a doze and - argued once more that he was a “phenomenally busted man.” It made no - difference, after all, which city he was in. Looking out at the white - hills that showed faintly in the storm, it occurred to him that this was - not the railway line one usually travelled to the end in view. It was - singular, the little difference between choices. You back the wrong horse; - then you drink beer instead of fizz, and the results of either are - tolerable. Let a man live lustily and there's little to regret. He had - found ruin digestible before, and never yet gone to the dogs that wait to - devour human remnants, but had gotten up and fallen again, and on the - whole rejoiced. Stomach and lungs of iron, a torrent of red blood in vein - and artery maintain their consolations; hopes rise again, blunders and - evil doings seem to be practically outlived. So without theory ran - Sebastian's experience. The theory used to be that his sin would find a - man out. There were enough of Sebastian's that had gone out, and never - returned to look for him. So too with mistakes and failures. A little - while, a year or more, and you are busy with other matters. It is a - stirring world, and offers no occupation for ghosts. The dragging sense of - depression that he felt seemed natural enough; not to be argued down, but - thrown aside in due time. Yet it was a feeling of pallid and cold - futility, like the spectral hills and wavering snow. - </p> - <p> - “I might as well go back!” - </p> - <p> - He tossed a coin to see whether it was fated he should drop off at the - next station, and it was. - </p> - <p> - “Ramoth!” cried the brakeman. - </p> - <p> - Sebastian held in his surprise as a matter of habit. - </p> - <p> - But on the platform in the drift and float of the snow-storm he stared - around at the white January valley, at the disappearing train, at the sign - above the station door, “Ramoth.” - </p> - <p> - “That's the place,” he remarked. “There wasn't any railroad then.” - </p> - <p> - There were hidden virtues in a flipped coin. Sebastian had his - superstitions. - </p> - <p> - The road to Ramoth village from the station curves about to the south of - the great bare dome that is called Edom Hill, but Sebastian, without - inquiry, took the fork to the left which climbed up the hill without - compromise, and seemed to be little used. - </p> - <p> - Yet in past times Edom Hill was noted in a small way as a hill that upheld - the house of a stern abolitionist, and in a more secret way as a station - in the “underground railroad,” or system by which runaway slaves were - passed on to Canada. But when Charlie Sebastian remembered his father and - Edom Hill, the days of those activities were passed. The abolitionist had - nothing to exercise resistance and aggression on but his wind-blown farm - and a boy, who was aggressive to seek out mainly the joys of this world, - and had faculties of resistance. There were bitter clashes; young - Sebastian fled, and came upon a stable on a stud farm, and from there in - due time went far and wide, and found tolerance in time and wrote, - offering to “trade grudges and come to see how he was.” - </p> - <p> - The answer, in a small, faint, cramped, unskilful hand, stated the - abolitionist's death. “Won't you come back, Mr. Sebastian. It is lonely. - Harriet Sebastian.” And therefore Sebastian remarked: - </p> - <p> - “You bet it is! Who's she? The old man must have married again.” - </p> - <p> - In his new-found worldly tolerance he had admired such aggressive - enterprise, but seeing no interest in the subject, had gone his way and - forgotten it. - </p> - <p> - Beating up Edom Hill through the snow was no easier than twenty years - before. David Sebastian had built his house in a high place, and looking - widely over the top of the land, saw that it was evil. - </p> - <p> - The drifts were unbroken and lay in long barrows and windy ridges over the - roadway. The half-buried fences went parallel up the white breast and - barren heave of the hill, and disappeared in the storm. Sebastian passed a - house with closed blinds, then at a long interval a barn and a stiff red - chimney with a snow-covered heap of ruins at its foot. The station was now - some miles behind and the dusk was coming on. The broad top of the hill - was smooth and rounded gradually. Brambles, bushes, reeds, and the tops of - fences broke the surface of the snow, and beside these only a house by the - road, looking dingy and gray, with a blackish bam attached, four old - maples in front, an orchard behind. Far down the hill to the right lay the - road to Ramoth, too far for its line of naked trees to be seen in the - storm. The house on Edom Hill had its white throne to itself, and whatever - dignity there might be in solitude. - </p> - <p> - He did not pause to examine the house, only noticed the faint smoke in one - chimney, opened the gate, and pushed through untrodden snow to the side - door and knocked. The woman who came and stood in the door surprised him - even more than “Ramoth!” called by the brakeman. Without great reason for - seeming remarkable, it seemed remarkable. He stepped back and stared, and - the two, looking at each other, said nothing. Sebastian recovered. - </p> - <p> - “My feet are cold,” he said slowly. “I shouldn't like to freeze them.” - </p> - <p> - She drew back and let him in, left him to find a chair and put his feet - against the stove. She sat down near the window and went on knitting. The - knitting needles glittered and clicked. Her face was outlined against the - gray window, the flakes too glittered and clicked. It looked silent, - secret, repressed, as seen against the gray window; like something chilled - and snowed under, cold and sweet, smooth pale hair and forehead, deep - bosom and slender waist. She looked young enough to be called in the early - June of her years. - </p> - <p> - “There's good proportion and feature, but not enough nerves for a - thoroughbred. But,” he thought, “she looks as if she needed, as you might - say, revelry,” and he spoke aloud. - </p> - <p> - “Once I was in this section and there was a man named Sebastian lived - here, or maybe it was farther on.” - </p> - <p> - She said, “It was here” in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “David Sebastian now, that was it, or something that way. Stiff, sort of - grim old—oh, but you might be a relative, you see. Likely enough. So - you might.” - </p> - <p> - “I might be.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so. You might be.” - </p> - <p> - He rubbed his hands and leaned back, staring at the window. The wind was - rising outside and blew the snow in whirls and sheets. - </p> - <p> - “Going to be a bad night I came up from the station. If a man's going - anywhere tonight, he'll be apt not to get there.” - </p> - <p> - “You ought to have taken the right hand at the fork.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I don't know.” - </p> - <p> - She rose and took a cloak from the table. Sebastian watched her. - </p> - <p> - “I must feed the pony and shut up the chickens.” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated. A refusal seemed to have been hinted to the hinted request - for hospitality. But Sebastian saw another point. - </p> - <p> - “Now, that's what I'm going to do for you.” - </p> - <p> - She looked on silently, as he passed her with assured step, not hesitating - at doors, but through the kitchen to the woodshed, and there in the - darkness of a pitch-black corner took down a jingling lantern and lit it. - She followed him silently into the yard, that was full of drifts and wild - storm, to the barn, where she listened to him shake down hay and bedding, - measure oats, slap the pony's flank and chirp cheerfully. Then he plunged - through a low door and she heard the bolt in the chicken shed rattle. It - had grown dark outside. He came out and held the barn door, waiting for - her to step out, and they stood side by side on the edge of the storm. - </p> - <p> - “How did you know the lantern was there?” - </p> - <p> - “Lantern! Oh, farmhouses always keep the lantern in the nearest corner of - the woodshed, if it isn't behind the kitchen door.” - </p> - <p> - But she did not move to let him close the bam. He looked down at her a - moment and then out at the white raging night. - </p> - <p> - “Can't see forty feet, can you? But, of course, if you don't want to give - me a roof I'll have to take my chances. Look poor, don't they? Going to - let me shut this door?” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite alone here.” - </p> - <p> - “So am I. That's the trouble.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you understand,” she said quietly, speaking in a manner - low, cool, and self-contained. - </p> - <p> - “I've got more understanding now than I'll have in an hour, maybe.” - </p> - <p> - “I will lend you the lantern.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you mightn't get it back.” He drew the barn door to, which forced her - to step forward. A gust of wind about the corner of the bam staggered and - threw her back. He caught her about her shoulders and held her steadily, - and shot the bolt with the hand that held the lantern. - </p> - <p> - “That's all right. A man has to take his chances. I dare say a woman had - better not.” - </p> - <p> - If Sebastian exaggerated the dangers of the night, if there were any for - him, looked at from her standpoint they might seem large and full of - dread. The wind howled with wild hunting sound, and shrieked against the - eaves of the house. The snow drove thick and blinding. The chimneys were - invisible. A woman easily transfers her own feelings to a man and - interprets them there. In the interest of that interpretation it might no - longer seem possible that man's ingratitude, or his failings and passions, - could be as unkind as winter wind and bitter sky. - </p> - <p> - She caught her breath in a moment. - </p> - <p> - “You will stay to supper,” she said, and stepped aside. - </p> - <p> - “No. As I'm going, I'd better go.” - </p> - <p> - She went before him across the yard, opened the woodshed door and stood in - it. He held out the lantern, but she did not take it. He lifted it to look - at her face, and she smiled faintly. - </p> - <p> - “Please come in.” - </p> - <p> - “Better go on, if I'm going. Am I?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm very cold. Please come in.” - </p> - <p> - They went in and closed the doors against the storm. The house was wrapped - round, and shut away from the sight of Edom Hill, and Edom Hill was - wrapped round and shut away from the rest of the world. - </p> - <h3> - II. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>evelry has need of - a certain co-operation. Sebastian drew heavily on his memory for - entertainment, told of the combination that had “cleaned him out,” and how - he might get in again in the Spring, only he felt a bit tired in mind now, - and things seemed dead. He explained the mysteries of “short prices, - selling allowances, past choices, hurdles and handicaps,” and told of the - great October races, where Decatur won from Clifford and Lady Mary, and - Lady Mary ran through the fence and destroyed the features of the jockey. - But the quiet, smooth-haired woman maintained her calm, and offered - neither question nor comment, only smiled and flushed faintly now and - then. She seemed as little stirred by new tumultuous things as the white - curtains at the windows, that moved slightly when the storm, which danced - and shouted on Edom Hill, managed to force a whistling breath through a - chink. - </p> - <p> - Sebastian decided she was frozen up with loneliness and the like. “She's - got no conversation, let alone revelry.” He thought he knew what her life - was like. “She's sort of empty. Nothing doing any time. It's the off - season all the year. No troubles. Sort of like a fish, as being chilly and - calm, that lives in cold water till you have to put pepper on to taste it. - I know how it goes on this old hill.” - </p> - <p> - She left him soon. He heard her moving about in the kitchen, and sometimes - the clink of a dish. He sat by the stove and mused and muttered. She came - and told him his room was on the left of the stair; it had a stove; would - he not carry up wood and have his fire there? She seemed to imply a - preference that he should. But the burden and oppression of his musings - kept him from wondering when she had compromised her scruples and fears, - or why she kept any of them. He mounted the stair with his wood. She - followed with a lamp and left him. He stared at the closed door and rubbed - his chin thoughtfully, then went to work with his fire. The house became - silent, except for the outer tumult. She did not mount the stair again; it - followed that she slept below. - </p> - <p> - Sebastian took a daguerreotype from the mantel and stared at it. It was - the likeness of a shaven, grim-faced man in early middle life. He examined - it long with a quizzical frown; finally went to the washstand, opened the - drawer and took out a razor with a handle of yellow bone, carried the - washstand to the stove, balanced the mirror against the pitcher, stropped - the razor on his hand, heated water in a cup, slowly dismantled his face - of beard and mustache, cast them in the stove, put the daguerreotype - beside the mirror, and compared critically. Except that the face in the - daguerreotype had a straight, set mouth, and the face in the mirror was - one full-lipped and humorous and differently lined, they were nearly the - same. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't have believed it” - </p> - <p> - He put it aside and looked around, whistling in meditation. Then he went - back again to wondering who the pale-haired woman was. Probably the farm - had changed hands. A man whose father had been dead going on twenty years - couldn't have that kind of widowed stepmother. He was disqualified. - </p> - <p> - A cold, unchanging place, Edom Hill, lifted out of the warm, sapping - currents of life. It might be a woman could keep indefinitely there, - looking much the same. If her pulse beat once to an ordinary twice, she - ought to last twice as long. The house seemed unchanged. The old things - were in their old familiar places, David Sebastian's books on their - shelves in the room below, on the side table there his great Bible, in - which he used to write all family records, with those of his reforming - activity. Sebastian wondered what record stood of his own flight. - </p> - <p> - He sat a few moments longer, then took his lamp and crept softly out of - the room and down the stairs. The sitting-room was icily cold now; the - white curtains stirred noiselessly. He sat down before the little side - table and opened the great book. - </p> - <p> - There were some thirty leaves between the Old and New Testaments, most of - them stitched in. A few at the end were blank. Some of the records were - obscure. - </p> - <p> - “March 5th, 1840. Saw light on this subject.” - </p> - <p> - Others ran: - </p> - <p> - “Sept. 1 st, 1843. Rec. Peter Cavendish, fugitive.” - </p> - <p> - “Dec. 3d, ditto. Rec. Robert Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “April 15th, ditto. Rec. one, Æsop,” and so on. - </p> - <p> - “Dec. 14th, 1848. Have had consolation from prayer for public evil.” - </p> - <p> - “April 20th, 1858. My son, Charles Sebastian, born.” - </p> - <p> - “April 7th, 1862. My wife, Jane Sebastian, died.” - </p> - <p> - “July 5th, 1862. Rec. Keziah Andrews to keep my house.” - </p> - <p> - The dates of the entries from that point grew further apart, random and - obscure; here and there a fact. - </p> - <p> - “Nov. 4th, 1876. Charles Sebastian departed.” - </p> - <p> - “June 9th, 1877. Rec. Harriet.” - </p> - <p> - “Jan. 19th, 1880. Have wrestled in prayer without consolation for Charles - Sebastian.” - </p> - <p> - This was the last entry. A faint line ran down across the page connecting - the end of “Harriet” with the beginning of “Charles.” Between the two - blank leaves at the end was a photograph of himself at seventeen. He - remembered suddenly how it was taken by a travelling photographer, who had - stirred his soul with curiosity and given him the picture; and David - Sebastian had taken it and silently put it away among blank leaves of the - Bible. - </p> - <p> - Sebastian shivered. The written leaves, the look of himself of twenty - years before, the cold, the wail of the wind, the clicking flakes on the - window panes, these seemed now to be the dominant facts of life. Narrow - was it, poor and meagre, to live and labor with a barren farm? The old - abolitionist had cut deeper into existence than he had. If to deal with - the fate of races, and wrestle alone with God on Edom Hill, were not - knowledge and experience, what was knowledge or experience, or what should - a man call worth the trial of his brain and nerve? - </p> - <p> - “He passed me. He won hands down,” he muttered, bending over the page - again. “'Rec. Harriet.' That's too much for me.” And he heard a quick - noise behind him and turned. - </p> - <p> - She stood in the door, wide-eyed, smooth, pale hair falling over one - shoulder, long cloak half slipped from the other, holding a shotgun, - threatening and stem. - </p> - <p> - “What are you doing here?” - </p> - <p> - “Out gunning for me?” asked Sebastian gravely. - </p> - <p> - She stared wildly, put the gun down, cried: - </p> - <p> - “You're Charlie Sebastian!” and fell on her knees beside the stove, - choking, sobbing and shaking, crouching against the cold sheet iron in a - kind of blind memory of its warmth and protection. - </p> - <p> - “You still have the drop on me,” said Sebastian. - </p> - <p> - She shivered and crouched still and whispered: - </p> - <p> - “I'm cold.” - </p> - <p> - “How long have you been here freezing?” - </p> - <p> - Sebastian thrust anything inflammable at hand into the stove, lit it and - piled in the wood. - </p> - <p> - “Not long. Only—only a few moments.” - </p> - <p> - “You still have the advantage of me. Who are you?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I'm Harriet,” she said simply, and looked up. - </p> - <p> - “Just so. 'Received, 1877.' How old were you then?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I was eight.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so. Don't tell lies, Harriet. You've been freezing a long while.” - </p> - <p> - She drew her cloak closer over the thin white linen of her gown with - shaking hand. - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand. I'm very cold. Why didn't you come before? It has - been so long waiting.” - </p> - <h3> - III. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he draft began to - roar and the dampers to glow. She crept in front of the glow. He drew a - chair and sat down close behind her. - </p> - <p> - “Why didn't you come before?” - </p> - <p> - The question was startling, for Sebastian was only conscious of a lack of - reason for coming. If David Sebastian had left him the farm he would have - heard from it, and being prosperous, he had not cared. But the question - seemed to imply some strong assumption and further knowledge. - </p> - <p> - “You'd better tell me about it.” - </p> - <p> - “About what? At the beginning?” - </p> - <p> - “Aren't you anything except 'Received, Harriet'?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I hadn't any father or mother when Mr. Sebastian brought me here. Is - that what you mean? But he taught me to say 'Harriet Sebastian,' and a - great many things he taught me. Didn't you know? And about his life and - what he wanted you to do? Because, of course, we talked about you nearly - always in the time just before he died. He said you would be sure to come, - but he died, don't you see? only a few years after, and that disappointed - him. He gave me the picture and said, 'He'll come, and you'll know him by - this,' and he said, 'He will come poor and miserable. My only son, so I - leave him to you; and so, as I did, you will pray for him twice each day.' - It was just like that, 'Tell Charles there is no happiness but in duty. - Tell him I found it so.' It was a night like this when he died, and Kezzy - was asleep in her chair out here, and I sat by the bed. Then he told me I - would pay him all in that way by doing what he meant to do for you. I was - so little, but I seemed to understand that I was to live for it, as he had - lived to help free the slaves. Don't you see? Then he began calling, - 'Charles! Charles!' as if you were somewhere near, and I fell asleep, and - woke and lay still and listened to the wind; and when I tried to get up I - couldn't, because he held my hair, and he was dead. But why didn't you - come?” - </p> - <p> - “It looks odd enough now,” Sebastian admitted, and wondered at the change - from still impassiveness, pale and cool silence, to eager speech, swift - question, lifted and flushed face. - </p> - <p> - “Then you remember the letters? But you didn't come then. But I began to - fancy how it would be when you came, and then somehow it seemed as if you - were here. Out in the orchard sometimes, don't you see? And more often - when Kezzy was cross. And when she went to sleep by the fire at night—she - was so old—we were quite alone and talked. Don't you remember?—I - mean—But Kezzy didn't like to hear me talking to myself. 'Mutter, - mutter!' like that. 'Never was such a child!' And then she died, too, - seven—seven years ago, and it was quite different. I—I grew - older. You seemed to be here quite and quite close to me always. There was - no one else, except—But, I don't know why, I had an aching from - having to wait, and it has been a long time, hasn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “Rather long. Go on. There was no one else?” - </p> - <p> - “No. We lived here—I mean—it grew that way, and you changed - from the picture, too, and became like Mr. Sebastian, only younger, and - just as you are now, only—not quite.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him with sudden fear, then dropped her eyes, drew her long - hair around under her cloak and leaned closer to the fire. - </p> - <p> - “But there is so much to tell you it comes out all mixed.” - </p> - <p> - Sebastian sat silently looking down at her, and felt the burden of his - thinking grow heavier; the pondering how David Sebastian had left him an - inheritance of advice, declaring his own life full and brimming, and to - Harriet the inheritance of a curious duty that had grown to people her - nights and days with intense sheltered dreams, and made her life, too, - seem to her full and brimming, multitudinous with events and interchanges, - himself so close and cherished an actor in it that his own parallel - unconsciousness of it had almost dropped out of conception. And the burden - grew heavier still with the weight of memories, and the record between the - Old and New Testaments; with the sense of the isolation and covert of the - midnight, and the storm; with the sight of Harriet crouching by the fire, - her story, how David Sebastian left this world and went out into the wild - night crying, “Charles! Charles!” It was something not logical, but - compelling. It forced him to remark that his own cup appeared partially - empty from this point of view. Harriet seemed to feel that her hour had - come and he was given to her hands.. Success even in methods of living is - a convincing thing over unsuccess. Ah, well! too late to remodel to David - Sebastian's notion. It was singular, though, a woman silent, restrained, - scrupulous, moving probably to the dictates of village opinion—suddenly - the key was turned, and she threw back the gates of her prison; threw open - doors, windows, intimate curtains; asked him to look in and explore - everywhere and know all the history and the forecasts; became simple, - primitive, unrestrained, willing to sit there at his feet and as innocent - as her white linen gown. How smooth and pale her hair was and gentle - cheek, and there were little sleepy smiles in the corners of the lips. He - thought he would like most of all to put out his hand and touch her cheek - and sleepy smiles, and draw her hair, long and soft and pale, from under - the cloak. On the whole, it seemed probable that he might. - </p> - <p> - “Harriet,” he said slowly, “I'm going to play this hand.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I don't know what you mean.” - </p> - <p> - “Take it, I'm not over and above a choice selection. I don't mention - details, but take it as a general fact. Would you want to marry that kind - of a selection, meaning me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes! Didn't you come for that? I thought you would.” - </p> - <p> - “And I thought you needed revelry! You must have had a lot of it.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know what you mean. Listen! It keeps knocking at the door!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's all right. Let it knock. Do you expect any more vagrants?” - </p> - <p> - “Vagrants?” - </p> - <p> - “Like me.” - </p> - <p> - “Like you? You only came home. Listen! It was like this when he died. But - he wouldn't come to-night and stand outside and knock, would he? Not - to-night, when you've come at last. But he used to. Of course, I fancied - things. It's the storm. There's no one else now.” - </p> - <p> - A thousand spectres go whirling across Edom Hill such winter nights and - come with importunate messages, but if the door is close and the fire - courageous, it matters little. They are but wind and drift and out in the - dark, and if one is in the light, it is a great point to keep the door - fast against them and all forebodings, and let the coming days be what - they will. - </p> - <p> - Men are not born in a night, or a year. - </p> - <p> - But if David Sebastian were a spectre there at the door, and thought - differently on any question, or had more to say, he was not articulate. - There is no occupation for ghosts in a stirring world, nor efficiency in - their repentance. - </p> - <p> - Has any one more than a measure of hope, and a door against the storm? - There was that much, at least, on Edom Hill. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - SONS OF R. RAND - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>OME years ago, of - a summer afternoon, a perspiring organ-grinder and a leathery ape plodded - along the road that goes between thin-soiled hillsides and the lake which - is known as Elbow Lake and lies to the northeast of the village of Salem. - In those days it was a well-travelled highway, as could be seen from its - breadth and' dustiness. At about half the length of its bordering on the - lake there was a spring set in the hillside, and a little pool continually - rippled by its inflow. Some settler or later owner of the thin-soiled - hillsides had left a clump of trees about it, making as sightly and - refreshing an Institute of Charity as could be found. Another - philanthropist had added half a cocoanut-shell to the foundation. - </p> - <p> - The organ-grinder turned in under the trees with a smile, in which his - front teeth played a large part, and suddenly drew back with a guttural - exclamation; the leathery ape bumped against his legs, and both assumed - attitudes expressing respectively, in an Italian and tropical manner, - great surprise and abandonment of ideas. A tall man lay stretched on his - back beside the spring, with a felt hat over his face. Pietro, the - grinder, hesitated. The American, if disturbed and irascible, takes by the - collar and kicks with the foot: it has sometimes so happened. The tall man - pushed back his hat and sat up, showing a large-boned and sun-browned - face, shaven except for a black mustache, clipped close. He looked not - irascible, though grave perhaps, at least unsmiling. He said: “It's free - quarters, Dago. Come in. Entrez. Have a drink.” - </p> - <p> - Pietro bowed and gesticulated with amiable violence. “Dry!” he said. “Oh, - hot!” - </p> - <p> - “Just so. That a friend of yours?”—pointing to the ape. “He ain't - got a withering sorrow, has he? Take a seat.” - </p> - <p> - Elbow Lake is shaped as its name implies. If one were to imagine the arm - to which the elbow belonged, it would be the arm of a muscular person in - the act of smiting a peaceable-looking farmhouse a quarter of a mile to - the east. Considering the bouldered front of the hill behind the house, - the imaginary blow would be bad for the imaginary knuckles. It is a large - house, with brown, unlikely looking hillsides around it, huckleberry knobs - and ice-grooved boulders here and there. The land between it and the lake - is low, and was swampy forty years ago, before the Rand boys began to - drain it, about the time when R. Rand entered the third quarter century of - his unpleasant existence. - </p> - <p> - R. Rand was, I suppose, a miser, if the term does not imply too definite a - type. The New England miser is seldom grotesque. He seems more like - congealed than distorted humanity. He does not pinch a penny so hard as - some of other races are said to do, but he pinches a dollar harder, and is - quite as unlovely as any. R. Rand's methods of obtaining dollars to pinch - were not altogether known, or not, at least, recorded—which accounts - perhaps for the tradition that they were of doubtful uprightness. He held - various mortgages about the county, and his farm represented little to him - except a means of keeping his two sons inexpensively employed in rooting - out stones. - </p> - <p> - At the respective ages of sixteen and seventeen the two sons, Bob and Tom - Rand, discovered the rooting out of stones to be unproductive labor, if - nothing grew, or was expected to grow, in their place, except more stones; - and the nature of the counsels they took may be accurately imagined. In - the autumn of '56 they began ditching the swamp in the direction of the - lake, and in the summer of '57 raised a crop of tobacco in the northeast - corner, R. Rand, the father, making no comment the while. At the proper - time he sold the tobacco to Packard & Co., cigar makers, of the city - of Hamilton, still making no comment, probably enjoying some mental - titillation. Tom Rand then flung a rock of the size of his fist through - one of the front windows, and ran away, also making no comment further - than that. The broken window remained broken twenty-five years, Tom - returning neither to mend it nor to break another. Bob Rand, by some - bargain with his father, continued the ditching and planting of the swamp - with some profit to himself. - </p> - <p> - He evidently classed at least a portion of his father's manner of life - among the things that are to be avoided. He acquired a family, and was in - the way to bring it up in a reputable way. He further cultivated and - bulwarked his reputation. Society, manifesting itself politically, made - him sheriff; society, manifesting itself ecclesiastically, made him - deacon. Society seldom fails to smile on systematic courtship. - </p> - <p> - The old man continued to go his way here and there, giving account of - himself to no one, contented enough no doubt to have one reputable son who - looked after his own children and paid steady rent for, or bought piece by - piece, the land he used; and another floating between the Rockies and the - Mississippi, whose doings were of no importance in the village of Salem. - But I doubt, on the whole, whether he was softened in heart by the - deacon's manner or the ordering of the deacon's life to reflect unfilially - on his own. Without claiming any great knowledge of the proprieties, he - may have thought the conduct of his younger son the more filial of the - two. Such was the history of the farmhouse between the years '56 and '82. - </p> - <p> - One wet April day, the sixth of the month, in the year '82, R. Rand went - grimly elsewhere—where, his neighbors had little doubt. With true - New England caution we will say that he went to the cemetery, the little - grass-grown cemetery of Salem, with its meagre memorials and absurd, - pathetic epitaphs. The minister preached a funeral sermon, out of - deference to his deacon, in which he said nothing whatever about R. Rand, - deceased; and R. Rand, sheriff and deacon, reigned in his stead. - </p> - <p> - Follow certain documents and one statement of fact: - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 1.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Codicil to the Will of R. Rand.</i> - </p> - <p> - The Will shall stand as above, to wit, my son, Robert Rand, sole legatee, - failing the following condition: namely, I bequeath all my property as - above mentioned, with the exception of this house and farm, to my son, - Thomas Rand, provided, that within three months of the present date he - returns and mends with his own hands the front window, third from the - north, previously broken by him. - </p> - <p> - (Signed) R. Rand. - </p> - <p> - <i>Statement of fact.</i> On the morning of the day following the funeral - the “condition” appeared in singularly problematical shape, the broken - window, third from the north, having been in fact promptly replaced <i>by - the hands of Deacon Rand himself</i>. The new pane stared defiantly across - the lake, westward. - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 2</i>. - </p> - <p> - Leadville, Cal., May 15. - </p> - <p> - Dear Bob: I hear the old man is gone. Saw it in a paper. I reckon maybe I - didn't treat him any squarer than he did me. I'll go halves on a bang-up - good monument, anyhow. Can we settle affairs without my coming East? How - are you, Bob? - </p> - <p> - Tom. - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 3.</i> - </p> - <p> - Salem, May 29. - </p> - <p> - Dear Brother: The conditions of our father's will are such, I am compelled - to inform you, as to result in leaving the property wholly to me. My duty - to a large and growing family gives me no choice but to accept it as it - stands, and I trust and have no doubt that you will regard that result - with fortitude. I remain yours, - </p> - <p> - Robert Rand. - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 4.</i> - </p> - <p> - Leadville, June 9. - </p> - <p> - A. L. Moore. - </p> - <p> - Dear Sir: I have your name as a lawyer in Wimberton. Think likely there - isn't any other. If you did not draw up the will of R. Rand, Salem, can - you forward this letter to the man who did? If you did, will you tell me - what in thunder it was? - </p> - <p> - Yours, Thomas Rand. - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 5.</i> - </p> - <p> - Wimberton, June 18. - </p> - <p> - Thomas Rand. - </p> - <p> - Dear Sir: I did draw your father's will and enclose copy of the same, with - its codicil, which may truly be called remarkable. I think it right to - add, that the window in question has been mended by your brother, with - evident purpose. Your letter comes opportunely, my efforts to find you - having been heretofore unsuccessful. I will add further, that I think the - case actionable, to say the least. In case you should see fit to contest, - your immediate return is of course necessary. Very truly yours, - </p> - <p> - A. L. Moore, - </p> - <p> - Attorney-at-Law. - </p> - <p> - <i>Document 6. Despatch.</i> - </p> - <p> - New York, July 5. - </p> - <p> - To Robert Rand, Salem. - </p> - <p> - Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not. - </p> - <p> - T. Rand. - </p> - <p> - The deacon was a tall meagre man with a goatee that seemed to accentuate - him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering - line of rectitude. - </p> - <p> - He drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of - July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake, - except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. His lips looked - even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one were to - come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments. - </p> - <p> - Opposite the spring he drew up, hearing the sound of a hand-organ under - the trees. The tall man with a clipped mustache sat up deliberately and - looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also looked - at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and forth - between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, and - followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up. - </p> - <p> - “I reckon it's Bob,” he said. “It's free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in. - Have a drink.” - </p> - <p> - The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an extra - stiffening of the back. - </p> - <p> - “The train—I did not suppose—I was going to meet you.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so. I came by way of Wimberton.” - </p> - <p> - The younger brother stretched himself again beside the spring and drew his - hat over his eyes. The elder stood up straight and not altogether - unimpressive in front of it. Pietro in the rear of the spring reflected at - this point that he and the ape could conduct a livelier conversation if it - were left to them. Pietro could not imagine a conversation in which it was - not desirable to be lively. The silence was long and, Pietro thought, not - pleasant. - </p> - <p> - “Bob,” said the apparent sleeper at last, “ever hear of the prodigal son?” - </p> - <p> - The deacon frowned sharply, but said nothing. The other lifted the edge of - his hat brim. - </p> - <p> - “Never heard of him? Oh—have I Then I won't tell about him. Too - long. That elder brother, now, he had good points;—no doubt of it, - eh?” - </p> - <p> - “I confess I don't see your object—” - </p> - <p> - “Don't? Well, I was just saying he had good points. I suppose he and the - prodigal had an average good time together, knockin' around, stubbin' - their toes, fishin' maybe, gettin' licked at inconvenient times, hookin' - apples most anytime. That sort of thing. Just so. He had something of an - argument. Now, the prodigal had no end of fun, and the elder brother - stayed at home and chopped wood; understood himself to be cultivating the - old man. I take it he didn't have a very soft job of it?”—lifting - his hat brim once more. - </p> - <p> - The deacon said nothing, but observed the hat brim. - </p> - <p> - “Now I think of it, maybe strenuous sobriety wasn't a thing he naturally - liked any more than the prodigal did. I've a notion there was more family - likeness between 'em than other folks thought. What might be your idea?” - </p> - <p> - The deacon still stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind him. - </p> - <p> - “I would rather,” he said, “you would explain yourself without parable. - You received my letter. It referred to our father's will. I have received - a telegram which I take to be threatening.” - </p> - <p> - The other sat up and pulled a large satchel around from behind him. - </p> - <p> - “You're a man of business, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “I like you, Bob. - That's so. That will—I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, I take it - you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play - this here Will, Codicil attached. You play,—window already mended; - time expired at twelve o'clock to-night. Good cards, Bob—first-rate. - I play here”—opening the satchel—“two panes of glass—allowin' - for accidents—putty, et cetera, proposing to bust that window again. - Good cards, Bob. How are you coming on?” - </p> - <p> - The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something came - into his face which suggested the family likeness. He drew a paper from - his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the grass. - </p> - <p> - “Sheriff's warrant,” he said, “for—hem—covering possible - trespassing on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention—hem.” - </p> - <p> - “Good,” said his brother briskly. “I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if I - don't. I play again.” He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the - glass. “Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off.” - </p> - <p> - “Hem,” said the deacon. “Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying of - concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it is—hem—permissible - for me.” He placed a revolver on top of the warrant. - </p> - <p> - “Bob,” said his brother, in huge delight, “I'm proud of you. But—I - judge you ain't on to the practical drop. <i>Stand back there!</i>” The - deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and - retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and the two - faced each other, the deacon looking as dangerous a man as the Westerner. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, the wheezy hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly trying - to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as desperately as - if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him. - </p> - <p> - “Hi, you monk! Dance!” cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it - solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of - the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, - first over the younger's, then over the deacon's. - </p> - <p> - The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face and - groaned. - </p> - <p> - “I'm an evil-minded man,” he said; “I'm beaten.” - </p> - <p> - The other cocked his head on one side and listened. “Know what that tune - is, Bob? I don't.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the - copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down. - </p> - <p> - “I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your hand - yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had.” - </p> - <p> - “Five.” - </p> - <p> - “Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument.” - </p> - <p> - But the deacon only muttered to himself: “I'm an evil-minded man.” - </p> - <p> - Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers. - </p> - <p> - “Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!” which Pietro did, perspiring - freely. “Shake all that. Come along.” - </p> - <p> - The two walked slowly toward the yellow road. Pietro raised his voice - despairingly. “No cent! Not a nicka!” - </p> - <p> - “That's so,” said Tom, pausing. “Five, by thunder! Come along, Dago. It's - free quarters. Entrez. Take a seat.” - </p> - <p> - The breeze was blowing up over Elbow Lake, and the butterflies bobbed - about in the sunshine, as they drove along the yellow road. Pietro sat at - the back of the buck-board, the leathery ape on his knee and a smile on - his face, broad, non-professional, and consisting largely of front teeth. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CONLON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>ONLON, the strong, - lay sick unto death with fever. The Water Commissioners sent champagne to - express their sympathy. It was an unforced impulse of feeling. - </p> - <p> - But Conlon knew nothing of it. His lips were white, his cheeks sunken; his - eyes glared and wandered; he muttered, and clutched with his big fingers - at nothing visible. - </p> - <p> - The doctor worked all day to force a perspiration. At six o'clock he said: - “I'm done. Send for the priest.” - </p> - <p> - When Kelly and Simon Harding came, Father Ryan and the doctor were going - down the steps. - </p> - <p> - “'Tis a solemn duty ye have, Kelly,” said the priest, “to watch the last - moments of a dying man, now made ready for his end.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, not Conlon! He'll not give up, not him,” cried Kelly, “the shtrong - man wid the will in him!” - </p> - <p> - “An' what's the sthrength of man in the hands of his Creathor?” said the - priest, turning to Harding, oratorically. - </p> - <p> - “I don' know,” said Harding, calmly. “Do you?” - </p> - <p> - “'Tis naught!” - </p> - <p> - Kelly murmured submissively. - </p> - <p> - “Kind of monarchical institution, ain't it, what Conlon's run up against?” - Harding remarked. “Give him a fair show in a caucus, an' he'd win, sure.” - </p> - <p> - “He'll die if he don't sweat,” said the doctor, wiping his forehead. “It's - hot enough.” Conlon lay muttering and glaring at the ceiling. The big - knuckles of his hands stood out like rope-knots. His wife nodded to Kelly - and Harding, and went out. She was a good-looking woman, large, massive, - muscular. Kelly looked after her, rubbing his short nose and blinking his - watery eyes. He was small, with stooping shoulders, affectionate eyes, - wavering knees. He had followed Conlon, the strong, and served him many - years. Admiration of Conlon was a strenuous business in which to be - engaged. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” he said, “his wife ten year, an' me his inchimate friend.” - </p> - <p> - It was ten by the clock. The subsiding noise of the city came up over - housetops and vacant lots. The windows of the sickroom looked off the - verge of a bluff; one saw the lights of the little city below, the lights - of the stars above, and the hot black night between. - </p> - <p> - Kelly and Harding sat down by a window, facing each other. The lamplight - was dim. A screen shaded it from the bed, where Conlon muttered and cried - out faintly, intermittently, as though in conversation with some one who - was present only to himself. His voice was like the ghost or shadow of a - voice, not a whisper, but strained of all resonance. One might fancy him - standing on the bank of the deadly river and talking across to some one - beyond the fog, and fancy that the voices would so creep through the fog - stealthily, not leaping distances like earthly sounds, but struggling - slowly through nameless obstruction. - </p> - <p> - Kelly rubbed his hands before the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I was his inchimate friend.” - </p> - <p> - Harding said: “Are you going to talk like a blanked idiot all night, or - leave off maybe about twelve?” - </p> - <p> - “I know ye for a hard man, too, Simmy,” said Kelly, pathetically; “an' - 'tis the nathur of men, for an Irishman is betther for blow-in' off his - shteam, be it the wrath or the sorrow of him, an' the Yankee is betther - for bottlin' it up.” - </p> - <p> - “Uses it for driving his engine mostly.” - </p> - <p> - “So. But Conlon—” - </p> - <p> - “Conlon,” said Harding slowly, “that's so. He had steam to drive with, and - steam to blow with, and plenty left over to toot his whistle and scald his - fingers and ache in his belly. Expanding that there figure, he carried - suction after him like the 1:40 express, he did.” - </p> - <p> - “'Tis thrue.” Kelly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I mind me when - I first saw him I hadn't seen him before, unless so be when he was puttin' - the wather-main through the sand-hills up the river an' bossin' a gang o' - men with a fog-horn voice till they didn't own their souls, an' they - didn't have any, what's more, the dirty Polocks. But he come into me shop - one day, an' did I want the job o' plumbin' the court-house? - </p> - <p> - “'Have ye the court-house in your pocket?' says I, jokin'. - </p> - <p> - “'I have,' says he, onexpected, 'an' any plumbin' that's done for the - court-house is done in the prisint risidence of the same.' - </p> - <p> - “An' I looks up, an' 'O me God!' I says to meself, ''tis a man!' wid the - black eyebrows of him, an' the shoulders an' the legs of him. An' he took - me into the shwale of his wake from that day to this. But I niver thought - to see him die.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so. You been his heeler straight through. I don't know but I like - your saying so. But I don't see the how. Why, look here; when I bid for - the old water contract he comes and offers to sell it to me, sort of - personal asset. I don't know how. By the unbroke faces of the other Water - Commissioners he didn't use his pile-driving fist to persuade 'em, and - what I paid him was no more'n comfortable for himself. How'd he fetch it? - How'd he do those things? Why, look here, Kelly, ain't he bullied you? - Ain't you done dirty jobs for him, and small thanks?” - </p> - <p> - “I have that.” - </p> - <p> - Kelly's hands trembled. He was bowed down and thoughtful, but not angry. - “Suppose I ask you what for?” - </p> - <p> - “Suppose ye do. Suppose I don' know. Maybe he was born to be king over me. - Maybe he wasn't. But I know he was a mastherful man, an' he's dyin' here, - an' me blood's sour an' me bones sad wid thinkin' of it. Don' throuble me, - Simmy.” - </p> - <p> - Harding leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, where the lamp - made a nebulous circle of light. - </p> - <p> - “Why, that's so,” he said at last, in conclusion of some unmentioned train - of thought. “Why, I got a pup at home, and his affection ain't measured by - the bones he's had, nor the licks he's had, not either of 'em.” - </p> - <p> - Kelly was deep in a reverie. - </p> - <p> - “Nor it ain't measured by my virtues. Look here, now; I don' see what his - measure is.” - </p> - <p> - “Hey?” Kelly roused himself. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I was just thinking.” - </p> - <p> - Harding thought he had known other men who had had in some degree a - magnetic power that seemed to consist in mere stormy energy of initiative. - They were like strong drink to weaker men. It was more physical than - mental. Conlon was to Kelly a stimulant, then an appetite. And Conlon was - a bad lot. Fellows that had heeled for him were mostly either wrecked or - dead now. Why, there was a chap named Patterson that used to be decent - till he struck Conlon, when he went pretty low; and Nora Reimer drowned - herself on account of Patterson, when he got himself shot in a row at some - shanty up the railroad. The last had seemed a good enough riddance. But - Nora went off her head and jumped in the new reservoir. Harding remembered - it the more from being one of the Water Company. They had had to empty the - reservoir, which was expensive. And there were others. A black, blustering - sort of beast, Conlon. He had more steam than was natural. Harding - wondered vaguely at Kelly, who was spelling out the doctor's directions - from a piece of paper. - </p> - <p> - “A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle. 'Tis no tin-course - dinner wid the champagne an' entries he's givin' Conlon the night. Hey? A - powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle.” - </p> - <p> - Harding's mind wandered on among memories of the little city below, an - intricate, irregular history, full of incidents, stories that were never - finished or dribbled off anywhere, black spots that he knew of in white - lives, white spots in dark lives. He did not happen to know any white - spots on Conlon. - </p> - <p> - “Course if a man ain't in politics for his health he ain't in it for the - health of the community, either, and that's all right. And if he opens the - morning by clumping Mrs. Conlon on the head, why, she clumps him back more - or less, and that's all right.” Then, if he went down-town and lied here - and there ingeniously in the way of business, and came home at night - pretty drunk, but no more than was popular with his constituency, why, - Conlon's life was some cluttered, but never dull. Still, Harding's own - ways being quieter and less cluttered, he felt that if Conlon were going - off naturally now, it was not, on the whole, a bad idea. It would conduce - to quietness. It would perhaps be a pity if anything interfered. - </p> - <p> - The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, a dull, unechoing sound. - </p> - <p> - “Simmy,” said Kelly, pointing with his thumb, “what do he be sayin', - talkin'—talkin' like one end of a tiliphone?” - </p> - <p> - They both turned toward the bed and listened. - </p> - <p> - “Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the - other end?” - </p> - <p> - “I don' know,” whispered Kelly. “But I have this in me head, for ye know, - when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his man at the - front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of inthroduction in his - hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the same to be read an' him - certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful of boilin' impatience in - himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' the time o' day through - the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?” - </p> - <p> - “'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?” - </p> - <p> - “Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye - mind?” - </p> - <p> - Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and - muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed - tremulously. - </p> - <p> - “Listen, will ye?” said Kelly, suddenly leaning down. - </p> - <p> - “I don' know,” said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. “I don' know - as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't healthy to - mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a bank—ain't - any more'n likely. What of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Listen, will ye?” - </p> - <p> - “Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly.” - </p> - <p> - “'Sh!” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom</i>,” babbled the ghostly voice, a thin, - distant sound. - </p> - <p> - “What'd he say? What'd he say?” Kelly was white and trembling. - </p> - <p> - Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to - himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close to - Conlon to study the matter. - </p> - <p> - “<i>What's the heart-scald, mother?</i>” babbled Conlon. “<i>Where'd ye - get it from? Me! Wirra!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd.” - </p> - <p> - “Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid.” - </p> - <p> - Kelly shook his head solemnly. - </p> - <p> - “He's spheakin' to ghosteses.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see. - Where'm I goin'?</i>' - </p> - <p> - “You got me,” muttered Harding. “I don' know.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Tom'll be good. It's main dark. Hold Tom's hand</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Kelly was on his knees, saying prayers at terrific speed. - </p> - <p> - “Hear to him!” he stopped to whisper. “Ghosteses! Ora pro nobis—” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Tom ain't afraid. Naw, he ain't afraid.</i>” - </p> - <p> - Harding went back to his window. The air was heavy and motionless, the - stars a little dim. He could see the dark line of the river with an - occasional glint upon it, and the outline of the hills beyond. - </p> - <p> - The little city had drawn a robe of innocent obscurity over it. Only a - malicious sparkle gleamed here and there. He thought he knew that city - inside and out, from end to end. He had lived in it, dealt with it, loved - it, cheated it, helped to build it, shared its fortunes. Who knew it - better than he? But every now and then it surprised with some hidden - detail or some impulse of civic emotion. And Kelly and Conlon, surely he - knew them, as men may know men. But he never had thought to see Conlon as - to-night. It was odd. But there was some fact in the social constitution, - in human nature, at the basis of all the outward oddities of each. - </p> - <p> - “Maybe when a man's gettin' down to his reckonin' it's needful to show up - what he's got at the bottom. Then he begins to peel off layers of himself - like an onion, and 'less there ain't anything to him but layers, by and by - he comes to something that resembles a sort of aboriginal boy, which is - mostly askin' questions and bein' surprised.” - </p> - <p> - Maybe there was more boyishness in Conlon than in most men. Come to think - of it, there was. Conlon's leadership was ever of the - maybe-you-think-I-can't-lick-you order; and men followed him, admitting - that he could, in admiration and simplicity. You might see the same thing - in the public-school yard. Maybe that was the reason. The sins of Conlon - were not sophisticated. - </p> - <p> - The low, irregular murmur from the bed, the heavy heat of the night, made - Harding drowsy. Kelly repeating the formula of his prayers, a kind of - incantation against ghosts, Conlon with his gaunt face in the shadow and - his big hands on the sheet clutching at nothing visible, both faded away, - and Harding fell asleep. - </p> - <p> - He woke with a start. Kelly was dancing about the bed idiotically. - </p> - <p> - “He's shweatin'!” he gabbled. “He's shweatin'! He'll be well—Conlon.” - </p> - <p> - It made Harding think of the “pup,” and how he would dance about him, when - he went home, in the crude expression of joy. Conlon's face was damp. He - muttered no more. They piled the blankets on him till the perspiration - stood out in drops. Conlon breathed softly and slept. Kelly babbled - gently, “Conlon! Conlon!” - </p> - <p> - Harding went back to the window and rubbed his eyes sleepily. - </p> - <p> - “Kind of too bad, after all that trouble to get him peeled.” - </p> - <p> - The morning was breaking, solemn, noiseless, with lifted banners and wide - pageantries, over river and city. - </p> - <p> - Harding yawned. - </p> - <p> - “It's one on Father Ryan, anyway. That's a good thing. Blamed old - windbag!” - </p> - <p> - Kelly murmured ecstatically, “Conlon will get well—Conlon!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - ST CATHERINE'S - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>T. CATHERINE'S was - the life work of an old priest, who is remembered now and presently will - be forgotten. There are gargoyles over the entrance aside, with their - mouths open to express astonishment. They spout rain water at times, but - you need not get under them; and there are towers, and buttresses, a great - clock, a gilded cross, and roofs that go dimly heavenward. - </p> - <p> - St. Catherine's is new. The neighborhood squats around it in different - pathetic attitudes. Opposite is the saloon of the wooden-legged man; then - the three groceries whose cabbages all look unpleasant; the parochial - school with the green lattice; and all those little wooden houses—where - lives, for instance, the dressmaker who funnily calls herself “Modiste.” - Beyond the street the land drops down to the freight yards. - </p> - <p> - But Father Connell died about the time they finished the east oriel, and - Father Harra reigned over the house of the old man's dreams—a - red-faced man, a high feeder, who looked as new as the church and said the - virtues of Father Connell were reducing his flesh. That would seem to be - no harm; but Father Harra meant it humorously. Father Connell had stumped - about too much among the workmen in the cold and wet, else there had been - no need of his dying at eighty-eight. His tall black hat became a relic - that hung in the tiring room, and he cackled no more in his thin voice the - noble Latin of the service. Peace to his soul! The last order he wrote - related to the position of the Christ figure and the inscription, “Come - unto me, weary and heavy-laden: I will give you rest.” But the figure was - not in place till the mid-December following. - </p> - <p> - And it was the day before Christmas that Father Harra had a fine service, - with his boy choir and all; and Chubby Locke sang a solo, “Angels ever - bright and fair,” that was all dripping with tears, so to speak. Chubby - Locke was an imp too. All around the altar the candles were lighted, and - there hung a cluster of gas jets over the head of the Christ figure on the - edge of the south transept. So fine it was that Father Harra came out of - his room into the aisle (when the people were gone, saying how fine it - was, and the sexton was putting out the gas here and there), to walk up - and down and think about it, especially how he should keep up with the - virtues of Father Connell. Duskier and duskier it grew, as the candles - went out cluster by cluster till only those in the south transept were - left; and Dennis, coming there, stopped and grunted. - </p> - <p> - “What!” said Father Harra. - </p> - <p> - “It's asleep he is,” said the sexton. “It's a b'y, yer riverence.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, so it is! He went to sleep during the service. H'm—well—they - often do that, Dennis.” - </p> - <p> - “Anyways he don't belong here,” said Dennis. - </p> - <p> - “Think so? I don't know about that. Wait a bit. I don't know about that - Dennis.” - </p> - <p> - The boy lay curled up on the seat—a newsboy, by the papers that had - slipped from his arms. But he did not look businesslike, and he did not - suggest the advantages of being poor in America. One does not become a - capitalist or president by going to church and to sleep in the best of - business hours, from four to six, when the streets are stirring with men - on their way to dinners, cigars and evening papers. The steps of St. - Catherine's are not a bad place to sell papers after Vespers, and one - might as well go in, to be sure, and be warm while the service lasts; - only, as I said, if one falls asleep, one does not become a capitalist or - president immediately. Father Harra considered, and Dennis waited - respectfully. - </p> - <p> - “It's making plans I am against your natural rest, Dennis. I'm that - inconsiderate of your feelings to think of keeping St. Catherine's open - this night. And why? Look ye, Dennis. St. Catherine's is getting itself - consecrated these days, being new, and of course—But I tell ye, - Dennis, it's a straight church doctrine that the blessings of the poor are - a good assistance to the holy wather.” - </p> - <p> - “An' me wid children of me own to be missin' their father this Christmas - Eve!” began Dennis indignantly. - </p> - <p> - “Who wouldn't mind, the little villains, if their father had another - dollar of Christmas morning to buy 'em presents.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, well,” said the sexton, “yer riverence is that persuadin'.” - </p> - <p> - “It's plain enough for ye to see yourself, Dennis, though thick-headed - somewhat. There you are: 'Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden;' and here - he is. Plain enough. And who are the weary and heavy-laden in this city?” - </p> - <p> - “Yer riverence will be meanin' everybody,” chuckled Dennis. - </p> - <p> - “Think so? Rich and poor and all? Stuff! I don't believe it. Not to-night. - It'll be the outcasts, I'm thinking, Dennis. Come on.” - </p> - <p> - “An' the b'y, yer riverence?” - </p> - <p> - “The what? Oh, why, yes, yes. He's all right. I don't see anything the - matter with him. He's come.” - </p> - <p> - It was better weather to go with the wind than against it, for the snow - drove in gritty particles, and the sidewalks made themselves disagreeable - and apt to slip out from under a person. Little spurts of snow danced up - St. Catherine's roofs and went off the ridgepoles in puffs. It ought to - snow on Christmas Eve; but it rightly should snow with better manners and - not be so cold. The groceries closed early. Freiburger, the saloon man, - looked over the curtains of his window. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know vat for Fater Harra tack up dings dis time by his kirch - door, 'Come—come in here.' Himmel! der Irishman!” - </p> - <p> - Father Harra turned in to his supper, and thought how he would trouble - Father Conner's reputation for enterprise and what a fine bit of - constructive ability himself was possessed of. - </p> - <p> - The great central door of St. Catherine's stood open, so that the drift - blew in and piled in windrows on the cold floor of the vestibule. The tall - front of the church went up into the darkness, pointing to no visible - stars; but over the doors two gas jets flickered across the big sign they - use for fairs at the parochial school. “Come in here.” The vestibule was - dark, barring another gas jet over a side door, with another sign, “Come - in here,” and within the great church was dark as well, except for a - cluster over the Christ figure. That was all; but Father Harra thought it - a neat symbol, looking toward those who go from meagre light to light - through the darkness. - </p> - <p> - Little noises were in the church all night far up in the pitch darkness of - rafter and buttress, as if people were whispering and crying softly to one - another. Now and again, too, the swing door would open and remain so for a - moment, suspicious, hesitating. But what they did, or who they were that - opened it, could hardly be told in the dusk and distance. Dennis went to - sleep in a chair by the chancel rail, and did not care what they did or - who they were, granted they kept away from the chancel. - </p> - <p> - How the wind blew!—and the snow tapped impatiently at stained - windows with a multitude of little fingers. But if the noises among the - rafters were not merely echoes of the crying and calling wind without, if - any presences moved and whispered there, and looked down on flat floor and - straight lines of pews, they must have seen the Christ figure, with - welcoming hands, dominant by reason of the light about it; and, just on - the edge of the circle of light, shapeless things stretched on cushions of - pews, and motionless or stirring uneasily. Something now came dimly up the - aisle from the swing door, stopped at a pew, and hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “Git out!” growled a hoarse voice. “Dis my bunk.” - </p> - <p> - The intruder gave a nervous giggle. “Begawd!” muttered the hoarse voice. - “It's a lady!” - </p> - <p> - Another voice said something angrily. “Well,” said the first, “it ain't - behavin' nice to come into me boodwer.” - </p> - <p> - The owner of the giggle had slipped away and disappeared in a distant pew. - In another pew to the right of the aisle a smaller shadow whispered to - another: - </p> - <p> - “Jimmy, that's a statoo up there.” - </p> - <p> - “Who?” - </p> - <p> - “That. I bet 'e's a king.” - </p> - <p> - “Aw, no 'e ain't. Kings has crowns an' wallups folks.” - </p> - <p> - “Gorry! What for?” - </p> - <p> - “I don' know.” - </p> - <p> - The other sighed plaintively. “I thought 'e might be a king.” - </p> - <p> - The rest were mainly silent. Some one had a bad cough. Once a sleeper - rolled from the seat and fell heavily to the floor. There was an oath or - two, a smothered laugh, and the distant owner of the giggle used it - nervously. The last was an uncanny sound. The wakened sleeper objected to - it. He said he would “like to get hold of her,” and then lay down - cautiously on his cushion. - </p> - <p> - Architects have found that their art is cunning to play tricks with them; - whence come whispering galleries, comers of echoes, roofs that crush the - voice of the speaker, and roofs that enlarge it. Father Connell gave no - orders to shape the roofs of St. Catherine's, that on stormy nights so - many odd noises might congregate there, whispering, calling, murmuring, - now over the chancel, now the organ, now far up in the secret high places - of the roof, now seeming to gather in confidence above the Christ figure - and the circle of sleepers; or, if one vaguely imagined some inquisitively - errant beings moving overhead, it would seem that newcomers constantly - entered, to whom it had all to be explained. - </p> - <p> - But against that eager motion in the darkness above the Christ figure - below was bright in his long garment, and quiet and secure. The cluster of - gas jets over his head made light but a little distance around, then - softened the dusk for another distance, and beyond seemed not to touch the - darkness at all. The dusk was a debatable space. The sleepers all lay in - the debatable space. They may have sought it by instinct; but the more one - looked at them the more they seemed like dull, half-animate things, over - whom the light and the darkness made their own compromises and the people - up in the roof their own comments. - </p> - <p> - The clock in the steeple struck the hours; in the church the tremble was - felt more than the sound was heard. The chimes each hour started their - message, “Good will and peace;” but the wind went after it and howled it - down, and the snow did not cease its petulance at the windows. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The clock in the steeple struck five. The man with the hoarse voice sat - up, leaned over the back of the seat and touched his neighbor, who rose - noiselessly, a huge fat man and unkempt. - </p> - <p> - “Time to slope,” whispered the first, motioning toward the chancel. - </p> - <p> - The other followed his motion. - </p> - <p> - “What's up there?” - </p> - <p> - “You're ignorance, you are. That's where they gives the show. There's - pickin's there.” - </p> - <p> - The two slipped out and stole up the aisle with a peculiar noiseless - tread. Even Fat Bill's step could not be heard a rod away. The aisle - entered the circle of light before the Christ figure; but the two thieves - glided through without haste and without looking up. The smaller, in - front, drew up at the end of the aisle, and Fat Bill ran into him. Dennis - sat in his chair against the chancel rail, asleep. - </p> - <p> - “Get onto his whiskers, Bill. Mebbe you'll have to stuff them whiskers - down his throat.” - </p> - <p> - There was a nervous giggle behind them. Fat Bill shot into a pew, dragging - his comrade after him, and crouched down. “It ain't no use,” he whispered, - shaking the other angrily. “Church business is bad luck. I alius said so. - What's for them blemed noises all night? How'd come they stick that thing - up there with the gas over it? What for'd they leave the doors open, an' - tell ye to come in, an' keep their damn devils gigglin' around? 'Taint - straight I won't stand it.” - </p> - <p> - “It's only a woman, Bill,” said the other patiently. - </p> - <p> - He rose on his knees and looked over the back of the seat. “'Tain't - straight. I won't stand it.” - </p> - <p> - “We won't fight, Bill. We'll get out, if you say so.” - </p> - <p> - The owner of the giggle was sitting up, as they glided back, Fat Bill - leading. - </p> - <p> - “I'll smash yer face,” the smaller man said to her. - </p> - <p> - Bill turned and grabbed his collar. - </p> - <p> - “You come along.” - </p> - <p> - The woman stared stupidly after, till the swing door closed behind them. - Then she put on her hat, decorated with too many disorderly flowers. Most - of the sleepers were wakened. The wind outside had died in the night, and - the church was quite still. A man in a dress suit and overcoat sat up in a - pew beneath a window, and stared about him. His silk hat lay on the floor. - He leaned over the back of the seat and spoke to his neighbor, a tramp in - checked trousers. - </p> - <p> - “How'd I g-get here?” he asked thickly. - </p> - <p> - “Don' know, pardner,” said the tramp cheerfully. “Floated in, same as me?” - He caught sight of the white tie and shirt front. “Maybe you'd give a cove - a shiner to steady ye out They don't give breakfasts with lodgin's here.” - </p> - <p> - The woman with the giggle and the broken-down flowers on her hat went out - next; then a tall, thin man with a beard and a cough; the newsboy with his - papers shuffled after, his shoes being too large; then a lame man—something - seemed the matter with his hip; and a decent-looking woman, who wore a - faded shawl over her head and kept it drawn across her face—she - seemed ashamed to be there, as if it did not appear to her a respectable - place; last, two boys, one of them small, but rather stunted than very - young. He said: - </p> - <p> - “'E ain't a king, is 'e, Jimmy? You don' know who 'e is, do you, Jimmy?” - </p> - <p> - “Naw.” - </p> - <p> - “Say, Jimmy, it was warm, warn't it?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Dennis came down the aisle, put out the gas, and began to brush the - cushions. The clock struck a quarter of six, and Father Harra came in. - </p> - <p> - “Christmas, Dennis, Christmas! H'm—anybody been here? What did they - think of it?” - </p> - <p> - Dennis rubbed his nose sheepishly. - </p> - <p> - “They wint to shleep, sor, an'—an' thin they wint out.” - </p> - <p> - Father Harra looked up at the Christ figure and stroked his red chin. - </p> - <p> - “I fancied they might see the point,” he said slowly. “Well, well, I hope - they were warm.” - </p> - <p> - The colored lights from the east oriel fell over the Christ figure and - gave it a cheerful look; and from other windows blue and yellow and - magical deep-sea tints floated in the air, as if those who had whispered - unseen in the darkness were now wandering about, silent but curiously - visible. - </p> - <p> - “Yer riverince,” said Dennis, “will not be forgettin' me dollar.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE SPIRAL STONE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE graveyard on - the brow of the hill was white with snow. The marbles were white, the - evergreens black. One tall spiral stone stood painfully near the centre. - The little brown church outside the gates turned its face in the more - comfortable direction of the village. - </p> - <p> - Only three were out among the graves: “Ambrose Chillingworth, ætat 30, - 1675;” - </p> - <p> - “Margaret Vane, ætat 19, 1839;” and “Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,” from - the Mercer Lot. It is called the “Mercer Lot,” but the Mercers are all - dead or gone from the village. - </p> - <p> - The Little One trotted around busily, putting his tiny finger in the - letterings and patting the faces of the cherubs. The other two sat on the - base of the spiral, which twisted in the moonlight over them. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder why it is?” Margaret said. “Most of them never come out at all. - We and the Little One come out so often. You were wise and learned. I knew - so little. Will you tell me?” - </p> - <p> - “Learning is not wisdom,” Ambrose answered. “But of this matter it was - said that our containment in the grave depended on the spirit in which we - departed. I made certain researches. It appeared by common report that - only those came out whom desperate sin tormented, or labors incomplete and - great desire at the point of death made restless. I had doubts the matter - were more subtle, the reasons of it reaching out distantly.” He sighed - faintly, following with his eyes, tomb by tomb, the broad white path that - dropped down the hillside to the church. “I desired greatly to live.” - </p> - <p> - “I, too. Is it because we desired it so much, then? But the Little One”—- - </p> - <p> - “I do not know,” he said. - </p> - <p> - The Little One trotted gravely here and there, seeming to know very well - what he was about, and presently came to the spiral stone. The lettering - on it was new, and there was no cherub. He dropped down suddenly on the - snow, with a faint whimper. His small feet came out from under his gown, - as he sat upright, gazing at the letters with round troubled eyes, and up - to the top of the monument for the solution of some unstated problem. - </p> - <p> - “The stone is but newly placed,” said Ambrose, “and the newcomer would - seem to be of those who rest in peace.” - </p> - <p> - They went and sat down on either side of him, on the snow. The peculiar - cutting of the stone, with spirally ascending lines, together with the - moon's illusion, gave it a semblance of motion. Something twisted and - climbed continually, and vanished continually from the point. But the base - was broad, square, and heavily lettered: “John Mareschelli Vane.” - </p> - <p> - “Vane? That was thy name,” said Ambrose. - </p> - <p> - 1890. Ætat 72. - </p> - <p> - An Eminent Citizen, a Public Benefactor, and Widely Esteemed. - </p> - <p> - For the Love of his Native Place returned to lay his Dust therein. - </p> - <p> - The Just Made Perfect. - </p> - <p> - “It would seem he did well, and rounded his labors to a goodly end, lying - down among his kindred as a sheaf that is garnered in the autumn. He was - fortunate.” - </p> - <p> - And Margaret spoke, in the thin, emotionless voice which those who are - long in the graveyard use: “He was my brother.” - </p> - <p> - “Thy brother?” said Ambrose. - </p> - <p> - The Little One looked up and down the spiral with wide eyes. The other two - looked past it into the deep white valley, where the river, covered with - ice and snow, was marked only by the lines of skeleton willows and - poplars. A night wind, listless but continual, stirred the evergreens. The - moon swung low over the opposite hills, and for a moment slipped behind a - cloud. - </p> - <p> - “Says it not so, 'For the Love of his Native Place'?” murmured Ambrose. - </p> - <p> - And as the moon came out, there leaned against the pedestal, pointing with - a finger at the epitaph, one that seemed an old man, with bowed shoulders - and keen, restless face, but in his manner cowed and weary. - </p> - <p> - “It is a lie,” he said slowly. “I hated it, Margaret. I came because Ellen - Mercer called me.” - </p> - <p> - “Ellen isn't buried here.” - </p> - <p> - “Not here!” - </p> - <p> - “Not here.” - </p> - <p> - “Was it you, then, Margaret? Why?” - </p> - <p> - “I didn't call you.” - </p> - <p> - “Who then?” he shrieked. “Who called me?” - </p> - <p> - The night wind moved on monotonously, and the moonlight was undisturbed, - like glassy water. - </p> - <p> - “When I came away,” she said, “I thought you would marry her. You didn't, - then? But why should she call you?” - </p> - <p> - “I left the village suddenly!” he cried. “I grew to dread, and then to - hate it. I buried myself from the knowledge of it, and the memory of it - was my enemy. I wished for a distant death, and these fifty years have - heard the summons to come and lay my bones in this graveyard. I thought it - was Ellen. You, sir, wear an antique dress; you have been long in this - strange existence. Can you tell who called me? If not Ellen, where is - Ellen?” He wrung his hands, and rocked to and fro. - </p> - <p> - “The mystery is with the dead as with the living,” said Ambrose. “The - shadows of the future and the past come among us. We look in their eyes, - and understand them not. Now and again there is a call even here, and the - grave is henceforth untenanted of its spirit. Here, too, we know a - necessity which binds us, which speaks not with audible voice and will not - be questioned.” - </p> - <p> - “But tell me,” moaned the other, “does the weight of sin depend upon its - consequences? Then what weight do I bear? I do not know whether it was - ruin or death, or a thing gone by and forgotten. Is there no answer here - to this?” - </p> - <p> - “Death is but a step in the process of life,” answered Ambrose. “I know - not if any are ruined or anything forgotten. Look up, to the order of the - stars, an handwriting on the wall of the firmament. But who hath read it? - Mark this night wind, a still small voice. But what speaketh it? The earth - is clothed in white garments as a bride. What mean the ceremonials of the - seasons? The will from without is only known as it is manifested. Nor does - it manifest where the consequences of the deed end or its causes began. - Have they any end or a beginning? I cannot answer you.” - </p> - <p> - “Who called me, Margaret?” - </p> - <p> - And she said again monotonously, “I didn't call you.” - </p> - <p> - The Little One sat between Ambrose and Margaret, chuckling to himself and - gazing up at the newcomer, who suddenly bent forward and looked into his - eyes, with a gasp. - </p> - <p> - “What is this?” he whispered. “'Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,' from the - Mercer Lot,” returned Ambrose gently. “He is very quiet. Art not - neglecting thy business, Little One? The lower walks are unvisited - to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “They are Ellen's eyes!” cried the other, moaning and rocking. “Did you - call me? Were you mine?” - </p> - <p> - “It is, written, 'Thy Little One, O God,'” murmured Ambrose. - </p> - <p> - But the Little One only curled his feet up under his gown, and now - chuckled contentedly. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE MUSIDORA SONNET - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE clock in some - invisible steeple struck one. The great snowflakes fell thickly, wavering - and shrinking, delicate, barren seeds, conscious of their unfruitfulness. - The sputter of the arc lights seemed explosive to the muffled silence of - the street. With a bright corner at either end, the block was a canon, a - passage in a nether world of lurking ghosts, where a frightened gaslight - trembled, hesitated midway. And Noel Endicott conceived suddenly, between - curb and curb, a sonnet, to be entitled “Dante in Tenth Street,” the - appearance of it occupying, in black letter, a half page in the <i>Monthly - Illustrated</i>, a gloomy pencilling above, and below it “Noel Endicott.” - The noiselessness of his steps enlarged his imagination. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I walked in 19th Street, not the Florentine, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With ghosts more sad, and one like Beatrice - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Laid on my lips the sanction of her kiss. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - 'Twas—— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It should be in a purgatorial key, in effect something cold, white and - spiritual, portraying “her” with Dantesque symbolism, a definite being, a - vision with a name. “'Twas—” In fact, who was she? - </p> - <p> - He stopped. Tenth Street was worth more than a sonnet's confined - austerity. It should be a story. Noel was one who beat tragic conceptions - into manuscript, suffering rejection for improbability. Great actions - thrilled him, great desires and despairs. The massive villainies of Borgia - had fallen in days when art was strenuous. Of old, men threw a world away - for a passion, an ambition. Intense and abundant life—one was - compelled now to spin their symbols out of thin air, be rejected for - improbability, and in the midst of a bold conception, in a snowstorm on - canoned Tenth Street, be hungry and smitten with doubts of one's landlady. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Tibbett had been sharp that morning relative to a bill, and he had - remonstrated but too rashly: “Why discuss it, Mrs. Tibbett? It's a - negative, an unfruitful subject.” And she had, in effect, raved, and - without doubt now had locked the outer door. Her temper, roused at one - o'clock, would be hasty in action, final in result. - </p> - <p> - He stood still and looked about him. Counting two half blocks as one, it - was now one block to Mrs. Tibbett and that ambushed tragedy. - </p> - <p> - In his last novel, “The Sunless Treasure” (to his own mind his greatest), - young Humphrey stands but a moment hesitating before the oaken door, - believing his enemies to be behind it with ready daggers. He hesitates but - a moment. The die is cast. He enters. His enemies are not there. But Mrs. - Tibbett seemed different. For instance, she would be there. - </p> - <p> - The house frontage of this, like the house frontage of the fatal next - block, was various, of brick, brownstone or dingy white surface, with - doorways at the top of high steps, doorways on the ground level, doorways - flush with the front, or sunken in pits. Not a light in any window, not a - battlement that on its restless front bore a star, but each house stood - grim as Child Roland's squat tower. The incessant snowflakes fell past, no - motion or method of any Byzantine palace intrigue so silken, so noiseless, - so mysterious in beginnings and results. All these locked caskets wedged - together contained problems and solutions, to which Bassanio's was a - simple chance of three with a pointed hint. Noel decided that Tenth Street - was too large for a story. It was a literature. One must select. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the snow fell and lay thickly, and there was no doubt that by - persistent standing in the snow one's feet became wet. He stepped into the - nearest doorway, which was on the level of the street, one of three - doorways alike, all low, arched and deep. - </p> - <p> - They would be less noticeable in the daytime than in the night, when their - cavernous gaping and exact repetition seemed either ominous or grotesque, - according to the observer. The outer door was open. He felt his way in - beyond the drift to the hard footing of the vestibule, kicked his shoes - free of snow and brushed his beard. - </p> - <p> - The heroes of novels were sometimes hungry and houseless, but it seemed to - Noel that they seldom or never faced a problem such as Mrs. Tibbett - presented. Desperate fortunes should be carried on the point of one's - sword, but with Mrs. Tibbett the point was not to provoke her. She was - incongruous. She must be thrust aside, put out of the plot. He made a - gesture dismissing Mrs. Tibbett. His hand in the darkness struck the jamb - of the inner door, which swung back with a click of the half-caught latch. - His heart thumped, and he peered into the darkness, where a thin yellow - pencil of light stretched level from a keyhole at the farther end of a - long hall. - </p> - <p> - Dismissing Mrs. Tibbett, it was a position of dramatic advantage to stand - in so dark and deep an arched entrance, between the silence and incessant - motion of the snow on the one hand, and the yellow pencil of light, - pointing significantly to something unknown, some crisis of fortune. He - felt himself in a tale that had both force and form, responsible for its - progress. - </p> - <p> - He stepped in, closed the half door behind him softly, and crept through - the hall. The thin line of light barred the way, and seemed to say, “Here - is the place. Be bold, ready-minded, full of subtlety and resource.” There - was no sound within that he could hear, and no sound without, except his - own oppressed breathing and pulses throbbing in his ears. - </p> - <p> - Faint heart never won anything, and as for luck, it belonged to those who - adventured with various chances, and of the blind paths that led away from - their feet into the future, chose one, and another, and so kept on good - terms with possibility. If one but cried saucily, “Open this odd little - box, you three gray women!” And this, and this the gray Fates smiled - indulgently, showing a latent motherliness. How many destinies had been - decided by the opening and shutting of a door, which to better or worse, - never opened again for retreat? A touch on this door and Mrs. Tibbett - might vanish from the story forever, to the benefit of the story. - </p> - <p> - He lifted his hand, having in mind to tap lightly, with tact and - insinuation, but struck the door, in fact, nervously, with a bang that - echoed in the hall. Some one spoke within. He opened and made entry in a - prepared manner, which gave way to merely blinking wonder. - </p> - <p> - It was a large dining-room, brightly lit by a chandelier, warm from a - glowing grate, sumptuous with pictures and hangings, on the table a - glitter of glass and silver, with meat, cakes and wine. - </p> - <p> - On the farther side of the table stood a woman in a black evening dress, - with jewels on her hair and bosom. She seemed to have just risen, and - grasped the back of her chair with one hand, while the other held open a - book on the table. The length of her white arm was in relief against her - black dress. - </p> - <p> - Noel's artistic slouch hat, now taken off with uncertain hand, showed wavy - brown hair over eyes not at all threatening, a beard pointed, somewhat - profuse, a face interestingly featured and astonished. No mental - preparation to meet whatever came, of Arabic or mediaeval incident, - availed him. He felt dumb, futile, blinking. The lady's surprise, the - startled fear on her face, was hardly seen before it changed to relief, as - if the apparition of Noel, compared with some foreboding of her own, were - a mild event. She half smiled when he began:— - </p> - <p> - “I am an intruder, madam,” and stopped with that embarrassed platitude. “I - passed your first door by accident, and your second by impulse.” - </p> - <p> - “That doesn't explain why you stay.” - </p> - <p> - “May I stay to explain?” - </p> - <p> - When two have exchanged remarks that touch the borders of wit, they have - passed a mental introduction. To each the mind of the other is a possible - shade and bubbling spring by the dusty road of conversation. Noel felt the - occasion. He bowed with a side sweep of his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Madam, I am a writer of poems, essays, stories. If you ask, What do I - write in poems, essays, stories, I answer, My perception of things. If you - ask, In what form would I cast my present perceptions of things, I say, - Without doubt a poem.” - </p> - <p> - “You are able to carry both sides of a conversation. I have not asked any - of these.” - </p> - <p> - “You have asked why I stay. I am explaining.” - </p> - <p> - The lady's attitude relaxed its stiffness by a shade, her half smile - became a degree more balmy. - </p> - <p> - “I think you must be a successful writer.” - </p> - <p> - “You touch the point,” he said slowly. “I am not. I am hungry and probably - houseless. And worse than that, I find hunger and houselessness are - sordid, tame. The taste of them in the mouth is flat, like stale beer. It - is not like the bitter tang of a new experience, but like something the - world shows its weariness of in me.” - </p> - <p> - The amused smile vanished in large-eyed surprise, and something more than - surprise, as if his words gave her some intimate, personal information. - </p> - <p> - “You say strange things in a very strange way. And you came in by an - accident?” - </p> - <p> - “And an impulse?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand. But you must sit down, and I can find you more to - eat, if this isn't enough.” - </p> - <p> - Noel could not have explained the strangeness of his language, if it was - strange, further than that he felt the need of saying something in order - to find an opportunity of saying something to the point, and so digplayed - whatever came to his mind as likely to arrest attention. It was a critical - lesson in vagabondage, as familiar there as hunger and houselessness. He - attacked the cold meat, cakes and fruit with fervor, and the claret in the - decanter. But what should be the next step in the pursuit of fortune? At - this point should there not come some revelation? - </p> - <p> - The lady did not seem to think so, but sat looking now at Noel and now at - her own white hands in her lap. That she should have youth and beauty - seemed to Noel as native to the issue as her jewels, the heavy curtains, - the silver and glass. As for youth, she might be twenty, twenty-one, two. - All such ages, he observed to himself with a mental flourish, were one in - beauty. It was not a rosy loveliness like the claret in the decanter, nor - plump like the fruit in the silver basket, but dark-eyed, white and - slender, with black hair drawn across the temples; of a fragile delicacy - like the snowflakes, the frost flower of the century's culture, the symbol - of its ultimate luxury. The rich room was her setting. She was the center - and reason for it, and the yellow point of a diamond over her heart, - glittering, but with a certain mellowness, was still more central, - intimate, interpretative, symbolic of all desirable things. He began to - see the story in it, to glow with the idea. - </p> - <p> - “Madam,” he said, “I am a writer of whose importance I have not as yet - been able to persuade the public. The way I should naturally have gone - to-night seemed to me something to avoid. I took another, which brought me - here. The charm of existence—” She seemed curiously attentive. “The - charm of existence is the unforeseen, and of all things our moods are the - most unforeseen. One's plans are not always and altogether futile. If you - propose to have salad for lunch, and see your way to it, it is not so - improbable that you will have salad for lunch. But if you prefigure how it - will all seem to you at lunch, you are never quite right. Man proposes and - God disposes. I add that there is a third and final disposal, namely, what - man is to think of the disposition after it is made. I hope, since you - proposed or prefigured to-night, perhaps as I did, something different - from this—this disposition”—he lifted his glass of claret - between him and the light—“that your disposition what to think of it - is, perhaps, something like mine.” - </p> - <p> - The lady was leaning forward with parted lips, listening intently, - absorbed in his words. For the life of him Noel could not see why she - should be absorbed in his words, but the fact filled him with happy pride. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” she said quickly. “You speak so well—” - </p> - <p> - Noel filled in her pause of hesitation. - </p> - <p> - “That means that my wisdom may be all in my mouth.” - </p> - <p> - “No, indeed! I mean you must have experience. Will you tell me, is it so - dreadful not to have money? People say different things.” - </p> - <p> - “They do.” He felt elevated, borne along on a wave of ornamental - expression. “It is their salvation. Their common proverbs contradict each - other. A man looks after his pence and trusts one proverb that the pounds - will look after themselves, till presently he is called penny wise and - pound foolish, and brought up by another. And consider how less noticeable - life would be without its jostle of opinion, its conflicting lines of - wisdom, its following of one truth to meet with another going a different - way. Give me for finest companionship some half truth, some ironic - veracity.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. It came to him with a shock that it was not his - ornamental expression which interested her, but only as it might bear on - something in her own mind more simple, direct and serious, something not - yet disclosed. “In fact,” he thought, “she is right. One must get on with - the plot” It was a grievous literary fault to break continuity, to be led - away from the issue by niceties of expression. The proper issue of a plot - was simple, direct, serious, drawn from the motive which began it. Why did - she sit here with her jewels, her white arms and black dress these weird, - still hours of the night? Propriety hinted his withdrawal, but one must - resist the commonplace. - </p> - <p> - “The answer to the question does not satisfy you. But do you not see that - I only enlarged on your own answer? People say different things because - they are different. The answer depends on temperaments, more narrowly on - moods; on tenses, too, whether it is present poverty and houselessness or - past or future. And so it has to be answered particularly, and you haven't - made me able to answer it particularly to you. And then one wouldn't - imagine it could be a question particular to you.” - </p> - <p> - “You are very clever,” she murmured, half smiling again. “Are you not too - clever for the purpose? You say so many things.” - </p> - <p> - “That is true,” said Noel plaintively. “The story has come to a - standstill. It has all run out into diction.” - </p> - <p> - At that moment there was a loud noise in the hall. - </p> - <p> - The smile, which began hopefully, grew old while he watched it, and - withered away. The noise that echoed in the hall was of a banging door, - then of laden, dragging steps. The hall door was thrown open, and two - snowy hackmen entered, holding up between them a man wearing a tall hat. - </p> - <p> - “He's some loaded, ma'am,” said one of them cheerfully. “I ain't seen him - so chucked in six months.” - </p> - <p> - They dropped him in a chair, from which, after looking about him with - half-open, glassy eyes, and closing them again, he slid limply to the - floor. The hackman regarded that choice of position with sympathy. - </p> - <p> - “Wants to rest his load, he does,” and backed out of the door with his - companion. - </p> - <p> - “It goes on the bill. Ain't seen him so chucked in six months.” - </p> - <p> - The lady had not moved from her chair, but had sat white and still, - looking down into her lap. She gave a hard little laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it nice he's so 'chucked'? He would have acted dreadfully.” She was - leaning on the table now, her dark eyes reading him intently. The man on - the floor snorted and gurgled in his sleep. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn't kill anybody,” she said. “Could you?” - </p> - <p> - Noel shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “It's so funny,” she went on in a soft, speculative way, “one can't do it. - I'm afraid to go away and be alone and poor. I wish he would die.” - </p> - <p> - “It wouldn't work out that way,” said Noel, struggling with his wits. - “He's too healthy.” - </p> - <p> - It seemed to him immediately that the comment was not the right one. It - was not even an impersonal fact to himself, an advantage merely to the - plot, that the sleeper was unable to object to him and discard him from - it, as he had resolved to discard Mrs. Tibbett, but with such brutal - energy as the sleeper's face indicated. For it repelled not so much by its - present relaxed degradation as by its power, its solidity of flesh, its - intolerant self-assertion, the physical vigor of the short bull neck, - bulky shoulders, heavy mustache, heavy cheeks and jaw, bluish with the - shaving of a thick growth. He was dressed, barring his damp dishevelment, - like a well-groomed clubman. - </p> - <p> - But the lady was looking Noel in the eyes, and her own seemed strangely - large, but as if covering a spiritual rather than a physical space, - settled in melancholy, full of clouds, moving lights and dusky distances. - </p> - <p> - “I was waiting for him because he ordered me. I'm so afraid of him,” she - said, shrinking with the words. “He likes me to be here and afraid of - him.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me what I am to do?” he said eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you are not to do anything.” - </p> - <p> - Noel caught the thread of his fluency. He drew a ten-cent piece from his - pocket, tossed it on the table, gestured toward it with one hand and swung - the other over the back of his chair with an air of polished recklessness. - </p> - <p> - “But your case seems desperate to you. Is it more than mine? You have - followed this thing about to 'the end of the passage,' and there is my - last coin. My luck might change to-morrow. Who knows? Perhaps tonight. I - would take it without question and full of hope. Will you experiment with - fortune and—and me?” - </p> - <p> - The dark eyes neither consented nor refused. They looked at him gravely. - </p> - <p> - “It is a black, cold night. The snow is thick in the air and deep on the - street Put it so at the worst, but fortune and wit will go far.” - </p> - <p> - “Your wit goes farther than your fortune, doesn't it?” she said, smiling. - </p> - <p> - “I don't conceal.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't conceal either of them, do you? You spread them both out,” and - she laughed a pleasant little ripple of sound. - </p> - <p> - Noel rose with distinction and bent toward her across the table. - </p> - <p> - “My fortune is this ten-cent piece. As you see, on the front of it is - stamped a throned woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how clever.” She laughed, and Noel flushed with the applause. - </p> - <p> - “Shall we trust fortune and spin the coin? Heads, the throned woman, I - shall presently worship you, an earthly divinity. Tails, a barren wreath - and the denomination of a money value, meaning I take my fortunes away, - and you,” pointing in turn to the sleeper and the jewels, “put up with - yours as you can.” - </p> - <p> - She seemed to shiver as he pointed. “No,” she said, “I couldn't do that. A - woman never likes to spin a coin seriously.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you go, then?” - </p> - <p> - The sleeper grunted and turned over. She turned pale, put her hand to her - throat, said hurriedly, “Wait here,” and left the room, lifting and - drawing her skirt aside as she passed the sleeper. - </p> - <p> - She opened the door at last and came again, wrapped in a fur mantle, - carrying a travelling case, and stood looking down at the sleeper as if - with some struggle of the soul, some reluctant surrender. - </p> - <p> - They went out, shutting the door behind them. - </p> - <p> - The snow was falling still on Tenth Street, out of the crowding night. He - held her hand on his arm close to him. She glided beside him noiselessly. - </p> - <p> - The express office was at the corner, a little dingy, gas-lit room. - </p> - <p> - “Carriage? Get it in a minute,” said the sleepy clerk. “It's just round - the corner.” - </p> - <p> - They stood together by a window, half opaque with dust. Her face was - turned away, and he watched the slant of her white cheek. - </p> - <p> - “You will have so much to tell me,” he whispered at last. - </p> - <p> - “I am really very grateful. You helped me to resolve.” - </p> - <p> - “Your carriage, sir.” - </p> - <p> - The electric light sputtered over them standing on the curb. - </p> - <p> - “But,” she said, smiling up at him, “I have nothing to tell you. There is - nothing more. It ends here. Forgive me. It is my plot and it wouldn't work - out your way. There are too many conflicting lines of wisdom in your way. - My life lately has been what you would call, perhaps, a study in realism, - and you want me to be, perhaps, a symbolic romance. I am sure you would - express it very cleverly. But I think one lives by taking resolutions - rather than by spinning coins, which promise either a throned woman, or a - wreath and the denomination of a money value. One turns up so much that is - none of these things. Men don't treat women that way. I married to be - rich, and was very wretched, and perhaps your fame, when it comes, will be - as sad to you. Perhaps the trouble lies in what you called 'the third - disposal.' But I did not like being a study in realism. I should not mind - being something symbolic, if I might prove my gratitude”—she took - her hand from his arm, put one foot on the step and laughed, a pleasant - little ripple of sound—“by becoming literary material.” The door - shut to, and the carriage moved away into the storm with a muffled roll of - wheels. - </p> - <p> - Noel stared after it blankly, and then looked around him. It was half a - block now to Mrs. Tibbett. He walked on mechanically, and mounted the - steps by habit. The outer door was not locked. A touch of compunction had - visited Mrs. Tibbett. - </p> - <p> - He crept into his bed, and lay noting the growing warmth and sense of - sleep, and wondering whether that arched doorway was the third of the - three or the second. Strictly speaking he seemed to have gone in at the - middle one and come out at the third, or was it not the first rather than - the middle entrance that he had sheltered in? The three arched entrances - capered and contorted before him in the dark, piled themselves into the - portal of a Moorish palace, twisted themselves in a kind of mystical - trinity and seal of Solomon, floated apart and became thin, filmy, - crescent moons over a frozen sea. He sat up in bed and smote the coverlet. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know her name! She never told me!” He clutched his hair, and then - released it cautiously. “It's Musidora! I forgot that sonnet!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - 'Twas Musidora, whom the mystic nine - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Gave to my soul to be forever mine, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And, as through shadows manifold of Dis, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Showed in her eyes, through dusky distances - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And clouds, the moving lights about their shrine; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Now ever on my soul her touch shall be - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - As on the cheek are touches of the snow, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Incessant, cool, and gone; so guiding me - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - From sorrow's house and triple portico. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And prone recumbrance of brute tyranny, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - In a strict path shall teach my feet to go. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The clock in the invisible steeple struck three. - </p> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES *** - -***** This file should be named 50271-h.htm or 50271-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50271/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- <head>
- <title>
- Tioba, by Arthur Colton
- </title>
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tioba and Other Tales, by Arthur Colton
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Tioba and Other Tales
-
-Author: Arthur Colton
-
-Illustrator: A. B. Frost
-
-Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50271]
-Last Updated: March 12, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIOBA AND OTHER TALES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by Google Books
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- TIOBA
- </h1>
- <h3>
- AND OTHER TALES
- </h3>
- <h2>
- By Arthur Colton
- </h2>
- <h3>
- With a Frontispiece by A. B. Frost
- </h3>
- <h4>
- New York
- </h4>
- <h3>
- Henry Holt And Company
- </h3>
- <h4>
- 1903
- </h4>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
- <img src="images/0002.jpg" alt="0002 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0002.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
- <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0009.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
- <img src="images/0010.jpg" alt="0010 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0010.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
- </h5>
- <h3>
- DEDICATED TO
- </h3>
- <h3>
- A. G. BRINSMADE
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TIOBA </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A MAN FOR A' THAT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE ENEMIES </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A NIGHT'S LODGING </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ON EDOM HILL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> SONS OF R. RAND </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> CONLON </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ST CATHERINE'S </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE SPIRAL STONE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE MUSIDORA SONNET </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- TIOBA
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ROM among the
- birches and pines, where we pitched our moving tent, you looked over the
- flat meadow-lands; and through these went a river, slow and almost
- noiseless, wandering in the valley as if there were no necessity of
- arriving anywhere at appointed times. “What is the necessity?” it said
- softly to any that would listen. And there was none; so that for many days
- the white tent stood among the trees, overlooking the haycocks in the
- meadows. It was enough business in hand to study the philosophy and the
- subtle rhetoric of Still River.
- </p>
- <p>
- Opposite rose a strangely ruined mountain-side. There was a nobly-poised
- head and plenteous chest, the head three thousand feet nearer the stars—which
- was little enough from their point of view, no doubt, but to us it seemed
- a symbol of something higher than the stars, something beyond them forever
- waiting and watching.
- </p>
- <p>
- From its feet upward half a mile the mountain was one raw wound. The
- shivered roots and tree-trunks stuck out helplessly from reddish soil,
- boulders were crushed and piled in angry heaps, veins of granite ripped
- open—the skin and flesh of the mountain tom off with a curse, and
- the bones made a mockery. The wall of the precipice rose far above this
- desolation, and, beyond, the hazy forests went up a mile or more clear to
- the sky-line. The peak stood over all, not with triumph or with shame, but
- with the clouds and stars.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a cloudy day, with rifts of sunlight. An acre of light crept down
- the mountain: so you have seen, on the river-boats at night, the
- search-light feeling, fingering along the shore.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the evening an Arcadian, an elderly man and garrulous, came up to see
- what it might be that glimmered among his pulp-trees. He was a surprise,
- and not as Arcadian as at first one might presume, for he sold milk and
- eggs and blueberries at a price to make one suddenly rich. His name was
- Fargus, and he it was whose hay-cutter clicked like a locust all day in
- the meadow-lands. He came and made himself amiable beside us, and confided
- anything we might care to know which experience had left with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's Tioba,” he said. “That's the name of that mountain.” And he told
- us the story of one whom he called “Jim Hawks,” and of the fall of Tioba.
- </p>
- <p>
- She's a skinned mountain [he said]. She got wet inside and slid. Still
- River used to run ten rods further in, and there was a cemetery, too, and
- Jim Hawks's place; and the cemetery's there yet, six rods underground, but
- the creek shied off and went through my plough-land scandalous.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, Jim Hawks was a get-there kind, with a clawed face—by a
- wildcat, yes, sir. Tioba got there; and Jim he was a wicked one. I've been
- forty years in this valley, with the Petersons and the Storrses and the
- Merimys at Canada Center, all good, quiet folk. And nothing happened to
- us, for we did nothing to blame, till Jim came, and Tioba ups and drops on
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now look at it, this valley! There've been landslides over beyond in
- Helder's valley, but there's only one in mine. Looks as if the devil gone
- spit on it. It's Jim Hawks's trail.
- </p>
- <p>
- He come one day with a buckboard and a yellow horse, and he says:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sell me that land from here up the mountain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who be you?” says I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jim Hawks,” says he, and that's all he appeared to know about it. And he
- bought the land, and put up a house close to the mountain, so you could
- throw a cat down his chimney if you wanted to, or two cats if you had 'em.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a long, swing-shouldered man, with a light-colored mustache and a
- kind of flat gray eye that you couldn't see into. You look into a man's
- eye naturally to see what his intentions are. Well, Jim Hawks's eye
- appeared to have nothing to say on the subject. And as to that, I told my
- wife it was none of our business if he didn't bring into the valley
- anything but his name and a bit of money sufficient.
- </p>
- <p>
- He got his face clawed by a wildcat by being reckless with it; and he ran
- a deer into Helder's back yard once and shot it, and licked Helder for
- claiming the deer. He was the recklessest chap! He swings his fist into
- Helder's face, and he says:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shoot, if you got a gun. If you hain't, get out!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I told Jim that was no place to put a house, on account of Tioba dropping
- rocks off herself whenever it rained hard and the soil got mushy. I told
- him Tioba'd as soon drop a rock on his head as into his gridiron.
- </p>
- <p>
- You can't see Canada Center from here. There's a post-office there, and
- three houses, the Petersons', the Storrses' and the Merimys'. Merimy's
- house got a peaked roof on it. I see Jeaney Merimy climb it after her
- kitten a-yowling on the ridge. She wasn't but six years old then, and she
- was gritty the day she was born. Her mother—she's old Peterson's
- daughter—she whooped, and I fetched Jeaney down with Peterson's
- ladder. Jeaney Merimy grew up, and she was a tidy little thing. The Storrs
- boys calculated to marry her, one of 'em, only they weren't enterprising;
- and Jeaney ups and goes over to Eastport one day with Jim Hawks—cuts
- out early in the morning, and asks nobody. Pretty goings on in this
- valley! Then they come back when they were ready, and Jim says:
- </p>
- <p>
- “What you got to say about it, Merimy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Merimy hadn't nothing to say about it, nor his wife hadn't nothing to say,
- nor Peterson, nor the Storrs boys. Dog-gone it! Nobody hadn't nothing to
- say; that is, they didn't say it to Jim.
- </p>
- <p>
- That was five years ago, the spring they put up the Redman Hotel at
- Helder's. People's come into these parts now thicker'n bugs. They have a
- band that plays music at the Redman Hotel. But in my time I've seen
- sights. The bears used to scoop my chickens. You could hear wildcats 'most
- any night crying in the brush. I see a black bear come down Jumping Brook
- over there, slapping his toes in the water and grunting like a pig. Me, I
- was ploughing for buckwheat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jeaney Merimy went over to Eastport with her hair in a braid, and came
- back with it put up like a crow's nest on top of her head. She was a
- nice-looking girl, Jeaney, and born gritty, and it didn't do her any good.
- </p>
- <p>
- I says to Jim: “Now, you're always looking for fighting,” says I. “Now,
- me, I'm for peaceable doings. If you're looking for fighting any time, you
- start in beyond me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You!” says Jim. “I'd as soon scrap with a haystack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I do know how it would be, doing with a haystack that way, but you take it
- from Jim's point of view, and you see it wouldn't be what he'd care for;
- and you take it from my point of view, and you see I didn't poke into
- Jim's business. That's natural good sense. Only I'm free to say he was a
- wicked one, 'stilling whiskey on the back side of Tioba, and filling up
- the Storrs boys with it, and them gone to the devil off East where the
- railroads are. And laying Peterson to his front door, drunk. My, he didn't
- know any more'n his front door! “He's my grandfather,” says Jim. “That's
- the humor of it”—meaning he was Jeaney's grandfather. And mixing the
- singularest drinks, and putting 'em into an old man named Fargus, as ought
- to known better. My wife she said so, and she knew. I do' know what Jeaney
- Merimy thought, but I had my point of view on that. Jim got drunk himself
- on and off, and went wilder'n a wildcat, and slid over the mountains the
- Lord knows where. Pretty goings on in this valley!
- </p>
- <p>
- This is a good climate if you add it all up and take the average. But
- sometimes it won't rain till you're gray waiting for it, and sometimes it
- will snow so the only way to get home is to stay inside, and sometimes it
- will rain like the bottom fallen out of a tub. The way of it is that when
- you've lived with it forty years you know how to add up and take the
- average.
- </p>
- <p>
- That summer Tioba kept her head out of sight from June to September
- mainly. She kept it done up in cotton, as you might say, and she leaked in
- her joints surprising. She's a queer mountain that way. Every now and then
- she busts out a spring and dribbles down into Still River from a new
- place.
- </p>
- <p>
- In September they were all dark days and drizzly nights, and there was
- often the two sounds of the wind on Tioba that you hear on a bad night.
- One of 'em is a kind of steady grumble and hiss that's made with the
- pine-needles and maybe the tons of leaves shaking and falling. The other
- is the toot of the wind in the gullies on edges of rock. But if you stand
- in the open on a bad night and listen, you'd think Tioba was talking to
- you. Maybe she is.
- </p>
- <p>
- It come along the middle of September, and it was a bad night, drizzly,
- and Tioba talking double. I went over to the Hawkses' place early to
- borrow lantern-oil, and I saw Jeaney Merimy sitting over the fire alone,
- and the wind singing in the chimney. “Jim hasn't come,” she says, speaking
- quiet; and she gets me the lantern-oil. After, when I went away, she
- didn't seem to notice; and what with the wind in the chimney, and Jeaney
- sitting alone with her big black eyes staring, and Tioba talking double,
- and the rain drizzling, and the night falling, I felt queer enough to
- expect a ghost to be standing at my gate. And I came along the road, and
- there <i>was</i> one!
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, sir; she was a woman in a gray, wet cloak, standing at my gate, and a
- horse and buggy in the middle of the road.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Mighty!” says I, and drops my oil-can smack in the mud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does Mr. Hawks live here?” she says, seeing me standing like a tomfool in
- the mud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, ma'am,” says I. “That's his place across the flat half a mile. He
- ain't at home, but his wife is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind blew her cloak around her sharp, and I could see her face, though
- it was more or less dark. She was some big and tall, and her face was
- white and wet with the rain. After a while she says:
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's married?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, ma'am. You'd better not—'Mighty, ma'am!” says I, “where you
- going?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She swung herself into the buggy quicker'n women are apt to do, and she
- whops the horse around and hits him a lick, and off he goes, splashing and
- galloping. Me, I was beat. But I got so far as to think if she wasn't a
- ghost, maybe Jim Hawks would as lief she would be, and if she didn't drive
- more careful she'd be liable to oblige him that way. Because it stands to
- reason a woman don't come looking for a man on a bad night, and cut away
- like that, unless she has something uncommon on her mind. I heard the
- buggy-wheels and the splash of the horse dying away; and then there was
- nothing in the night but the drip of the rain and Tioba talking double—<i>um-hiss,
- toot-toot.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I went into the house, and didn't tell my wife about it, she
- disliking Jim on account of his singular drinks, which had a tidy taste,
- but affecting a man sudden and surprising. My wife she went off to bed,
- and I sat by the fire, feeling like there was more wrong in the world than
- common. And I kept thinking of Jeaney Merimy sitting by herself off there
- beyond the rain, with the wind singing in the chimney, and Tioba groaning
- and tooting over her. Then there was the extra woman looking for Jim; and
- it seemed to me if I was looking for Jim on a dark night, I'd want to let
- him know beforehand it was all peaceable, so there wouldn't be a mistake,
- Jim being a sudden man and not particular. I had the extra woman on my
- mind, so that after some while it seemed to me she had come back and was
- driving <i>splish-splash</i> around my house, though it was only the wind.
- I was that foolish I kept counting how many times she went round the
- house, and it was more than forty; and sometimes she came so close to the
- front door I thought she'd come through it—<i>bang!</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Then somebody rapped sudden at the door, and I jumped, and my chair went
- slap under the table, and I says, “Come in,” though I'd rather it would
- have stayed out, and in walks Jim Hawks. “'Mighty!” says I. “I thought you
- was a horse and buggy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He picked up my chair and sat in it himself, rather cool, and began to dry
- off.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Horse and buggy?” says he. “Looking for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I just nodded, seeing he appeared to know all about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Saw 'em in Eastport,” says he. “I suppose she's over there”—meaning
- his place. “Gone down the road! You don't say! Now, I might have known she
- wouldn't do what you might call a rational thing. Never could bet on that
- woman. If there was one of two things she'd be likely to do, she wouldn't
- do either of 'em.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” says I, “speaking generally, what might she want of you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jim looks at me kind of absent minded, rubbing his hair the wrong way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, look at it, Fargus,” he says. “It ain't reasonable. Now, she and me,
- we got married about five years ago. And she had a brother named Tom
- Cheever, and Tom and I didn't agree, and naturally he got hurt; not but
- that he got well again—that is, partly. And she appeared to have
- different ideas from me, and she appeared to think she'd had enough of me,
- and I took that to be reasonable. Now, here she wants me to come back and
- behave myself, cool as you please. And me inquiring why, she acts like the
- country was too small for us both. I don't see it that way myself.” And he
- shook his head, stretching his hands out over the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't see either end of it,” says I. “You're a bad one, Jim, a
- downright bad one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's so. It's Jeaney you mean,” he says, looking kind of interested.
- “It'll be hell for Jeaney, won't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind and rain was whooping round the house so we could hardly hear
- each other. It was like a wild thing trying to get in, which didn't know
- how to do it, and wouldn't give up; and then you'd hear like something
- whimpering, and little fingers tapping at the window-glass.
- </p>
- <p>
- My opinion of Jim Hawks was that I didn't seem to get on to him, and
- that's my opinion up to now; and it appeared to me then that Jim might be
- the proper explanation himself of anything the extra woman did which
- seemed unreasonable; but I didn't tell him that, because I didn't see
- rightly what it would mean if I said it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jim got up and stretched his legs. “Now, I tell you, Fargus,” says he,
- “I'm going to put the thing to Jeaney, being a clipper little woman, not
- to say sharp. If it comes to the worst, I daresay Canada Center will give
- us a burying; or if she wants to slide over the mountains with me, there's
- no trouble about it; or if she'd rather go her own way, and me mine,
- that's reasonable; or if she says to do nothing but hold the fort, why,
- that's all right, too, only Canada Center would be likely to take a hand,
- and then there'd surely be trouble, on account of me getting mad. Now, I
- have to say to you, Fargus, that you've been as friendly as a man could
- be, as things are; and maybe you've seen the last of me, and maybe you
- wouldn't mind if you had.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Speaking generally,” says I, “you're about right, Jim.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With that he laughed, and went out, pulling the door to hard against the
- storm.
- </p>
- <p>
- Next day the rain came streaming down, and my cellar was flooded, and the
- valley was full of the noise of the flood brooks. I kept looking toward
- the Hawkses' place, having a kind of notion something would blow up there.
- It appeared to me there was too much gunpowder in that family for the
- house to stay quiet. Besides, I saw Tioba had been dropping rocks in the
- night, and there were new boulders around. One had ploughed through Jim's
- yard, and the road was cut up frightful. The boulder in Jim's yard looked
- as if it might be eight feet high. I told my wife the Hawkses ought to get
- out of there, and she said she didn't care, she being down on Jim on
- account of his mixed drinks, which had a way of getting under a man, I'm
- free to say, and heaving him up.
- </p>
- <p>
- About four o'clock in the afternoon it come off misty, and I started over
- to tell Jim he'd better get out; and sudden I stops and looks, for there
- was a crowd coming from Canada Center—the Storrses and the Petersons
- and the Merimys, and the extra woman in a buggy with Henry Hall, who was
- county sheriff then. “Well, 'Mighty!” says I.
- </p>
- <p>
- They pulled up in front of Jim's place, and I took it they were going to
- walk in and settle things prompt. But you see, when I got there, it was
- Jim a-standing by his door with his rifle, and the sheriff and Canada
- Center was squeezing themselves through the gate and Jim shooting off
- sideways at the pickets on his fence. And the sheriff ups and yelled:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, you Jim Hawks! That ain't any way to do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Jim walks down the road with his rifle over his arm, and Jeaney
- Merimy comes to the door. She looked some mad and some crying, a little of
- both.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hall,” says he, “you turn your horse and go back where you come from.
- Maybe I'll see you by and by. The rest of you go back to Canada Center,
- and if Jeaney wants anything of you she'll come and say so. You go, now!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And they went. The extra woman drove off with the sheriff, hanging her
- head, and the sheriff saying, “You'll have to come to time, Jim Hawks,
- soon or late.” Jeaney Merimy sat in the door with her head hung down, too;
- and the only one as ought to have been ashamed, he was walking around
- uppish, like he meant to call down Tioba for throwing rocks into his yard.
- Then Jeaney sees me, and she says:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're all down on Jim. There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She began to cry, while Jim cocked his head and looked at her curious. And
- she kept saying, “There's no one but me to stand up for Jim.”
- </p>
- <p>
- That was a queer way for her to look at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, that night set in, like the one before, with a drizzling rain. It was
- the longest wet weather I ever knew. I kept going to the window to look at
- the light over at the Hawkses' and wonder what would come of it, till it
- made my wife nervous, and she's apt to be sharp when she's nervous, so I
- quit. And the way Tioba talked double that night was terrible—<i>um-hiss,
- toot-toot</i>, hour after hour; and no sleep for me and my wife, being
- nervous.
- </p>
- <p>
- I do' know what time it was, or what we heard. All I know is, my wife
- jumps up with a yell, and I jumps up too, and I know we were terrible
- afraid and stood listening maybe a minute. It seemed like there was almost
- dead silence in the night, only the um-m went on, but no hissing and no
- tooting, and if there was any sound of the rain or wind I don't recollect
- it. And then, “Um!” says Tioba, louder and louder and <i>louder!</i> till
- there was no top nor bottom to it, and the whole infernal world went to
- pieces, and pitched me and my wife flat on the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first I knew, there was dead silence again; or maybe my hearing was
- upset, for soon after I began to hear the rain buzzing away quietly. Then
- I got up and took a lantern, and my wife grabs me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ain't going a step!” says she, and the upshot was we both went, two
- old folks that was badly scared and bound to find out why. We went along
- the road, looking about us cautious; and of a sudden, where the road ought
- to be, we ran into a bank of mud that went up out of seeing in the night.
- Then my wife sat down square in the road and began a-crying, and I knew
- Tioba had fallen down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, there's Tioba, and that's how she looked next morning, only worse—more
- mushy and generally clawed up, with the rain still falling dismal, and
- running little gullies in the mud like a million snakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- According to my guess, Jim and Jeaney and the cemetery were about ten rods
- in, or maybe not more than eight. Anyway, I says to Peterson, and he
- agreed with me, that there wasn't any use for a funeral. I says: “God
- A'mighty buried 'em to suit himself.” It looked like he didn't think much
- of the way Canada Center did its burying, seeing the cemetery was took in
- and buried over again. Peterson and me thought the same on that point. And
- we put up the white stone, sort of on top of things, that maybe you've
- noticed, and lumped the folk in the cemetery together, and put their names
- on it, and a general epitaph; but not being strong on the dates, we left
- them out mostly. We put Jeaney Merimy with her family, but Canada Center
- was singularly united against letting Jim in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You puts his name on no stone with me or mine,” says Merimy, and I'm not
- saying but what he was right. Yes, sir; Merimy had feelings, naturally.
- But it seemed to me when a man was a hundred and fifty feet underground,
- more or less, there ought to be some charity; and maybe I had a weakness
- for Jim, though my wife wouldn't hear of him, on account of his drinks,
- which were slippery things. Anyway, I takes a chisel and a mallet, and I
- picks out a boulder on the slide a decent ways from Canada Center's
- monument, and I cuts in it, “Jim Hawks”; and then I cuts in it an epitaph
- that I made myself, and it's there yet:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <h3>
- HERE LIES JIM HAWKS, KILLED BY ROCKS.
- </h3>
- <h3>
- HE DIDN'T ACT THE WAY HE OUGHT.
- </h3>
- <h3>
- THAT'S ALL I'll SAY OF JIM.
- </h3>
- <h3>
- HERE HE LIES, WHAT'S LEFT OF HIM.=
- </h3>
- <p>
- And I thought that stated the facts, though the second line didn't rhyme
- really even. Speaking generally, Tioba appeared to have dropped on things
- about the right time, and that being so, why not let it pass, granting
- Merimy had a right to his feelings?
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, neither Sheriff Hall nor the extra woman showed up in the valley any
- more, so it seemed likely they had heard of Tioba falling, and agreed Jim
- wouldn't be any good, if they could find him. It was two weeks more before
- I saw the sheriff, him driving through, going over to Helder's. I saw him
- get out of his buggy to see the monument, and I went up after, and led him
- over to show Jim's epitaph, which I took to be a good epitaph, except the
- second line.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, what do you think he did? Why, he busted out a-haw-hawing ridiculous,
- and it made me mad.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shut up!” says I. “What's ailing you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Haw-haw!” says he. “Jim ain't there! He's gone down the road.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you're a blamed liar,” says I; and the sheriff sobered up,
- being mad himself, and he told me this.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jim Hawks,” says he, “came into East-port that night, meaning business.
- He routed me out near twelve o'clock, and the lady staying at my house she
- came into it, too, and there we had it in the kitchen at twelve o'clock,
- the lady uncommon hot, and Jim steaming wet in his clothes and rather
- cool. He says: 'I'm backing Jeaney now, and she tells me to come in and
- settle it to let us alone, and she says we'll hand over all we've got and
- leave. That appears to be her idea, and being hers, I'll put it as my
- own.' Now, the lady, if you'd believe it, she took on fearful, and
- wouldn't hear to reason unless he'd go with her, though what her idea was
- of a happy time with Jim Hawks, the way he was likely to act, I give it
- up. But she cried and talked foolish, till I see Jim was awful bored, but
- I didn't see there was much for me to do. Then Jim got up at last, and
- laughed very unpleasant, and he says: 'It's too much bother. I'll go with
- you, Annie, but I think you're a fool.' And they left next morning, going
- south by train.”
- </p>
- <p>
- That's what Sheriff Hall said to me then and there. Well, now, I'm an old
- man, and I don't know as I'm particular clever, but it looks to me as if
- God A'mighty and Tioba had made a mistake between 'em. Else how come they
- hit at Jim Hawks so close as that and missed him? And what was the use of
- burying Jeaney Merimy eight rods deep, who was a good girl all her life,
- and was for standing up for Jim, and him leaving her because the extra
- woman got him disgusted? Maybe she'd rather Tioba would light on her, that
- being the case—maybe she would have; but she never knew what the
- case was.
- </p>
- <p>
- That epitaph is there yet, as you might say, waiting for him to come and
- get under it; but it don't seem to have the right point now, and it don't
- state the facts any more, except the second line, which is more facts than
- rhyme. And Tioba is the messiest-look-ing mountain in these parts. And
- now, I say, Jim Hawks was in this valley little more than a year, and he
- blazed his trail through the Merimy family, and the Storrs family, and the
- Peterson family, and there's Tioba Mountain, and that's his trail.
- </p>
- <p>
- No, sir; I don't get on to it. I hear Tioba talking double some nights,
- sort of uneasy, and it seems to me she isn't on to it either, and has her
- doubts maybe she throwed herself away. And there's the cemetery six to ten
- rods underground, with a monument to forty-five people on top, and an
- epitaph to Jim Hawks that ain't so, except the second line, there being no
- corpse to fit it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Canada Center thinks they'd fit Jim to it if he came round again; but they
- wouldn't: for he was a wicked one, but sudden to act, and he was reckless,
- and he kept his luck. For Tioba drawed off and hit at him, slap! and he
- dodged her.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- A MAN FOR A' THAT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>OMPANY A was cut
- up at Antietam, so that there was not enough of it left for useful
- purposes, and Deacon Andrew Terrell became a member of Company G, which
- nicknamed him “'is huliness.” Company A came from Dutchess County. There
- was a little white church in the village of Brewster, and a little white
- house with a meagre porch where that good woman, Mrs. Terrell, had stood
- and shed several tears as the deacon walked away down the street, looking
- extraordinary in his regimentals. She dried her eyes, settled down to her
- sewing in that quiet south window, and hoped he would remember to keep his
- feet dry and not lose the cough drops. That part of Dutchess County was a
- bit of New England spilled over. New England has been spilling over these
- many years.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon took the cough drops regularly; he kept his gray chin beard
- trimmed with a pair of domestic scissors, and drilling never persuaded him
- to move his large frame with other than the same self-conscious restraint;
- his sallow face had the same set lines. There is something in the Saxon's
- blood that will not let him alter with circumstances, and it is by virtue
- of it that he conquers in the end.
- </p>
- <p>
- But no doorkeeper in the house of God—the deacon's service in the
- meeting-house at Brewster—who should come perforce to dwell in the
- tents of wickedness would pretend to like it. Besides, Company G had no
- tents. It came from the lower wards of the great city. Dinkey Cott, that
- thin-legged, stunted, imp-faced, hardened little Bowery sprout, put his
- left fist in the deacon's eye the first day of their acquaintance, and
- swore in the pleasantest manner possible.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon cuffed him, because he had been a schoolmaster in his day, and
- did not understand how he would be despised for knocking Dinkey down in
- that amateur fashion, and the lieutenant gave them both guard duty for
- fighting in the ranks.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon declared “that young man Cott hadn't no moral ideas,” and did
- his guard duty in bitterness and strict conscience to the last minute of
- it. Dinkey put his thumb to his nose and offered to show the lieutenant
- how the thing should have been done, and that big man laughed, and both
- forgot about the guard duty.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinkey had no sense whatever of personal dignity, which was partly what
- the deacon meant by “moral ideas,” nor reverence for anything above or
- beneath. He did not harbor any special anger, either, and only enough
- malice to point his finger at the elder man, whenever he saw him, and
- snicker loudly to the entertainment of Company G.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinkey's early recollections had to do with the cobblestones of Mulberry
- Bend and bootblacking on Pearl Street. Deacon Terrell's began with a
- lonely farm where there were too many potato hills to hoe, a little
- schoolhouse where arithmetic was taught with a ferrule, a white
- meeting-house where the wrath of God was preached with enthusiasm; both
- seemed far enough away from the weary tramp, tramp, the picket duty, and
- the camp at last one misty night in thick woods on the Stafford hills,
- looking over the Rappahannock to the town of Fredericksburg.
- </p>
- <p>
- What happened there was not clear to Company G. There seemed to be a deal
- of noise and hurrying about, cannon smoke in the valley and cannon smoke
- on the terraces across the valley. Somebody was building pontoon bridges,
- therefore it seemed likely somebody wanted to get across. They were having
- hard luck with the bridges. That was probably the enemy on the ridge
- beyond.
- </p>
- <p>
- There seemed to be no end to him, anyway; up and down the valley, mile
- beyond mile, the same line of wooded heights and drifting smoke.
- </p>
- <p>
- And the regiment found itself crossing a shaky pontoon bridge on a
- Saturday morning in the mist and climbing the bank into a most battered
- and tired-looking little town, which was smoldering sulkily with burned
- buildings and thrilling with enormous noise. There they waited for
- something else to happen. The deacon felt a lump in his throat, stopping
- his breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Git out o' me tracks!” snickered Dinkey Cott behind him. “I'll step on
- yer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinkey had never seemed more impish, unholy and incongruous. They seemed
- to stand there a long time. The shells kept howling and whizzing around;
- they howled till they burst, and then they whizzed. And now and then some
- one would cry out and fall. It was bad for the nerves. The men were
- growling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aw, cap, give us a chance!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It ain't my fault, boys. I got to wait for orders, same as you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinkey poked the deacon's legs with the butt of his rifle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, it's rotten, ain't it? Say, cully, my ma don't like me full o'
- holes. How's yours?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other gripped his rifle tight and thought of nothing in particular.
- </p>
- <p>
- Was it five hours that passed, or twenty, or one? Then they started, and
- the town was gone behind their hurrying feet. Over a stretch of broken
- level, rush and tramp and gasping for breath; fences and rocks ahead,
- clumps of trees and gorges; ground growing rougher and steeper, but that
- was nothing. If there was anything in the way you went at it and left it
- behind. You plunged up a hill, and didn't notice it. You dove into a
- gully, and it wasn't there. Time was a liar, obstacles were scared and ran
- away. But half-way up the last pitch ran a turnpike, with a stone wall in
- front that spit fire and came nearer and nearer. It seemed creeping down
- viciously to meet you. Up, up, till the powder of the guns almost burned
- the deacon's face, and the smoke was so thick he could only see the red
- flashes.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then suddenly he was alone. At least there was no one in sight, for
- the smoke was very thick. Company G all dead, or fallen, or gone back.
- There was a clump of brambles to his left. He dropped to the ground, crept
- behind it and lay still. The roar went on, the smoke rolled down over him
- and sometimes a bullet would clip through the brambles, but after a time
- the small fire dropped off little by little, though the cannon still
- boomed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- His legs were numb and his heart beating his sides like a drum. The smoke
- was blowing away down the slope. He lifted his head and peered through the
- brambles; there was the stone wall not five rods away, all lined along the
- top with grimy faces. A thousand rifles within as many yards, wanting
- nothing better than to dig a round hole in him. He dropped his head and
- closed his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- His thoughts were so stunned that the slowly lessening cannonade seemed
- like a dream, and he hardly noticed when it had ceased, and he began to
- hear voices, cries of wounded men and other men talking. There was a clump
- of trees to the right, and two or three crows in the treetops cawing
- familiarly. An hour or two must have passed, for the sun was down and the
- river mist creeping up. He lay on his back, staring blankly at the pale
- sky and shivering a little with the chill.
- </p>
- <p>
- A group of men came down and stood on the rocks above. They could probably
- see him, but a man on his back with his toes up was nothing particular
- there. They talked with a soft drawl. “Doggonedest clean-up I ever saw.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They hadn't no business to come up heah, yuh know. They come some
- distance, now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shuah! We ain't huntin' rabbits. What'd yuh suppose?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- The mist came up white and cold and covered it all over. He could not see
- the wall any longer, though he could hear the voices. He turned on his
- face and crawled along below the brambles and rocks to where the clump of
- trees stood with a deep hollow below them. They were chestnut trees. Some
- one was sitting in the hollow with his back against the roots.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the rush Dinkey Cott fairly enjoyed himself. The sporting blood in
- him sang in his ears, an old song that the leopard knows, it may be,
- waiting in the mottled shadow, that the rider knows on the race course,
- the hunter in the snow—the song of a craving that only excitement
- satisfies. The smoke blew in his face. He went down a hollow and up the
- other side. Then something hot and sudden came into the middle of him and
- he rolled back against the roots of a great tree.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hully gee! I'm plunked!” he grumbled disgustedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the time he felt no pain, but his blood ceased to sing in his ears.
- Everything seemed to settle down around him, blank and dull and angry. He
- felt as if either the army of the North or the army of the South had not
- treated him rightly. If they had given him a minute more he might have
- clubbed something worth while. He sat up against a tree, wondered what his
- chance was to pull through, thought it poor, and thought he would sell it
- for a drink.
- </p>
- <p>
- The firing dropped off little by little, and the mist was coming up.
- Dinkey began to see sights. His face and hands were hot, and things seemed
- to be riproaring inside him generally. The mist was full of flickering
- lights, which presently seemed to be street lamps down the Bowery. The
- front windows of Reilly's saloon were glaring, and opposite was
- Gottstein's jewelry store, where he had happened to hit one Halligan in
- the eye for saying that Babby Reilly was his girl and not Dinkey's; and he
- bought Babby a 90-cent gold ring of Gottstein, which proved Halligan to be
- a liar. The cop saw him hit Halligan, too, and said nothing, being his
- friend. And Halligan enlisted in Company G with the rest of the boys, and
- was keeled over in the dark one night on picket duty, somewhere up
- country. All the gang went into Company G. The captain was one of the
- boys, and so was Pete Murphy, the big lieutenant. He was a sort of ward
- sub-boss, was Pete.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Reilly, he's soured on me, Pete. I dun-no wot's got the ol' man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The lights seemed to grow thick, till everything was ablaze.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aw, come off! Dis ain't de Bowery,” he muttered, and started and rubbed
- his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- The mist was cold and white all around him, ghostly and still, except that
- there was a low, continual mutter of voices above, and now and then a soft
- moan rose up from somewhere. And it seemed natural enough that a ghost
- should come creeping out of the ghostly mist, even that it should creep
- near to him and peer into his face, a ghost with a gray chin beard and
- haggard eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm going down,” it whispered. “Come on. Don't make any noise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hully gee!” thought Dinkey. “It's the Pope!”
- </p>
- <p>
- A number of things occurred to him in confusion. The deacon did not see he
- was hit. He said to himself:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ain't no call to spoil 'is luck, if he is country.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He blinked a moment, then nodded and whispered hoarsely: “Go on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon crept away into the mist. Dinkey leaned back feebly and closed
- his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wished I'd die quick. It's rotten luck. Wished I could see Pete.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon crept down about two hundred yards, then stopped and waited for
- the young man Cott. The night was closing in fast A cry in the darkness
- made him shiver. He had never imagined anything could be so desolate and
- sad. He thought he had better see what was the matter with Dinkey. He
- never could make out afterward why it had seemed necessary to look after
- Dinkey. There were hundreds of better men on the slopes. Dinkey might have
- passed him. It did not seem very sensible business to go back after that
- worthless little limb of Satan. The deacon never thought the adventure a
- credit to his judgment.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he went back, guiding himself by the darker gloom of the trees against
- the sky, and groped his way down the hollow, and heard Dinkey muttering
- and babbling things without sense. It made the deacon mad to have to do
- with irresponsible people, such as go to sleep under the enemy's rifles
- and talk aloud in dreams. He pulled him roughly by the boots, and he fell
- over, babbling and muttering. Then it came upon the deacon that it was not
- sleep, but fever. He guessed the young man was hit somewhere. They had
- better be going, anyway. The Johnnies must have out a picket line
- somewhere. He slipped his hands under Dinkey and got up. He tried to climb
- out quietly, but fell against the bank. Some one took a shot at the noise,
- spattering the dirt under his nose. He lifted Dinkey higher and went on.
- Dinkey's mutterings ceased. He made no sound at all for a while, and at
- last said huskily:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wot's up?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hully gee! Wot yer doin'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice was weak and thin now. He felt as if he were being pulled in two
- in the middle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, ol' man, I won't jolly yer. Les' find Pete. There's a minie ball
- messed up in me stomick awful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tain't far, Dinkey,” said the deacon, gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- And he thought of Pete Murphy's red, fleshy face and black, oily mustache.
- It occurred to him that he had noticed most men in Company G, if they fell
- into trouble, wanted to find Pete. He thought he should want to himself,
- though he could not tell why. If he happened to be killed anywhere he
- thought he should like Pete Murphy to tell his wife about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinkey lay limp and heavy in his arms. The wet blackness seemed like
- something pressed against his face. He could not realize that he was
- walking, though in the night, down the same slope to a river called the
- Rappahannock and a town called Fredericksburg. It was strange business for
- him, Deacon Terrell of Brewster, to be in, stumbling down the battlefield
- in the pit darkness, with a godless little brat like Dinkey Cott in his
- arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- And why godless, if the same darkness were around us all, and the same
- light, while we lived, would come to all in the morning? It was borne upon
- the deacon that no man was elected to the salvation of the sun or
- condemned to the night apart from other men.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon never could recall the details of his night's journey, except
- that he fell down more than once, and ran against stone walls in the dark.
- It seemed to him that he had gone through an unknown, supernatural
- country. Dinkey lay so quiet that he thought he might be dead, but he
- could not make up his mind to leave him. He wished he could find Pete
- Murphy. Pete would tell him if Dinkey was dead.
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked not one mile, but several, in the blind night Dinkey had long
- been a limp weight. The last thing he said was, “Les' find Pete,” and that
- was long before.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last the deacon saw a little glow in the darkness, and, coming near,
- found a dying campfire with a few flames only flickering, and beside it
- two men asleep. He might have heard the ripple of the Rappahannock, but,
- being so worn and dull in his mind, he laid Dinkey down by the fire and
- fell heavily to sleep himself before he knew it.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he woke Pete Murphy stood near him with a corporal and a guard. They
- were looking for the pieces of Company G. “Dead, ain't he?” said Pete.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon got up and brushed his clothes. The two men who were sleeping
- woke up also, and they all stood around looking at Dinkey in awkward
- silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who's his folks?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Him!” said the big lieutenant. “He ain't got any folks. Tell you what,
- ol' man, I see a regiment drummer somewhere a minute ago. He'll do a roll
- over Dinkey, for luck, sure!”
- </p>
- <p>
- They put Dinkey's coat over his face and buried him on the bank of the
- Rappahannock, and the drummer beat a roll over him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they sat down on the bank and waited for the next thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The troops were moving back now across the bridge hurriedly. Company G had
- to take its turn. The deacon felt in his pockets and found the cough drops
- and Mrs. Terrell's scissors. He took a cough drop and fell to trimming his
- beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>NY one would have
- called Bobby Bell a comfortable boy—that is, any one who did not
- mind bugs; and I am sure I do not see why any one should mind bugs, except
- the kind that taste badly in raspberries and some other kinds. It was
- among the things that are entertaining to see Bobby Bell bobbing around
- among the buttercups looking for grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are
- interesting when you consider that they have heads like door knobs or
- green cheeses and legs with crooks to them. “Bobbing” means to go like
- Bobby Bell—that is, to go up and down, to talk to one's self, and
- not to hear any one shout, unless it is some one whom not to hear is to
- get into difficulties.
- </p>
- <p>
- Across the Salem Road from Mr. Atherton Bell's house there were many level
- meadows of a pleasant greenness, as far as Cum-ming's alder swamp; and
- these meadows were called the Bow Meadows. If you take the alder swamp and
- the Bow Meadows together, they were like this: the swamp was mysterious
- and unvisited, except by those who went to fish in the Muck Hole for
- turtles and eels. Frogs with solemn voices lived in the swamp. Herons flew
- over it slowly, and herons also are uncanny affairs. We believed that the
- people of the swamp knew things it was not good to know, like witchcraft
- and the insides of the earth. In the meadows, on the other hand, there
- were any number of cheerful and busy creatures, some along the level of
- the buttercups, but most of them about the roots of the grasses. The
- people in the swamp were wet, cold, sluggish, and not a great many of
- them. The people of the meadows were dry, warm, continually doing
- something, and in number not to be calculated by any rule in Wentworth's
- Arithmetic.
- </p>
- <p>
- So you see how different were the two, and how it comes about that the
- meadows were nearly the best places in the world to be in, both because of
- the society there, and because of the swamp near at hand and interesting
- to think about. So, too, you see why it was that Bobby Bell could be found
- almost any summer day “bobbing” for grasshoppers in the Bow Meadows—“bobbing”
- meaning to go up and down like Bobby Bell, to talk to one's self and not
- to hear any one shout; and “grasshoppers” being interesting because of
- their heads resembling door knobs or green cheeses, because of the crooks
- in their legs, and because of their extraordinary habit of jumping.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were in Hagar at this time four ladies who lived at a little
- distance from the Salem Road and Mr. Atherton Bell's house, on a road
- which goes over a hill and off to a district called Scrabble Up and Down,
- where huckleberries and sweet fern mostly grow. They were known as the
- Tuttle Four Women, being old Mrs. Tuttle and the three Miss Tuttles, of
- whom Miss Rachel was the eldest.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is easy to understand why Miss Rachel and the children of the village
- of Hagar did not get along well together, when you consider how clean she
- was, how she walked so as never to fall over anything, nor took any
- interest in squat tag, nor resembled the children of the village of Hagar
- in any respect. And so you can understand how it was that, when she came
- down the hill that Saturday afternoon and saw Bobby Bell through the bars
- in the Bow Meadows, she did not understand his actions, and disapproved of
- them, whatever they were.
- </p>
- <p>
- The facts were these: In the first place a green grasshopper, who was
- reckless or had not been brought up rightly, had gone down Bobby's back
- next the skin, where he had no business to be; and naturally Bobby stood
- on his head to induce him to come out. That seems plain enough, for, if
- you are a grasshopper and down a boy's back, and the boy stands on his
- head, you almost always come out to see what he is about; because it makes
- you curious, if not ill, to be down a boy's back and have him stand on his
- head. Any one can see that. And this is the reason I had to explain about
- Miss Rachel, in order to show you why she did not understand it, nor
- understand what followed after.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the next place, Bobby knew that when you go where you have no business
- to, you are sometimes spanked, but usually you are talked to unpleasantly,
- and tied up to something by the leg, and said to be in disgrace. Usually
- you are tied to the sewing machine, and “disgrace” means the corner of the
- sewing-room between the machine and the sofa. It never occurred to him but
- that this was the right and natural order of things. Very likely it is. It
- seemed so to Bobby.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now it is difficult to spank a grasshopper properly. And so there was
- nothing to do but to tie him up and talk to him unpleasantly. That seems
- quite simple and plain. But the trouble was that it was a long time since
- Miss Rachel had stood on her head, or been spanked, or tied up to
- anything. This was unfortunate, of course. And when she saw Bobby stand
- violently on his head and then tie a string to a grasshopper, she thought
- it was extraordinary business, and probably bad, and she came up to the
- bars in haste.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bobby!” she said, “you naughty boy, are you pulling off that
- grasshopper's leg?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Bobby thought this absurd. “Gasshoppers,” he said calmly, “ithn't any good
- 'ith their legth off.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This was plain enough, too, because grasshoppers are intended to jump, and
- cannot jump without their legs; consequently it would be quite absurd to
- pull them off. Miss Rachel thought one could not know this without trying
- it, and especially know it in such a calm, matter-of-fact way as Bobby
- seemed to do, without trying it a vast number of times; therefore she
- became very much excited. “You wicked, wicked boy!” she cried. “I shall
- tell your father!” Then she went off.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bobby wondered awhile what his father would say when Miss Rachel told him
- that grasshoppers were no good with their legs off. When Bobby told him
- that kind of thing, he generally chuckled to himself and called Bobby “a
- queer little chicken.” If his father called Miss Rachel “a queer little
- chicken,” Bobby felt that it would seem strange. But he had to look after
- the discipline of the grasshopper, and it is no use trying to think of two
- things at once. He tied the grasshopper to a mullein stalk and talked to
- him unpleasantly, and the grasshopper behaved very badly all the time; so
- that Bobby was disgusted and went away to leave him for a time—went
- down to the western end of the meadows, which is a drowsy place. And there
- it came about that he fell asleep, because his legs were tired, because
- the bees hummed continually, and because the sun was warm and the grass
- deep around him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Rachel went into the village and saw Mr. Atherton Bell on the steps
- of the post-office. He was much astonished at being attacked in such a
- disorderly manner by such an orderly person as Miss Rachel; but he
- admitted, when it was put to him, that pulling off the legs of
- grasshoppers was interfering with the rights of grasshoppers. Then Miss
- Rachel went on her way, thinking that a good seed had been sown and the
- morality of the community distinctly advanced.
- </p>
- <p>
- The parents of other boys stood on the post-office steps in great number,
- for it was near mail-time; and here you might have seen what varieties of
- human nature there are. For some were taken with the conviction that the
- attraction of the Bow Meadows to their children was all connected with the
- legs of grasshoppers; some suspected it only, and were uneasy; some
- refused to imagine such a thing, and were indignant. But they nearly all
- started for the Bow Meadows with a vague idea of doing something, Mr.
- Atherton Bell and Father Durfey leading. It was not a well-planned
- expedition, nor did any one know what was intended to be done. They halted
- at the bars, but no Bobby Bell was in sight, nor did the Bow Meadows seem
- to have anything to say about the matter. The grasshoppers in sight had
- all the legs that rightly belonged to them. Mr. Atherton Bell got up on
- the wall and shouted for Bobby. Father Durfey climbed over the bars.
- </p>
- <p>
- It happened that there was no one in the Bow Meadows at this time, except
- Bobby, Moses Durfey, Chub Leroy, and one other. Bobby was asleep, on
- account of the bumblebees humming in the sunlight; and the other three
- were far up the farther side, on account of an expedition through the
- alder swamp, supposing it to be Africa. There was a desperate battle
- somewhere; but the expedition turned out badly in the end, and in this
- place is neither here nor there. They heard Mr. Atherton Bell shouting,
- but they did not care about it. It is more to the point that Father
- Durfey, walking around in the grass, did not see the grasshopper who was
- tied to the mullein stalk and as mad as he could be. For when tied up in
- disgrace, one is always exceedingly mad at this point; but repentance
- comes afterwards. The grasshopper never got that far, for Father Durfey
- stepped on him with a boot as big as—big enough for Father Durfey to
- be comfortable in—so that the grasshopper was quite dead. It was to
- him as if a precipice were to fall on you, when you were thinking of
- something else. Then they all went away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bobby Bell woke up with a start, and was filled with remorse, remembering
- his grasshopper. The sun had slipped behind the shoulder of Windless
- Mountain. There was a faint light across the Bow Meadows, that made them
- sweet to look on, but a little ghostly. Also it was dark in the roots of
- the grasses, and difficult to find a green grasshopper who was dead; at
- least it would have been if he had not been tied to a mullein stalk. Bobby
- found him at last sunk deep in the turf, with his poor legs limp and
- crookless, and his head, which had been like a green cheese or a door
- knob, no longer looking even like the head of a grasshopper.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Bobby Bell sat down and wept. Miss Rachel, who had turned the corner
- and was half way up to the house of the Tuttle Four Women, heard him, and
- turned back to the bars. She wondered if Mr. Atherton Bell had not been
- too harsh. The Bow Meadows looked dim and mournful in the twilight. Miss
- Rachel was feeling a trifle sad about herself, too, as she sometimes did;
- and the round-cheeked cherub weeping in the wide shadowy meadows seemed to
- her something like her own life in the great world—not very well
- understood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He wath geen!” wailed Bobby, looking up at her, but not allowing his
- grief to be interrupted. “He wath my geen bug!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Rachel melted still further, without knowing why.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What was green?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pulled down a bar and crawled through. She hoped Mr. Atherton Bell was
- not looking from a window, for it was difficult to avoid making one's self
- amusing to Mr. Atherton Bell. But Bobby was certainly in some kind of
- trouble.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He'th dead!” wailed Bobby again. “He'th thtepped on!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Rachel bent over him stiffly. It was hard for one so austerely
- ladylike as Miss Rachel to seem gracious and compassionate, but she did
- pretty well.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it's a grasshopper!” Then more severely: “Why did you tie him up?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Bobby's sobs subsided into hiccoughs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It'th a disgace. I put him in disgace, and I forgotted him. He went down
- my back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you step on him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “N-O-O-O!” The hiccoughs rose into sobs again. “He wath the geenest
- gasshopper!”
- </p>
- <p>
- This was not strictly true; there were others just as green; but it was a
- generous tribute to the dead and a credit to Bobby Bell that he felt that
- way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now there was much in all this that Miss Rachel did not understand; but
- she understood enough to feel sharp twinges for the wrong that she had
- done Bobby Bell, and whatever else may be said of Miss Rachel, up to her
- light she was square. In fact, I should say that she had an acute-angled
- conscience. It was more than square; it was one of those consciences that
- you are always spearing yourself on. She felt very humble, and went with
- Bobby Bell to dig a grave for the green grasshopper under the lee of the
- wall. She dug it herself with her parasol, thinking how she must go up
- with Bobby Bell, what she must say to Mr. Atherton Bell, and how painful
- it would be, because Mr. Atherton Bell was so easily amused.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bobby patted the grave with his chubby palm and cooed contentedly. Then
- they went up the hill in the twilight hand in hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE ENEMIES
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE great fluted
- pillars in Ramoth church were taken away. They interfered with the view
- and rental of the pews behind them. Albion Dee was loud and persuasive for
- removing them, and Jay Dee secret, shy and resistant against it. That was
- their habit and method of hostility.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then in due season Jay Dee rented the first seat in the pew in front of
- Albion's pew. This was thought to be an act of hostility, subtle,
- noiseless, far-reaching.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a tall man, Jay Dee, and wore a wide flapping coat, had flowing
- white hair, and walked with a creeping step; a bachelor, a miser, he had
- gathered a property slowly with persistent fingers; a furtive, meditating,
- venerable man, with a gentle piping voice. He lived on the hill in the old
- house of the Dees, built in the last century by one “John Griswold Dee,
- who married Sarah Ballister and begat two sons,” who respectively begat
- Jay and Albion Dee; and Albion founded Ironville, three or four houses in
- the hollow at the west of Diggory Gorge, and a bolt and nail factory. He
- was a red-faced, burly man, with short legs and thick neck, who sought
- determined means to ends, stood squarely and stated opinions.
- </p>
- <p>
- The beginnings of the feud lay backward in time, little underground
- resentments that trickled and collected. In Albion they foamed up and
- disappeared. He called himself modern and progressive, and the bolt and
- nail factory was thought to be near bankruptcy. He liked to look men in
- the eyes. If one could not see the minister, one could not tell if he
- meant what he said, or preached shoddy doctrine. As regards all view and
- rental behind him, Jay Dee was as bad as one of the old fluted pillars.
- Albion could not see the minister. He felt the act to be an act of
- hostility.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he was progressive, and interested at the time in a question of the
- service, as respected the choir which sang from the rear gallery. It
- seemed to him more determined and effective to hymnal devotion that the
- congregation should rise and turn around during the singing, to the end
- that congregation and choir might each see that all things were done
- decently. He fixed on the idea and found it written as an interlinear to
- his gospels, an imperative codicil to the duty of man.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the congregation was satiated with change. They had still to make
- peace between their eyes and the new slender pillars, to convince
- themselves by contemplation that the church was still not unstable, not
- doctrinally weaker.
- </p>
- <p>
- So it came about that Albion Dee stood up sternly and faced the choir
- alone, with the old red, fearless, Protestant face one knows of Luther and
- Cromwell. The congregation thought him within his rights there to bear
- witness to his conviction. Sabbaths came and went in Ramoth peacefully,
- milestones of the passing time, and all seemed well.
- </p>
- <p>
- Pseudo-classic architecture is a pale, inhuman allegory of forgotten
- meaning. If buildings like Ramoth church could in some plastic way
- assimilate their communicants, what gargoyles would be about the cornices,
- what wall paintings of patient saints, mystical and realistic. On one of
- the roof cornices of an old church in France is the carved stone face of a
- demon with horns and a forked tongue, and around its eyes a wrinkled smile
- of immense kindness. And within the church is the mural painting of a
- saint, some Beata Ursula or Catherine, with upturned eyes; a likeable
- girl, capable of her saintship, of turning up her eyes with sincerity
- because it fell to her to see a celestial vision; as capable of a blush
- and twittering laugh, and the better for her capabilities.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is not stated what Albion symbolized. He stood overtopping the bonnets
- and the gray heads of deacons, respected by the pews, popular with the
- choir, protesting his conviction.
- </p>
- <p>
- And all the while secretly, with haunch and elbow, he nudged, bumped and
- rubbed the shoulders and silvery head of Jay Dee. It is here claimed that
- he stood there in the conviction that it was his duty so to testify. It is
- not denied that he so bumped and squatted against Jay Dee, cautiously, but
- with relish and pleasure.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the bowed silver head, behind the shy, persistent eyes of Jay Dee, what
- were his thoughts, his purposes, coiling and constricting? None but the
- two were aware of the locked throat grip of the spirit. In the droning
- Sabbath peace the congregation pursued the minister through the
- subdivisions of his text, and dragged the hymn behind the dragging choir.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a June day and the orioles gurgled their warm nesting notes in the
- maples. The boys in the gallery searched the surface of the quiet assembly
- for points of interest; only here and there nodding heads, wavering fans,
- glazed, abstracted eyes. They twisted and yawned. What to them were
- brethren in unity, or the exegesis of a text, as if one were to count and
- classify, prickle by prickle, to no purpose the irritating points of a
- chestnut burr? The sermon drowsed to its close. The choir and Albion rose.
- It was an outworn sight now, little more curious than Monday morning. The
- sunlight shone through the side windows, slanting down over the young,
- worldly and impatient, and one selected ray fell on Jay Dee's hair with
- spiritual radiance, and on Albion's red face, turned choirward for a
- testimony.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly Albion gave a guttural shout. He turned, he grasped Jay Dee's
- collar, dragged him headlong into the aisle, and shook him to and fro,
- protesting, “You stuck me! I'll teach you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- His red face worked with passion; Jay Dee's venerable head bobbed,
- helpless, mild, piteous. The choir broke down. The minister rose with
- lifted hands and open mouth, the gallery in revelry, the body of the
- church in exclamatory confusion. Albion saw outstretched hands
- approaching, left his enemy, and hat in hand strode down the aisle with
- red, glowering face, testifying, “He stuck me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jay Dee sat on the floor, his meek head swaying dizzily.
- </p>
- <p>
- On Monday morning Albion set out for Hamilton down the narrow valley of
- the Pilgrim River. The sudden hills hid him and his purposes from Ramoth.
- He came in time to sit in the office of Simeon Ballister, and Simeon's
- eyes gleamed. He took notes and snuffed the battle afar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ha! Witnesses to pin protruding from coat in region adjoining haunch.
- Hum! Affidavits to actual puncture of inflamed character, arguing possibly
- venom of pin. Ha! Hum! Motive of concurrent animosity. A very respectable
- case. I will come up and see your witnesses—Ha!—in a day or
- two. Good morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ballister was a shining light in the county courts in those days, but few
- speak of him now. Yet he wrote a Life of Byron, a History of Hamilton
- County, and talked a half century with unflagging charm. Those who
- remember will have in mind his long white beard and inflamed and swollen
- nose, his voice of varied melody. Alien whiskey and natural indolence kept
- his fame local. His voice is silent forever that once rose in the
- court-rooms like a fountain shot with rainbow fancies, in musical
- enchantment, in liquid cadence. “I have laid open, gentlemen, the secret
- of a human heart, shadowed and mourning, to the illumination of your
- justice. You are the repository and temple of that sacred light. Not
- merely as a plaintiff, a petitioner, my client comes; but as a worshipper,
- in reverence of your function, he approaches the balm and radiance of that
- steadfast torch and vestal fire of civilization, an intelligent jury.”
- Such was Ballister's inspired manner, such his habit of rhythm and climax,
- whenever he found twenty-four eyes fixed on his swollen nose, the fiery
- mesmeric core of his oratory beaconing juries to follow it and discover
- truth.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Case of Dee v. Dee came only before a justice of the peace, in the
- Town Hall of Ramoth, and Justice Kernegan was but a stout man with hairy
- ears and round, spectacled, benevolent eyes. Jay Dee brought no advocate.
- His silvery hair floated about his head. His pale eyes gazed in mild
- terror at Ballister. He said it must have been a wasp stung Albion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A wasp, sir! Your Honor, does a wasp carry for penetration, for puncture,
- for malignant attack or justifiable defence, for any purpose whatsoever, a
- brass pin of palpable human manufacture, drawn, headed and pointed by
- machinery, such as was inserted in my client's person? Does the defendant
- wish your Honor to infer that wasps carry papers of brass pins in their
- anatomies? I will ask the defendant, whose venerable though dishonored
- head bears witness to his age, if, in his long experience, he has ever met
- a wasp of such military outfit and arsenal? Not a wasp, your Honor, but a
- serpent; a serpent in human form.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jay Dee had no answer to all this. He murmured—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sat on me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't catch your remark, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, you see,” explained the Justice, “Jay says Albion's been squatting
- on him, Mr. Ballister, every Sunday for six months. You see, Albion gets
- up when the choir sings, and watches 'em sharp to see they sing correct,
- because his ear ain't well tuned, but his eye's all right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Justice's round eyes blinked pleasantly. The court-room murmured with
- approval, and Albion started to his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now don't interrupt the Court,” continued the Justice. “You see, Mr.
- Ballister, sometimes Jay says it was a wasp and sometimes he says it was
- because Albion squatted on him, don't you see, bumped him on the ear with
- his elbow. You see, Jay sets just in front of Albion. Now, you see—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then, does it not appear to your Honor that a witness who voluntarily
- offers to swear to two contradictory explanations; first, that the
- operation in question, the puncture or insertion, was performed by a wasp;
- secondly, that, though he did it himself with a pin and in his haste
- allowed that pin in damnatory evidence to remain, it was because, he
- alleges, of my client's posture toward, and intermittent contact with him—does
- it not seem to your Honor that such a witness is to be discredited in any
- statement he may make?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, really, Mr. Ballister, but you see Albion oughtn't to've squatted
- on him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I find myself in a singular position. It has not been usual in my
- experience to find the Court a pleader in opposition. I came hoping to
- inform and persuade your Honor regarding this case. I find myself in the
- position of being informed and persuaded. I hope the Court sees no
- discourtesy in the remark, but if the Court is prepared already to discuss
- the case there seems little for me to do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Justice looked alarmed. He felt his popularity trembling. It would not
- do to balk the public interest in Ballister's oratory. Doubtless Jay Dee
- had stuck a pin into Albion, but maybe Albion had mussed Jay's hair and
- jabbed his ear, had dragged and shaken him in the aisle at least. The
- rights of it did not seem difficult. They ought not to have acted that
- way. No man has the right to sit on another man's head from the standpoint
- or advantage of his own religious conviction. Nor has a man a right to use
- another man for a pincushion whenever, as it may be, he finds something
- about him in a way that's like a pincushion. But Ballister's oratory was
- critical and important.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why,” said Kemegan hastily, “this Court is in a mighty uncertain state of
- mind. It couldn't make it up without hearing what you were going to say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Again the Court murmured with approval. Ballister rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This case presents singular features. The secret and sunless caverns,
- where human motives lie concealed, it is the function of justice to lay
- open to vivifying light. Not only evil or good intentions are moving
- forces of apparent action, but mistakes and misjudgments. I conclude that
- your Honor puts down the defendant's fanciful and predatory wasp to the
- defendant's neglect of legal advice, to his feeble and guilty inepitude. I
- am willing to leave it there. I assume that he confesses the assault on my
- client's person with a pin, an insidious and lawless pin, pointed with
- cruelty and propelled with spite; I infer and understand that he offers in
- defence a certain alleged provocation, certain insertions of my client's
- elbow into the defendant's ear, certain trespasses and disturbance of the
- defendant's hair, finally, certain approximations and contacts between my
- client's adjacent quarter and the defendant's shoulders, denominated by
- him—and here we demur or object—as an act of sitting or
- squatting, whereby the defendant alleges himself to have been touched,
- grieved and annoyed. In the defendant's parsimonious neglect of counsel we
- generously supply him with a fair statement of his case. I return to my
- client.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your Honor, what nobler quality is there in our defective nature than
- that which enables the earnest man, whether as a citizen or in divine
- worship, whether in civil matters or religious, to abide steadfastly by
- his conscience and convictions. He stands a pillar of principle, a rock in
- the midst of uncertain waters. The feeble look up to him and are
- encouraged, the false and shifty are ashamed. His eye is fixed on the
- future. Posterity shall judge him. Small matters of his environment escape
- his notice. His mind is on higher things.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not prepared to forecast the judgment of posterity on that point of
- ritualistic devotion to which my client is so devoted an advocate. Neither
- am I anxious or troubled to seek opinion whether my client inserted his
- elbow into the defendant's ear, or the defendant, maliciously or
- inadvertently, by some rotatory motion, applied, bumped or banged his ear
- against my client's elbow; whether the defendant rubbed or impinged with
- his head on the appendant coat tails of my client, or the reverse. I am
- uninterested in the alternative, indifferent to the whole matter. It seems
- to me an academic question. If the defendant so acted, it is not the
- action of which we complain. If my client once, twice, or even at sundry
- times, in his stern absorption, did not observe what may in casual
- accident have taken place behind, what then? I ask your Honor, what then?
- Did the defendant by a slight removal, by suggestion, by courteous
- remonstrance, attempt to obviate the difficulty? No! Did he remember those
- considerate virtues enjoined in Scripture, or the sacred place and
- ceremony in which he shared? No! Like a serpent, he coiled and waited. He
- hid his hypocrisy in white hairs, his venomous purpose in attitudes of
- reverence. He darkened his morbid malice till it festered, corroded,
- corrupted. He brooded over his fancied injury and developed his base
- design. Resolved and prepared, he watched his opportunity. With brazen and
- gangrened pin of malicious point and incensed propulsion, with averted eye
- and perfidious hand, with sudden, secret, backward thrust, with all the
- force of accumulated, diseased, despicable spite, he darted like a
- serpent's fang this misapplied instrument into the unprotected posterior,
- a sensitive portion, most outlying and exposed, of my client's person.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This action, your Honor, I conceive to be in intent and performance a
- felonious, injurious and sufficient assault. For this injury, for pain,
- indignity and insult, for the vindication of justice in state and
- community, for the protection of the citizen from bold or treacherous
- attack, anterior or posterior, vanguard or rear, I ask your Honor that
- damages be given my client adequate to that injury, adequate to that
- vindication and protection.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So much and more Ballister spoke. Mr. Kernegan took off his spectacles and
- rubbed his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he said, “I guess Mr. Ballister'll charge Albion about forty
- dollars—”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ballister started up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't interrupt the Court. It's worth all that. Albion and Jay haven't
- been acting right and they ought to pay for it between 'em. The Court
- decides Jay Dee shall pay twenty dollars damages and costs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The court-room murmured with approval.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The twilight was gathering as Albion drove across the old covered bridge
- and turned into the road that leads to Ironville through a gloomy gorge of
- hemlock trees and low-browed rocks. The road keeps to the left above
- Diggory Brook, which murmurs in recesses below and waves little ghostly
- white garments over its waterfalls. Such is this murmur and the soft noise
- of the wind in the hemlocks, that the gorge is ever filled with a sound of
- low complaint. Twilight in the open sky is night below the hemlocks. At
- either end of the avenue you note where the light still glows fadingly.
- There lie the hopes and possibilities of a worldly day, skies, fields and
- market-places, to-days, to-morrows and yesterdays, and men walking about
- with confidence in their footing. But here the hemlocks stand beside in
- black order of pillars and whisper together distrustfully. The man who
- passes you is a nameless shadow with an intrusive, heavy footfall. Low
- voices float up from the pit of the gorge, intimations, regrets,
- discouragements, temptations.
- </p>
- <p>
- A house and mill once stood at the lower end of it, and there, a century
- ago, was a wild crime done on a certain night; the dead bodies of the
- miller and his children lay on the floor, except one child, who hid and
- crept out in the grass; little trickles of blood stole along the cracks;
- house and mill blazed and fell down into darkness; a maniac cast his
- dripping axe into Diggory Brook and fled away yelling among the hills. Not
- that this had made the gorge any darker, or that its whispers are supposed
- to relate to any such memories. The brook comes from swamps and meadows
- like other brooks, and runs into the Pilgrim River. It is shallow and
- rapid, though several have contrived to fall and be drowned in it. One
- wonders how it could have happened. The old highway leading from Ramoth
- village to the valley has been grass-grown for generations, but that is
- because the other road is more direct to the Valley settlement and the
- station. The water of the brook is clear and pleasant enough. Much
- trillium, with its leaves like dark red splashes, a plant of sullen color
- and solitary station, used to grow there, but does so no more. Slender
- birches now creep down almost to the mouth of the gorge, and stand with
- white stems and shrinking, trembling leaves. But birches grow nearly
- everywhere.
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion drove steadily up the darkened road, till his horse dropped into a
- walk behind an indistinguishable object that crept in front with creaking
- wheels. He shouted for passage and turned into the ditch on the side away
- from the gorge. The shadowy vehicle drifted slantingly aside. Albion
- started his horse; the front wheels of the two clicked, grated, slid
- inside each other and locked. Albion spoke impatiently. He was ever for
- quick decisions. He backed his horse, and the lock became hopeless. The
- unknown made no comment, no noise. The hemlocks whispered, the brook
- muttered in its pit and shook the little white garments of its waterfalls.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Crank your wheel a trifle now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other did not move.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who are you? Can't ye speak?”
- </p>
- <p>
- No answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion leaned over his wheel, felt the seat rail of the other vehicle, and
- brought his face close to something white—white hair about the
- approximate outline of a face. By the hair crossed by the falling hat
- brim, by the shoulders seen vaguely to be bent forward, by the loose
- creaking wheels of the buck-board he knew Jay Dee. The two stood close and
- breathless, face to face, but featureless and apart by the unmeasured
- distance of obscurity.
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion felt a sudden uneasy thrill and drew back. He dreaded to hear Jay
- Dee's spiritless complaining voice, too much in the nature of that dusky,
- uncanny place. He felt as if something cold, damp and impalpable were
- drawing closer to him, whispering, calling his attention to the gorge, how
- black and steep! to the presence of Jay Dee, how near! to the close secret
- hemlocks covering the sky. This was not agreeable to a positive man, a man
- without fancies. Jay Dee sighed at last, softly, and spoke, piping, thin,
- half-moaning:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're following me. Let me alone!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm not following you,” said Albion hoarsely. “Crank your wheel!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're following me. I'm an old man. You're only fifty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion breathed hard in the darkness. He did not understand either Jay Dee
- or himself. After a silence Jay Dee went on:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I haven't any kin but you, Albion, except Stephen Ballister and the
- Winslows. They're only fourth cousins.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion growled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Without my making a will it'd come to you, wouldn't it? Seems to me as if
- you oughtn't to pester me, being my nearest kin, and me, I ain't made any
- will. I got a little property, though it ain't much. 'Twould clear your
- mortgage and make you easy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What d'you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Twenty dollars and costs,” moaned Jay Dee. “And me an old man, getting
- ready for his latter end soon. I ain't made my will, either. I ought to've
- done it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What could Jay Dee mean? If he made no will his property would come to
- Albion. No will made yet. A hinted intention to make one in favor of
- Stephen Ballister or the Winslows. The foundry was mortgaged.—Jay
- was worth sixty thousand. Diggory Gorge was a dark whispering place of
- ancient crime, of more than one unexplained accident. The hemlocks
- whispered, the brook gurgled and glimmered. Such darkness might well cloak
- and cover the sunny instincts that look upwards, scruples of the social
- daylight. Would Jay Dee trap him to his ruin? Jay Dee would not expect to
- enjoy it if he were dead himself. But accidents befall, and men not seldom
- meet sudden deaths, and an open, free-speaking neighbor is not suspected.
- Success lies before him in the broad road.
- </p>
- <p>
- It rushed through Albion's mind, a flood, sudden, stupefying—thoughts
- that he could not master, push back, or stamp down.
- </p>
- <p>
- He started and roused himself; his hands were cold and shaking. He sprang
- from his buggy and cried angrily:
- </p>
- <p>
- “What d'ye mean by all that? Tempt me, a God-fearing man? Throw ye off'n
- the gorge! Break your old neck! I've good notion to it, if I wasn't a
- God-fearing man. Crank your wheel there!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He jerked his buggy free, sprang in, and lashed his horse. The horse
- leaped, the wheels locked again. Jay Dee's buckboard, thrust slanting
- aside, went over the edge, slid and stopped with a thud, caught by the
- hemlock trunks. A ghostly glimmer of white hair one instant, and Jay Dee
- was gone down the black pit of the gorge. A wheezing moan, and nothing
- more was heard in the confusion. Then only the complaining murmur of the
- brook, the hemlocks at their secrets.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jay! Jay!” called Albion, and then leaped out, ran and whispered, “Jay!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Only the mutter of the brook and the shimmer of foam could be made out as
- he stared and listened, leaning over, clinging to a tree, feeling about
- for the buckboard. He fumbled, lit a match and lifted it. The seat was
- empty, the left wheels still in the road. The two horses, with twisted
- necks and glimmering eyes, were looking back quietly at him, Albion Dee, a
- man of ideas and determination, now muttering things unintelligible in the
- same tone with the muttering water, with wet forehead and nerveless hands,
- heir of Jay Dee's thousands, staring down the gorge of Diggory Brook, the
- scene of old crime. He gripped with difficulty as he let himself slide
- past the first row of trees, and felt for some footing below. He noticed
- dully that it was a steep slope, not a precipice at that point. He lit
- more matches as he crept down, and peered around to find something crushed
- and huddled against some tree, a lifeless, fearful thing. The slope grew
- more moderate. There were thick ferns. And closely above the brook, that
- gurgled and laughed quietly, now near at hand, sat Jay Dee. He looked up
- and blinked dizzily, whispered and piped:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Twenty dollars and costs! You oughtn't to pester me. I ain't made my
- will.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion sat down. They sat close together in the darkness some moments and
- were silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ain't hurt?” Albion asked at last. “We'll get out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They went up the steep, groping and stumbling.
- </p>
- <p>
- Albion half lifted his enemy into the buckboard, and led the horse, his
- own following. They were out into the now almost faded daylight. Jay sat
- holding his lines, bowed over, meek and venerable. The front of his coat
- was torn. Albion came to his wheel.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will twenty dollars make peace between you and me, Jay Dee?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The costs was ten,” piping sadly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thirty dollars, Jay Dee? Here it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He jumped into his buggy and drove rapidly. In sight of the foundry he
- drew a huge breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I been a sinner and a fool,” and slapped his knee. “It's sixty thousand
- dollars, maybe seventy. A self-righteous sinner and a cocksure fool. God
- forgive me!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Between eight and nine Jay Dee sat down before his meagre fire and rusty
- stove, drank his weak tea and toasted his bread. The windows clicked with
- the night wind. The furniture was old, worn, unstable, except the large
- desk behind him full of pigeonholes and drawers. Now and then he turned
- and wrote on scraps of paper. Tea finished, he collected the scraps and
- copied:
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Stephen Ballister: I feel, as growing somewhat old, I ought to make my
- will, and sometime, leaving this world for a better, would ask you to make
- my will for me, for which reasonable charge, putting this so it cannot be
- broken by lawyers, who will talk too much and are vain of themselves, that
- is, leaving all my property of all kinds to my relative, James Winslow of
- Wimberton, and not anything to Albion Dee; for he has not much sense but
- is hasty; for to look after the choir is not his business, and to sit on
- an old man and throw him from his own wagon and pay him thirty dollars is
- hasty, for it is not good sense, and not anything to Stephen Ballister,
- for he must be rich with talking so much in courts of this world. Put this
- all in my will, but if unable or unwilling on account of remorse for
- speaking so in the court, please to inform that I may get another lawyer.
- Yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- Jay Dee.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sealed and addressed the letter, put it in his pocket, and noticed the
- ruinous rent in his coat. He sighed, murmured over it complainingly, and
- turned up the lapel of the coat. Pins in great variety and number were
- there in careful order, some new, some small, some long and old and
- yellow. He selected four and pinned the rent together, sighing. Then he
- took three folded bills from his vest pocket, unfolded, counted and put
- them back, felt of the letter in his coat gently, murmured, “I had the
- best of Albion there; I had him there,” took his candle and went up
- peacefully and venerably to bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- A NIGHT'S LODGING
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ATHER WILISTON was
- a retired clergyman, so distinguished from his son Timothy, whose house
- stood on the ridge north of the old village of Win-throp, and whose daily
- path lay between his house and the new growing settlement around the
- valley station. It occurred at odd times to Father Wiliston that Timothy's
- path was somewhat undeviating. The clergyman had walked widely since
- Win-throp was first left behind fifty-five years back, at a time when the
- town was smaller and cows cropped the Green but never a lawn mower.
- </p>
- <p>
- After college and seminary had come the frontier, which lay this side of
- the Great Lakes until Clinton stretched his ribbon of waterway to the sea;
- then a mission in Wisconsin, intended to modify the restless profanity of
- lumbermen who broke legs under logs and drank disastrous whiskey. A city
- and twenty mills were on the spot now, though the same muddy river ran
- into the same blue lake. Some skidders and saw-tenders of old days were
- come to live in stone mansions and drive in nickel-plated carriages; some
- were dead; some drifting like the refuse on the lake front; some skidding
- and saw-tending still. Distinction of social position was an idea that
- Father Wiliston never was able to grasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the memories of that raw city on the lake he had his place among its
- choicest incongruities; and when his threescore and ten years were full,
- the practical tenderness of his nickel-plated and mansioned parishioners
- packed him one day into an upholstered sleeping car, drew an astonishing
- check to his credit, and mailed it for safety to Timothy Wiliston of
- Winthrop. So Father Wiliston returned to Winthrop, where Timothy, his son,
- had been sent to take root thirty years before.
- </p>
- <p>
- One advantage of single-mindedness is that life keeps on presenting us
- with surprises. Father Wiliston occupied his own Arcadia, and Wisconsin or
- Winthrop merely sent in to him a succession of persons and events of
- curious interest. “The parson”—Wisconsin so spoke of him, leaning
- sociably over its bar, or pausing among scented slabs and sawdust—“the
- parson resembles an egg as respects that it's innocent and some lopsided,
- but when you think he must be getting addled, he ain't. He says to me,
- 'You'll make the Lord a deal of trouble, bless my soul!' he says. I don't
- see how the Lord's going to arrange for you. But'—thinking he might
- hurt my feelings—'I guess he'll undertake it by and by.' Then he
- goes wabbling down-street, picks up Mike Riley, who's considerable drunk,
- and takes him to see his chickens. And Mike gets so interested in those
- chickens you'd like to die. Then parson goes off, absent-minded and
- forgets him, and Mike sleeps the balmy night in the barnyard, and steals a
- chicken in the morning, and parson says, 'Bless my soul! How singular!'
- Well,” concluded Wisconsin, “he's getting pretty young for his years. I
- hear they're going to send him East before he learns bad habits.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The steadiness and repetition of Timothy's worldly career and semi-daily
- walk to and from his business therefore seemed to Father Wiliston
- phenomenal, a problem not to be solved by algebra, for if <i>a</i>
- equalled Timothy, <i>b</i> his house, <i>c</i> his business, <i>a + b + c</i>
- was still not a far-reaching formula, and there seemed no advantage in
- squaring it. Geometrically it was evident that by walking back and forth
- over the same straight line you never so much as obtained an angle. Now,
- by arithmetic, “Four times thirty, multiplied by—leaving out Sundays—Bless
- me! How singular! Thirty-seven thousand five hundred and sixty times!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He wondered if it had ever occurred to Timothy to walk it backward, or,
- perhaps, to hop, partly on one foot, and then, of course, partly on the
- other. Sixty years ago there was a method of progress known as
- “hop-skip-and-jump,” which had variety and interest. Drawn in the train of
- this memory came other memories floating down the afternoon's slant
- sunbeams, rising from every meadow and clump of woods; from the elder
- swamp where the brown rabbits used to run zigzag, possibly still ran in
- the same interesting way; from the great sand bank beyond the Indian
- graves. The old Wiliston house, with roof that sloped like a well-sweep,
- lay yonder, a mile or two. He seemed to remember some one said it was
- empty, but he could not associate it with emptiness. The bough apples
- there, if he remembered rightly, were an efficacious balm for regret.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sighed and took up his book. It was another cure for regret, a Scott
- novel, “The Pirate.” It had points of superiority over Cruden's
- Concordance. The surf began to beat on the Shetland Islands, and trouble
- was imminent between Cleveland and Mor-daunt Mertoun.
- </p>
- <p>
- Timothy and his wife drove away visiting that afternoon, not to return
- till late at night, and Bettina, the Scandinavian, laid Father Wiliston's
- supper by the open window, where he could look out across the porch and
- see the chickens clucking in the road.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mus' eat, fater,” she commanded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, yes, Bettina. Thank you, my dear. Quite right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He came with his book and sat down at the table, but Bettina was
- experienced and not satisfied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mus' eat firs'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sighed and laid down “The Pirate.” Bettina captured and carried it to
- the other end of the room, lit the lamp though it was still light, and
- departed after the mail. It was a rare opportunity for her to linger in
- the company of one of her Scandinavian admirers. “Fater” would not know
- the difference between seven and nine or ten.
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned in the window and watched her safely out of sight, then went
- across the room, recaptured “The Pirate,” and chuckled in the tickling
- pleasure of a forbidden thing, “asked the blessing,” drank his tea
- shrewdly, knowing it would deteriorate, and settled to his book. The brown
- soft dusk settled, shade by shade; moths fluttered around the lamp; sleepy
- birds twittered in the maples. But the beat of the surf on the Shetland
- Islands was closer than these. Cleveland and Mordaunt Mertoun were busy,
- and Norna—“really, Norna was a remarkable woman”—and an hour
- slipped past.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some one hemmed! close by and scraped his feet. It was a large man who
- stood there, dusty and ragged, one boot on the porch, with a red
- handkerchief knotted under his thick tangled beard and jovial red face. He
- had solid limbs and shoulders, and a stomach of sloth and heavy feeding.
- </p>
- <p>
- The stranger did not resemble the comely pirate, Cleveland; his linen was
- not “seventeen hun'red;” it seemed doubtful if there were any linen. And
- yet, in a way there was something not inappropriate about him, a certain
- chaotic ease; not piratical, perhaps, although he looked like an
- adventurous person. Father Wiliston took time to pass from one conception
- of things to another. He gazed mildly through his glasses.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ain't had no supper,” began the stranger in a deep moaning bass; and
- Father Wiliston started.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bless my soul! Neither have I.” He shook out his napkin. “Bettina, you
- see “—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Looks like there's enough for two,” moaned and grumbled the other. He
- mounted the porch and approached the window, so that the lamplight
- glimmered against his big, red, oily face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, so there is!” cried Father Wiliston, looking about the table in
- surprise. “I never could eat all that. Come in.” And the stranger rolled
- muttering and wheezing around through the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you not bring a chair? And you might use the bread knife. These are
- fried eggs. And a little cold chicken? Really, I'm very glad you dropped
- in, Mr.”—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Del Toboso.” By this time the stranger's mouth was full and his
- enunciation confused.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why”—Father Wiliston helped himself to an egg—“I don't think
- I caught the name.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Del Toboso. Boozy's what they calls me in the push.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm afraid your tea is quite cold. Boozy? How singular! I hope it doesn't
- imply alcoholic habits.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” shaking his head gravely, so that his beard wagged to the judicial
- negation. “Takes so much to tank me up I can't afford it, let alone it
- ain't moral.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The two ate with haste, the stranger from habit and experience, Father
- Wiliston for fear of Bettina's sudden return. When the last egg and slice
- of bread had disappeared, the stranger sat back with a wheezing sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder,” began Father Wiliston mildly, “Mr. Toboso—Toboso is the
- last name, isn't it, and Del the first?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” the other wheezed mysteriously, “I don't know about that, Elder.
- That's always a question.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know! You don't know!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Got it off'n another man,” went on Toboso sociably. “He said he wouldn't
- take fifty dollars for it. I didn't have no money nor him either, and he
- rolled off'n the top of the train that night or maybe the next I don't
- know. I didn't roll him. It was in Dakota, over a canyon with no special
- bottom. He scattered himself on the way down. But I says, if that name's
- worth fifty dollars, it's mine. Del Toboso. That's mine. Sounds valuable,
- don't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston fell into a reverie. “To-boso? Why, yes. Dulcinea del
- Toboso. I remember, now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's that? Dulcinea, was it? And you knowed him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A long while ago when I was younger. It was in a green cover. 'Don
- Quixote'—he was in a cage, 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'
- He had his face between the bars.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Toboso, “you must have knowed him. He always looked glum, and
- I've seen him in quad myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Sancho Panza. Dulcinea del Toboso.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never knowed that part of it. Dulcinea del Toboso! Well, that's me. You
- know a ruck of fine names, Elder. It sounds like thirteen trumps, now,
- don't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston roused himself, and discriminated. “But you look more like
- Sancho Panza.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do? Well, I never knowed that one. Must've been a Greaser. Dulcinea's
- good enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston began to feel singularly happy and alive. The regular and
- even paced Timothy, his fidgeting wife, and the imperious Bettina were to
- some extent shadows and troubles in the evening of his life. They were
- careful people, who were hemmed in and restricted, who somehow hemmed in
- and restricted him. They lived up to precedents. Toboso did not seem to
- depend on precedents. He had the free speech, the casual inconsequence,
- the primitive mystery, desired of the boy's will and the wind's will, and
- travelled after by the long thoughts of youth. He was wind-beaten, burned
- red by the sun, ragged of coat and beard, huge, fat, wallowing in the ease
- of his flesh. One looked at him and remembered the wide world full of
- crossed trails and slumbering swamps.
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston had long, straight white hair, falling beside his
- pale-veined and spiritual forehead and thin cheeks. He propped his
- forehead on one bony hand, and looked at Toboso with eyes of speculation.
- If both men were what some would call eccentric, to each other they seemed
- only companionable, which, after all, is the main thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have thought of late,” continued Father Wiliston after a pause, “that I
- should like to travel, to examine human life, say, on the highway. I
- should think, now, your manner of living most interesting. You go from
- house to house, do you not?—from city to city? Like Ulysses, you see
- men and their labors, and you pass on. Like the apostles—who surely
- were wise men, besides that were especially maintained of God—like
- them, and the pilgrims to shrines, you go with wallet and staff or merely
- with Faith for your baggage.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There don't nothing bother you in warm weather, that's right,” said
- Toboso, “except your grub. And that ain't any more than's interesting. If
- it wasn't for looking after meals, a man on the road might get right down
- lazy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, just so! How wonderful! Now, do you suppose, Mr. Toboso, do you
- suppose it feasible? I should very much like, if it could be equably
- arranged, I should very much like to have this experience.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso reflected. “There ain't many of your age on the road.” An idea
- struck him suddenly. “But supposing you were going sort of experimenting,
- like that—and there's some folks that do—supposing you could
- lay your hands on a little bunch of money for luck, I don't see nothing to
- stop.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, I think there is some in my desk.” Toboso leaned forward and pulled
- his beard. The table creaked under his elbow. “How much?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will see. Of course you are quite right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At your age, Elder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is not as if I were younger.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston rose and hurried out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso sat still and blinked at the lamp. “My Gord!” he murmured and
- moaned confidentially, “here's a game!”
- </p>
- <p>
- After some time Father Wiliston returned. “Do you think we could start
- now?” he asked eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why sure, Elder. What's hindering?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am fortunate to find sixty dollars. Really, I didn't remember. And
- here's a note I have written to my son to explain. I wonder what Bettina
- did with my hat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He hurried back into the hall. Toboso took the note from the table and
- pocketed it. “Ain't no use taking risks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They went out into the warm night, under pleasant stars, and along the
- road together arm in arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel pretty gay, Elder.” He broke into bellowing song, “Hey, Jinny! Ho,
- Jinny! Listen, love, to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, I feel cheerful, too, Mr. Toboso, wonderfully cheerful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dulcinea, Elder. Dulcinea's me name. Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How singular it is! I feel very cheerful. I think—really, I think I
- should like to learn that song about Jinny. It seems such a cheerful
- song.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hit her up, Elder,” wheezed Toboso jovially. “Now then”—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So they went arm in arm with a roaring and a tremulous piping.
- </p>
- <p>
- The lamp flickered by the open window as the night breeze rose. Bettina
- came home betimes and cleared the table. The memory of a Scandinavian
- caress was too recent to leave room for her to remark that there were
- signs of devastating appetite, that dishes had been used unaccountably,
- and that “Fater” had gone somewhat early to bed. Timothy and his wife
- returned late. All windows and doors in the house of Timothy were closed,
- and the last lamp was extinguished.
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston and Toboso went down the hill, silently, with furtive,
- lawless steps through the cluster of houses in the hollow, called
- Ironville, and followed then the road up the chattering hidden brook. The
- road came from the shadows of this gorge at last to meadows and wide
- glimmering skies, and joined the highway to Redfield. Presently they came
- to where a grassy side road slipped into the highway from the right, out
- of a land of bush and swamp and small forest trees of twenty or thirty
- years' growth. A large chestnut stood at the corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey, Jinny!” wheezed Toboso. “Let's look at that tree, Elder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look at it? Yes, yes. What for?” Toboso examined the bark by the dim
- starlight; Father Wiliston peered anxiously through his glasses to where
- Toboso's finger pointed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “See those marks?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm afraid I don't. Really, I'm sorry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Feel 'em, then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Father Wiliston felt, with eager, excited finger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Them there mean there's lodging out here; empty house, likely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do they, indeed. Very singular! Most interesting!” And they turned into
- the grassy road. The brushwood in places had grown close to it, though it
- seemed to be still used as a cart path. They came to a swamp, rank with
- mouldering vegetation, then to rising ground where once had been meadows,
- pastures, and plough lands.
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston was aware of vaguely stirring memories. Four vast and aged
- maple trees stood close by the road, and their leaves whispered to the
- night; behind them, darkly, was a house with a far sloping roof in the
- rear. The windows were all glassless, all dark and dead-looking, except
- two in a front room, in which a wavering light from somewhere within
- trembled and cowered. They crept up, and looking through saw tattered wall
- paper and cracked plaster, and two men sitting on the floor, playing cards
- in the ghostly light of a fire of boards in the huge fireplace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey, Jinny!” roared Toboso, and the two jumped up with startled oaths.
- “Why, it's Boston Alley and the Newark Kid!” cried Toboso. “Come on,
- Elder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The younger man cast forth zigzag flashes of blasphemy. “You big fat fool!
- Don't know no mor' 'n to jump like that on <i>me!</i> Holy Jims! I ain't
- made of copper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso led Father Wiliston round by the open door. “Hold your face, Kid.
- Gents, this here's a friend of mine we'll call the Elder, and let that go.
- I'm backing him, and I hold that goes. The Kid,” he went on descriptively,
- addressing Father Wiliston, “is what you see afore you, Elder. His mouth
- is hot, his hands is cold, his nerves is shaky, he's always feeling the
- cops gripping his shirt-collar. He didn't see no clergy around. He begs
- your pardon. Don't he? I says, don't he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laid a heavy red hand on the Newark Kid's shoulder, who wiped his
- pallid mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- Boston Alley seemed in his way an agreeable man. He was tall and slender
- limbed, with a long, thin black mustache, sinewy neck and hollow chest,
- and spoke gently with a sweet, resonant voice, saying, “Glad to see you,
- Elder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- These two wore better clothes than Toboso, but he seemed to dominate them
- with his red health and windy voice, his stomach and feet, and solidity of
- standing on the earth.
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Wiliston stood the while gazing vaguely through his spectacles. The
- sense of happy freedom and congenial companionship that had been with him
- during the starlit walk had given way gradually to a stream of confused
- memories, and now these memories stood ranged about, looking at him with
- sad, faded eyes, asking him to explain the scene. The language of the
- Newark Kid had gone by him like a white hot blast. The past and present
- seemed to have about the same proportions of vision and reality. He could
- not explain them to each other. He looked up to Toboso, pathetically,
- trusting in his help.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was my house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso stared surprised. “I ain't on to you, Elder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was born here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Indeed Toboso was a tower of strength even against the ghosts of other
- days, reproachful for their long durance in oblivion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! Well, by Jinny! I reckon you'll give us lodging, Elder,” he puffed
- cheerfully. He took the coincidence so pleasantly and naturally that
- Father Wiliston was comforted, and thought that after all it was pleasant
- and natural enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- The only furniture in the room was a high-backed settle and an overturned
- kitchen table, with one leg gone, and the other three helplessly in the
- air—so it had lain possibly many years. Boston Alley drew forward
- the settle and threw more broken clapboards on the fire, which blazed up
- and filled the room with flickering cheer. Soon the three outcasts were
- smoking their pipes and the conversation became animated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When I was a boy,” said Father Wiliston—“I remember so distinctly—there
- were remarkable early bough apples growing in the orchard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The pot's yours, Elder,” thundered To-boso. They went out groping under
- the old apple trees, and returned laden with plump pale green fruit.
- Boston Alley and the Newark Kid stretched themselves on the floor on heaps
- of pulled grass. Toboso and Father Wiliston sat on the settle. The juice
- of the bough apples ran with a sweet tang. The palate rejoiced and the
- soul responded. The Newark Kid did swift, cunning card tricks that filled
- Father Wiliston with wonder and pleasure.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear young man, I don't see how you do it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Kid was lately out of prison from a two years' sentence, “only for
- getting into a house by the window instead of the door,” as Boston Alley
- delicately explained, and the “flies,” meaning officers of the law, “are
- after him again for reasons he ain't quite sure of.” The pallor of slum
- birth and breeding, and the additional prison pallor, made his skin look
- curious where the grime had not darkened it. He had a short-jawed,
- smooth-shaven face, a flat mouth and light hair, and was short and stocky,
- but lithe and noiseless in movement, and inclined to say little. Boston
- Alley was a man of some slight education, who now sometimes sung in winter
- variety shows, such songs as he picked up here and there in summer
- wanderings, for in warm weather he liked footing the road better, partly
- because the green country sights were pleasant to him, and partly because
- he was irresolute and keeping engagements was a distress. He seemed
- agreeable and sympathetic.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He ain't got no more real feelings 'n a fish,” said Toboso, gazing
- candidly at Boston, but speaking to Father Wiliston, “and yet he looks
- like he had 'em, and a man's glad to see him. Ain't seen you since fall,
- Boston, but I see the Kid last week at a hang-out in Albany. Well, gents,
- this ain't a bad lay.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso himself had been many years on the road. He was in a way a man of
- much force and decision, and probably it was another element in him,
- craving sloth and easy feeding, which kept him in this submerged society;
- although here, too, there seemed room for the exercise of his dominance.
- He leaned back in the settle, and had his hand on Father Wiliston's
- shoulder. His face gleamed redly over his bison beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a good lay. And we're gay, Elder. Ain't we gay? Hey, Jinny!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, yes, Toboso. But this young man—I'm sure he must have great
- talents, great talents, quite remarkable. Ah—yes, Jinny!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey, Jinny,” they sang together, “Ho, Jinny! Listen, love, to me. I'll
- sing to you, and play to you, a dulcet melode-e-e”—while Boston
- danced a shuffle and the Kid snapped the cards in time. Then, at Toboso's
- invitation and command, Boston sang a song, called “The Cheerful Man,”
- resembling a ballad, to a somewhat monotonous tune, and perhaps known in
- the music halls of the time—all with a sweet, resonant voice and a
- certain pathos of intonation:—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “I knew a man across this land
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Came waving of a cheerful hand,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Who drew a gun and gave some one
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A violent contus-i-on,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “They sent him up, he fled from 'quad'
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- By a window and the grace of God,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Picked up a wife and children six,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- And wandered into politics,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “'In politics he was, I hear,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A secret, subtle financier—
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- So the jury says, 'But we agree
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- He quits this sad community,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.'
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “His wife and six went on the town,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- And he went off; without a frown
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Reproaching Providence, went he
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- And got another wife and three,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “He runs a cross-town car to-day
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- From Bleecker Street to Avenue A.
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- He swipes the fares with skilful ease,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Keeps up his hope, and tries to please,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “Our life is mingled woe and bliss,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Man that is born of woman is
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Short-lived and goes to his long home.
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Take heart, and learn a lesson from
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- This cheerful man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “But,” said Father Wiliston, “don't you think really, Mr. Alley, that the
- moral is a little confused? I don't mean intentionally,” he added, with
- anxious precaution, “but don't you think he should have reflected”—
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're right, Elder,” said Toboso, with decision. “It's like that. It
- ain't moral. When a thing ain't moral that settles it.” And Boston nodded
- and looked sympathetic with every one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was sure you would agree with me,” said Father Wiliston. He felt
- himself growing weary now and heavy-eyed. Presently somehow he was leaning
- on Toboso with his head on his shoulder. Toboso's arm was around him, and
- Toboso began to hum in a kind of wheezing lullaby, “Hey, Jinny! Ho,
- Jinny!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am very grateful, my dear friends,” murmured Father Wiliston. “I have
- lived a long time. I fear I have not always been careful in my course, and
- am often forgetful. I think”—drowsily—“I think that happiness
- must in itself be pleasing to God. I was often happy before in this room.
- I remember—my dear mother sat here—who is now dead. We have
- been quite, really quite cheerful to-night. My mother—was very
- judicious—an excellent wise woman—she died long ago.” So he
- was asleep before any one was aware, while Toboso crooned huskily, “Hey,
- Jinny!” and Boston Alley and the Newark Kid sat upright and stared
- curiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Holy Jims!” said the Kid.
- </p>
- <p>
- Toboso motioned them to bring the pulled grass. They piled it on the
- settle, let Father Wiliston down softly, brought the broken table, and
- placed it so that he could not roll off.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Toboso, after a moment's silence, “I guess we'd better pick
- him and be off. He's got sixty in his pocket.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” said Boston, “that's it, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen
- apiece.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, that's right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I guess the Kid can take it out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled it
- out. Toboso counted and divided the bills.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years
- younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the
- night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't
- got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. Heeled
- all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice in him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. “I
- ain't got nothing against him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few
- flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only
- sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment confused
- in mind, then sat up and looked around.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare say”—getting
- on his feet—“I dare say they thought it would be unkind to tell me
- so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He wandered through the dusky old rooms and up and down the creaking
- stairs, picking up bits of recollection, some vivid, some more dim than
- the dawn, some full of laughter, some that were leaden and sad; then out
- into the orchard to find a bough apple in the dewy grasses; and, kneeling
- under the gnarled old tree to make his morning prayer, which included in
- petition the three overnight revellers, he went in fluent phrase and
- broken tones among eldest memories.
- </p>
- <p>
- He pushed cheerfully into the grassy road now, munching his apple and
- humming, “Hey, Jinny! Ho, Jinny!” He examined the tree at the highway with
- fresh interest. “How singular! It means an empty house. Very intelligent
- man, Toboso.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Bits of grass were stuck on his back and a bramble dragged from his coat
- tail. He plodded along in the dust and wabbled absent-mindedly from one
- side of the road to the other. The dawn towered behind him in purple and
- crimson, lifted its robe and canopy, and flung some kind of glittering
- gauze far beyond him. He did not notice it till he reached the top of the
- hill above Ironville with Timothy's house in sight. Then he stopped,
- turned, and was startled a moment; then smiled companionably on the state
- and glory of the morning, much as on Toboso and the card tricks of the
- Newark Kid.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really,” he murmured, “I have had a very good time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He met Timothy in the hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Been out to walk early, father? Wait—there's grass and sticks on
- your coat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It suddenly seemed difficult to explain the entire circumstances to
- Timothy, a settled man and girt with precedent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you enjoy it?—Letter you dropped? No, I haven't seen it.
- Breakfast is ready.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Neither Bettina nor Mrs. Timothy had seen the letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No matter, my dear, no matter. I—really, I've had a very good
- time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Afterward he came out on the porch with his Bible and Concordance, sat
- down and heard Bettina brushing his hat and ejaculating, “Fater!”
- Presently he began to nod drowsily and his head dropped low over the
- Concordance. The chickens clucked drowsily in the road.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- ON EDOM HILL
- </h2>
- <h3>
- I.
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>HARLIE SEBASTIAN
- was a turfman, meaning that he had something to do with race-horses, and
- knew property as rolls of bank bills, of which one now and then suddenly
- has none at all; or as pacers and trotters that are given to breaking and
- unaccountably to falling off in their nervous systems; or as “Association
- Shares” and partnership investments in a training stable; all capable of
- melting and going down in one vortex. So it happened at the October races.
- And from this it arose that in going between two heated cities and low by
- the sea he stopped among the high hills that were cold.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a tall man with a pointed beard, strong of shoulder and foot, and
- without fear in his eyes. After two hours' riding he woke from a doze and
- argued once more that he was a “phenomenally busted man.” It made no
- difference, after all, which city he was in. Looking out at the white
- hills that showed faintly in the storm, it occurred to him that this was
- not the railway line one usually travelled to the end in view. It was
- singular, the little difference between choices. You back the wrong horse;
- then you drink beer instead of fizz, and the results of either are
- tolerable. Let a man live lustily and there's little to regret. He had
- found ruin digestible before, and never yet gone to the dogs that wait to
- devour human remnants, but had gotten up and fallen again, and on the
- whole rejoiced. Stomach and lungs of iron, a torrent of red blood in vein
- and artery maintain their consolations; hopes rise again, blunders and
- evil doings seem to be practically outlived. So without theory ran
- Sebastian's experience. The theory used to be that his sin would find a
- man out. There were enough of Sebastian's that had gone out, and never
- returned to look for him. So too with mistakes and failures. A little
- while, a year or more, and you are busy with other matters. It is a
- stirring world, and offers no occupation for ghosts. The dragging sense of
- depression that he felt seemed natural enough; not to be argued down, but
- thrown aside in due time. Yet it was a feeling of pallid and cold
- futility, like the spectral hills and wavering snow.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I might as well go back!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He tossed a coin to see whether it was fated he should drop off at the
- next station, and it was.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ramoth!” cried the brakeman.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian held in his surprise as a matter of habit.
- </p>
- <p>
- But on the platform in the drift and float of the snow-storm he stared
- around at the white January valley, at the disappearing train, at the sign
- above the station door, “Ramoth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the place,” he remarked. “There wasn't any railroad then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There were hidden virtues in a flipped coin. Sebastian had his
- superstitions.
- </p>
- <p>
- The road to Ramoth village from the station curves about to the south of
- the great bare dome that is called Edom Hill, but Sebastian, without
- inquiry, took the fork to the left which climbed up the hill without
- compromise, and seemed to be little used.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet in past times Edom Hill was noted in a small way as a hill that upheld
- the house of a stern abolitionist, and in a more secret way as a station
- in the “underground railroad,” or system by which runaway slaves were
- passed on to Canada. But when Charlie Sebastian remembered his father and
- Edom Hill, the days of those activities were passed. The abolitionist had
- nothing to exercise resistance and aggression on but his wind-blown farm
- and a boy, who was aggressive to seek out mainly the joys of this world,
- and had faculties of resistance. There were bitter clashes; young
- Sebastian fled, and came upon a stable on a stud farm, and from there in
- due time went far and wide, and found tolerance in time and wrote,
- offering to “trade grudges and come to see how he was.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The answer, in a small, faint, cramped, unskilful hand, stated the
- abolitionist's death. “Won't you come back, Mr. Sebastian. It is lonely.
- Harriet Sebastian.” And therefore Sebastian remarked:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You bet it is! Who's she? The old man must have married again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In his new-found worldly tolerance he had admired such aggressive
- enterprise, but seeing no interest in the subject, had gone his way and
- forgotten it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Beating up Edom Hill through the snow was no easier than twenty years
- before. David Sebastian had built his house in a high place, and looking
- widely over the top of the land, saw that it was evil.
- </p>
- <p>
- The drifts were unbroken and lay in long barrows and windy ridges over the
- roadway. The half-buried fences went parallel up the white breast and
- barren heave of the hill, and disappeared in the storm. Sebastian passed a
- house with closed blinds, then at a long interval a barn and a stiff red
- chimney with a snow-covered heap of ruins at its foot. The station was now
- some miles behind and the dusk was coming on. The broad top of the hill
- was smooth and rounded gradually. Brambles, bushes, reeds, and the tops of
- fences broke the surface of the snow, and beside these only a house by the
- road, looking dingy and gray, with a blackish bam attached, four old
- maples in front, an orchard behind. Far down the hill to the right lay the
- road to Ramoth, too far for its line of naked trees to be seen in the
- storm. The house on Edom Hill had its white throne to itself, and whatever
- dignity there might be in solitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did not pause to examine the house, only noticed the faint smoke in one
- chimney, opened the gate, and pushed through untrodden snow to the side
- door and knocked. The woman who came and stood in the door surprised him
- even more than “Ramoth!” called by the brakeman. Without great reason for
- seeming remarkable, it seemed remarkable. He stepped back and stared, and
- the two, looking at each other, said nothing. Sebastian recovered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My feet are cold,” he said slowly. “I shouldn't like to freeze them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She drew back and let him in, left him to find a chair and put his feet
- against the stove. She sat down near the window and went on knitting. The
- knitting needles glittered and clicked. Her face was outlined against the
- gray window, the flakes too glittered and clicked. It looked silent,
- secret, repressed, as seen against the gray window; like something chilled
- and snowed under, cold and sweet, smooth pale hair and forehead, deep
- bosom and slender waist. She looked young enough to be called in the early
- June of her years.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's good proportion and feature, but not enough nerves for a
- thoroughbred. But,” he thought, “she looks as if she needed, as you might
- say, revelry,” and he spoke aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Once I was in this section and there was a man named Sebastian lived
- here, or maybe it was farther on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She said, “It was here” in a low voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “David Sebastian now, that was it, or something that way. Stiff, sort of
- grim old—oh, but you might be a relative, you see. Likely enough. So
- you might.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I might be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. You might be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He rubbed his hands and leaned back, staring at the window. The wind was
- rising outside and blew the snow in whirls and sheets.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Going to be a bad night I came up from the station. If a man's going
- anywhere tonight, he'll be apt not to get there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ought to have taken the right hand at the fork.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I don't know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose and took a cloak from the table. Sebastian watched her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must feed the pony and shut up the chickens.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She hesitated. A refusal seemed to have been hinted to the hinted request
- for hospitality. But Sebastian saw another point.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, that's what I'm going to do for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked on silently, as he passed her with assured step, not hesitating
- at doors, but through the kitchen to the woodshed, and there in the
- darkness of a pitch-black corner took down a jingling lantern and lit it.
- She followed him silently into the yard, that was full of drifts and wild
- storm, to the barn, where she listened to him shake down hay and bedding,
- measure oats, slap the pony's flank and chirp cheerfully. Then he plunged
- through a low door and she heard the bolt in the chicken shed rattle. It
- had grown dark outside. He came out and held the barn door, waiting for
- her to step out, and they stood side by side on the edge of the storm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How did you know the lantern was there?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lantern! Oh, farmhouses always keep the lantern in the nearest corner of
- the woodshed, if it isn't behind the kitchen door.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But she did not move to let him close the bam. He looked down at her a
- moment and then out at the white raging night.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't see forty feet, can you? But, of course, if you don't want to give
- me a roof I'll have to take my chances. Look poor, don't they? Going to
- let me shut this door?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am quite alone here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So am I. That's the trouble.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think you understand,” she said quietly, speaking in a manner
- low, cool, and self-contained.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've got more understanding now than I'll have in an hour, maybe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will lend you the lantern.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you mightn't get it back.” He drew the barn door to, which forced her
- to step forward. A gust of wind about the corner of the bam staggered and
- threw her back. He caught her about her shoulders and held her steadily,
- and shot the bolt with the hand that held the lantern.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's all right. A man has to take his chances. I dare say a woman had
- better not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- If Sebastian exaggerated the dangers of the night, if there were any for
- him, looked at from her standpoint they might seem large and full of
- dread. The wind howled with wild hunting sound, and shrieked against the
- eaves of the house. The snow drove thick and blinding. The chimneys were
- invisible. A woman easily transfers her own feelings to a man and
- interprets them there. In the interest of that interpretation it might no
- longer seem possible that man's ingratitude, or his failings and passions,
- could be as unkind as winter wind and bitter sky.
- </p>
- <p>
- She caught her breath in a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will stay to supper,” she said, and stepped aside.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. As I'm going, I'd better go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She went before him across the yard, opened the woodshed door and stood in
- it. He held out the lantern, but she did not take it. He lifted it to look
- at her face, and she smiled faintly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Please come in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Better go on, if I'm going. Am I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm very cold. Please come in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They went in and closed the doors against the storm. The house was wrapped
- round, and shut away from the sight of Edom Hill, and Edom Hill was
- wrapped round and shut away from the rest of the world.
- </p>
- <h3>
- II.
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>evelry has need of
- a certain co-operation. Sebastian drew heavily on his memory for
- entertainment, told of the combination that had “cleaned him out,” and how
- he might get in again in the Spring, only he felt a bit tired in mind now,
- and things seemed dead. He explained the mysteries of “short prices,
- selling allowances, past choices, hurdles and handicaps,” and told of the
- great October races, where Decatur won from Clifford and Lady Mary, and
- Lady Mary ran through the fence and destroyed the features of the jockey.
- But the quiet, smooth-haired woman maintained her calm, and offered
- neither question nor comment, only smiled and flushed faintly now and
- then. She seemed as little stirred by new tumultuous things as the white
- curtains at the windows, that moved slightly when the storm, which danced
- and shouted on Edom Hill, managed to force a whistling breath through a
- chink.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian decided she was frozen up with loneliness and the like. “She's
- got no conversation, let alone revelry.” He thought he knew what her life
- was like. “She's sort of empty. Nothing doing any time. It's the off
- season all the year. No troubles. Sort of like a fish, as being chilly and
- calm, that lives in cold water till you have to put pepper on to taste it.
- I know how it goes on this old hill.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She left him soon. He heard her moving about in the kitchen, and sometimes
- the clink of a dish. He sat by the stove and mused and muttered. She came
- and told him his room was on the left of the stair; it had a stove; would
- he not carry up wood and have his fire there? She seemed to imply a
- preference that he should. But the burden and oppression of his musings
- kept him from wondering when she had compromised her scruples and fears,
- or why she kept any of them. He mounted the stair with his wood. She
- followed with a lamp and left him. He stared at the closed door and rubbed
- his chin thoughtfully, then went to work with his fire. The house became
- silent, except for the outer tumult. She did not mount the stair again; it
- followed that she slept below.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian took a daguerreotype from the mantel and stared at it. It was
- the likeness of a shaven, grim-faced man in early middle life. He examined
- it long with a quizzical frown; finally went to the washstand, opened the
- drawer and took out a razor with a handle of yellow bone, carried the
- washstand to the stove, balanced the mirror against the pitcher, stropped
- the razor on his hand, heated water in a cup, slowly dismantled his face
- of beard and mustache, cast them in the stove, put the daguerreotype
- beside the mirror, and compared critically. Except that the face in the
- daguerreotype had a straight, set mouth, and the face in the mirror was
- one full-lipped and humorous and differently lined, they were nearly the
- same.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wouldn't have believed it”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put it aside and looked around, whistling in meditation. Then he went
- back again to wondering who the pale-haired woman was. Probably the farm
- had changed hands. A man whose father had been dead going on twenty years
- couldn't have that kind of widowed stepmother. He was disqualified.
- </p>
- <p>
- A cold, unchanging place, Edom Hill, lifted out of the warm, sapping
- currents of life. It might be a woman could keep indefinitely there,
- looking much the same. If her pulse beat once to an ordinary twice, she
- ought to last twice as long. The house seemed unchanged. The old things
- were in their old familiar places, David Sebastian's books on their
- shelves in the room below, on the side table there his great Bible, in
- which he used to write all family records, with those of his reforming
- activity. Sebastian wondered what record stood of his own flight.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat a few moments longer, then took his lamp and crept softly out of
- the room and down the stairs. The sitting-room was icily cold now; the
- white curtains stirred noiselessly. He sat down before the little side
- table and opened the great book.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were some thirty leaves between the Old and New Testaments, most of
- them stitched in. A few at the end were blank. Some of the records were
- obscure.
- </p>
- <p>
- “March 5th, 1840. Saw light on this subject.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Others ran:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sept. 1 st, 1843. Rec. Peter Cavendish, fugitive.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dec. 3d, ditto. Rec. Robert Henry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “April 15th, ditto. Rec. one, Æsop,” and so on.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dec. 14th, 1848. Have had consolation from prayer for public evil.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “April 20th, 1858. My son, Charles Sebastian, born.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “April 7th, 1862. My wife, Jane Sebastian, died.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “July 5th, 1862. Rec. Keziah Andrews to keep my house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The dates of the entries from that point grew further apart, random and
- obscure; here and there a fact.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nov. 4th, 1876. Charles Sebastian departed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “June 9th, 1877. Rec. Harriet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jan. 19th, 1880. Have wrestled in prayer without consolation for Charles
- Sebastian.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This was the last entry. A faint line ran down across the page connecting
- the end of “Harriet” with the beginning of “Charles.” Between the two
- blank leaves at the end was a photograph of himself at seventeen. He
- remembered suddenly how it was taken by a travelling photographer, who had
- stirred his soul with curiosity and given him the picture; and David
- Sebastian had taken it and silently put it away among blank leaves of the
- Bible.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian shivered. The written leaves, the look of himself of twenty
- years before, the cold, the wail of the wind, the clicking flakes on the
- window panes, these seemed now to be the dominant facts of life. Narrow
- was it, poor and meagre, to live and labor with a barren farm? The old
- abolitionist had cut deeper into existence than he had. If to deal with
- the fate of races, and wrestle alone with God on Edom Hill, were not
- knowledge and experience, what was knowledge or experience, or what should
- a man call worth the trial of his brain and nerve?
- </p>
- <p>
- “He passed me. He won hands down,” he muttered, bending over the page
- again. “'Rec. Harriet.' That's too much for me.” And he heard a quick
- noise behind him and turned.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stood in the door, wide-eyed, smooth, pale hair falling over one
- shoulder, long cloak half slipped from the other, holding a shotgun,
- threatening and stem.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you doing here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Out gunning for me?” asked Sebastian gravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stared wildly, put the gun down, cried:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're Charlie Sebastian!” and fell on her knees beside the stove,
- choking, sobbing and shaking, crouching against the cold sheet iron in a
- kind of blind memory of its warmth and protection.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You still have the drop on me,” said Sebastian.
- </p>
- <p>
- She shivered and crouched still and whispered:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm cold.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How long have you been here freezing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian thrust anything inflammable at hand into the stove, lit it and
- piled in the wood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not long. Only—only a few moments.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You still have the advantage of me. Who are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, I'm Harriet,” she said simply, and looked up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. 'Received, 1877.' How old were you then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, I was eight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. Don't tell lies, Harriet. You've been freezing a long while.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She drew her cloak closer over the thin white linen of her gown with
- shaking hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand. I'm very cold. Why didn't you come before? It has
- been so long waiting.”
- </p>
- <h3>
- III.
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he draft began to
- roar and the dampers to glow. She crept in front of the glow. He drew a
- chair and sat down close behind her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why didn't you come before?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The question was startling, for Sebastian was only conscious of a lack of
- reason for coming. If David Sebastian had left him the farm he would have
- heard from it, and being prosperous, he had not cared. But the question
- seemed to imply some strong assumption and further knowledge.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'd better tell me about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “About what? At the beginning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aren't you anything except 'Received, Harriet'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I hadn't any father or mother when Mr. Sebastian brought me here. Is
- that what you mean? But he taught me to say 'Harriet Sebastian,' and a
- great many things he taught me. Didn't you know? And about his life and
- what he wanted you to do? Because, of course, we talked about you nearly
- always in the time just before he died. He said you would be sure to come,
- but he died, don't you see? only a few years after, and that disappointed
- him. He gave me the picture and said, 'He'll come, and you'll know him by
- this,' and he said, 'He will come poor and miserable. My only son, so I
- leave him to you; and so, as I did, you will pray for him twice each day.'
- It was just like that, 'Tell Charles there is no happiness but in duty.
- Tell him I found it so.' It was a night like this when he died, and Kezzy
- was asleep in her chair out here, and I sat by the bed. Then he told me I
- would pay him all in that way by doing what he meant to do for you. I was
- so little, but I seemed to understand that I was to live for it, as he had
- lived to help free the slaves. Don't you see? Then he began calling,
- 'Charles! Charles!' as if you were somewhere near, and I fell asleep, and
- woke and lay still and listened to the wind; and when I tried to get up I
- couldn't, because he held my hair, and he was dead. But why didn't you
- come?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It looks odd enough now,” Sebastian admitted, and wondered at the change
- from still impassiveness, pale and cool silence, to eager speech, swift
- question, lifted and flushed face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you remember the letters? But you didn't come then. But I began to
- fancy how it would be when you came, and then somehow it seemed as if you
- were here. Out in the orchard sometimes, don't you see? And more often
- when Kezzy was cross. And when she went to sleep by the fire at night—she
- was so old—we were quite alone and talked. Don't you remember?—I
- mean—But Kezzy didn't like to hear me talking to myself. 'Mutter,
- mutter!' like that. 'Never was such a child!' And then she died, too,
- seven—seven years ago, and it was quite different. I—I grew
- older. You seemed to be here quite and quite close to me always. There was
- no one else, except—But, I don't know why, I had an aching from
- having to wait, and it has been a long time, hasn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rather long. Go on. There was no one else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. We lived here—I mean—it grew that way, and you changed
- from the picture, too, and became like Mr. Sebastian, only younger, and
- just as you are now, only—not quite.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him with sudden fear, then dropped her eyes, drew her long
- hair around under her cloak and leaned closer to the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But there is so much to tell you it comes out all mixed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sebastian sat silently looking down at her, and felt the burden of his
- thinking grow heavier; the pondering how David Sebastian had left him an
- inheritance of advice, declaring his own life full and brimming, and to
- Harriet the inheritance of a curious duty that had grown to people her
- nights and days with intense sheltered dreams, and made her life, too,
- seem to her full and brimming, multitudinous with events and interchanges,
- himself so close and cherished an actor in it that his own parallel
- unconsciousness of it had almost dropped out of conception. And the burden
- grew heavier still with the weight of memories, and the record between the
- Old and New Testaments; with the sense of the isolation and covert of the
- midnight, and the storm; with the sight of Harriet crouching by the fire,
- her story, how David Sebastian left this world and went out into the wild
- night crying, “Charles! Charles!” It was something not logical, but
- compelling. It forced him to remark that his own cup appeared partially
- empty from this point of view. Harriet seemed to feel that her hour had
- come and he was given to her hands.. Success even in methods of living is
- a convincing thing over unsuccess. Ah, well! too late to remodel to David
- Sebastian's notion. It was singular, though, a woman silent, restrained,
- scrupulous, moving probably to the dictates of village opinion—suddenly
- the key was turned, and she threw back the gates of her prison; threw open
- doors, windows, intimate curtains; asked him to look in and explore
- everywhere and know all the history and the forecasts; became simple,
- primitive, unrestrained, willing to sit there at his feet and as innocent
- as her white linen gown. How smooth and pale her hair was and gentle
- cheek, and there were little sleepy smiles in the corners of the lips. He
- thought he would like most of all to put out his hand and touch her cheek
- and sleepy smiles, and draw her hair, long and soft and pale, from under
- the cloak. On the whole, it seemed probable that he might.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Harriet,” he said slowly, “I'm going to play this hand.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, I don't know what you mean.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take it, I'm not over and above a choice selection. I don't mention
- details, but take it as a general fact. Would you want to marry that kind
- of a selection, meaning me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes! Didn't you come for that? I thought you would.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I thought you needed revelry! You must have had a lot of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know what you mean. Listen! It keeps knocking at the door!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that's all right. Let it knock. Do you expect any more vagrants?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Vagrants?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like you? You only came home. Listen! It was like this when he died. But
- he wouldn't come to-night and stand outside and knock, would he? Not
- to-night, when you've come at last. But he used to. Of course, I fancied
- things. It's the storm. There's no one else now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A thousand spectres go whirling across Edom Hill such winter nights and
- come with importunate messages, but if the door is close and the fire
- courageous, it matters little. They are but wind and drift and out in the
- dark, and if one is in the light, it is a great point to keep the door
- fast against them and all forebodings, and let the coming days be what
- they will.
- </p>
- <p>
- Men are not born in a night, or a year.
- </p>
- <p>
- But if David Sebastian were a spectre there at the door, and thought
- differently on any question, or had more to say, he was not articulate.
- There is no occupation for ghosts in a stirring world, nor efficiency in
- their repentance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Has any one more than a measure of hope, and a door against the storm?
- There was that much, at least, on Edom Hill.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- SONS OF R. RAND
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>OME years ago, of
- a summer afternoon, a perspiring organ-grinder and a leathery ape plodded
- along the road that goes between thin-soiled hillsides and the lake which
- is known as Elbow Lake and lies to the northeast of the village of Salem.
- In those days it was a well-travelled highway, as could be seen from its
- breadth and' dustiness. At about half the length of its bordering on the
- lake there was a spring set in the hillside, and a little pool continually
- rippled by its inflow. Some settler or later owner of the thin-soiled
- hillsides had left a clump of trees about it, making as sightly and
- refreshing an Institute of Charity as could be found. Another
- philanthropist had added half a cocoanut-shell to the foundation.
- </p>
- <p>
- The organ-grinder turned in under the trees with a smile, in which his
- front teeth played a large part, and suddenly drew back with a guttural
- exclamation; the leathery ape bumped against his legs, and both assumed
- attitudes expressing respectively, in an Italian and tropical manner,
- great surprise and abandonment of ideas. A tall man lay stretched on his
- back beside the spring, with a felt hat over his face. Pietro, the
- grinder, hesitated. The American, if disturbed and irascible, takes by the
- collar and kicks with the foot: it has sometimes so happened. The tall man
- pushed back his hat and sat up, showing a large-boned and sun-browned
- face, shaven except for a black mustache, clipped close. He looked not
- irascible, though grave perhaps, at least unsmiling. He said: “It's free
- quarters, Dago. Come in. Entrez. Have a drink.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Pietro bowed and gesticulated with amiable violence. “Dry!” he said. “Oh,
- hot!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. That a friend of yours?”—pointing to the ape. “He ain't
- got a withering sorrow, has he? Take a seat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Elbow Lake is shaped as its name implies. If one were to imagine the arm
- to which the elbow belonged, it would be the arm of a muscular person in
- the act of smiting a peaceable-looking farmhouse a quarter of a mile to
- the east. Considering the bouldered front of the hill behind the house,
- the imaginary blow would be bad for the imaginary knuckles. It is a large
- house, with brown, unlikely looking hillsides around it, huckleberry knobs
- and ice-grooved boulders here and there. The land between it and the lake
- is low, and was swampy forty years ago, before the Rand boys began to
- drain it, about the time when R. Rand entered the third quarter century of
- his unpleasant existence.
- </p>
- <p>
- R. Rand was, I suppose, a miser, if the term does not imply too definite a
- type. The New England miser is seldom grotesque. He seems more like
- congealed than distorted humanity. He does not pinch a penny so hard as
- some of other races are said to do, but he pinches a dollar harder, and is
- quite as unlovely as any. R. Rand's methods of obtaining dollars to pinch
- were not altogether known, or not, at least, recorded—which accounts
- perhaps for the tradition that they were of doubtful uprightness. He held
- various mortgages about the county, and his farm represented little to him
- except a means of keeping his two sons inexpensively employed in rooting
- out stones.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the respective ages of sixteen and seventeen the two sons, Bob and Tom
- Rand, discovered the rooting out of stones to be unproductive labor, if
- nothing grew, or was expected to grow, in their place, except more stones;
- and the nature of the counsels they took may be accurately imagined. In
- the autumn of '56 they began ditching the swamp in the direction of the
- lake, and in the summer of '57 raised a crop of tobacco in the northeast
- corner, R. Rand, the father, making no comment the while. At the proper
- time he sold the tobacco to Packard & Co., cigar makers, of the city
- of Hamilton, still making no comment, probably enjoying some mental
- titillation. Tom Rand then flung a rock of the size of his fist through
- one of the front windows, and ran away, also making no comment further
- than that. The broken window remained broken twenty-five years, Tom
- returning neither to mend it nor to break another. Bob Rand, by some
- bargain with his father, continued the ditching and planting of the swamp
- with some profit to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- He evidently classed at least a portion of his father's manner of life
- among the things that are to be avoided. He acquired a family, and was in
- the way to bring it up in a reputable way. He further cultivated and
- bulwarked his reputation. Society, manifesting itself politically, made
- him sheriff; society, manifesting itself ecclesiastically, made him
- deacon. Society seldom fails to smile on systematic courtship.
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man continued to go his way here and there, giving account of
- himself to no one, contented enough no doubt to have one reputable son who
- looked after his own children and paid steady rent for, or bought piece by
- piece, the land he used; and another floating between the Rockies and the
- Mississippi, whose doings were of no importance in the village of Salem.
- But I doubt, on the whole, whether he was softened in heart by the
- deacon's manner or the ordering of the deacon's life to reflect unfilially
- on his own. Without claiming any great knowledge of the proprieties, he
- may have thought the conduct of his younger son the more filial of the
- two. Such was the history of the farmhouse between the years '56 and '82.
- </p>
- <p>
- One wet April day, the sixth of the month, in the year '82, R. Rand went
- grimly elsewhere—where, his neighbors had little doubt. With true
- New England caution we will say that he went to the cemetery, the little
- grass-grown cemetery of Salem, with its meagre memorials and absurd,
- pathetic epitaphs. The minister preached a funeral sermon, out of
- deference to his deacon, in which he said nothing whatever about R. Rand,
- deceased; and R. Rand, sheriff and deacon, reigned in his stead.
- </p>
- <p>
- Follow certain documents and one statement of fact:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 1.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Codicil to the Will of R. Rand.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- The Will shall stand as above, to wit, my son, Robert Rand, sole legatee,
- failing the following condition: namely, I bequeath all my property as
- above mentioned, with the exception of this house and farm, to my son,
- Thomas Rand, provided, that within three months of the present date he
- returns and mends with his own hands the front window, third from the
- north, previously broken by him.
- </p>
- <p>
- (Signed) R. Rand.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Statement of fact.</i> On the morning of the day following the funeral
- the “condition” appeared in singularly problematical shape, the broken
- window, third from the north, having been in fact promptly replaced <i>by
- the hands of Deacon Rand himself</i>. The new pane stared defiantly across
- the lake, westward.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 2</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Leadville, Cal., May 15.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Bob: I hear the old man is gone. Saw it in a paper. I reckon maybe I
- didn't treat him any squarer than he did me. I'll go halves on a bang-up
- good monument, anyhow. Can we settle affairs without my coming East? How
- are you, Bob?
- </p>
- <p>
- Tom.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 3.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Salem, May 29.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Brother: The conditions of our father's will are such, I am compelled
- to inform you, as to result in leaving the property wholly to me. My duty
- to a large and growing family gives me no choice but to accept it as it
- stands, and I trust and have no doubt that you will regard that result
- with fortitude. I remain yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- Robert Rand.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 4.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Leadville, June 9.
- </p>
- <p>
- A. L. Moore.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Sir: I have your name as a lawyer in Wimberton. Think likely there
- isn't any other. If you did not draw up the will of R. Rand, Salem, can
- you forward this letter to the man who did? If you did, will you tell me
- what in thunder it was?
- </p>
- <p>
- Yours, Thomas Rand.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 5.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- Wimberton, June 18.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thomas Rand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Sir: I did draw your father's will and enclose copy of the same, with
- its codicil, which may truly be called remarkable. I think it right to
- add, that the window in question has been mended by your brother, with
- evident purpose. Your letter comes opportunely, my efforts to find you
- having been heretofore unsuccessful. I will add further, that I think the
- case actionable, to say the least. In case you should see fit to contest,
- your immediate return is of course necessary. Very truly yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- A. L. Moore,
- </p>
- <p>
- Attorney-at-Law.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Document 6. Despatch.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- New York, July 5.
- </p>
- <p>
- To Robert Rand, Salem.
- </p>
- <p>
- Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not.
- </p>
- <p>
- T. Rand.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon was a tall meagre man with a goatee that seemed to accentuate
- him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering
- line of rectitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- He drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of
- July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake,
- except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. His lips looked
- even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one were to
- come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments.
- </p>
- <p>
- Opposite the spring he drew up, hearing the sound of a hand-organ under
- the trees. The tall man with a clipped mustache sat up deliberately and
- looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also looked
- at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and forth
- between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, and
- followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I reckon it's Bob,” he said. “It's free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in.
- Have a drink.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an extra
- stiffening of the back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The train—I did not suppose—I was going to meet you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. I came by way of Wimberton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The younger brother stretched himself again beside the spring and drew his
- hat over his eyes. The elder stood up straight and not altogether
- unimpressive in front of it. Pietro in the rear of the spring reflected at
- this point that he and the ape could conduct a livelier conversation if it
- were left to them. Pietro could not imagine a conversation in which it was
- not desirable to be lively. The silence was long and, Pietro thought, not
- pleasant.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bob,” said the apparent sleeper at last, “ever hear of the prodigal son?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon frowned sharply, but said nothing. The other lifted the edge of
- his hat brim.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never heard of him? Oh—have I Then I won't tell about him. Too
- long. That elder brother, now, he had good points;—no doubt of it,
- eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I confess I don't see your object—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't? Well, I was just saying he had good points. I suppose he and the
- prodigal had an average good time together, knockin' around, stubbin'
- their toes, fishin' maybe, gettin' licked at inconvenient times, hookin'
- apples most anytime. That sort of thing. Just so. He had something of an
- argument. Now, the prodigal had no end of fun, and the elder brother
- stayed at home and chopped wood; understood himself to be cultivating the
- old man. I take it he didn't have a very soft job of it?”—lifting
- his hat brim once more.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon said nothing, but observed the hat brim.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now I think of it, maybe strenuous sobriety wasn't a thing he naturally
- liked any more than the prodigal did. I've a notion there was more family
- likeness between 'em than other folks thought. What might be your idea?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon still stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would rather,” he said, “you would explain yourself without parable.
- You received my letter. It referred to our father's will. I have received
- a telegram which I take to be threatening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other sat up and pulled a large satchel around from behind him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're a man of business, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “I like you, Bob.
- That's so. That will—I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, I take it
- you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play
- this here Will, Codicil attached. You play,—window already mended;
- time expired at twelve o'clock to-night. Good cards, Bob—first-rate.
- I play here”—opening the satchel—“two panes of glass—allowin'
- for accidents—putty, et cetera, proposing to bust that window again.
- Good cards, Bob. How are you coming on?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something came
- into his face which suggested the family likeness. He drew a paper from
- his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the grass.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sheriff's warrant,” he said, “for—hem—covering possible
- trespassing on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention—hem.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good,” said his brother briskly. “I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if I
- don't. I play again.” He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the
- glass. “Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hem,” said the deacon. “Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying of
- concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it is—hem—permissible
- for me.” He placed a revolver on top of the warrant.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bob,” said his brother, in huge delight, “I'm proud of you. But—I
- judge you ain't on to the practical drop. <i>Stand back there!</i>” The
- deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and
- retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and the two
- faced each other, the deacon looking as dangerous a man as the Westerner.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly, the wheezy hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly trying
- to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as desperately as
- if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hi, you monk! Dance!” cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it
- solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of
- the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly,
- first over the younger's, then over the deacon's.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face and
- groaned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm an evil-minded man,” he said; “I'm beaten.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other cocked his head on one side and listened. “Know what that tune
- is, Bob? I don't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the
- copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your hand
- yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Five.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But the deacon only muttered to himself: “I'm an evil-minded man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!” which Pietro did, perspiring
- freely. “Shake all that. Come along.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The two walked slowly toward the yellow road. Pietro raised his voice
- despairingly. “No cent! Not a nicka!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's so,” said Tom, pausing. “Five, by thunder! Come along, Dago. It's
- free quarters. Entrez. Take a seat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The breeze was blowing up over Elbow Lake, and the butterflies bobbed
- about in the sunshine, as they drove along the yellow road. Pietro sat at
- the back of the buck-board, the leathery ape on his knee and a smile on
- his face, broad, non-professional, and consisting largely of front teeth.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CONLON
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>ONLON, the strong,
- lay sick unto death with fever. The Water Commissioners sent champagne to
- express their sympathy. It was an unforced impulse of feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Conlon knew nothing of it. His lips were white, his cheeks sunken; his
- eyes glared and wandered; he muttered, and clutched with his big fingers
- at nothing visible.
- </p>
- <p>
- The doctor worked all day to force a perspiration. At six o'clock he said:
- “I'm done. Send for the priest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When Kelly and Simon Harding came, Father Ryan and the doctor were going
- down the steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tis a solemn duty ye have, Kelly,” said the priest, “to watch the last
- moments of a dying man, now made ready for his end.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, not Conlon! He'll not give up, not him,” cried Kelly, “the shtrong
- man wid the will in him!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An' what's the sthrength of man in the hands of his Creathor?” said the
- priest, turning to Harding, oratorically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don' know,” said Harding, calmly. “Do you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tis naught!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly murmured submissively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kind of monarchical institution, ain't it, what Conlon's run up against?”
- Harding remarked. “Give him a fair show in a caucus, an' he'd win, sure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He'll die if he don't sweat,” said the doctor, wiping his forehead. “It's
- hot enough.” Conlon lay muttering and glaring at the ceiling. The big
- knuckles of his hands stood out like rope-knots. His wife nodded to Kelly
- and Harding, and went out. She was a good-looking woman, large, massive,
- muscular. Kelly looked after her, rubbing his short nose and blinking his
- watery eyes. He was small, with stooping shoulders, affectionate eyes,
- wavering knees. He had followed Conlon, the strong, and served him many
- years. Admiration of Conlon was a strenuous business in which to be
- engaged.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah!” he said, “his wife ten year, an' me his inchimate friend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was ten by the clock. The subsiding noise of the city came up over
- housetops and vacant lots. The windows of the sickroom looked off the
- verge of a bluff; one saw the lights of the little city below, the lights
- of the stars above, and the hot black night between.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly and Harding sat down by a window, facing each other. The lamplight
- was dim. A screen shaded it from the bed, where Conlon muttered and cried
- out faintly, intermittently, as though in conversation with some one who
- was present only to himself. His voice was like the ghost or shadow of a
- voice, not a whisper, but strained of all resonance. One might fancy him
- standing on the bank of the deadly river and talking across to some one
- beyond the fog, and fancy that the voices would so creep through the fog
- stealthily, not leaping distances like earthly sounds, but struggling
- slowly through nameless obstruction.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly rubbed his hands before the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was his inchimate friend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding said: “Are you going to talk like a blanked idiot all night, or
- leave off maybe about twelve?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know ye for a hard man, too, Simmy,” said Kelly, pathetically; “an'
- 'tis the nathur of men, for an Irishman is betther for blow-in' off his
- shteam, be it the wrath or the sorrow of him, an' the Yankee is betther
- for bottlin' it up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Uses it for driving his engine mostly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So. But Conlon—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Conlon,” said Harding slowly, “that's so. He had steam to drive with, and
- steam to blow with, and plenty left over to toot his whistle and scald his
- fingers and ache in his belly. Expanding that there figure, he carried
- suction after him like the 1:40 express, he did.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tis thrue.” Kelly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I mind me when
- I first saw him I hadn't seen him before, unless so be when he was puttin'
- the wather-main through the sand-hills up the river an' bossin' a gang o'
- men with a fog-horn voice till they didn't own their souls, an' they
- didn't have any, what's more, the dirty Polocks. But he come into me shop
- one day, an' did I want the job o' plumbin' the court-house?
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Have ye the court-house in your pocket?' says I, jokin'.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'I have,' says he, onexpected, 'an' any plumbin' that's done for the
- court-house is done in the prisint risidence of the same.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “An' I looks up, an' 'O me God!' I says to meself, ''tis a man!' wid the
- black eyebrows of him, an' the shoulders an' the legs of him. An' he took
- me into the shwale of his wake from that day to this. But I niver thought
- to see him die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's so. You been his heeler straight through. I don't know but I like
- your saying so. But I don't see the how. Why, look here; when I bid for
- the old water contract he comes and offers to sell it to me, sort of
- personal asset. I don't know how. By the unbroke faces of the other Water
- Commissioners he didn't use his pile-driving fist to persuade 'em, and
- what I paid him was no more'n comfortable for himself. How'd he fetch it?
- How'd he do those things? Why, look here, Kelly, ain't he bullied you?
- Ain't you done dirty jobs for him, and small thanks?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly's hands trembled. He was bowed down and thoughtful, but not angry.
- “Suppose I ask you what for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Suppose ye do. Suppose I don' know. Maybe he was born to be king over me.
- Maybe he wasn't. But I know he was a mastherful man, an' he's dyin' here,
- an' me blood's sour an' me bones sad wid thinkin' of it. Don' throuble me,
- Simmy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, where the lamp
- made a nebulous circle of light.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, that's so,” he said at last, in conclusion of some unmentioned train
- of thought. “Why, I got a pup at home, and his affection ain't measured by
- the bones he's had, nor the licks he's had, not either of 'em.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly was deep in a reverie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nor it ain't measured by my virtues. Look here, now; I don' see what his
- measure is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey?” Kelly roused himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I was just thinking.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding thought he had known other men who had had in some degree a
- magnetic power that seemed to consist in mere stormy energy of initiative.
- They were like strong drink to weaker men. It was more physical than
- mental. Conlon was to Kelly a stimulant, then an appetite. And Conlon was
- a bad lot. Fellows that had heeled for him were mostly either wrecked or
- dead now. Why, there was a chap named Patterson that used to be decent
- till he struck Conlon, when he went pretty low; and Nora Reimer drowned
- herself on account of Patterson, when he got himself shot in a row at some
- shanty up the railroad. The last had seemed a good enough riddance. But
- Nora went off her head and jumped in the new reservoir. Harding remembered
- it the more from being one of the Water Company. They had had to empty the
- reservoir, which was expensive. And there were others. A black, blustering
- sort of beast, Conlon. He had more steam than was natural. Harding
- wondered vaguely at Kelly, who was spelling out the doctor's directions
- from a piece of paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle. 'Tis no tin-course
- dinner wid the champagne an' entries he's givin' Conlon the night. Hey? A
- powdher an' five dhrops from the short bottle.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding's mind wandered on among memories of the little city below, an
- intricate, irregular history, full of incidents, stories that were never
- finished or dribbled off anywhere, black spots that he knew of in white
- lives, white spots in dark lives. He did not happen to know any white
- spots on Conlon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Course if a man ain't in politics for his health he ain't in it for the
- health of the community, either, and that's all right. And if he opens the
- morning by clumping Mrs. Conlon on the head, why, she clumps him back more
- or less, and that's all right.” Then, if he went down-town and lied here
- and there ingeniously in the way of business, and came home at night
- pretty drunk, but no more than was popular with his constituency, why,
- Conlon's life was some cluttered, but never dull. Still, Harding's own
- ways being quieter and less cluttered, he felt that if Conlon were going
- off naturally now, it was not, on the whole, a bad idea. It would conduce
- to quietness. It would perhaps be a pity if anything interfered.
- </p>
- <p>
- The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, a dull, unechoing sound.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Simmy,” said Kelly, pointing with his thumb, “what do he be sayin',
- talkin'—talkin' like one end of a tiliphone?”
- </p>
- <p>
- They both turned toward the bed and listened.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the
- other end?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don' know,” whispered Kelly. “But I have this in me head, for ye know,
- when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his man at the
- front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of inthroduction in his
- hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the same to be read an' him
- certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful of boilin' impatience in
- himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' the time o' day through
- the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye
- mind?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and
- muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed
- tremulously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Listen, will ye?” said Kelly, suddenly leaning down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don' know,” said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. “I don' know
- as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't healthy to
- mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a bank—ain't
- any more'n likely. What of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Listen, will ye?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Sh!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom</i>,” babbled the ghostly voice, a thin,
- distant sound.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What'd he say? What'd he say?” Kelly was white and trembling.
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to
- himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close to
- Conlon to study the matter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>What's the heart-scald, mother?</i>” babbled Conlon. “<i>Where'd ye
- get it from? Me! Wirra!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly shook his head solemnly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's spheakin' to ghosteses.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see.
- Where'm I goin'?</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- “You got me,” muttered Harding. “I don' know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Tom'll be good. It's main dark. Hold Tom's hand</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly was on his knees, saying prayers at terrific speed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hear to him!” he stopped to whisper. “Ghosteses! Ora pro nobis—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Tom ain't afraid. Naw, he ain't afraid.</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding went back to his window. The air was heavy and motionless, the
- stars a little dim. He could see the dark line of the river with an
- occasional glint upon it, and the outline of the hills beyond.
- </p>
- <p>
- The little city had drawn a robe of innocent obscurity over it. Only a
- malicious sparkle gleamed here and there. He thought he knew that city
- inside and out, from end to end. He had lived in it, dealt with it, loved
- it, cheated it, helped to build it, shared its fortunes. Who knew it
- better than he? But every now and then it surprised with some hidden
- detail or some impulse of civic emotion. And Kelly and Conlon, surely he
- knew them, as men may know men. But he never had thought to see Conlon as
- to-night. It was odd. But there was some fact in the social constitution,
- in human nature, at the basis of all the outward oddities of each.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Maybe when a man's gettin' down to his reckonin' it's needful to show up
- what he's got at the bottom. Then he begins to peel off layers of himself
- like an onion, and 'less there ain't anything to him but layers, by and by
- he comes to something that resembles a sort of aboriginal boy, which is
- mostly askin' questions and bein' surprised.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Maybe there was more boyishness in Conlon than in most men. Come to think
- of it, there was. Conlon's leadership was ever of the
- maybe-you-think-I-can't-lick-you order; and men followed him, admitting
- that he could, in admiration and simplicity. You might see the same thing
- in the public-school yard. Maybe that was the reason. The sins of Conlon
- were not sophisticated.
- </p>
- <p>
- The low, irregular murmur from the bed, the heavy heat of the night, made
- Harding drowsy. Kelly repeating the formula of his prayers, a kind of
- incantation against ghosts, Conlon with his gaunt face in the shadow and
- his big hands on the sheet clutching at nothing visible, both faded away,
- and Harding fell asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- He woke with a start. Kelly was dancing about the bed idiotically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's shweatin'!” he gabbled. “He's shweatin'! He'll be well—Conlon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It made Harding think of the “pup,” and how he would dance about him, when
- he went home, in the crude expression of joy. Conlon's face was damp. He
- muttered no more. They piled the blankets on him till the perspiration
- stood out in drops. Conlon breathed softly and slept. Kelly babbled
- gently, “Conlon! Conlon!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding went back to the window and rubbed his eyes sleepily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kind of too bad, after all that trouble to get him peeled.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The morning was breaking, solemn, noiseless, with lifted banners and wide
- pageantries, over river and city.
- </p>
- <p>
- Harding yawned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's one on Father Ryan, anyway. That's a good thing. Blamed old
- windbag!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kelly murmured ecstatically, “Conlon will get well—Conlon!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- ST CATHERINE'S
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>T. CATHERINE'S was
- the life work of an old priest, who is remembered now and presently will
- be forgotten. There are gargoyles over the entrance aside, with their
- mouths open to express astonishment. They spout rain water at times, but
- you need not get under them; and there are towers, and buttresses, a great
- clock, a gilded cross, and roofs that go dimly heavenward.
- </p>
- <p>
- St. Catherine's is new. The neighborhood squats around it in different
- pathetic attitudes. Opposite is the saloon of the wooden-legged man; then
- the three groceries whose cabbages all look unpleasant; the parochial
- school with the green lattice; and all those little wooden houses—where
- lives, for instance, the dressmaker who funnily calls herself “Modiste.”
- Beyond the street the land drops down to the freight yards.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Father Connell died about the time they finished the east oriel, and
- Father Harra reigned over the house of the old man's dreams—a
- red-faced man, a high feeder, who looked as new as the church and said the
- virtues of Father Connell were reducing his flesh. That would seem to be
- no harm; but Father Harra meant it humorously. Father Connell had stumped
- about too much among the workmen in the cold and wet, else there had been
- no need of his dying at eighty-eight. His tall black hat became a relic
- that hung in the tiring room, and he cackled no more in his thin voice the
- noble Latin of the service. Peace to his soul! The last order he wrote
- related to the position of the Christ figure and the inscription, “Come
- unto me, weary and heavy-laden: I will give you rest.” But the figure was
- not in place till the mid-December following.
- </p>
- <p>
- And it was the day before Christmas that Father Harra had a fine service,
- with his boy choir and all; and Chubby Locke sang a solo, “Angels ever
- bright and fair,” that was all dripping with tears, so to speak. Chubby
- Locke was an imp too. All around the altar the candles were lighted, and
- there hung a cluster of gas jets over the head of the Christ figure on the
- edge of the south transept. So fine it was that Father Harra came out of
- his room into the aisle (when the people were gone, saying how fine it
- was, and the sexton was putting out the gas here and there), to walk up
- and down and think about it, especially how he should keep up with the
- virtues of Father Connell. Duskier and duskier it grew, as the candles
- went out cluster by cluster till only those in the south transept were
- left; and Dennis, coming there, stopped and grunted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What!” said Father Harra.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's asleep he is,” said the sexton. “It's a b'y, yer riverence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, so it is! He went to sleep during the service. H'm—well—they
- often do that, Dennis.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anyways he don't belong here,” said Dennis.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think so? I don't know about that. Wait a bit. I don't know about that
- Dennis.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy lay curled up on the seat—a newsboy, by the papers that had
- slipped from his arms. But he did not look businesslike, and he did not
- suggest the advantages of being poor in America. One does not become a
- capitalist or president by going to church and to sleep in the best of
- business hours, from four to six, when the streets are stirring with men
- on their way to dinners, cigars and evening papers. The steps of St.
- Catherine's are not a bad place to sell papers after Vespers, and one
- might as well go in, to be sure, and be warm while the service lasts;
- only, as I said, if one falls asleep, one does not become a capitalist or
- president immediately. Father Harra considered, and Dennis waited
- respectfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's making plans I am against your natural rest, Dennis. I'm that
- inconsiderate of your feelings to think of keeping St. Catherine's open
- this night. And why? Look ye, Dennis. St. Catherine's is getting itself
- consecrated these days, being new, and of course—But I tell ye,
- Dennis, it's a straight church doctrine that the blessings of the poor are
- a good assistance to the holy wather.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An' me wid children of me own to be missin' their father this Christmas
- Eve!” began Dennis indignantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who wouldn't mind, the little villains, if their father had another
- dollar of Christmas morning to buy 'em presents.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, well,” said the sexton, “yer riverence is that persuadin'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's plain enough for ye to see yourself, Dennis, though thick-headed
- somewhat. There you are: 'Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden;' and here
- he is. Plain enough. And who are the weary and heavy-laden in this city?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer riverence will be meanin' everybody,” chuckled Dennis.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think so? Rich and poor and all? Stuff! I don't believe it. Not to-night.
- It'll be the outcasts, I'm thinking, Dennis. Come on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An' the b'y, yer riverence?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The what? Oh, why, yes, yes. He's all right. I don't see anything the
- matter with him. He's come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was better weather to go with the wind than against it, for the snow
- drove in gritty particles, and the sidewalks made themselves disagreeable
- and apt to slip out from under a person. Little spurts of snow danced up
- St. Catherine's roofs and went off the ridgepoles in puffs. It ought to
- snow on Christmas Eve; but it rightly should snow with better manners and
- not be so cold. The groceries closed early. Freiburger, the saloon man,
- looked over the curtains of his window.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know vat for Fater Harra tack up dings dis time by his kirch
- door, 'Come—come in here.' Himmel! der Irishman!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Harra turned in to his supper, and thought how he would trouble
- Father Conner's reputation for enterprise and what a fine bit of
- constructive ability himself was possessed of.
- </p>
- <p>
- The great central door of St. Catherine's stood open, so that the drift
- blew in and piled in windrows on the cold floor of the vestibule. The tall
- front of the church went up into the darkness, pointing to no visible
- stars; but over the doors two gas jets flickered across the big sign they
- use for fairs at the parochial school. “Come in here.” The vestibule was
- dark, barring another gas jet over a side door, with another sign, “Come
- in here,” and within the great church was dark as well, except for a
- cluster over the Christ figure. That was all; but Father Harra thought it
- a neat symbol, looking toward those who go from meagre light to light
- through the darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Little noises were in the church all night far up in the pitch darkness of
- rafter and buttress, as if people were whispering and crying softly to one
- another. Now and again, too, the swing door would open and remain so for a
- moment, suspicious, hesitating. But what they did, or who they were that
- opened it, could hardly be told in the dusk and distance. Dennis went to
- sleep in a chair by the chancel rail, and did not care what they did or
- who they were, granted they kept away from the chancel.
- </p>
- <p>
- How the wind blew!—and the snow tapped impatiently at stained
- windows with a multitude of little fingers. But if the noises among the
- rafters were not merely echoes of the crying and calling wind without, if
- any presences moved and whispered there, and looked down on flat floor and
- straight lines of pews, they must have seen the Christ figure, with
- welcoming hands, dominant by reason of the light about it; and, just on
- the edge of the circle of light, shapeless things stretched on cushions of
- pews, and motionless or stirring uneasily. Something now came dimly up the
- aisle from the swing door, stopped at a pew, and hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Git out!” growled a hoarse voice. “Dis my bunk.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The intruder gave a nervous giggle. “Begawd!” muttered the hoarse voice.
- “It's a lady!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Another voice said something angrily. “Well,” said the first, “it ain't
- behavin' nice to come into me boodwer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The owner of the giggle had slipped away and disappeared in a distant pew.
- In another pew to the right of the aisle a smaller shadow whispered to
- another:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jimmy, that's a statoo up there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That. I bet 'e's a king.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aw, no 'e ain't. Kings has crowns an' wallups folks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gorry! What for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don' know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other sighed plaintively. “I thought 'e might be a king.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The rest were mainly silent. Some one had a bad cough. Once a sleeper
- rolled from the seat and fell heavily to the floor. There was an oath or
- two, a smothered laugh, and the distant owner of the giggle used it
- nervously. The last was an uncanny sound. The wakened sleeper objected to
- it. He said he would “like to get hold of her,” and then lay down
- cautiously on his cushion.
- </p>
- <p>
- Architects have found that their art is cunning to play tricks with them;
- whence come whispering galleries, comers of echoes, roofs that crush the
- voice of the speaker, and roofs that enlarge it. Father Connell gave no
- orders to shape the roofs of St. Catherine's, that on stormy nights so
- many odd noises might congregate there, whispering, calling, murmuring,
- now over the chancel, now the organ, now far up in the secret high places
- of the roof, now seeming to gather in confidence above the Christ figure
- and the circle of sleepers; or, if one vaguely imagined some inquisitively
- errant beings moving overhead, it would seem that newcomers constantly
- entered, to whom it had all to be explained.
- </p>
- <p>
- But against that eager motion in the darkness above the Christ figure
- below was bright in his long garment, and quiet and secure. The cluster of
- gas jets over his head made light but a little distance around, then
- softened the dusk for another distance, and beyond seemed not to touch the
- darkness at all. The dusk was a debatable space. The sleepers all lay in
- the debatable space. They may have sought it by instinct; but the more one
- looked at them the more they seemed like dull, half-animate things, over
- whom the light and the darkness made their own compromises and the people
- up in the roof their own comments.
- </p>
- <p>
- The clock in the steeple struck the hours; in the church the tremble was
- felt more than the sound was heard. The chimes each hour started their
- message, “Good will and peace;” but the wind went after it and howled it
- down, and the snow did not cease its petulance at the windows.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The clock in the steeple struck five. The man with the hoarse voice sat
- up, leaned over the back of the seat and touched his neighbor, who rose
- noiselessly, a huge fat man and unkempt.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Time to slope,” whispered the first, motioning toward the chancel.
- </p>
- <p>
- The other followed his motion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's up there?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're ignorance, you are. That's where they gives the show. There's
- pickin's there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The two slipped out and stole up the aisle with a peculiar noiseless
- tread. Even Fat Bill's step could not be heard a rod away. The aisle
- entered the circle of light before the Christ figure; but the two thieves
- glided through without haste and without looking up. The smaller, in
- front, drew up at the end of the aisle, and Fat Bill ran into him. Dennis
- sat in his chair against the chancel rail, asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Get onto his whiskers, Bill. Mebbe you'll have to stuff them whiskers
- down his throat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a nervous giggle behind them. Fat Bill shot into a pew, dragging
- his comrade after him, and crouched down. “It ain't no use,” he whispered,
- shaking the other angrily. “Church business is bad luck. I alius said so.
- What's for them blemed noises all night? How'd come they stick that thing
- up there with the gas over it? What for'd they leave the doors open, an'
- tell ye to come in, an' keep their damn devils gigglin' around? 'Taint
- straight I won't stand it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's only a woman, Bill,” said the other patiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose on his knees and looked over the back of the seat. “'Tain't
- straight. I won't stand it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We won't fight, Bill. We'll get out, if you say so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The owner of the giggle was sitting up, as they glided back, Fat Bill
- leading.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll smash yer face,” the smaller man said to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bill turned and grabbed his collar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You come along.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman stared stupidly after, till the swing door closed behind them.
- Then she put on her hat, decorated with too many disorderly flowers. Most
- of the sleepers were wakened. The wind outside had died in the night, and
- the church was quite still. A man in a dress suit and overcoat sat up in a
- pew beneath a window, and stared about him. His silk hat lay on the floor.
- He leaned over the back of the seat and spoke to his neighbor, a tramp in
- checked trousers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How'd I g-get here?” he asked thickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don' know, pardner,” said the tramp cheerfully. “Floated in, same as me?”
- He caught sight of the white tie and shirt front. “Maybe you'd give a cove
- a shiner to steady ye out They don't give breakfasts with lodgin's here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman with the giggle and the broken-down flowers on her hat went out
- next; then a tall, thin man with a beard and a cough; the newsboy with his
- papers shuffled after, his shoes being too large; then a lame man—something
- seemed the matter with his hip; and a decent-looking woman, who wore a
- faded shawl over her head and kept it drawn across her face—she
- seemed ashamed to be there, as if it did not appear to her a respectable
- place; last, two boys, one of them small, but rather stunted than very
- young. He said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “'E ain't a king, is 'e, Jimmy? You don' know who 'e is, do you, Jimmy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Naw.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, Jimmy, it was warm, warn't it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Dennis came down the aisle, put out the gas, and began to brush the
- cushions. The clock struck a quarter of six, and Father Harra came in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Christmas, Dennis, Christmas! H'm—anybody been here? What did they
- think of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dennis rubbed his nose sheepishly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They wint to shleep, sor, an'—an' thin they wint out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Father Harra looked up at the Christ figure and stroked his red chin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fancied they might see the point,” he said slowly. “Well, well, I hope
- they were warm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The colored lights from the east oriel fell over the Christ figure and
- gave it a cheerful look; and from other windows blue and yellow and
- magical deep-sea tints floated in the air, as if those who had whispered
- unseen in the darkness were now wandering about, silent but curiously
- visible.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer riverince,” said Dennis, “will not be forgettin' me dollar.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE SPIRAL STONE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE graveyard on
- the brow of the hill was white with snow. The marbles were white, the
- evergreens black. One tall spiral stone stood painfully near the centre.
- The little brown church outside the gates turned its face in the more
- comfortable direction of the village.
- </p>
- <p>
- Only three were out among the graves: “Ambrose Chillingworth, ætat 30,
- 1675;”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Margaret Vane, ætat 19, 1839;” and “Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,” from
- the Mercer Lot. It is called the “Mercer Lot,” but the Mercers are all
- dead or gone from the village.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Little One trotted around busily, putting his tiny finger in the
- letterings and patting the faces of the cherubs. The other two sat on the
- base of the spiral, which twisted in the moonlight over them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder why it is?” Margaret said. “Most of them never come out at all.
- We and the Little One come out so often. You were wise and learned. I knew
- so little. Will you tell me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Learning is not wisdom,” Ambrose answered. “But of this matter it was
- said that our containment in the grave depended on the spirit in which we
- departed. I made certain researches. It appeared by common report that
- only those came out whom desperate sin tormented, or labors incomplete and
- great desire at the point of death made restless. I had doubts the matter
- were more subtle, the reasons of it reaching out distantly.” He sighed
- faintly, following with his eyes, tomb by tomb, the broad white path that
- dropped down the hillside to the church. “I desired greatly to live.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I, too. Is it because we desired it so much, then? But the Little One”—-
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do not know,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Little One trotted gravely here and there, seeming to know very well
- what he was about, and presently came to the spiral stone. The lettering
- on it was new, and there was no cherub. He dropped down suddenly on the
- snow, with a faint whimper. His small feet came out from under his gown,
- as he sat upright, gazing at the letters with round troubled eyes, and up
- to the top of the monument for the solution of some unstated problem.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The stone is but newly placed,” said Ambrose, “and the newcomer would
- seem to be of those who rest in peace.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They went and sat down on either side of him, on the snow. The peculiar
- cutting of the stone, with spirally ascending lines, together with the
- moon's illusion, gave it a semblance of motion. Something twisted and
- climbed continually, and vanished continually from the point. But the base
- was broad, square, and heavily lettered: “John Mareschelli Vane.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Vane? That was thy name,” said Ambrose.
- </p>
- <p>
- 1890. Ætat 72.
- </p>
- <p>
- An Eminent Citizen, a Public Benefactor, and Widely Esteemed.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the Love of his Native Place returned to lay his Dust therein.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Just Made Perfect.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would seem he did well, and rounded his labors to a goodly end, lying
- down among his kindred as a sheaf that is garnered in the autumn. He was
- fortunate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Margaret spoke, in the thin, emotionless voice which those who are
- long in the graveyard use: “He was my brother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thy brother?” said Ambrose.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Little One looked up and down the spiral with wide eyes. The other two
- looked past it into the deep white valley, where the river, covered with
- ice and snow, was marked only by the lines of skeleton willows and
- poplars. A night wind, listless but continual, stirred the evergreens. The
- moon swung low over the opposite hills, and for a moment slipped behind a
- cloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Says it not so, 'For the Love of his Native Place'?” murmured Ambrose.
- </p>
- <p>
- And as the moon came out, there leaned against the pedestal, pointing with
- a finger at the epitaph, one that seemed an old man, with bowed shoulders
- and keen, restless face, but in his manner cowed and weary.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a lie,” he said slowly. “I hated it, Margaret. I came because Ellen
- Mercer called me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ellen isn't buried here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not here!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Was it you, then, Margaret? Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't call you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who then?” he shrieked. “Who called me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The night wind moved on monotonously, and the moonlight was undisturbed,
- like glassy water.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When I came away,” she said, “I thought you would marry her. You didn't,
- then? But why should she call you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I left the village suddenly!” he cried. “I grew to dread, and then to
- hate it. I buried myself from the knowledge of it, and the memory of it
- was my enemy. I wished for a distant death, and these fifty years have
- heard the summons to come and lay my bones in this graveyard. I thought it
- was Ellen. You, sir, wear an antique dress; you have been long in this
- strange existence. Can you tell who called me? If not Ellen, where is
- Ellen?” He wrung his hands, and rocked to and fro.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The mystery is with the dead as with the living,” said Ambrose. “The
- shadows of the future and the past come among us. We look in their eyes,
- and understand them not. Now and again there is a call even here, and the
- grave is henceforth untenanted of its spirit. Here, too, we know a
- necessity which binds us, which speaks not with audible voice and will not
- be questioned.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But tell me,” moaned the other, “does the weight of sin depend upon its
- consequences? Then what weight do I bear? I do not know whether it was
- ruin or death, or a thing gone by and forgotten. Is there no answer here
- to this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Death is but a step in the process of life,” answered Ambrose. “I know
- not if any are ruined or anything forgotten. Look up, to the order of the
- stars, an handwriting on the wall of the firmament. But who hath read it?
- Mark this night wind, a still small voice. But what speaketh it? The earth
- is clothed in white garments as a bride. What mean the ceremonials of the
- seasons? The will from without is only known as it is manifested. Nor does
- it manifest where the consequences of the deed end or its causes began.
- Have they any end or a beginning? I cannot answer you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who called me, Margaret?”
- </p>
- <p>
- And she said again monotonously, “I didn't call you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Little One sat between Ambrose and Margaret, chuckling to himself and
- gazing up at the newcomer, who suddenly bent forward and looked into his
- eyes, with a gasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is this?” he whispered. “'Thy Little One, O God, ætat 2,' from the
- Mercer Lot,” returned Ambrose gently. “He is very quiet. Art not
- neglecting thy business, Little One? The lower walks are unvisited
- to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are Ellen's eyes!” cried the other, moaning and rocking. “Did you
- call me? Were you mine?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is, written, 'Thy Little One, O God,'” murmured Ambrose.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Little One only curled his feet up under his gown, and now
- chuckled contentedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE MUSIDORA SONNET
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE clock in some
- invisible steeple struck one. The great snowflakes fell thickly, wavering
- and shrinking, delicate, barren seeds, conscious of their unfruitfulness.
- The sputter of the arc lights seemed explosive to the muffled silence of
- the street. With a bright corner at either end, the block was a canon, a
- passage in a nether world of lurking ghosts, where a frightened gaslight
- trembled, hesitated midway. And Noel Endicott conceived suddenly, between
- curb and curb, a sonnet, to be entitled “Dante in Tenth Street,” the
- appearance of it occupying, in black letter, a half page in the <i>Monthly
- Illustrated</i>, a gloomy pencilling above, and below it “Noel Endicott.”
- The noiselessness of his steps enlarged his imagination.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- I walked in 19th Street, not the Florentine,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- With ghosts more sad, and one like Beatrice
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Laid on my lips the sanction of her kiss.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- 'Twas——
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- It should be in a purgatorial key, in effect something cold, white and
- spiritual, portraying “her” with Dantesque symbolism, a definite being, a
- vision with a name. “'Twas—” In fact, who was she?
- </p>
- <p>
- He stopped. Tenth Street was worth more than a sonnet's confined
- austerity. It should be a story. Noel was one who beat tragic conceptions
- into manuscript, suffering rejection for improbability. Great actions
- thrilled him, great desires and despairs. The massive villainies of Borgia
- had fallen in days when art was strenuous. Of old, men threw a world away
- for a passion, an ambition. Intense and abundant life—one was
- compelled now to spin their symbols out of thin air, be rejected for
- improbability, and in the midst of a bold conception, in a snowstorm on
- canoned Tenth Street, be hungry and smitten with doubts of one's landlady.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Tibbett had been sharp that morning relative to a bill, and he had
- remonstrated but too rashly: “Why discuss it, Mrs. Tibbett? It's a
- negative, an unfruitful subject.” And she had, in effect, raved, and
- without doubt now had locked the outer door. Her temper, roused at one
- o'clock, would be hasty in action, final in result.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood still and looked about him. Counting two half blocks as one, it
- was now one block to Mrs. Tibbett and that ambushed tragedy.
- </p>
- <p>
- In his last novel, “The Sunless Treasure” (to his own mind his greatest),
- young Humphrey stands but a moment hesitating before the oaken door,
- believing his enemies to be behind it with ready daggers. He hesitates but
- a moment. The die is cast. He enters. His enemies are not there. But Mrs.
- Tibbett seemed different. For instance, she would be there.
- </p>
- <p>
- The house frontage of this, like the house frontage of the fatal next
- block, was various, of brick, brownstone or dingy white surface, with
- doorways at the top of high steps, doorways on the ground level, doorways
- flush with the front, or sunken in pits. Not a light in any window, not a
- battlement that on its restless front bore a star, but each house stood
- grim as Child Roland's squat tower. The incessant snowflakes fell past, no
- motion or method of any Byzantine palace intrigue so silken, so noiseless,
- so mysterious in beginnings and results. All these locked caskets wedged
- together contained problems and solutions, to which Bassanio's was a
- simple chance of three with a pointed hint. Noel decided that Tenth Street
- was too large for a story. It was a literature. One must select.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile the snow fell and lay thickly, and there was no doubt that by
- persistent standing in the snow one's feet became wet. He stepped into the
- nearest doorway, which was on the level of the street, one of three
- doorways alike, all low, arched and deep.
- </p>
- <p>
- They would be less noticeable in the daytime than in the night, when their
- cavernous gaping and exact repetition seemed either ominous or grotesque,
- according to the observer. The outer door was open. He felt his way in
- beyond the drift to the hard footing of the vestibule, kicked his shoes
- free of snow and brushed his beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- The heroes of novels were sometimes hungry and houseless, but it seemed to
- Noel that they seldom or never faced a problem such as Mrs. Tibbett
- presented. Desperate fortunes should be carried on the point of one's
- sword, but with Mrs. Tibbett the point was not to provoke her. She was
- incongruous. She must be thrust aside, put out of the plot. He made a
- gesture dismissing Mrs. Tibbett. His hand in the darkness struck the jamb
- of the inner door, which swung back with a click of the half-caught latch.
- His heart thumped, and he peered into the darkness, where a thin yellow
- pencil of light stretched level from a keyhole at the farther end of a
- long hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dismissing Mrs. Tibbett, it was a position of dramatic advantage to stand
- in so dark and deep an arched entrance, between the silence and incessant
- motion of the snow on the one hand, and the yellow pencil of light,
- pointing significantly to something unknown, some crisis of fortune. He
- felt himself in a tale that had both force and form, responsible for its
- progress.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped in, closed the half door behind him softly, and crept through
- the hall. The thin line of light barred the way, and seemed to say, “Here
- is the place. Be bold, ready-minded, full of subtlety and resource.” There
- was no sound within that he could hear, and no sound without, except his
- own oppressed breathing and pulses throbbing in his ears.
- </p>
- <p>
- Faint heart never won anything, and as for luck, it belonged to those who
- adventured with various chances, and of the blind paths that led away from
- their feet into the future, chose one, and another, and so kept on good
- terms with possibility. If one but cried saucily, “Open this odd little
- box, you three gray women!” And this, and this the gray Fates smiled
- indulgently, showing a latent motherliness. How many destinies had been
- decided by the opening and shutting of a door, which to better or worse,
- never opened again for retreat? A touch on this door and Mrs. Tibbett
- might vanish from the story forever, to the benefit of the story.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lifted his hand, having in mind to tap lightly, with tact and
- insinuation, but struck the door, in fact, nervously, with a bang that
- echoed in the hall. Some one spoke within. He opened and made entry in a
- prepared manner, which gave way to merely blinking wonder.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a large dining-room, brightly lit by a chandelier, warm from a
- glowing grate, sumptuous with pictures and hangings, on the table a
- glitter of glass and silver, with meat, cakes and wine.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the farther side of the table stood a woman in a black evening dress,
- with jewels on her hair and bosom. She seemed to have just risen, and
- grasped the back of her chair with one hand, while the other held open a
- book on the table. The length of her white arm was in relief against her
- black dress.
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel's artistic slouch hat, now taken off with uncertain hand, showed wavy
- brown hair over eyes not at all threatening, a beard pointed, somewhat
- profuse, a face interestingly featured and astonished. No mental
- preparation to meet whatever came, of Arabic or mediaeval incident,
- availed him. He felt dumb, futile, blinking. The lady's surprise, the
- startled fear on her face, was hardly seen before it changed to relief, as
- if the apparition of Noel, compared with some foreboding of her own, were
- a mild event. She half smiled when he began:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am an intruder, madam,” and stopped with that embarrassed platitude. “I
- passed your first door by accident, and your second by impulse.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That doesn't explain why you stay.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “May I stay to explain?”
- </p>
- <p>
- When two have exchanged remarks that touch the borders of wit, they have
- passed a mental introduction. To each the mind of the other is a possible
- shade and bubbling spring by the dusty road of conversation. Noel felt the
- occasion. He bowed with a side sweep of his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Madam, I am a writer of poems, essays, stories. If you ask, What do I
- write in poems, essays, stories, I answer, My perception of things. If you
- ask, In what form would I cast my present perceptions of things, I say,
- Without doubt a poem.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are able to carry both sides of a conversation. I have not asked any
- of these.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have asked why I stay. I am explaining.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The lady's attitude relaxed its stiffness by a shade, her half smile
- became a degree more balmy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you must be a successful writer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You touch the point,” he said slowly. “I am not. I am hungry and probably
- houseless. And worse than that, I find hunger and houselessness are
- sordid, tame. The taste of them in the mouth is flat, like stale beer. It
- is not like the bitter tang of a new experience, but like something the
- world shows its weariness of in me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The amused smile vanished in large-eyed surprise, and something more than
- surprise, as if his words gave her some intimate, personal information.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say strange things in a very strange way. And you came in by an
- accident?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And an impulse?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand. But you must sit down, and I can find you more to
- eat, if this isn't enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel could not have explained the strangeness of his language, if it was
- strange, further than that he felt the need of saying something in order
- to find an opportunity of saying something to the point, and so digplayed
- whatever came to his mind as likely to arrest attention. It was a critical
- lesson in vagabondage, as familiar there as hunger and houselessness. He
- attacked the cold meat, cakes and fruit with fervor, and the claret in the
- decanter. But what should be the next step in the pursuit of fortune? At
- this point should there not come some revelation?
- </p>
- <p>
- The lady did not seem to think so, but sat looking now at Noel and now at
- her own white hands in her lap. That she should have youth and beauty
- seemed to Noel as native to the issue as her jewels, the heavy curtains,
- the silver and glass. As for youth, she might be twenty, twenty-one, two.
- All such ages, he observed to himself with a mental flourish, were one in
- beauty. It was not a rosy loveliness like the claret in the decanter, nor
- plump like the fruit in the silver basket, but dark-eyed, white and
- slender, with black hair drawn across the temples; of a fragile delicacy
- like the snowflakes, the frost flower of the century's culture, the symbol
- of its ultimate luxury. The rich room was her setting. She was the center
- and reason for it, and the yellow point of a diamond over her heart,
- glittering, but with a certain mellowness, was still more central,
- intimate, interpretative, symbolic of all desirable things. He began to
- see the story in it, to glow with the idea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Madam,” he said, “I am a writer of whose importance I have not as yet
- been able to persuade the public. The way I should naturally have gone
- to-night seemed to me something to avoid. I took another, which brought me
- here. The charm of existence—” She seemed curiously attentive. “The
- charm of existence is the unforeseen, and of all things our moods are the
- most unforeseen. One's plans are not always and altogether futile. If you
- propose to have salad for lunch, and see your way to it, it is not so
- improbable that you will have salad for lunch. But if you prefigure how it
- will all seem to you at lunch, you are never quite right. Man proposes and
- God disposes. I add that there is a third and final disposal, namely, what
- man is to think of the disposition after it is made. I hope, since you
- proposed or prefigured to-night, perhaps as I did, something different
- from this—this disposition”—he lifted his glass of claret
- between him and the light—“that your disposition what to think of it
- is, perhaps, something like mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The lady was leaning forward with parted lips, listening intently,
- absorbed in his words. For the life of him Noel could not see why she
- should be absorbed in his words, but the fact filled him with happy pride.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me,” she said quickly. “You speak so well—”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel filled in her pause of hesitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That means that my wisdom may be all in my mouth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, indeed! I mean you must have experience. Will you tell me, is it so
- dreadful not to have money? People say different things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They do.” He felt elevated, borne along on a wave of ornamental
- expression. “It is their salvation. Their common proverbs contradict each
- other. A man looks after his pence and trusts one proverb that the pounds
- will look after themselves, till presently he is called penny wise and
- pound foolish, and brought up by another. And consider how less noticeable
- life would be without its jostle of opinion, its conflicting lines of
- wisdom, its following of one truth to meet with another going a different
- way. Give me for finest companionship some half truth, some ironic
- veracity.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She shook her head. It came to him with a shock that it was not his
- ornamental expression which interested her, but only as it might bear on
- something in her own mind more simple, direct and serious, something not
- yet disclosed. “In fact,” he thought, “she is right. One must get on with
- the plot” It was a grievous literary fault to break continuity, to be led
- away from the issue by niceties of expression. The proper issue of a plot
- was simple, direct, serious, drawn from the motive which began it. Why did
- she sit here with her jewels, her white arms and black dress these weird,
- still hours of the night? Propriety hinted his withdrawal, but one must
- resist the commonplace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The answer to the question does not satisfy you. But do you not see that
- I only enlarged on your own answer? People say different things because
- they are different. The answer depends on temperaments, more narrowly on
- moods; on tenses, too, whether it is present poverty and houselessness or
- past or future. And so it has to be answered particularly, and you haven't
- made me able to answer it particularly to you. And then one wouldn't
- imagine it could be a question particular to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are very clever,” she murmured, half smiling again. “Are you not too
- clever for the purpose? You say so many things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is true,” said Noel plaintively. “The story has come to a
- standstill. It has all run out into diction.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At that moment there was a loud noise in the hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- The smile, which began hopefully, grew old while he watched it, and
- withered away. The noise that echoed in the hall was of a banging door,
- then of laden, dragging steps. The hall door was thrown open, and two
- snowy hackmen entered, holding up between them a man wearing a tall hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's some loaded, ma'am,” said one of them cheerfully. “I ain't seen him
- so chucked in six months.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They dropped him in a chair, from which, after looking about him with
- half-open, glassy eyes, and closing them again, he slid limply to the
- floor. The hackman regarded that choice of position with sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wants to rest his load, he does,” and backed out of the door with his
- companion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It goes on the bill. Ain't seen him so chucked in six months.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The lady had not moved from her chair, but had sat white and still,
- looking down into her lap. She gave a hard little laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn't it nice he's so 'chucked'? He would have acted dreadfully.” She was
- leaning on the table now, her dark eyes reading him intently. The man on
- the floor snorted and gurgled in his sleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I couldn't kill anybody,” she said. “Could you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's so funny,” she went on in a soft, speculative way, “one can't do it.
- I'm afraid to go away and be alone and poor. I wish he would die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It wouldn't work out that way,” said Noel, struggling with his wits.
- “He's too healthy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It seemed to him immediately that the comment was not the right one. It
- was not even an impersonal fact to himself, an advantage merely to the
- plot, that the sleeper was unable to object to him and discard him from
- it, as he had resolved to discard Mrs. Tibbett, but with such brutal
- energy as the sleeper's face indicated. For it repelled not so much by its
- present relaxed degradation as by its power, its solidity of flesh, its
- intolerant self-assertion, the physical vigor of the short bull neck,
- bulky shoulders, heavy mustache, heavy cheeks and jaw, bluish with the
- shaving of a thick growth. He was dressed, barring his damp dishevelment,
- like a well-groomed clubman.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the lady was looking Noel in the eyes, and her own seemed strangely
- large, but as if covering a spiritual rather than a physical space,
- settled in melancholy, full of clouds, moving lights and dusky distances.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was waiting for him because he ordered me. I'm so afraid of him,” she
- said, shrinking with the words. “He likes me to be here and afraid of
- him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me what I am to do?” he said eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose you are not to do anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel caught the thread of his fluency. He drew a ten-cent piece from his
- pocket, tossed it on the table, gestured toward it with one hand and swung
- the other over the back of his chair with an air of polished recklessness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your case seems desperate to you. Is it more than mine? You have
- followed this thing about to 'the end of the passage,' and there is my
- last coin. My luck might change to-morrow. Who knows? Perhaps tonight. I
- would take it without question and full of hope. Will you experiment with
- fortune and—and me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The dark eyes neither consented nor refused. They looked at him gravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a black, cold night. The snow is thick in the air and deep on the
- street Put it so at the worst, but fortune and wit will go far.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your wit goes farther than your fortune, doesn't it?” she said, smiling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't conceal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't conceal either of them, do you? You spread them both out,” and
- she laughed a pleasant little ripple of sound.
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel rose with distinction and bent toward her across the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My fortune is this ten-cent piece. As you see, on the front of it is
- stamped a throned woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how clever.” She laughed, and Noel flushed with the applause.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shall we trust fortune and spin the coin? Heads, the throned woman, I
- shall presently worship you, an earthly divinity. Tails, a barren wreath
- and the denomination of a money value, meaning I take my fortunes away,
- and you,” pointing in turn to the sleeper and the jewels, “put up with
- yours as you can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed to shiver as he pointed. “No,” she said, “I couldn't do that. A
- woman never likes to spin a coin seriously.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you go, then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sleeper grunted and turned over. She turned pale, put her hand to her
- throat, said hurriedly, “Wait here,” and left the room, lifting and
- drawing her skirt aside as she passed the sleeper.
- </p>
- <p>
- She opened the door at last and came again, wrapped in a fur mantle,
- carrying a travelling case, and stood looking down at the sleeper as if
- with some struggle of the soul, some reluctant surrender.
- </p>
- <p>
- They went out, shutting the door behind them.
- </p>
- <p>
- The snow was falling still on Tenth Street, out of the crowding night. He
- held her hand on his arm close to him. She glided beside him noiselessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The express office was at the corner, a little dingy, gas-lit room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Carriage? Get it in a minute,” said the sleepy clerk. “It's just round
- the corner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood together by a window, half opaque with dust. Her face was
- turned away, and he watched the slant of her white cheek.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will have so much to tell me,” he whispered at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am really very grateful. You helped me to resolve.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your carriage, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The electric light sputtered over them standing on the curb.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But,” she said, smiling up at him, “I have nothing to tell you. There is
- nothing more. It ends here. Forgive me. It is my plot and it wouldn't work
- out your way. There are too many conflicting lines of wisdom in your way.
- My life lately has been what you would call, perhaps, a study in realism,
- and you want me to be, perhaps, a symbolic romance. I am sure you would
- express it very cleverly. But I think one lives by taking resolutions
- rather than by spinning coins, which promise either a throned woman, or a
- wreath and the denomination of a money value. One turns up so much that is
- none of these things. Men don't treat women that way. I married to be
- rich, and was very wretched, and perhaps your fame, when it comes, will be
- as sad to you. Perhaps the trouble lies in what you called 'the third
- disposal.' But I did not like being a study in realism. I should not mind
- being something symbolic, if I might prove my gratitude”—she took
- her hand from his arm, put one foot on the step and laughed, a pleasant
- little ripple of sound—“by becoming literary material.” The door
- shut to, and the carriage moved away into the storm with a muffled roll of
- wheels.
- </p>
- <p>
- Noel stared after it blankly, and then looked around him. It was half a
- block now to Mrs. Tibbett. He walked on mechanically, and mounted the
- steps by habit. The outer door was not locked. A touch of compunction had
- visited Mrs. Tibbett.
- </p>
- <p>
- He crept into his bed, and lay noting the growing warmth and sense of
- sleep, and wondering whether that arched doorway was the third of the
- three or the second. Strictly speaking he seemed to have gone in at the
- middle one and come out at the third, or was it not the first rather than
- the middle entrance that he had sheltered in? The three arched entrances
- capered and contorted before him in the dark, piled themselves into the
- portal of a Moorish palace, twisted themselves in a kind of mystical
- trinity and seal of Solomon, floated apart and became thin, filmy,
- crescent moons over a frozen sea. He sat up in bed and smote the coverlet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know her name! She never told me!” He clutched his hair, and then
- released it cautiously. “It's Musidora! I forgot that sonnet!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- 'Twas Musidora, whom the mystic nine
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Gave to my soul to be forever mine,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And, as through shadows manifold of Dis,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Showed in her eyes, through dusky distances
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And clouds, the moving lights about their shrine;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Now ever on my soul her touch shall be
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- As on the cheek are touches of the snow,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Incessant, cool, and gone; so guiding me
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- From sorrow's house and triple portico.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And prone recumbrance of brute tyranny,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- In a strict path shall teach my feet to go.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The clock in the invisible steeple struck three.
- </p>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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