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diff --git a/old/67357-h/67357-h.htm b/old/67357-h/67357-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 86d3610..0000000 --- a/old/67357-h/67357-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8513 +0,0 @@ -<!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" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Missionary Sheriff, by Octave Thanet. - </title> - - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - -<style type="text/css"> - -a { - text-decoration: none; -} - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -h2.nobreak { - page-break-before: avoid; -} - -hr.chap { - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - clear: both; - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -div.chapter { - page-break-before: always; -} - -p { - margin-top: 0.5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -table { - margin: 1em auto 1em auto; - max-width: 40em; - border-collapse: collapse; -} - -td { - padding-left: 2.25em; - padding-right: 0.25em; - vertical-align: top; - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.tdc { - text-align: center; - padding-left: 0.25em; - text-indent: 0em; - white-space: nowrap; -} - -.tdpg { - vertical-align: bottom; - text-align: right; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 10%; -} - -.caption { - text-align: center; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-size: 90%; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.caption-r { - text-align: right; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-size: 90%; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.noindent { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: 1em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .stanza { - margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; -} - -.poetry .verse { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.poetry .indent0 { - text-indent: -3em; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.tb { - margin-top: 2em; -} - -.titlepage { - text-align: center; - margin-top: 3em; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 5%; -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Missionary Sheriff, by Octave Thanet</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Missionary Sheriff</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>Being incidents in the life of a plain man who tried to do his duty</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Octave Thanet</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrators: A. B. Frost</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;'>Clifford Carleton</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 7, 2022 [eBook #67357]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Carlos Colon, the University of California and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus1"> -<img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“PICKED UP SOME OF THE SHREDS”</p> -<p class="caption-r">[<a href="#Page_150">P. 150</a></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF</h1> - -<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smaller">BEING</span><br /> -<i>INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A PLAIN MAN<br /> -WHO TRIED TO DO HIS DUTY</i></p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -OCTAVE THANET</p> - -<p class="titlepage">ILLUSTRATED BY<br /> -A. B. FROST AND CLIFFORD CARLETON</p> - -<div class="figcenter titlepage" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/title.jpg" width="200" height="250" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="titlepage">NEW YORK<br /> -HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS<br /> -1897</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright, 1897, by <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span>.</p> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_MISSIONARY_SHERIFF">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE CABINET ORGAN</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_CABINET_ORGAN">51</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>HIS DUTY</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#HIS_DUTY">97</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE HYPNOTIST</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_HYPNOTIST">131</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE NEXT ROOM</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_NEXT_ROOM">167</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_DEFEAT_OF_AMOS_WICKLIFF">217</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -</div> - -<table summary="Illustrations"> - <tr> - <td>“PICKED UP SOME OF THE SHREDS”</td> - <td class="tdpg" colspan="2"><a href="#illus1"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“TORE THE LETTER INTO PIECES”</td> - <td class="tdc"><i>Facing p.</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus2">20</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE THANKSGIVING BOX</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus3">30</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“SHE PAUSED BEFORE MRS. SMITH’S SECTION”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus4">46</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“SHE LEANED HER SHABBY ELBOWS ON THE GATE”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus5">56</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘SOMEBODY THREW THESE THINGS AT OUR WINDOW’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus6">70</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘NOW, BOYS, LET’S COME AND PLAY ON THE ORGAN’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus7">74</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘THEY HAVE ENGAGED <em>ME</em>’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus8">94</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“HARNED HID HIS FACE”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus9">116</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘IT WON’T BE SUCH A BIG ONE IF THE DOOR HOLDS’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus10">126</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘SHE MUST LOOK AT IT’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus11">146</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus12">158</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘I’LL ACT AS HIS VALET’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus13">162</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>“‘<em>I’LL</em> GIVE THE KITTY SOMETHING TO EAT’”</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus14">180</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE FAREWELL</td> - <td class="tdc">”</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus15">232</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MISSIONARY_SHERIFF">THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF</h2> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p> - -<h3>THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Sheriff Wickliff leaned out of his -office window, the better to watch the boy -soldiers march down the street. The -huge pile of stone that is the presumed home of -Justice for the county stands in the same yard -with the old yellow stone jail. The court-house -is ornate and imposing, although a hundred active -chimneys daub its eaves and carvings, but -the jail is as plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet -during Sheriff Wickliff’s administration, while -Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron, -window-gardens brightened the grim walls all -summer, and chrysanthemums and roses blazoned -the black bars in winter.</p> - -<p>Above the jail the street is a pretty street, -with trim cottages and lawns and gardens; below, -the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into shabby -one and two story wooden shops devoted to the -humbler handicrafts. It is not a street favored<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -by processions; only the little soldiers of the -Orphans’ Home Company would choose to tramp -over its unkempt macadam. Good reason they -had, too, since thus they passed the sheriff’s office, -and it was the sheriff who had given most of the -money for their uniforms, and their drums and -fifes outright.</p> - -<p>A voice at the sheriff’s elbow caused him to -turn.</p> - -<p>“Well, Amos,” said his deputy, with Western -familiarity, “getting the interest on your -money?”</p> - -<p>Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame; -he was six feet two inches in height, with bones -and thews to match his stature. A stiff black -mustache, curving about his mouth and lifting -as he smiled, made his white teeth look the -whiter. One of the upper teeth was crooked. -That angle had come in an ugly fight (when he -was a special officer and detective) in the Chicago -stock-yards, he having to hold a mob at bay, -single-handed, to save the life of a wounded -policeman. The scar seaming his jaw and neck -belonged to the time that he captured a notorious -gang of train-robbers. He brought the robbers -in—that is, he brought their bodies; and -“That scar was worth three thousand dollars to -me,” he was wont to say. In point of fact it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -worth more, because he had invested the money -so advantageously that, thanks to it and the savings -which he had been able to add, in spite of -his free hand he was now become a man of property. -The sheriff’s high cheek-bones, straight -hair (black as a dead coal), and narrow black -eyes were the arguments for a general belief that -an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage -of his genealogical tree. All that people -really knew about him was that his mother died -when he was a baby, and his father, about the -same time, was killed in battle, leaving their only -child to drift from one reluctant protector to -another, until he brought up in the Soldiers’ -Orphans’ Home of the State. If the sheriff’s -eyes were Indian, Indians may have very gentle -eyes. He turned them now on the deputy with -a smile.</p> - -<p>“Well, Joe, what’s up?” said he.</p> - -<p>“The lightning-rod feller wants to see you, as -soon as you come back to the jail, he says. And -here’s something he dropped as he was going to -his room. Don’t look much like it could be <em>his</em> -mother. Must have prigged it.”</p> - -<p>The sheriff examined the photograph, an ordinary -cabinet card. The portrait was that of a -woman, pictured with the relentless frankness of -a rural photographer’s camera. Every sad line<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> -in the plain elderly face, every wrinkle in the -ill-fitting silk gown, showed with a brutal distinctness, -and somehow made the picture more -pathetic. The woman’s hair was gray and thin; -her eyes, which were dark, looked straight forward, -and seemed to meet the sheriff’s gaze. -They had no especial beauty of form, but they, -as well as the mouth, had an expression of wistful -kindliness that fixed his eyes on them for a -full minute. He sighed as he dropped his hand. -Then he observed that there was writing on the -reverse side of the carte, and lifted it again to -read.</p> - -<p>In a neat cramped hand was written:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="noindent">“To Eddy, from Mother.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>Feb. 21, 1889.</i></p> - -<p>“The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make -His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; -the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee -peace.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Wickliff put the carte in his pocket.</p> - -<p>“That’s just the kind of mother I’d like to -have,” said he; “awful nice and good, and not -so fine she should be ashamed of me. And to think -of <em>him</em>!”</p> - -<p>“He’s an awful slick one,” assented the deputy, -cordially. “Two years we’ve been ayfter him. -New games all the time; but the lightning-rods<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> -ain’t in it with this last scheme—working hisself -off as a Methodist parson on the road to a job, -and stopping all night, and then the runaway -couple happening in, and that poor farmer and -his wife so excited and interested, and of course -they’d witness and sign the certificate; wisht I’d -seen them when they found out!”</p> - -<p>“They gave ’em cake and some currant wine, -too.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just like women. Say, I didn’t think -the girl was much to brag on for looks—”</p> - -<p>“Got a kinder way with her, though,” Wickliff -struck in. “Depend on it, Joseph, the most -dangerous of them all are the homely girls with -a way to them. A man’s off his guard with -them; he’s sorry for them not being pretty, and -being so nice and humble; and before he knows -it they’re winding him ’round their finger.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know you was so much of a philosopher, -Amos,” said the deputy, admiring him.</p> - -<p>“It ain’t me, Joe; it’s the business. Being a -philosopher, I take it, ain’t much more than seeing -things with the paint off; and there’s nothing -like being a detective to get the paint off. -It’s a great business for keeping a man straight, -too, seeing the consequences of wickedness so -constantly, especially fool wickedness that gets -found out. Well, Joe, if this lady”—touching<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> -his breast pocket—“is that guy’s mother, I’m -awful sorry for her, for I know she tried to -train him right. I’ll go over and find out, I -guess.”</p> - -<p>So saying, and quite unconscious of the approving -looks of his subordinate (for he was a -simple-minded, modest man, who only spoke out -of the fulness of his heart), the sheriff walked -over to the jail.</p> - -<p>The corridor into which the cells of the unconvicted -prisoners opened was rather full to-day. -As the sheriff entered, every one greeted -him, even the sullen-browed man talking with a -sobbing woman through the bars, and every one -smiled. He nodded to all, but only spoke to the -visitor. He said, “I guess he didn’t do it this -time, Lizzie; he won’t be in long.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I bin tellin’ her,” growled the -man, “and she won’t believe me; I told her I -promised you—”</p> - -<p>“And God A’mighty bless you, sheriff, for -what you done!” the woman wailed. The sheriff -had some ado to escape from her benedictions -politely; but he got away, and knocked at the -door of the last cell on the tier. The inmate -opened the door himself.</p> - -<p>He was a small man, who still was wearing the -clerical habit of his last criminal masquerade;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -and his face carried out the suggestion of his -costume, being an actor’s face, not only in the -clean-shaven cheeks and lips, but in the flexibility -of the features and the unconscious alertness -of gaze. He was fair of skin, and his light-brown -hair was worn off his head at the temples. -His eyes were fine, well shaped, of a beautiful -violet color, and an extremely pleasant expression. -He looked like a mere boy across the room -in the shadow, but as he advanced, certain deep -lines about his mouth displayed themselves and -raised his age. The sunlight showed that he was -thin; he was haggard the instant he ceased to -smile. With a very good manner he greeted the -sheriff, to whom he proffered the sole chair of -the apartment.</p> - -<p>“Guess the bed will hold me,” said the sheriff, -testing his words by sitting down on the white-covered -iron bedstead. “Well, I hear you wanted -to see me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. I want to get my money that you -took away from me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I guess you can’t have it.” The sheriff -spoke with a smile, but his black eyes narrowed -a little. “I guess the court will have to decide -first if that ain’t old man Goodrich’s money that -you got from the note he supposed was a marriage -certificate. I guess you better not put any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -hopes on that money, Mr. Paisley. Wasn’t that -the name you gave me?”</p> - -<p>“Paisley’ll do,” said the other man, indifferently. -“What became of my friend?”</p> - -<p>“The sheriff of Hardin County wanted the -man, and the lady—well, the lady is here boarding -with me.”</p> - -<p>“Going to squeal?”</p> - -<p>“Going to tell all she knows.”</p> - -<p>Paisley’s hand went up to his mouth; he -changed color. “It’s like her,” he muttered—“oh, -it’s just like her!” And he added a villanous -epithet.</p> - -<p>“None of that talk,” said Wickliff.</p> - -<p>The man had jumped up and was pacing his -narrow space, fighting against a climbing rage. -“You see,” he cried, unable to contain himself—“you -see, what makes me so mad is now I’ve -got to get my mother to help me—and I’d rather -take a licking!”</p> - -<p>“I should think you would,” said Wickliff, -dryly. “Say, this your mother?” He handed -him the photograph, the written side upward.</p> - -<p>“It came in a Bible,” explained Paisley, with -an embarrassed air.</p> - -<p>“Your mother rich?”</p> - -<p>“She can raise the money.”</p> - -<p>“Meaning, I expect, that she can mortgage<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -her house and lot. Look here, Smith, this ain’t -the first time your ma has sent you money, but -if I was you I’d have the last time <em>stay</em> the last. -She don’t look equal to much more hard work.”</p> - -<p>“My name’s Paisley, if you please,” returned -the prisoner, stolidly, “and I can take care of -my own mother. If she’s lent me money I have -paid it back. This is only for bail, to deposit—”</p> - -<p>“There is the chance,” interrupted Wickliff, -“of your skipping. Now, I tell you, I like the -looks of your mother, and I don’t mean she shall -run any risks. So, if you do get money from her, -I shall personally look out you don’t forfeit your -bail. Besides, court is in session now, so the -chances are you wouldn’t more than get the -money before it would be your turn. See?”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow I’ve got to have a lawyer.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t see why, young feller. I’ll give you a -straight tip. There ain’t enough law in Iowa to -get you out of this scrape. We’ve got the cinch -on you, and there ain’t any possible squirming -out.”</p> - -<p>“So you say;” the sneer was a little forced; -“I’ve heard of your game before. Nice, kind -officers, ready to advise a man and pump him -dry, and witness against him afterwards. I ain’t -that kind of a sucker, Mr. Sheriff.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I ain’t that kind of an officer, Mr. Smith.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -You’d ought to know about my reputation by -this time.”</p> - -<p>“They say you’re square,” the prisoner admitted; -“but you ain’t so stuck on me as to -care a damn whether I go over the road; expect -you’d want to send me for the trouble I’ve given -you,” and he grinned. “Well, what <em>are</em> you -after?”</p> - -<p>“Helping your mother, young feller. I had -a mother myself.”</p> - -<p>“It ain’t uncommon.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe a mother like mine—and yours—is, -though.”</p> - -<p>The prisoner’s eyes travelled down to the face -on the carte. “That’s right,” he said, with another -ring in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind half -so much if I could keep my going to the pen from -her. She’s never found out about me.”</p> - -<p>“How much family you got?” said Wickliff, -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“Just a mother. I ain’t married. There was -a girl, my sister—good sort too, ’nuff better’n -me. She used to be a clerk in the store, type-writer, -bookkeeper, general utility, you know. -My position in the first place; and when I—well, -resigned, they gave it to her. She helped mother -buy the place. Two years ago she died. You -may believe me or not, but I would have gone<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -back home then and run straight if it hadn’t -been for Mame. I would, by ⸺! I had five -hundred dollars then, and I was going back to -give every damned cent of it to ma, tell her to -put it into the bakery—”</p> - -<p>“That how she makes a living?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—little two-by-four bakery—oh, I’m giving -you straight goods—makes pies and cakes -and bread—good, too, you bet—makes it herself. -Ruth Graves, who lives round the corner, comes -in and helps—keeps the books, and tends shop -busy times; tends the oven too, I guess. She -was a great friend of Ellie’s—and mine. She’s -a real good girl. Well, I didn’t get mother’s -letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had -a mind to go right down to Fairport and go in -with ma. That—<em>she</em> stopped it. Got me off on -a tear somehow, and by the time I was sober -again the money was ’most all gone. I sent what -was left off to ma, and I went on the road again -myself. But she’s the devil.”</p> - -<p>“That the time you hit her?”</p> - -<p>The prisoner nodded. “Oughtn’t to, of course. -Wasn’t brought up that way. My father was a -Methodist preacher, and a good one. But I tell -you the coons that say you never must hit a -woman don’t know anything about that sort of -women; there ain’t nothing on earth so infernally<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -exasperating as a woman. They can mad you -worse than forty men.”</p> - -<p>It was the sheriff’s turn to nod, which he did -gravely, with even a glimmer of sympathy in his -mien.</p> - -<p>“Well, she never forgave you,” said he; “she’s -had it in for you since.”</p> - -<p>“And she knows I won’t squeal, ’cause I’d -have to give poor Ben away,” said the prisoner; -“but I tell you, sheriff, she was at the bottom -of the deviltry every time, and she managed to -bag the best part of the swag, too.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say. Well, to come back to business, -the question with you is how to keep these here -misfortunes of yours from your mother, ain’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course.”</p> - -<p>“Well, the best plan for you is to plead guilty, -showing you don’t mean to give the court any -more trouble. Tell the judge you are sick of -your life, and going to quit. You are, ain’t -you?” the sheriff concluded, simply; and the -swindler, after an instant’s hesitation, answered:</p> - -<p>“Damned if I won’t, if I can get a job!”</p> - -<p>“Well, that admitted”—the sheriff smoothed -his big knees gently as he talked, his mild attentive -eyes fixed on the prisoner’s nervous presence—“that -admitted, best plan is for you to -plead guilty, and maybe we can fix it so’s you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -will be sentenced to jail instead of the pen. Then -we can keep it from your mother easy. Write -her you’ve got a job here in this town, and have -your letters sent to my care. I’ll get you something -to do. She’ll never suspect that you are -the notorious Ned Paisley. And it ain’t likely -you go home often enough to make not going -awkward.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t been home in four years. But see -here: how long am I likely to get?”</p> - -<p>The sheriff looked at him, at the hollow cheeks -and sunken eyes and narrow chest—all so cruelly -declared in the sunshine; and unconsciously he -modulated his voice when he spoke.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t worry about that, if I was you. -You need a rest. You are run down pretty low. -You ain’t rugged enough for the life you’ve been -leading.”</p> - -<p>The prisoner’s eyes strayed past the grating -to the green hills and the pleasant gardens, where -some children were playing. The sheriff did not -move. There was as little sensibility in his impassive -mask as in a wooden Indian’s; but behind -the trained apathy was a real compassion. He -was thinking. “The boy don’t look like he had -a year’s life in him. I bet he knows it himself. -And when he stares that way out of the window -he’s thinking he ain’t never going to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -foot-loose in the sun again. Kinder tough, I -call it.”</p> - -<p>The young man’s eyes suddenly met his. -“Well, it’s no great matter, I guess,” said he. -“I’ll do it. But I can’t for the life of me make -out why you are taking so much trouble.”</p> - -<p>He was surprised at Wickliff’s reply. It was, -“Come on down stairs with me, and I’ll show -you.”</p> - -<p>“You mean it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; go ahead.”</p> - -<p>“You want my parole not to cut and run?”</p> - -<p>“Just as you like about that. Better not try -any fooling.”</p> - -<p>The prisoner uttered a short laugh, glancing -from his own puny limbs to the magnificent -muscles of the officer.</p> - -<p>“Straight ahead, after you’re out of the corridor, -down-stairs, and turn to the right,” said -Wickliff.</p> - -<p>Silently the prisoner followed his directions, -and when they had descended the stairs and -turned to the right, the sheriff’s hand pushed -beneath his elbow and opened the door before -them. “My rooms,” said Wickliff. “Being a -single man, it’s handier for me living in the -jail.” The rooms were furnished with the unchastened -gorgeousness of a Pullman sleeper, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -brilliant hues of a Brussels carpet on the floor, -blue plush at the windows and on the chairs. -The walls were hung with the most expensive -gilt paper that the town could furnish (after all, -it was a modest price per roll), and against the -gold, photographs of the district judges assumed -a sinister dignity. There was also a photograph -of the court-house, and one of the jail, and a -model in bas-relief of the Capitol at Des Moines; -but more prominent than any of these were two -portraits opposite the windows. They were oil-paintings, -elaborately framed, and they had cost -so much that the sheriff rested happily content -that they must be well painted. Certainly the -artist had not recorded impressions; rather he -seemed to have worked with a microscope, not -slighting an eyelash. One of the portraits was -that of a stiff and stern young man in a soldier’s -uniform. He was dark, and had eyes and features -like the sheriff. The other was the portrait -of a young girl. In the original daguerreotype -from which the artist worked the face was comely, -if not pretty, and the innocence in the eyes -and the timid smile made it winning. The artist -had enlarged the eyes and made the mouth -smaller, and bestowed (with the most amiable intentions) -a complexion of hectic brilliancy; but -there still remained, in spite of paint, a flicker of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> -the old touching expression. Between the two -canvases hung a framed letter. It was labelled -in bold Roman script, “Letter of Capt. R. T. -Manley,” and a glance showed the reader that it -was the description of a battle to a friend. One -sentence was underlined. “We also lost Private -A. T. Wickliff, killed in the charge—a good man -who could always be depended on to do his duty.”</p> - -<p>The sheriff guided his bewildered visitor opposite -these portraits and lifted his hand above the -other’s shoulder. “You see them?” said he. -“They’re <em>my</em> father and mother. You see that -letter? It was wrote by my father’s old captain -and sent to me. What he says about my father -is everything that I know. But it’s enough. -He was ‘a good man who could always be depended -on to do his duty.’ You can’t say no more -of the President of the United States. I’ve had -a pretty tough time of it in my own life, as a -man’s got to have who takes up my line; but -I’ve tried to live so my father needn’t be ashamed -of me. That other picture is my mother. I -don’t know nothing about her, nothing at all; -and I don’t need to—except those eyes of hers. -There’s a look someway about your mother’s eyes -like mine. Maybe it’s only the look one good -woman has like another; but whatever it is, your -mother made me think of mine. She’s the kind<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> -of mother I’d like to have; and if I can help it, -she sha’n’t know her son’s in the penitentiary. -Now come on back.”</p> - -<p>As silently as he had gone, the prisoner followed -the sheriff back to his cell. “Good-bye, -Paisley,” said the sheriff, at the door.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, sir; I’m much obliged,” said the -prisoner. Not another word was said.</p> - -<p>That evening, however, good Mrs. Raker told -the sheriff that, to her mind, if ever a man was -struck with death, that new young fellow was; -and he had been crying, too; his eyes were all red.</p> - -<p>“He needs to cry,” was all the comfort that -the kind soul received from the sheriff, the cold -remark being accompanied by what his familiars -called his Indian scowl.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the prisoner -as a quiet intercessor, and his merciful prophecy -was accomplished—Edgar S. Paisley was permitted -to serve out his sentence in the jail instead -of the State prison. His state of health -had something to do with the judge’s clemency, -and the sheriff could not but suspect that, in his -own phrase, “Paisley played his cough and his -hollow cheeks for all they were worth.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s natural,” he observed to Raker, -“and he’s doing it partially for the old lady. -Well, I’ll try to give her a quiet spell.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” Raker responds, dubiously, “but he’ll -be at his old games the minute he gits out.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t suppose”—the sheriff speaks with -a certain embarrassment—“you don’t suppose -there’d be any chance of really reforming him, so -as he’d stick?—he ain’t likely to live long.”</p> - -<p>“Nah,” says the unbelieving deputy; “he’s a -deal too slick to be reformed.”</p> - -<p>The sheriff’s pucker of his black brows and -his slow nod might have meant anything. Really -he was saying to himself (Amos was a dogged -fellow): “Don’t care; I’m going to try. I am -sure ma would want me to. I ain’t a very hefty -missionary, but if there is such a thing as clubbing -a man half-way decent, and I think there is, -I’ll get him that way. Poor old lady, she looked -so unhappy!”</p> - -<p>During the trial, Paisley was too excited and -dejected to write to his mother. But the day -after he received his sentence the sheriff found -him finishing a large sheet of foolscap.</p> - -<p>It contained a detailed and vivid description of -the reasons why he had left a mythical grocery -firm, and described with considerable humor the -mythical boarding-house where he was waiting -for something to turn up. It was very well done, -and he expected a smile from the sheriff. The -red mottled his pale cheeks when Wickliff, with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -his blackest frown, tore the letter into pieces, -which he stuffed into his pocket.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus2"> -<img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="450" height="550" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“TORE THE LETTER INTO PIECES”</p> -</div> - -<p>“You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage -of your position,” fumed Paisley.</p> - -<p>“I shall take more advantage of it if you give -me any sass,” returned Wickliff, calmly. “Now -set down and listen.” Paisley, after one helpless -glare, did sit down. “I believe you fairly revel -in lying. I don’t. That’s where we differ. I -think lies are always liable to come home to -roost, and I like to have the flock as small as -possible. Now you write that you are here, and -you’re helping <em>me</em>. You ain’t getting much -wages, but they will be enough to keep you—these -hard times any job is better than none. -And you can add that you don’t want any money -from her. Your other letter sorter squints like -you did. You can say you are boarding with a -very nice lady—that’s Mrs. Raker—everything -very clean, and the table plain but abundant. -Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. Wickliff. -How’s that?”</p> - -<p>Paisley’s anger had ebbed away. Either from -policy or some other motive he was laughing -now. “It’s not nearly so interesting in a literary -point of view, you know,” said he, “but I -guess it will be easier not to have so many -things to remember. And you’re right; I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> -didn’t mean to hint for money, but it did look -like it.”</p> - -<p>“He did mean to hint,” thought the sheriff, -“but he’s got some sense.” The letter finally -submitted was a masterpiece in its way. This -time the sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also -gave Paisley a cigar.</p> - -<p>Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted -to Wickliff. Raker never thought of -reading them. The replies came with a pathetic -promptness. “That’s from your ma,” said Wickliff, -when the first letter came—Paisley was at -the jail ledgers in the sheriff’s room, as it happened, -directly beneath the portraits—“you -better read it first.”</p> - -<p>Paisley read it twice; then he turned and -handed it to the sheriff, with a half apology. -“My mother talks a good deal better than she -writes. Women are naturally interested in petty -things, you know. Besides, I used to be fond -of the old dog; that’s why she writes so much -about him.”</p> - -<p>“I have a dog myself,” growled the sheriff. -“Your mother writes a beautiful letter.” His -eyes were already travelling down the cheap thin -note-paper, folded at the top. “I know,” Mrs. -Smith wrote, in her stiff, careful hand—“I know -you will feel bad, Eddy, to hear that dear old<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> -Rowdy is gone. Your letter came the night before -he died. Ruth was over, and I read it out -loud to her; and when I came to that part where -you sent your love to him, it seemed like he -understood, he wagged his tail so knowing. You -know how fond of you he always was. All that -evening he played round—more than usual—and -I’m so glad we both petted him, for in the morning -we found him stiff and cold on the landing -of the stairs, in his favorite place. I don’t think -he could have suffered any, he looked so peaceful. -Ruth and I made a grave for him in the -garden, under the white rose tree. Ruth digged -the grave, and she painted a Kennedy’s cracker-box, -and we wrapped him up in white cotton -cloth. I cried, and Ruth cried too, when we -laid him away. Somehow it made me long so -much more to see you. If I sent you the money, -don’t you think you could come home for Christmas? -Wouldn’t your employer let you if he -knew your mother had not seen you for four -years, and you are all the child she has got? -But I don’t want you to neglect your business.”</p> - -<p>The few words of affection that followed were -not written so firmly as the rest. The sheriff -would not read them; he handed the letter back -to Paisley, and turned his Indian scowl on the -back of the latter’s shapely head.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span></p> - -<p>Paisley was staring at the columns of the page -before him. “Rowdy was my dog when I was -courting Ruth,” he said. “I was engaged to her -once. I suppose mother thinks of that. Poor -Rowdy! the night I ran away he followed me, -and I had to whip him back.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you ran away?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; the old story. Trusted clerk. -Meant to return the money. It wasn’t very -much. But it about cleaned mother out. Then -she started the bakery.”</p> - -<p>“You pay your ma back?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I did.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a lie.”</p> - -<p>“What do you ask a man such questions for, -then? Do you think it’s pleasant admitting -what a dirty dog you’ve been? Oh, damn you!”</p> - -<p>“You do see it, then,” said the sheriff, in a -very pleasant, gentle tone; “that’s one good -thing. For you have <em>got</em> to reform, Ned; I’m -going to give your mother a decent boy. Well, -what happened then? Girl throw you over?”</p> - -<p>“Why, I ran straight for a while,” said Paisley, -furtively wiping first one eye and then the other -with a finger; “there wasn’t any scandal. Ruth -stuck by me, and a married sister of hers (who -didn’t know) got her husband to give me a place. -I was doing all right, and—and sending home<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -money to ma, and I would have been all right -now, if—if—I hadn’t met Mame, and she made -a crazy fool of me. Then Ruth shook me. Oh, -I ain’t blaming her! It was hearing about -Mame. But after that I just went a-flying to -the devil. Now you know why I wanted to see -Mame.”</p> - -<p>“You wanted to kill her,” said the sheriff, -“or you think you did. But you couldn’t; -she’d have talked you over. Still, I thought I -wouldn’t risk it. You know she’s gone now?”</p> - -<p>“I supposed she’d be, now the trial’s over.” -In a minute he added: “I’m glad I didn’t -touch her; mother would have had to know -that. Look here; how am I going to get over -that invitation?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll trust you for that lie,” said Wickliff, -sauntering off.</p> - -<p>Paisley wrote that he would not take his -mother’s money. When he could come home -on his own money he would gladly. He wrote -a long affectionate letter, which the sheriff read, -and handed back with the dry comment, “That -will do, I guess.”</p> - -<p>But he gave Paisley a brier-wood pipe and a -pound of Yale Mixture that afternoon.</p> - -<p>The correspondence threw some side-lights on -Paisley’s past.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span></p> - -<p>“You’ve got to write your ma every week,” -announced Wickliff, when the day came round.</p> - -<p>“Why, I haven’t written once a month.”</p> - -<p>“Probably not, but you have got to write once -a week now. Your mother’ll get used to it. I -should think you’d be glad to do the only thing -you can for the mother that’s worked her fingers -off for you.”</p> - -<p>“I <em>am</em> glad,” said Paisley, sullenly.</p> - -<p>He never made any further demur. He wrote -very good letters; and more and more, as the -time passed, he grew interested in the correspondence. -Meanwhile he began to acquire -(quite unsuspected by the sheriff) a queer respect -for that personage. The sheriff was popular -among the prisoners; perhaps the general -sentiment was voiced by one of them, who exclaimed, -one day, after his visit, “Well, I never -did see a man as had killed so many men put on -so little airs!”</p> - -<p>Paisley began his acquaintance with a contempt -for the slow-moving intellect that he -attributed to his sluggish-looking captor. He -felt the superiority of his own better education. -It was grateful to his vanity to sneer in secret -at Wickliff’s slips in grammar or information. -And presently he had opportunity to indulge his -humor in this respect, for Wickliff began lending<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -him books. The jail library, as a rule, was -managed by Mrs. Raker. She was, she used to -say, “a great reader,” and dearly loved “a nice -story that made you cry all the way through and -ended right.” Her taste was catholic in fiction -(she never read anything else), and her favorites -were Mrs. Southworth, Charles Dickens, and -Walter Scott. The sheriff’s own reading seldom -strayed beyond the daily papers, but with the -aid of a legal friend he had selected some standard -biographies and histories to add to the singular -conglomeration of fiction and religion sent -to the jail by a charitable public. On Paisley’s -request for reading, the sheriff went to Mrs. -Raker. She promptly pulled <cite>Ishmael Worth, or -Out of the Depths</cite>, from the shelf. “It’s beautiful,” -says she, “and when he gits through with -that he can have the <cite>Pickwick Papers</cite> to cheer -him up. Only I kinder hate to lend that book -to the prisoners; there’s so much about good -eatin’ in it, it makes ’em dissatisfied with the -table.”</p> - -<p>“He’s got to have something improving, too,” -says the sheriff. “I guess the history of the -United States will do; you’ve read the others, -and know they’re all right. I’ll run through -this.”</p> - -<p>He told Paisley the next morning that he had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span> -sat up almost all night reading, he was so afraid -that enough of the thirteen States wouldn’t ratify -the Constitution. This was only one of the artless -comments that tickled Paisley. Yet he soon -began to notice the sheriff’s keenness of observation, -and a kind of work-a-day sense that served -him well. He fell to wondering, during those -long nights when his cough kept him awake, -whether his own brilliant and subtle ingenuity -had done as much for him. He could hardly -tell the moment of its beginning, but he began -to value the approval of this big, ignorant, -clumsy, strong man.</p> - -<p>Insensibly he grew to thinking of conduct -more in the sheriff’s fashion; and his letters not -only reflected the change in his moral point of -view, they began to have more and more to say -of the sheriff. Very soon the mother began to -be pathetically thankful to this good friend of -her boy, whose habits were so correct, whose influence -so admirable. In her grateful happiness -over the frequent letters and their affection were -revealed the unexpressed fears that had tortured -her for years. She asked for Wickliff’s picture. -Paisley did not know that the sheriff had a -photograph taken on purpose. Mrs. Smith pronounced -him “a handsome man.” To be sure, -the unscarred side of his face was taken. “He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> -looks firm, too,” wrote the poor mother, whose -own boy had never known how to be firm; “I -think he must be a Daniel.”</p> - -<p>“A which?” exclaimed the puzzled Daniel.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you ever go to Sunday-school? Don’t -you know the verses,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“‘Dare to be a Daniel;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dare to make a stand’?”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The sheriff’s reply was enigmatical. It was: -“Well, to think of you having such a mother as -that!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t deserve her, that’s a fact,” said Paisley, -with his flippant air. “And yet, would you -believe it, I used to be the model boy of the -Sunday-school. Won all the prizes. Ma’s got -them in a drawer.”</p> - -<p>“Dare say. They thought you were a awful -good boy, because you always kept your face -clean and brushed your hair without being told -to, and learned your lessons quick, and always -said ‘Yes, ’m,’ and ‘No, ’m,’ and when you got -into a scrape lied out of it, and picked up bad -habits as easy and quiet as a long-haired dog -catches fleas. Oh, I know your sort of model -boy! We had ’em at the Orphans’ Home; I’ve -taken their lickings, too.”</p> - -<p>Paisley’s thin face was scarlet before the speech<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -was finished. “Some of that is true,” said he; -“but at least I never hit a fellow when he was -down.”</p> - -<p>The sheriff narrowed his eyes in a way that he -had when thinking; he put both hands in his -pockets and contemplated Paisley’s irritation. -“Well, young feller, you have some reason to -talk that way to me,” said he. “The fact is, I -was mad at you, thinking about your mother. I—I -respect that lady very highly.”</p> - -<p>Paisley forced a feeble smile over his “So do -I.”</p> - -<p>But after this episode the sheriff’s manner -visibly softened to the young man. He told -Raker that there were good spots in Paisley.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he’s mighty slick,” said Raker.</p> - -<p>Thanksgiving-time, a box from his mother -came to the prisoner, and among the pies and -cakes was an especial pie for Mr. Wickliff, -“From his affectionate old friend, Rebecca -Smith.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus3"> -<img src="images/illus3.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">THE THANKSGIVING BOX</p> -</div> - -<p>The sheriff spent fully two hours communing -with a large new <cite>Manual of Etiquette and Correspondence</cite>; -then he submitted a letter to Paisley. -Paisley read:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Madam</span>,—Your favor (of the pie) of the 24th -inst. is received and I beg you to accept my sincere and -warm thanks. Ned is an efficient clerk and his habits<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> -are very correct. We are reading history, in our leisure -hours. We have read Fisk’s Constitutional History of -the United States and two volumes of Macaulay’s History -of England. Both very interesting books. I think that -Judge Jeffreys was the meanest and worst judge I ever -heard of. My early education was not as extensive as I -could wish, and I am very glad of the valuable assistance -which I receive from your son. He is doing well and -sends his love. Hoping, my dear Madam, to be able to see -you and thank you personally for your very kind and welcome -gift, I am, with respect,</p> - -<p class="center">“Very Truly Yours,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Amos T. Wickliff</span>.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Paisley read the letter soberly. In fact, another -feeling destroyed any inclination to smile -over the unusual pomp of Wickliff’s style. -“That’s out of sight!” he declared. “It will -please the old lady to the ground. Say, I take -it very kindly of you, Mr. Wickliff, to write -about me that way.”</p> - -<p>“I had a book to help me,” confessed the flattered -sheriff. “And—say, Paisley, when you -are writing about me to your ma, you better say -Wickliff, or Amos. Mr. Wickliff sounds kinder -stiff. I’ll understand.”</p> - -<p>The letter that the sheriff received in return -he did not show to Paisley. He read it with a -knitted brow, and more than once he brushed -his hand across his eyes. When he finished it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -he drew a long sigh, and walked up to his mother’s -portrait. “She says she prays for me every -night, ma”—he spoke under his breath, and -reverently. “Ma, I simply have <em>got</em> to save that -boy for her, haven’t I?”</p> - -<p>That evening Paisley rather timidly approached -a subject which he had tried twice before to -broach, but his courage had failed him. “You -said something, Mr. Wickliff, of paying me a little -extra for what I do, keeping the books, etc. -Would you mind telling me what it will be? I—I’d -like to send a Christmas present to my -mother.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right,” said the sheriff, heartily. “I -was thinking what would suit her. How’s a nice -black dress, and a bill pinned to it to pay for -making it up?”</p> - -<p>“But I never—”</p> - -<p>“You can pay me when you get out.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I’ll ever get out?” Paisley’s -fine eyes were fixed on Wickliff as he spoke, with -a sudden wistful eagerness. He had never alluded -to his health before, yet it had steadily -failed. Now he would not let Amos answer; he -may have flinched from any confirmation of his -own fears; he took the word hastily. “Anyhow, -you’ll risk my turning out a bad investment. -But you’ll do a damned kind action<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> -to my mother; and if I’m a rip, she’s a -saint.”</p> - -<p>“<em>Sure</em>,” said the sheriff. “Say, do you think -she’d mind my sending her a hymn-book and a -few flowers?”</p> - -<p>Thus it came to pass that the tiny bakery window, -one Christmas-day, showed such a crimson -glory of roses as the village had never seen; and -the widow Smith, bowing her shabby black bonnet -on the pew rail, gave thanks and tears for a -happy Christmas, and prayed for her son’s friend. -She prayed for her son also, that he might “be -kept good.” She felt that her prayer would be -answered. God knows, perhaps it was.</p> - -<p>That night before she went to bed she wrote -to Edgar and to Amos. “I am writing to both -my boys,” she said to Amos, “for I feel like <em>you</em> -were my dear son too.”</p> - -<p>When Amos answered this letter he did not -consult the Manual. It was one day in January, -early in the month, that he received the first bit -of encouragement for his missionary work palpable -enough to display to the scoffer Raker. -Yet it was not a great thing either; only this: -Paisley (already half an hour at work in the -sheriff’s room) stopped, fished from his sleeve a -piece of note-paper folded into the measure of a -knife-blade, and offered it to the sheriff.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> - -<p>“See what Mame sent me,” said he; “just -read it.”</p> - -<p>There was a page of it, the purport being that -the writer had done what she had through jealousy, -which she knew now was unfounded; she -was suffering indescribable agonies from remorse; -and, to prove she meant what she said, if her -darling Ned would forgive her she would get -him out before a week was over. If he agreed -he was to be at his window at six o’clock Wednesday -night. The day was Thursday.</p> - -<p>“How did you get this?” asked Amos. “Do -you mind telling?”</p> - -<p>“Not the least. It came in a coat. From -Barber & Glasson’s. The one Mrs. Raker -picked out for me, and it was sent up from the -store. She got at it somehow, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“But how did you get word where to look?”</p> - -<p>Paisley grinned. “Mame was here, visiting -that fellow who was taken up for smashing a -window, and pretended he was so hungry he had -to have a meal in jail. Mame put him up to it, -so she could come. She gave me the tip where -to look then.”</p> - -<p>“I see. I got on to some of those signals -once. Well, did you show yourself Wednesday?”</p> - -<p>“Not much!” He hesitated, and did not look<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -at the sheriff, scrawling initials on the blotting-pad -with his pen. “Did you really think, Mr. -Wickliff, after all you’ve done for me—and my -mother—I would go back on you and get you -into trouble for that—”</p> - -<p>“’S-sh! Don’t call names!” Wickliff looked -apprehensively at the picture of his mother. -“Why didn’t you give me this before?”</p> - -<p>“Because you weren’t here till this morning. -I wasn’t going to give it to Raker.”</p> - -<p>“What do you suppose she’s after?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she’s got some big scheme on foot, and -she needs me to work it. I’m sick of her. I’m -sick of the whole thing. I want to run straight. -I want to be the man my poor mother thinks I -am.”</p> - -<p>“And I want to help you, Ned,” cried the -sheriff. For the first time he caught the other’s -hand and wrung it.</p> - -<p>“I guess the Lord wants to help me too,” said -Paisley, in a queer dry tone.</p> - -<p>“Why—yes—of course he wants to help all of -us,” said the sheriff, embarrassed. Then he -frowned, and his voice roughened as he asked, -“What do you mean by that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Paisley, -smiling; “you’ve always known it. It’s been -getting worse lately. I guess I caught cold.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -Some mornings I have to stop two or three times -when I dress myself, I have such fits of coughing.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell, and go to the hospital?”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to come down here. It’s so pleasant -down here.”</p> - -<p>“Good—” The sheriff reined his tongue in -time, and only said, “Look here, you’ve got to -see a doctor!”</p> - -<p>Therefore the encouragement to the missionary -work was embittered by divers conflicting -feelings. Even Raker was disturbed when the -doctor announced that Paisley had pneumonia.</p> - -<p>“Double pneumonia and a slim chance, of -course,” gloomed Raker. “Always so. Can’t -have a man git useful and be a little decent, but -he’s got to die! Why couldn’t it ’a’ been that -tramp tried to set the jail afire?”</p> - -<p>“What I’m a-thinking of is his poor ma, who -used to write him such beautiful letters,” said -Mrs. Raker, wiping her kind eyes. “They was -so attached. Never a week he didn’t write her.”</p> - -<p>“It’s his mother I’m thinking of, too,” said -the sheriff, with a groan; “she’ll be wanting to -come and see him, and how in—” He swallowed -an agitated oath, and paced the floor, his hands -clasped behind him, his lip under his teeth, and -his blackest Indian scowl on his brow—plain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -signs to all who knew him that he was fighting -his way through some mental thicket.</p> - -<p>But he had never looked gentler than he -looked an hour later, as he stepped softly into -Paisley’s cell. Mrs. Raker was holding a foaming -glass to the sick man’s lips. “There; take -another sup of the good nog,” she said, coaxingly, -as one talks to a child.</p> - -<p>“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Paisley. -“Queer how I’ve thought so often how I’d like -the taste of whiskey again on my tongue, and -now I can have all I want, I don’t care a hooter!”</p> - -<p>His voice was rasped in the chords, and he -caught his breath between his sentences. Forty-eight -hours had made an ugly alteration in his -face; the eyes were glassy, the features had -shrunken in an indescribable, ghastly way, and -the fair skin was of a yellowish pallor, with livid -circles about the eyes and the open mouth.</p> - -<p>Wickliff greeted him, assuming his ordinary -manner. They shook hands.</p> - -<p>“There’s one thing, Mr. Wickliff,” said Paisley: -“you’ll keep this from my mother. She’d -worry like blazes, and want to come here.”</p> - -<p>There was a photograph on the table, propped -up by books; the sheriff’s hand was on it, and -he moved it, unconsciously: “‘To Eddy, from -Mother. The Lord bless and keep thee. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> -Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be -gracious unto thee—’” Wickliff cleared his -throat. “Well, I don’t know, Ned,” he said, -cheerfully; “maybe that would be a good thing—kind -of brace you up and make you get well -quicker.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Raker noticed nothing in his voice; but -Paisley rolled his eyes on the impassive face in -a strange, quivering, searching look; then he -closed them and feebly turned his head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want me to telegraph? Don’t -you want to see her?”</p> - -<p>Some throb of excitement gave Paisley the -strength to lift himself up on the pillows. -“What do you want to rile me all up for?” -His voice was almost a scream. “Want to see -her? It’s the only thing in this damned fool -world I do want! But I can’t have her know; -it would kill her to know. You must make up -some lie about it’s being diphtheria and awful -sudden, and no time for her to come, and have -me all out of the way before she gets here. -You’ve been awful good to me, and you can do -anything you like; it’s the last I’ll bother you—don’t -let her find out!”</p> - -<p>“For the land’s sake!” sniffed Mrs. Raker, in -tears—“don’t she know?”</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am, she don’t; and she never will,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> -either,” said the sheriff. “There, Ned, boy, you -lay right down. I’ll fix it. And you shall see -her, too. I’ll fix it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he’ll fix it. Amos will fix it. Don’t -you worry,” sobbed Mrs. Raker, who had not the -least idea how the sheriff could arrange matters, -but was just as confident that he would as if the -future were unrolled before her gaze.</p> - -<p>The prisoner breathed a long deep sigh of relief, -and patted the strong hand at his shoulder. -And Amos gently laid him back on the pillows.</p> - -<p>Before nightfall Paisley was lying in Amos -Wickliff’s own bed, while Amos, at his side, was -critically surveying both chamber and parlor -under half-closed eyelids. He was trying to see -them with the eyes of the elderly widow of a -Methodist minister.</p> - -<p>“Hum—yes!” The result of the survey was, -on the whole, satisfactory. “All nice, high-toned, -first-class pictures. Nothing to shock a -lady. Liquors all put away, ’cept what’s needed -for him. Pops all put away, so she won’t be -finding one and be killing herself, thinking it’s -not loaded. My bed moved in here comfortable -for him, because he thought it was such a pleasant -room, poor boy. Another bed in my room -for her. Bath-room next door, hot and cold -water. Little gas stove. Trained nurse who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> -doesn’t know anything, and so can’t tell. Thinks -it’s my friend Smith. <em>Is</em> there anything else?”</p> - -<p>At this moment the white counterpane on the -bed stirred.</p> - -<p>“Well, Ned?” said Wickliff.</p> - -<p>“It’s—nice!” said Paisley.</p> - -<p>“That’s right. Now you get a firm grip on -what I’m going to say—such a grip you won’t -lose it, even if you get out of your head a little.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t,” said Paisley.</p> - -<p>“All right. You’re not Paisley any more. -You’re Ned Smith. I’ve had you moved here -into my rooms because your boarding-place -wasn’t so good. Everybody here understands, -and has got their story ready. The nurse thinks -you’re my friend Smith. You are, too, and you -are to call me Amos. The telegram’s gone. -’S-sh!—what a way to do!”—for Paisley was -crying. “Ain’t I her boy too?”</p> - -<p>One weak place remained in the fortress that -Amos had builded against prying eyes and chattering -tongues. He had searched in vain for -“Mame.” There was no especial reason, except -pure hatred and malice, to dread her going to -Paisley’s mother, but the sheriff had enough -knowledge of Mame’s kind to take these qualities -into account.</p> - -<p>From the time that Wickliff promised him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> -that he should have his mother, Paisley seemed -to be freed from every misgiving. He was too -ill to talk much, and much of the time he was -miserably occupied with his own suffering; yet -often during the night and day before she came -he would lift his still beautiful eyes to Mrs. Raker’s -and say, “It’s to-morrow night ma comes, -isn’t it?” To which the soft-hearted woman -would sometimes answer, “Yes, son,” and sometimes -only work her chin and put her handkerchief -to her eyes. Once she so far forgot the -presence of the gifted professional nurse that -she sniffed aloud, whereupon that personage administered -a scorching tonic, in the guise of a -glance, and poor Mrs. Raker went out of the -room and cried.</p> - -<p>He must have kept some reckoning of the -time, for the next day he varied his question. -He said, “It’s to-day she’s coming, isn’t it?” -As the day wore on, the customary change of his -disease came: he was relieved of his worst pain; -he thought that he was better. So thought Mrs. -Raker and the sheriff. The doctor and the nurse -maintained their inscrutable professional calm. -At ten o’clock the sheriff (who had been gone -for a half-hour) softly opened the door. The sick -man instantly roused. He half sat up. “I -know,” he exclaimed; “it’s ma. Ma’s come!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span></p> - -<p>The nurse rose, ready to protect her patient.</p> - -<p>There entered a little, black-robed, gray-haired -woman, who glided swift as a thought to the -bedside, and gathered the worn young head to -her breast. “My boy, my dear, good boy!” she -said, under her breath, so low the nurse did not -hear her; she only heard her say, “Now you -must get well.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I <em>am</em> glad, ma!” said the sick man.</p> - -<p>After that the nurse was well content with -them all. They obeyed her implicitly. It was -she rather than Mrs. Raker who observed that -Mr. Smith’s mother was not alone, but accompanied -by a slim, fair, brown-eyed young woman, -who lingered in the background, and would fain -have not spoken to the invalid at all had she not -been gently pushed forward by the mother, with -the words, “And Ruth came too, Eddy!”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Ruth; I knew that you wouldn’t -let ma come alone,” said Ned, feebly.</p> - -<p>The young woman had opened her lips. Now -they closed. She looked at him compassionately. -“Surely not, Ned,” she said.</p> - -<p>But why, wondered the nurse, who was observant—it -was her trade to observe—why did -she look at him so intently, and with such a -shocked pity?</p> - -<p>Ned did not express much—the sick, especially<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> -the very sick, cannot; but whenever he waked -in the night and saw his mother bending over -him he smiled happily, and she would answer his -thought. “Yes, my boy; my dear, good boy,” -she would say.</p> - -<p>And the sheriff in his dim corner thought sadly -that the ruined life would always be saved for -her now, and her son would be her good boy forever. -Yet he muttered to himself, “I suppose -the Lord is helping me out, and I ought to feel -obliged, but I’m hanged if I wouldn’t rather take -the chances and have the boy get well!”</p> - -<p>But he knew all the time that there was no -hope for Ned’s life. He lived three days after his -mother came. The day before his death he was -alone for a short time with the sheriff, and asked -him to be good to his mother. “Ruth will be -good to her too,” he said; “but last night I -dreamed Mame was chasing mother, and it scared -me. You won’t let her get at mother, will -you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I won’t,” said the sheriff; “we’re -watching your mother every minnit; and if that -woman comes here, Raker has orders to clap her -in jail. And I will always look out for your ma, -Ned, and she never shall know.”</p> - -<p>“That’s good,” said Ned, in his feeble voice. -“I’ll tell you something: I always wanted to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> -good, but I was always bad; but I believe I -would have been decent if I’d lived, because I’d -have kept close to you. You’ll be good to ma—and -to Ruth?”</p> - -<p>The sheriff thought that he had drifted away -and did not hear the answer, but in a few moments -he opened his eyes and said, brightly, -“Thank you, Amos.” It was the first time that -he had used the other man’s Christian name.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Ned,” said the sheriff.</p> - -<p>Next morning at daybreak he died. His mother -was with him. Just before he went to sleep -his mind wandered a little. He fancied that he -was a little boy, and that he was sick, and wanted -to say his prayers to his mother. “But I’m so -sick I can’t get out of bed,” said he. “God -won’t mind my saying them in bed, will He?” -Then he folded his hands, and reverently repeated -the childish rhyme, and so fell into a -peaceful sleep, which deepened into peace. In -this wise, perhaps, were answered many prayers.</p> - -<p>Amos made all the arrangements the next day. -He said that they were going home from Fairport -on the day following, but he managed to conclude -all the necessary legal formalities in time -to take the evening train. Once on the train, -and his companions in their sections, he drew a -long breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span></p> - -<p>“It may not have been Mame that I saw,” he -said, taking out his cigar-case on the way to the -smoking-room; “it was merely a glimpse—she -in a buggy, me on foot; and it may be she -wouldn’t do a thing or think the game worth -blackmail; but I don’t propose to run any -chances in this deal. Hullo—excuse me, -miss!”</p> - -<p>The last words were uttered aloud to Ruth -Graves, who had touched him on the arm. He -had a distinct admiration for this young woman, -founded on the grounds that she cried very -quietly, that she never was underfoot, and that -she was so unobtrusively kind to Mrs. Smith.</p> - -<p>“Anything I can do?” he began, with genuine -willingness.</p> - -<p>She motioned him to take a seat. “Mrs. -Smith is safe in her section,” she said; “it isn’t -that. I wanted to speak to you. Mr. Wickliff, -Ned told me how it was. He said he couldn’t -die lying to everybody, and he wanted me to -know how good you were. I am perfectly safe, -Mr. Wickliff,” as a look of annoyance puckered -the sheriff’s brow. “He told me there was a -woman who might some time try to make money -out of his mother if she could find her, and I was -to watch. Mr. Wickliff, was she rather tall and -slim, with a fine figure?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes—dark-complected rather, and has a thin -face and a largish nose.”</p> - -<p>“And one of her eyes is a little droopy, and -she has a gold filling in her front tooth? Mr. -Wickliff, that woman got on this train.”</p> - -<p>“She did, did she?” said the sheriff, showing -no surprise. “Well, my dear young lady, I’m -very much obliged to you. I will attend to the -matter. Mrs. Smith sha’n’t be disturbed.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said the young woman; “that’s -all. Good-night!”</p> - -<p>“You might know that girl had had a business -education,” the sheriff mused—“says what she’s -got to say, and moves on. Poor Ned! poor -Ned!”</p> - -<p>Ruth went to her section, but she did not undress. -She sat behind the curtains, peering -through the opening at Mrs. Smith’s section opposite, -or at the lower berth next hers, which -was occupied by the sheriff. The curtains were -drawn there also, and presently she saw him -disappear by sections into their shelter. Then -his shoes were pushed partially into the aisle. -Empty shoes. She waited; it could not be that -he was really going to sleep. But the minutes -crept by; a half-hour passed; no sign of life -behind his curtains. An hour passed. At the -farther end of the car curtains parted, and a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> -young woman slipped out of her berth. She -was dark and not handsome, but an elegant -shape and a modish gown made her attractive-looking. -One of her eyelids drooped a -little.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 325px;" id="illus4"> -<img src="images/illus4.jpg" width="325" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“SHE PAUSED BEFORE MRS. SMITH’S -SECTION”</p> -</div> - -<p>She walked down the aisle and paused before -Mrs. Smith’s section, Ruth holding her breath. -She looked at the big shoes on the floor, her lip -curling. Then she took the curtains of Mrs. -Smith’s section in both hands and put her head -in.</p> - -<p>“I must stop her!” thought Ruth. But she -did not spring out. The sheriff, fully dressed, -was beside the woman, and an arm of iron deliberately -turned her round.</p> - -<p>“The game’s up, Mamie,” said Wickliff.</p> - -<p>She made no noise, only looked at him.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” said she, with -perfect composure.</p> - -<p>“Arrest you if you make a racket, talk to you -if you don’t. Go into that seat.” He indicated -a seat in the rear, and she took it without a -word. He sat near the aisle; she was by the -window.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you mean to sit here all night,” -she remarked, scornfully.</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” said he; “just to the next place. -Then you’ll get out.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, will I?”</p> - -<p>“You will. Either you will get out and go -about your business, or you will get out and be -taken to jail.”</p> - -<p>“We’re smart. What for?”</p> - -<p>“For inciting prisoners to escape.”</p> - -<p>“Ned’s dead,” with a sneer.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he’s dead, and”—he watched her narrowly, -although he seemed absorbed in buttoning -his coat—“they say he haunts his old cell, -as if he’d lost something. Maybe it’s the letter -you folded up small enough to go in the seam -of a coat. I’ve got that.” He saw that she was -watching him in turn, and that she was nervous. -“Ned’s dead, poor fellow, true enough; -but—the girl at Barber & Glasson’s ain’t -dead.”</p> - -<p>She began to fumble with her gloves, peeling -them off and rolling them into balls. He thought -to himself that the chances were that she was -superstitious.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he said, sharply, “have an end -of this nonsense; you get off at the next place, -and never bother that old lady again, or—I will -have you arrested, and you can try for yourself -whether Ned’s cell is haunted.”</p> - -<p>For a brief space they eyed each other, she -in an access of impotent rage, he stolid as the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span> -carving of the seat. The car shivered; the great -wheels moved more slowly. “Decide,” said he; -not imperatively—dryly, without emotion of any -sort. He kept his mild eyes on her.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t his mother I meant to tell; it -was that girl—that <em>nice</em> girl he wanted to -marry—”</p> - -<p>“You make me tired,” said the sheriff. “Are -you going, or am I to make a scene and take -you? I don’t care much.”</p> - -<p>She slipped her hand behind her into her -pocket.</p> - -<p>The sheriff laughed, and grasped one wrist.</p> - -<p>“<em>I</em> don’t want to talk to the country fools,” -she snapped.</p> - -<p>“This way,” said the sheriff, guiding her. -The train had stopped. She laughed as he -politely handed her off the platform; the next -moment the wheels were turning again and she -was gone. He never saw her again.</p> - -<p>The porter came out to stand by his side in -the vestibule, watching the lights of the station -race away and the darkling winter fields fly past. -The sheriff was well known to him; he nodded -an eager acquiescence to the officer’s request: -“If those ladies in 8 and 9 ask you any questions, -just tell them it was a crazy woman getting the -wrong section, and I took care of her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span></p> - -<p>Within the car a desolate mother wept the -long night through, yet thanked God amid her -tears for her son’s last good days, and did not -dream of the blacker sorrow that had menaced -her and had been hurled aside.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CABINET_ORGAN">THE CABINET ORGAN</h2> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span></p> - -<h3>THE CABINET ORGAN</h3> - -</div> - -<p>It was a June day. Not one of those perfervid -June days that simulate the heat of -July, and try to show the corn what June can -do, but one of Shakespeare’s lovely and temperate -days, just warm enough to unfurl the rose petals -of the Armstrong rose-trees and ripen the grass -flowers in the Beaumonts’ unmowed yard.</p> - -<p>The Beaumonts lived in the north end of town, -at the terminus of the street-car line. They did -not live in the suburbs because they liked space -and country air, nor in order to have flowers and -a kitchen-garden of their own, like the Armstrongs -opposite, but because the rent was lower. -The Beaumonts were very poor and very proud. -The Armstrongs were neither poor nor proud. -Joel Armstrong, the head of the family, owned -the comfortable house, with its piazzas and bay-windows, -the small stable and the big yard. -There was a yard enclosed in poultry-netting,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -and a pasture for the cow, and the elderly family -horse that had picked up so amazingly under the -influence of good living and kindness that no -one would suspect how cheaply the car company -had sold him.</p> - -<p>Armstrong was the foreman of a machine-shop. -Every morning at half-past six Pauline -Beaumont, who rose early, used to see him board -the street-car in his foreman’s clothes, which -differs from working-men’s clothes, though only -in a way visible to the practised observer. He -always was smoking a short pipe, and he usually -was smiling. Mrs. Armstrong was a comely woman, -who had a great reputation in the neighborhood -as a cook and a nurse. In the family were -three boys—if one can call the oldest a boy, who -was a young carpenter, just this very day setting -up for master-builder. The second boy was fifteen, -and in the high-school, and the youngest -was ten. There were no daughters; but for helper -Mrs. Armstrong had a stout young Swede, who -was occasionally seen by the Beaumonts hiding -broken pieces of glass or china in a convenient -ravine. The Beaumont house was much smaller -than the Armstrongs’, nor was it in such admirable -repair and paint; but then, as Henriette -Beaumont was used to say, “<em>They</em> had not a -carpenter in the family.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span></p> - -<p>It will be seen that the Beaumonts held themselves -very high above the Armstrongs. They -could not forget that twenty-five years ago their -father had been Lieutenant-Governor, and they -had been accounted rich people in the little -Western city. Father and fortune had been lost -long since. They were poor, obscure, working -hard for a livelihood; but they still kept their -pride, which only increased as their visible consequence -diminished. Nevertheless, Pauline often -looked wistfully across at the Armstrongs’ -little feasts and fun, and always walked home -on their side of the street. Pauline was the -youngest and least proud of the Beaumonts.</p> - -<p>To-day, as usual, she came down the street, past -the neat low fence of the Armstrongs; but instead -of passing, merely glancing in at the lawn -and the house, she stopped; she leaned her shabby -elbows on the gate, where she could easily see -the dining-room and sniff the savory odors floating -from the kitchen. “Oh, doesn’t it smell -good?” she murmured. “Chickens fried, and -new potatoes, and a strawberry shortcake. They -have such a nice garden.” She caught her breath -in a mirthless laugh. “How absurd I am! I -feel like staying here and smelling the whole -supper! Yesterday they had waffles, and the day -before beefsteak—such lovely, hearty things!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span></p> - -<p>She was a tall girl, too thin for her height, -with a pretty carriage and a delicate irregular -face, too colorless and tired for beauty, but not -for charm. Her skin was fine and clear, and her -brown hair very soft. Her gray eyes were alight -with interest as she watched the finishing touches -given the table, which was spread with a glossy -white cloth, and had a bowl of June roses in the -centre. Mrs. Armstrong, in a new dimity gown -and white apron, was placing a great platter of -golden sponge-cake on the board. She looked -up and saw Pauline. The girl could invent no -better excuse for her scrutiny (which had such -an air of prying) than to drop her head as if in -faintness—an excuse, indeed, suggested by her -own feelings. In a minute Mrs. Armstrong had -stepped through the bay-window and was on the -other side of the fence, listening with vivid sympathy -to Pauline’s shamefaced murmur: “Excuse -me, but I feel so ill!”</p> - -<p>“It’s a rush of blood to the head,” cried Mrs. -Armstrong, all the instincts of a nurse aroused. -“Come right in; you mustn’t think of going -home. Land! you’ll like as not faint before I -can get over to you. Hold on to the fence if you -feel things swimming!”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus5"> -<img src="images/illus5.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“SHE LEANED HER SHABBY ELBOWS ON THE GATE”</p> -</div> - -<p>Pauline, in her confusion, grew red and redder, -while, despite inarticulate protestations, she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> -was propelled into the house and on to a large -lounge.</p> - -<p>“Lay your head back,” commanded the nurse, -appearing with an ammonia-bottle in one hand -and a fan in the other.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing—nothing at all,” gasped Pauline, -between shame and the fumes of ammonia. -“The day was a little warm, and I walked home, -and I was so busy I ate no lunch”—as if that -were a change from her habits—“and all at -once I felt faint. But I’m all right now.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t <em>wonder</em> you’re faint,” cried -Mrs. Armstrong; “you oughtn’t to do that way. -Now you just got to lie still—— Oh, that’s only -Ikey. Ikey, you get a glass of wine for this -lady; it’s Miss Beaumont.”</p> - -<p>The tall young man in the gray suit and -the blue flannel shirt blushed a little under -his sunburn as he bowed. “Pleased to meet -you, miss,” said he, promptly, before he disappeared.</p> - -<p>“This is a great day for us,” continued the -mother, releasing the ammonia from duty, and -beginning to fan vigorously. “Ike has set up -as master-builder—only two men, and he does -most of the work; but he’s got a house all to -himself, and the chance of some bigger ones. -We’re having a little celebration. You must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> -excuse the paper on the lounge; I put it down -when we unpacked the organ.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, did the organ come?” said the son.</p> - -<p>“It surely did, and we’ve played on it already.”</p> - -<p>“Why, did you get the music? Was it in -the box, too?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we ’ain’t played <em>tunes</em>; we just have -been trying it—like to see how it goes. It’s got -an awful sweet sound.”</p> - -<p>“And you ought to hear me play a tune on -it, ma.”</p> - -<p>“You! For the land’s sake!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, me—that never did play a tune in my -life. Anybody can play on that organ.” He -turned politely to Pauline, as to include her in -the conversation. “You see, Miss Beaumont, -we’re a musical family that can’t sing. We -can’t, as they say, carry a tune to save our immortal -souls. The trouble isn’t with the voice; -it’s with our ears. We can hear well enough, -too, but we haven’t an ear for music. I took -lessons once, trying to learn to sing, but the -teacher finally braced up to tell me that he -hadn’t the conscience to take my money. -‘What’s the matter?’ says I. ‘You’ve lots of -voice,’ says he, ‘but you haven’t a mite of ear.’ -‘Can’t anybody teach me to sing?’ says I. ‘Not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -unless they hypnotize you, like Trilby,’ says he. -So I gave it up. But next I thought I would -learn to play; for if there’s one thing ma and -the boys and I all love, it’s music. And just -then, as luck would have it, this teacher wanted -to sell his cabinet organ, which is in perfect -shape and a fine instrument. And I was craving -to buy it, but I knew it was ridiculous, -when none of us can play. But I kept thinking. -Finally it came to me. I had seen those -zither things with numbers on them; why -couldn’t he paint numbers on the keys of the -organ just that way, and make music to correspond? -And that’s just the way we’ve done. -You’re very musical. I—I’ve often listened to -your playing. What do you think of it?” He -looked at her wistfully.</p> - -<p>“I think it very ingenious—very,” said Pauline. -She had risen now, and she thanked Mrs. -Armstrong, and said she must go home. In -truth, she was in a panic at the thought of what -she had done. Henriette never would understand. -Her heart beat guiltily all the way -home.</p> - -<p>There were three Beaumonts—Henriette, Mysilla, -and Pauline. Henriette and Mysilla were -twins, who had dressed alike from childhood’s -hour, although Mysilla was very plain, a colorless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> -blonde, of small stature and painfully thin, -while Henriette was tall, with a stately figure -and a handsome dark face that would have -looked well on a Roman coin. Yet Henriette -was a woman of good taste, and she spent many -a night trying to decide on a gown which would -suit equally well Mysie’s fair head and her glossy -black one. Both the black and the brown -head were gray now, but they still wore frocks -and hats alike. Henriette held that it was the -hall-mark of a good family to clothe twins -alike, and Henriette did not have her Roman -features for nothing. Mysilla had always adored -and obeyed Henriette. She gloried in Henriette’s -haughty beauty and grace, and she was as -proud of both now that Henriette was a shabby -elderly woman, who had to wear dyed gowns -and darned gloves, as in the days when she was -the belle of the Iowa capital, and poor Jim -Perley fought a duel with Captain Sayre over a -misplaced dance on her ball-card. Henriette -promised to marry Jim after the duel, but Jim -died of pneumonia that very week. For Jim’s -sake, John Perley, his brother, was good to the -girls. Pauline was a baby when her father died. -She never remembered the days of pomp, only -the lean days of adversity. John Perley obtained -a clerkship for her in a music-store.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span> -Henriette gave music lessons. She was a brilliant -musician, but she criticised her pupils precisely -as she would have done any other equally -stupid performers, and her pupils’ parents did -not always love the truth. Mysilla took in plain -sewing, as the phrase goes. She sometimes -(since John Perley had given them a sewing-machine) -made as much as four dollars a week. -They invariably paid their rent in advance, and -when they had not money to buy enough to eat -they went hungry. They never cared to know -their neighbors, and Pauline cringed as she imaged -Henriette’s sarcasms had she seen her sister -drinking the Armstrongs’ California port. -Henriette had stood in the hall corner and -waved Pauline fiercely and silently away while -the unconscious Mrs. Armstrong thumped at -the broken bell outside, and at last departed, -remarking, “Well, they must be gone, or -<em>dead</em>!”</p> - -<p>Therefore rather timidly Pauline opened the -door of the little room that was both parlor and -dining-room. Any one could see that the room -belonged to people who loved music. The old-fashioned -grand-piano was under protection of -busts of Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner; and -Mysie’s violin stood in the corner, near a bookcase -full of musical biographies. An air of exquisite<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -neatness was like an aroma of lavender -in the room, and with it was fused a prim good -taste, such as might properly belong to gentlewomen -who had learned the household arts -when the rule of three was sacred, and every -large ornament must be attended by a smaller -one on either side. And an observer of a gentle -mind, furthermore, might have found a kind of -pathos in the shabbiness of it all; for everything -fine was worn and faded, and everything -new was coarse. The portrait of the Lieutenant-Governor -faced the door. For company it -had on either side small engravings of Webster -and Clay. Beneath it was placed the tea-table, -ready spread. The cloth was of good quality, -but thin with long service. On the table a -large plate of bread held the place of importance, -with two small plates on either corner, -the one containing a tiny slice of suspiciously -yellow butter, and the other a cone of solid -jelly. Such jelly they sell at the groceries out -of firkins. A glass jug of tea stood by a plated -ice-water jug of a pattern highly esteemed before -the war. Henriette was stirring a small -lump of ice about the sides of the tea-jug. She -greeted Pauline pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“Iced tea?” said Pauline. “I thought we -were to have hot tea and sausages and toast. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span> -gave Mysie twenty-five cents for them this morning.” -She did not say that it was the money -for more than one day’s luncheon.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mysie said something about it,” said -Henriette, “but it didn’t seem worth while to -burn up so much wood merely to heat the water -for tea; and toast uses up so much butter.”</p> - -<p>“But I gave Mysie a dollar to buy a little oil-stove -that we could use in summer; and there -was the sausage; I don’t mean to find fault, -sister Etty, but I’m ravenously hungry.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, child,” Henriette agreed, benignly; -“you are <em>always</em> hungry. But I think you’ll -agree I was lucky not to have bought that stove -and those sausages this morning. Who do -you think is coming to this town next week? -Theodore Thomas, with his own orchestra! -And just as I was going into that store to buy -your stove—though I didn’t feel at all sure it -wouldn’t explode and burn the house down—John -Perley came up and gave me a ticket, an -orchestra seat; and I said at once, ‘The girls -must go too’; but I hadn’t but twenty-five cents, -and no more coming in for a week. Then it -occurred to me like a flash, there was this money -you had given me; and, Paula, I made such a -bargain! The man at Farrell’s, where they are -selling the tickets, will get us three seats, not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span> -very far back in the gallery, for my orchestra -seat and the money, and we shall have enough -money left to take us home in the street cars. -Now do you understand?” concluded Henriette, -triumphantly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sister Etty; it will be splendid,” responded -Pauline, but with less enthusiasm than -Henriette had expected.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you glad?” she demanded.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I’m glad; but I’m so dead tired I can -hardly talk,” said Pauline, as she left the room. -She felt every stair as she climbed it; but her -face cleared at the sight of Mysie coming through -the hall.</p> - -<p>“It’s a lovely surprise, Mysie, isn’t it?” she -cried, cheerfully. She always called Mysie by -her Christian name, without prefix. Henriette, -although of the same age, was so much more -important a person that she would have felt the -unadorned name a liberty. But nobody was -afraid of Mysie. Pauline wound one of her long -arms about her waist and kissed her.</p> - -<p>Mysie gave a little gasp of mingled pleasure -and relief, and the burden of her thoughts -slipped off in the words, “I knew you ’lotted -on that oil-stove, Paula, but Etty said you would -want me to go—”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t go without you,” Pauline burst<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> -in, vehemently, “and I’d live on bread and jelly -for a week to give you that pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“There was the sausage, too; I did feel bad -about that; you ought to have good hot meals -after working all day.”</p> - -<p>“No more than you, Mysie.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not on my feet all day. And I did think -of taking some of that seventy-five cents we have -saved for the curtains, but I didn’t like to spend -any without consulting you.”</p> - -<p>“It’s your own money, Mysie; but anyhow I -suppose we need the curtains. Go on down; -Henriette’s calling. I’ll be down directly.” -But after she heard her sister’s uncertain footstep -on the stair she stood frowning out of the -window at the Armstrong house. “It’s hideous -to think it,” she murmured, “but I don’t care—we -have so much music and so little sausage! -I wish I had the money for my ticket to the -concert to spend on meat!”</p> - -<p>Then, remorsefully, she went down-stairs, and -after supper she played all the evening on the -piano; but the airs that she chose were in a -simple strain—minstrel songs of a generation -ago, like “Nelly was a lady” and “Hard times -come again no more,” from a battered old book -of her mother’s.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you like to try a few Moody and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -Sankeys?” Henriette jeered after a while. -“Foster seems to me only one degree less maudlin -and commonplace. He makes me think of -tuberoses!” Pauline laughed and went to the -window. The white porcupine of electric light -at the corner threw out long spikes of radiance -athwart the narrow sidewalk, and a man’s shadow -dipped into the lighted space. The man was -leaning his arms on the fence. “Foolish fellow!” -Pauline laughed softly to herself. That -night, shortly after she had dropped asleep, -she was awakened out of a dream of staying to -supper with the Armstrongs, and beholding the -board loaded with broiled chickens and plum-pudding, -by a clutch on her shoulder. “It was -<em>quite</em> accidental,” she pleaded; “it really was, -sister Etty!” For her dream seemed to project -itself into real life, and there was Henriette, a -stern figure in flowing white, bending over her.</p> - -<p>“Wake up!” she cried. “Listen! There’s -something awful happening at the Armstrongs’.”</p> - -<p>Pauline sat up in bed as suddenly as a jack-in-the-box. -Then she gave a little gasp of laughter. -“They are all right,” said she; “they are playing -on their organ. That’s the way they play.”</p> - -<p>The organ ceased to moan, and Henriette returned -to her couch. In ten minutes she was -back again, shaking Pauline. “Wake up!” she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -cried. “How can you sleep in such a racket? -He has been murdering popular tunes by inches, -and now what he is doing I don’t know, but it -is <em>awful</em>. You know them best. Get up and -call to them that we can’t sleep for the noise -they make.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose they have a right to play on their -own organ.”</p> - -<p>“They haven’t a right to make such a pandemonium -anywhere. If you won’t do something, -I’m going to pretend I think it’s cats, -and call ‘Scat!’ and throw something at them.”</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t hit anything,” Pauline returned, -in that sleepy tone which always rouses -a wakeful sufferer’s wrath. “Better shut your -window. You can’t hear nearly so well then.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sister, I’ll shut the window,” Mysie called -from the chamber, as usual eager for peace.</p> - -<p>“You let that window alone,” commanded -Henriette, sternly. A long pause—Henriette -seated in rigid agony at the foot of the bed; the -Armstrongs experimenting with the Vox Humana -stop. “Pauline, do you mean to say that you -can sleep? Pauline! <em>Pauline!</em>”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter now?” asked Pauline.</p> - -<p>“I am going to take my brush—no, I shall -take <em>your</em> brush, Pauline Beaumont—and hurl -it at them!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, sister, please don’t,” begged Mysie from -within, like the voices on a stage.</p> - -<p>Henriette spoke not again; she strode out of -the room, and did even as she had threatened. -She flung Pauline’s brush straight at the organist -sitting before the window. Whether she really -meant to injure young Armstrong’s candid brow -is an open question; and, judging from the -result, I infer that she did not mean to do more -than scare her sister; therefore she aimed afar. -By consequence the missile sped straight into -the centre of the window. But not through it; -the window was raised, and a wire screen rattled -the brush back with a shivering jar.</p> - -<p>“What’s that? A bat?” said Armstrong, -happily playing on. His father and mother -were beaming upon him in deep content—his -father a trifle sleepy, but resolved, the morrow -being Sunday, to enjoy this musical hour to the -full, his mother seated beside him and reading -the numbers aloud.</p> - -<p>“You see, Ikey,” she had explained, “that’s -what makes you slow. While you’re reading -the numbers, you lose ’em on the organ; and -while you’re finding the numbers on the keys, -you loose ’em on the paper. I’ll read them -awful low, so no one would suspect, and you -keep your whole mind on those keys. Now begin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> -again; I’ve got a pin to prick them—2-4-3, -1-3—no, 1-8, 1-8—it’s only one 1-8; guess we -better begin again.”</p> - -<p>So Mrs. Armstrong droned forth the numbers -and Ikey hammered them on the organ, pumping -with his feet, whenever he did not forget. -The two boys slept peacefully through the weird -clamor. The neighbors, with one exception, -were apparently undisturbed. That exception, -named Henriette Beaumont, heard with swelling -wrath.</p> - -<p>“I’ve thrown the brush,” said she. No response -from the pillow. “Now I’m going to -throw the broken-handled mug,” continued -Henriette, in a tone of deadly resolve; “it’s -heavy, and it may kill some one, but I can’t help -it!” Still a dead silence. <em>Crash! smash!</em> The -mug with the broken handle had sped against -the weather-boarding.</p> - -<p>“Now what was <em>that</em>?” cried Ike, jumping -up. Before he was on his feet a broken soap-dish -had followed the mug. Up flew the sash, -and Ike was out of the window. “What are -you doing that for? What do you mean by -that?” he yelled, to which the dark and silent -house opposite naturally made no reply. Ike -was out in the road now, and both his parents -were after him. The elder Armstrong had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> -so suddenly wakened from a doze that he was -under the impression of a fire somewhere, and -let out a noble shout to that effect. Mrs. Armstrong, -convinced that a dynamite bomb had -missed fire, gathered her skirts tightly around -her ankles—as if bombs could run under them -like mice—and helped by screaming alternately -“Police!” and “Murder!”</p> - -<p>Henriette gloated silently over the confusion. -It did her soul good to see Ike Armstrong running -along the sidewalk after supposititious boys.</p> - -<p>The Armstrongs did not return to the organ. -Henriette heard their footsteps on the gravel, -she heard the muffled sound of voices; but not -again did the tortured instrument excite her -nerves, and she sank into a troubled slumber. -As they sat at breakfast the next morning, and -Henriette was calculating the share due each -cup from the half-pint of boiled milk, the broken -bell-wire jangled. Pauline said she would go.</p> - -<p>“It can’t be any one to call so early in the -morning,” said Henriette; “you may go.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus6"> -<img src="images/illus6.jpg" width="450" height="650" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘SOMEBODY THREW THESE THINGS AT OUR WINDOW’”</p> -</div> - -<p>It was young Armstrong, in his Sunday clothes. -Pauline’s only picture of him had been in his -work-a-day garb; it was curious how differently -he impressed her, fresh from the bath and the -razor, trigly buttoned up in a perfectly fitting -suit of blue and brown, with a dazzling rim of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> -white against his shapely tanned throat, and a -crimson rose in his button-hole. “How handsome -he is!” thought Pauline. She had never -been satisfied with her own nose, and she looked -at the straight bridge of his and admired it. -She was too innocent and ignorant herself to -notice how innocently clear were his eyes; but -she thought that they looked true and kind, and -she did notice the bold lines of his chin and jaw, -and the firm mouth under his black mustache. -Unaccountably she grew embarrassed; he was -looking at her so gravely, almost sternly, his new -straw hat in one hand, and the other slightly -extended to her and holding a neat bundle.</p> - -<p>He bowed ceremoniously, as he had seen actors -bow on the stage. “Somebody threw these -things at our window last night,” said he; “I -think they belong to you. I couldn’t find all -the pieces of the china.”</p> - -<p>“They weren’t all there,” stammered Pauline, -foolishly; and then a wave of mingled confusion -and irritation at her false position—there was -her monogram on the ivory brush!—and a queer -kind of amusement, swept over her, and dyed her -delicate cheek as red as Armstrong’s rose. And -suddenly he too, flushed, and his eyes flashed.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry I disturbed your sister,” said he, -“but I hope she will not throw any more things<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -at us. We will try not to practise so late another -night. Good-morning.”</p> - -<p>“I <em>am</em> sorry,” said Pauline; “tell your mother -I’m sorry, please. She was so kind to me.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” Armstrong said, heartily; “I -will.” And somehow before he went they shook -hands.</p> - -<p>Pauline gave the message, but she felt so -guilty because of this last courtesy that she gave -it without reproach, even though her only good -brush disclosed a pitiful crack.</p> - -<p>“Well, you know why I did it,” said Henriette, -coolly; “and does the man suppose his -playing isn’t obnoxious any hour of the day as -well as night? But let us hope they will be -quiet awhile. Paula, have you any money? We -ought to go over those numbers for the concert -beforehand, and we must get Verdi’s Requiem. -Mysie has some, but she wants it to buy curtains.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, sister Etty, but I haven’t a cent.”</p> - -<p>“Then the curtains will have to wait, Mysie,” -said Henriette, cheerfully, “for we must have -the music to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Mysie threw a deprecating glance at Pauline. -“There was a bargain in chintzes,” she began, -feebly, “but of course, sister, if Paula doesn’t -mind—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t mind, Mysie,” said Pauline.</p> - -<p>Why should she make Mysie unhappy and -Henriette cross for a pair of cheap curtains? -The day was beautiful, and she attended church. -She was surprised, looking round at the choir, -to discover young Armstrong in the seat behind -her. She did not know that he attended that -church. But surely there was no harm in a -neighbor’s walking home with Mysie and her. -How well and modestly he talked, and how gentle -and deferential he was to Mysie! Mysie -sighed when he parted from them, a little way -from the house.</p> - -<p>“That young man is very superior to his station,” -she declared, solemnly; “he must be of -good though decayed family.”</p> - -<p>“His grandfather was a Vermont farmer, and -ours was a Massachusetts farmer,” retorted Pauline; -“I dare say if we go back far enough we -shall find the Armstrongs as good as we—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, pray don’t talk that way before Etty, -dear,” interrupted Mysie, hurriedly: “she thinks -it so like the anarchists; and if you get into that -way of speech, you <em>might</em> slip out something before -her. Poor Etty, I wish she felt as if she -could go to church. I hope she had a peaceful -morning.”</p> - -<p>Ah, hope unfounded! Never had Miss Henriette<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> -Beaumont passed a season more rasping to -her nerves. Looking out of the window, she -saw both the younger Armstrongs and their mother. -The boys had been picking vegetables.</p> - -<p>“Now, boys,” called Mrs. Armstrong, gayly, -“let’s come and play on the organ.”</p> - -<p>Henriette’s soul was in arms. Unfortunately -she was still in the robes of rest (attempting to -slumber after her tumultuous night), and dignity -forbade her shouting out of the window.</p> - -<p>The two boys passed a happy morning experimenting -on the different stops, and improvising -melodies of their own. “Say, mummy, isn’t -that kinder like a <em>tune</em>?” one or the other would -exclaim. Mrs. Armstrong listened with pride. -The awful combination of discords fell sweetly -on her ear, which was “no ear for music.”</p> - -<p>“It’s just lovely to have an organ,” she thought.</p> - -<p>When Miss Beaumont could bear no more she -attired herself and descended the stairs. Then -the boys stopped. In the afternoon several -friends of the Armstrongs called. They sang -Moody and Sankey hymns, until Henriette was -pale with misery.</p> - -<p>“I think I prefer the untutored Armstrong -savages themselves, with their war-cries,” she -remarked.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they will get tired of it,” Mysie proffered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> -for consolation. But they did not tire. -They never played later than nine o’clock at -night again, but until that hour the music-loving -and unmusical family played and sang to -their hearts’ content. And the Beaumonts saw -them at the Thomas concert, Ike and his mother -and Jim, applauding everything. Henriette -said the sight made her ill.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus7"> -<img src="images/illus7.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘NOW, BOYS, LET’S COME AND PLAY ON THE ORGAN’”</p> -</div> - -<p>Time did not soften her rancor. She caught -cold at the concert, and for two weeks was confined -to her chamber with what Mrs. Armstrong -called rheumatism, but Henriette called gout. -During the time she assured Mysie that what -she suffered from the Armstrong organ exceeded -anything that gout could inflict.</p> - -<p>“Do let me speak to Mrs. Armstrong,” begged -Mysie.</p> - -<p>“I spoke to that boy, the one with the freckles, -myself yesterday,” replied Henriette, “out -of the window. I told him if they didn’t stop I -would have them indicted.”</p> - -<p>“Why, how did you see him?” Mysie was -aghast, but she dared not criticise Henriette.</p> - -<p>“He came here with a bucket of water. Said -his mother saw us taking water out of the well, -and it was dangerous. The impertinent woman, -she actually offered to send us water from their -cistern every day.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p> - -<p>“But I think that was—was rather kind, -sister, and it would be dreadful to have typhoid -fever.”</p> - -<p>“I would rather <em>die</em> of typhoid fever than -have that woman bragging to her vulgar friends -that she gives the Beaumonts, Governor Beaumont’s -daughters, <em>water</em>! I know what her -<em>kindness</em> means.” Thus Henriette crushed Mysie. -But when the organ began, and it was -evident that Tim Armstrong intended to learn -“Two Little Girls in Blue,” if it took him all -the afternoon, Mysie rose.</p> - -<p>“Mysie,” called Henriette, “don’t you go one -step to the Armstrongs’.”</p> - -<p>Mysie sat down, but in a little while she -tried again.</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d let Paula, then; she is going -by there every day, and she has had no dispute -with them. She often stops to talk.”</p> - -<p>“Talk to whom?” said Henriette, icily.</p> - -<p>“Oh, to any of them—Tim or Pete or Mrs. -Armstrong.”</p> - -<p>“Does she talk to them long?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, not very long—just as she goes by. -I think you’re mistaken, sister. They don’t -think such mean things. Truly they are—nice; -they seem very fond of each other, and they -almost always give Paula flowers.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span></p> - -<p>“What does she do with the flowers?”</p> - -<p>“She puts them in the vases, and wears -them.”</p> - -<p>“Do they give her anything else?” Henriette’s -tone was so awful that Mysie dropped her work.</p> - -<p>“Do they?” persisted Henriette.</p> - -<p>“They sent over the magazines a few times, -but that was just borrowing, and once they—they—sent -over some shortcake and some—bread.”</p> - -<p>Henriette sat bolt-upright in bed, reckless of -the pain every movement gave her.</p> - -<p>“Mysilla Beaumont, do you see where your -sister is drifting? Are you both crazy? But I -shall put a stop to this nonsense this very day. I -am going to write a note to John Perley, and -you will have to take it. Bring me the paper. -If there isn’t any in my desk, take some out of -Pauline’s.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Henriette,” whimpered Mysie, “<em>what</em> -are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“You will soon see, and you will have to help -me. After they have been disgraced and -laughed at, we’ll see whether she will care to -lean over their fence and talk to them.”</p> - -<p>It was true that Pauline did talk to the Armstrongs; -she did lean over the Armstrong fence. -It had come to pass by degrees. She knew perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> -well it was wrong. Henriette never allowed -her to have any acquaintances. But Henriette -could not see her from the bed, and Mysie -did not mind; and so she fell into the habit -of stopping at the Armstrong gate to inquire -for Mrs. Armstrong’s turkeys, or to ask advice -about the forlorn little geraniums which fought -for life in the Beaumont yard, or to lend her -own nimble fingers to the adorning of Mrs. Armstrong’s -bonnets. She saw Ike often. Once she -actually ventured to enter “those mechanics’” -doors and play on the detested organ. Her musical -gifts could not be compared to her sister’s. -A sweet, true voice, op no great compass, a touch -that had only sympathy and a moderate facility—these -the highly cultivated Beaumonts rated -at their very low artistic value; but the ignorant -Armstrongs listened to Pauline’s hymns in rapture. -The tears filled Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes: -impulsively she kissed the girl. “Oh, you dear -child!” she cried. Ike said nothing. Not a -word. He was standing near enough to Pauline -to touch the folds of her dress. His fingers almost -reverently stroked the faded pink muslin. -He swallowed something that was choking him. -Joel Armstrong nodded and smiled. Then his -eyes sought his wife’s. He put out his hand and -held hers. When the music was done and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -young people were gone, he puffed hard on his -dead pipe, saying, “It’s the best thing that can -happen to a young man, mother, to fall in love -with a real good girl, ain’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I guess it is.”</p> - -<p>“And I guess you’d have the training of this -one, mother; and there’s plenty of room in the -lot opposite that’s for sale to build a nice little -house. They’d start a sight better off than we -did.”</p> - -<p>“But we were very happy, Joe, weren’t we?”</p> - -<p>“That we were, and that we are, Sally,” said -Armstrong. “Come on out in the garden with -your beau; we ain’t going to let the young folks -do all the courting.”</p> - -<p>Mysie and Henriette saw the couple walking -in the garden, the husband’s arm around -his wife’s waist, and the soft-hearted sister -sighed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, sister, don’t you kinder wish you <em>hadn’t -done it</em>?” she whispered. “They didn’t mean -any harm.”</p> - -<p>“Harm? No. I dare say that young carpenter -would be willing to marry Pauline Beaumont!” -cried Henriette, bitterly.</p> - -<p>Mysie shook her gray head, her loose mouth -working, while she winked away a tear. “I -don’t care, I don’t care”—thus did she inwardly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -moan out a spasm of dire resolution—“I’m just -going to tell Pauline!”</p> - -<p>Perhaps what she told set the cloud on the -girl’s pretty face; and perhaps that was why she -looked eagerly over the Armstrong fence every -night; and the cloud lifted at the sound of Mrs. -Armstrong’s mellow voice hailing her from any -part of the house or yard.</p> - -<p>But one night, instead of the usual cheerful -stir about the house, she found the Swede girl -alone in the kitchen, weeping over the potatoes. -To Pauline’s inquiries she returned a burst of -woe. “They all tooken to chail—all!” she -wailed. “I don’t know what to do if I get supper. -The mans come, the police mans, and -tooken them all away. <i lang="sv">I hela verlden!</i> who ever -know such a country? Such nice peoples sent -to chail for play on the organ—their own organ! -They say they not play right, but I think to send -to chail for not play right on the organ that -sha’n’t be right!”</p> - -<p>Pauline could make nothing more out of her; -but the man on the corner looked in at one particularly -dolorous burst of sobs over poor Tim -and poor Petey and tendered his version: -“They’ve gone, sure enough, miss. Your sisters -have had them arrested for keeping and -committing a nuisance. Now, I ain’t stuck on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span> -their organ-playing, as a general rule, myself, -but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a nuisance. -But the Fullers ain’t on the best of terms; old -Fuller is a crank, and there’s politics between -him and Armstrong and the Delaneys, who have -just moved into the neighborhood, mother and -daughter—very musical folks, they say, and -nervous; they have joined in with your sister—”</p> - -<p>“Where have they gone?” asked Pauline, who -was very pale.</p> - -<p>“To the police court. They were mighty cunning, -if you’ll excuse me, miss. They picked -out that old German crank, Von Reibnitz, who -plays in the Schubert Quartet, and loves music -better than beer.”</p> - -<p>The man was right. Henriette had chosen -her lawgiver shrewdly. At this very moment -she was sitting in one of the dingy chairs of the -police court, with the mien of Marie Antoinette -on her way to execution. Mysie sat beside her -in misery not to be described; for was she not -joined with Henriette in the prosecution of the -unfortunate Armstrongs? and had she not surreptitiously -partaken of hot rolls and strawberry -jam that very day, handed over the fence to her -by Mrs. Armstrong? She could not sustain the -occasional glare of the magistrate’s glasses; and, -unable to look in the direction of the betrayed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -Armstrongs, for the most part she peered desolately -at the clerk. The accused sat opposite. -Mr. Armstrong and Ike were in their working-clothes. -Hastily summoned, they had not the -meagre comfort of a toilet. The father looked -about the court, a perplexed frown replacing at -intervals a perplexed grin. When he was not -studying the court-room, he was polishing the -bald spot on his head with a large red handkerchief, -or rubbing the grimy palms of his hands -on the sides of his trousers. He had insisted -upon an immediate trial, but his wits had not -yet pulled themselves out of the shock of his arrest. -The boys varied the indignant solemnity -of bearing which their mother had impressed on -them with the unquenchable interest of their -age. Mrs. Armstrong had assumed her best bonnet -and her second-best gown. She was a handsome -woman, with her fair skin, her wavy brown -hair, and brilliant blue eyes; and the reporter -looked at her often, adding to the shame and -fright that were clawing her under her Spartan -composure. But she held her head in the air -bravely. Not so her son, who sat with his hands -loosely clasped before him and his head sunk on -his breast through the entire arraignment.</p> - -<p>Behind the desk the portly form of the magistrate -filled an arm-chair to overflowing, so that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> -the reporter wondered whether he could rise from -the chair, should it be necessary, or whether chair -and he must perforce cling together. His body -and arms were long, but his legs were short, so -he always used a cricket, which somehow detracted -from the dignity of his appearance. He -had been a soldier, and kept a martial gray mustache; -but he wore a wig of lustrous brown -locks, which he would push from side to side in -the excitement of a case, and then clap frankly -back into place with both hands. There was no -deceit about Fritz Von Reibnitz. He was a man -of fiery prejudices, but of good heart and sound -sense, and he often was shrewder than the lawyers -who tried to lead him through his weaknesses. -But he had a leaning towards a kind of -free-hand, Arabian justice, and rather followed -the spirit of the law than servilely questioned -what might be the letter. Twirling his mustachios, -he leaned back in his chair and studied -the faces of the Armstrong family, while the -clerk read the information slowly—for the benefit -of his friend the reporter, who felt this to -be one of the occasions that enliven a dusty road -of life.</p> - -<p>“State of Iowa, Winfield County. The City -of Fairport <i>vs.</i> Jos. L. Armstrong, Mrs. J. L. -Armstrong, Isaac J. Armstrong, Peter Armstrong,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> -and Timothy Armstrong. The defendants” -(the names were repeated, and at each -name the mother of the Armstrongs winced) -“are accused of the crime of violating Section 2 -of Chapter 41 of the ordinances of said city. -For that the defendants, on the 3d, the 10th, -the 15th, and 23d day of July, 18—, in the city -of Fairport, in said county, did conspire and -confederate together to disturb the public quiet -of the neighborhood, and in pursuance of said -conspiracy, and aiding and abetting each other, -did make, then and there, loud and unusual -noises by playing on a cabinet organ in an unusual -and improper manner, and by singing -boisterously and out of tune; and did thereby -disturb the public quiet of the neighborhood, -contrary to the ordinances in such case provided.”</p> - -<p>“You vill read also the ordinance, Mr. Clerk,” -called the magistrate, with much majesty of manner, -frowning at the same time on the younger -lawyers, who were unable to repress their feelings, -while the reporter appeared to be taken -with cramps.</p> - -<p>The clerk read:</p> - -<p>“Every person who shall unlawfully disturb -the public quiet of any street, alley, avenue, public -square, wharf, or any religious or other public<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -assembly, or building public or private, or any -neighborhood, private family, or person within -the city, by giving false alarms of fire” (Mrs. -Armstrong audibly whispered to her husband, -“We <em>never</em> did that!”), “by loud or unusual -noises” (Mrs. Armstrong sank back in her corner, -and Joseph Armstrong very nearly groaned -aloud), “by ringing bells, blowing horns or other -instruments, etc., etc., shall be deemed guilty of -a misdemeanor, and punished accordingly.”</p> - -<p>Then up rose the attorney for the prosecution -to state his case. He narrated how the Armstrong -family had bought an organ, and had -played upon it almost continually since the purchase, -thereby greatly annoying and disturbing -the entire neighborhood. He said that no member -of the Armstrong family knew more than two -changes on the organ, and that several of them, -in addition to playing, were accustomed to sing -in a loud and disagreeable voice (the Armstrong -family were visibly affected), and that so great -was the noise and disturbance made by the said -organ that the prosecuting witness, Miss Beaumont, -who was sick at the time, had been agitated -and disturbed by it, to her great bodily and -mental damage and danger. That although requested -to desist, they had not desisted (Tim -and Pete exchanged glances of undissembled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> -enjoyment), and therefore she was compelled in -self-defence to invoke the aid of the law.</p> - -<p>Ike listened dully. There was no humor in -the situation for him. He felt himself and his -whole family disgraced, dragged before the police -magistrate just like a common drunk and -disorderly loafer, and accused of being a nuisance -to their neighborhood; the shame of it -tingled to his finger-tips. He would not look -up; it seemed to him that he could never hold -up his head again. No doubt it would all be in -the paper next morning, and the Armstrongs, -who were so proud of their honest name, would be -the laughing-stock of the town. Somebody was -saying something about a lawyer. Ike scowled -at the faces of the young attorneys lolling and -joking outside the railing. “I won’t fool away -any money on those chumps,” he growled; “I -want to get through and pay my fine and be -done.”</p> - -<p>Somebody laughed; then he saw that it was -the sheriff of the county, a good friend of his. -He looked appealingly up at the strong, dark -face; he grasped the big hand extended.</p> - -<p>“I’m in a hole, Mr. Wickliff,” he whispered.</p> - -<p>“Naw, you’re not,” replied Wickliff; “you’ve -a friend in the family. She got onto this plot -and came to me a good while ago. We’re all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> -ready. I’ve known her since she was a little -girl. Know ’em all, poor things! Say, let <em>me</em> -act as your attorney. Don’t have to be a member -of the bar to practise in <em>this</em> court. Y’Honor! -If it please y’Honor, I’d like to be excused -to telephone to some witnesses for the defence.”</p> - -<p>Ike caught his breath. “A friend in the family!” -He did not dare to think what that meant. -And Wickliff had gone. They were examining -the prosecuting witnesses. Miss Mysilla Beaumont -took the oath, plainly frightened. She -spoke almost in a whisper. Her evident desire -to deal gently with the Armstrongs was used -skilfully by the young attorney whom John Perley -(his uncle) had employed. Behold (he made -poor Mysie’s evidence seem to say) what ear-rending -and nerve-shattering sounds these barbarous -organists must have produced to make this amiable -lady protest at law! Mysie fluttered out of -the witness-box in a tremor, nor dared to look -where Mrs. Armstrong sat bridling and fanning -herself. Next three Fullers deposed to more or -less disturbance from the musical taste of the -Armstrongs, and the Delaney daughter swore, in -a clarion voice, that the playing of the Armstrongs -was the worst ever known.</p> - -<p>“It ain’t any worse than her scales!” cried<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> -Mrs. Armstrong, goaded into speech. The magistrate -darted a warning glance at her.</p> - -<p>Miss Henriette Beaumont was called last. -Her mourning garments, to masculine eyes, did -not show their age; and her grand manner and -handsome face, with its gray hair and its flashing -eyes, caused even the magistrate’s manner to -change. Henriette had a rich voice and a beautiful -articulation. Every softly spoken word -reached Mrs. Armstrong, who writhed in her -seat. She recited how she had spent hours of -“absolute torment” under the Armstrong instrumentation, -and she described in the language -of the musician the unspeakable iniquities of the -Armstrong technique. Her own lawyer could -not understand her, but the magistrate nodded -in sympathy. She said she was unable to sleep -nights because of the “horrible discords played -on the organ—”</p> - -<p>“I declare we never played it but two nights, -and they weren’t discords; they were nice tunes,” -sobbed Mrs. Armstrong.</p> - -<p>The justice rapped and frowned. “Silence in -der court!” he thundered. Then he glared on -poor Mrs. Armstrong. “Anybody vot calls hisself -a laty ought to behave itself like sooch!” he -said, with strong emphasis. The attorneys present -choked and coughed. In fact, the remark<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> -passed into a saying in police-court circles. Miss -Henriette stepped with stately graciousness to -her seat.</p> - -<p>“Und now der defence,” said the justice—“der -Armstrong family. Vot has you got to -say?”</p> - -<p>“Let me put some witnesses on first, Judge,” -called Wickliff, “to show the Armstrongs’ character.” -He was opening the door, and the hall -behind seemed filled.</p> - -<p>“Oh, good land, Ikey, do look!” quavered -Mrs. Armstrong; “there’s pa’s boss, and the -Martins that used to live in the same block with -us, and Mrs. O’Toole, and all the neighbors most -up to the East End, and—oh, Ikey! there’s Miss -Pauline herself! Our friends ’ain’t deserted us; -I knew perfectly well they <em>wouldn’t</em>!”</p> - -<p>Ike did look up then—he stood up. His eyes -met the eyes of his sweetheart, and he sat -down with his cheeks afire and his head in -the air.</p> - -<p>“In the first place,” said Wickliff, assuming -an easy attitude, with one hand in a pocket and -the other free for oratorical display, “I’ll call -Miss Beaumont, Miss Henriette Beaumont, for -the defence.” Miss Beaumont responded to the -call, and turned a defiant stare on the amateur -attorney.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p> - -<p>“You say you were disturbed by the Armstrongs’ -organ?”</p> - -<p>“I was painfully disturbed.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally you informed your neighbors, and -asked them to desist playing the organ?”</p> - -<p>“I did.”</p> - -<p>“How many times?”</p> - -<p>“Once.”</p> - -<p>“To whom did you speak?”</p> - -<p>“I told the boys to tell their mother.”</p> - -<p>“Are you passionately fond of music?”</p> - -<p>“I am.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sensitive to bad music—acutely sensitive?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I am; a lover of music is, of necessity.”</p> - -<p>The magistrate nodded and sighed.</p> - -<p>“Are you of a particularly patient and forbearing -disposition?” Henriette directed a -withering glance at the tall figure of the questioner.</p> - -<p>“I am forbearing enough,” she answered. -“Do I need to answer questions that are plainly -put to insult me?”</p> - -<p>“No, madam,” said the magistrate. “Mr. -Wickliff, I rules dot question out.”</p> - -<p>Nothing daunted, Wickliff continued: “When -you gave the boys warning, where were they?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span></p> - -<p>“In my house.”</p> - -<p>“How came they there?”</p> - -<p>“They had brought over a bucket of water.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because we had only well-water, they said.”</p> - -<p>“That was rather kind on the part of Mrs. -Armstrong, don’t you think? In every respect, -besides playing the organ, she was a kind neighbor, -wasn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t complain of her.”</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t she rather noted in the neighborhood -as a lady of great kindness? Didn’t she -often send in little delicacies—flowers, fruit, and -such things—gifts that often pass between neighbors -to different people?”</p> - -<p>“She may have. I am not acquainted with -her.”</p> - -<p>“Hasn’t she sent in things at different times -to <em>you</em>?”</p> - -<p>Henriette’s throat began to form the word no; -then she remembered the shortcake, she remembered -the roses, she remembered her oath, and -she choked. “I don’t know much about it; -perhaps she may have,” said she.</p> - -<p>“That will do,” said Wickliff. “Call Miss -Mysilla Beaumont.” Wickliff’s respectful bearing -reassured the agitated spinster. He wouldn’t -detain her a moment. He only wanted to know<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> -had neighborly courtesies passed between the -two houses. Yes? Had Mrs. Armstrong been -a kind and unobtrusive neighbor?</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, sir; yes, indeed,” cried poor Mysie.</p> - -<p>“Were you yourself much disturbed by the -organ?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir,” gasped Mysie, with one tragic -glance at her sister’s stony features. She knew -now what Jeanie Deans must have suffered.</p> - -<p>“That will do,” said Wickliff.</p> - -<p>Then a procession of witnesses filed into the -narrow space before the railing. First the employer -of the elder Armstrong gave his high -praise of his foreman as a man and a citizen; -then came the neighbors, declaring the Armstrong -virtues—from Mrs. Martin, who deposed -with tears that Mrs. Armstrong’s courage and good -nursing had saved her little Willy’s life when he -was burned, to Mrs. O’Toole, an aged little Irish -woman, who recited how the brave young Peter -had rescued her dog from a band of young torturers. -“And they had a tin can filled with -fire-crackers, yer Honor (an’ they was lighted), -tied to the poor stoompy tail of him; but Petey -he pulled it aff, and he throwed it ferninst them, -and he made them sorry that day, he did, for it -bursted. He’s a foine bye, and belongs to a -foine family!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span></p> - -<p>“Aren’t you a little prejudiced in favor of the -Armstrongs, Mrs. O’Toole?” asked the prosecuting -attorney, as Wickliff smilingly bade him -“take the witness.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sor, I am,” cried Mrs. O’Toole, huddling -her shawl closer about her wiry little frame. “I -am that, sor, praise God! They paid the rint -for me whin me bye was in throuble, and they -got him wur-rk, and he’s doin’ well this day, -and been for three year. And there’s many -a hot bite passed betwane us whin we was neighbors. -Prejudeeced! I’d not be wuth the crow’s -pickin’s if I wasn’t; and the back of me hand -and the sowl of me fut to thim that’s persecuting -of thim this day!”</p> - -<p>“Call Miss Pauline Beaumont,” said Wickliff. -“That will do, grandma.”</p> - -<p>Pauline’s evidence was very concise, but to the -point. She did not consider the Armstrong -organ a nuisance. She believed the Armstrongs, -if instructed, would learn to play the organ. If -the window were shut the noise could not disturb -any one. She had the highest respect and -regard for the Armstrongs.</p> - -<p>“There’s my case, your Honor,” said Wickliff, -“and I’ve confidence enough in it and in this -court to leave it in your hands. Say the same, -Johnny?”—to the young lawyer. Perley laughed;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> -he was beginning to suspect that not all the -case appeared on the surface. Perhaps the Beaumont -family peace would fare all the better if he -kept his hands off. He said that he had no evidence -to offer in rebuttal, and would leave the -case confidently to the wisdom of the court.</p> - -<p>“And I’ll bet you a hat on one thing, Amos,” -he observed in an undertone to the amateur attorney -on the other side, “Fritz’s decision on -this case may be good sense, but it will be awful -queer law.”</p> - -<p>“Fritz has got good sense,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>The magistrate announced his decision. He -had deep sympathy, he said, for the complainant, -a gifted and estimable lady. He knew that the -musical temperament was sensitive as the violin—yes. -But it also appeared from the evidence -that the Armstrong family were a good, a worthy -family, lacking only a knowledge of music to -make them acceptable neighbors. Therefore he -decided that the Armstrong family should hire a -competent teacher, and that, until able to play -without giving offence to the neighbors, they -should close the window. With that understanding -he would find the defendants not guilty; -and each party must pay its own costs.</p> - -<p>Perley glanced at Amos, who grinned and repeated, -“Fritz has got good sense.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus8"> -<img src="images/illus8.jpg" width="450" height="500" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘THEY HAVE ENGAGED <em>ME</em>’”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span></p> - -<p>“I’d have won my hat,” said Perley, “but -I’m not kicking. Just look at Miss Beaumont, -though.”</p> - -<p>Henriette had listened in stony calm. She -did not once look at Pauline, who was standing -at the other side of the room. “Come, sister,” -she said to Mysie. Mysie turned a scared face -on Henriette. She drew her aside.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear what he said?” she whispered. -“Oh, Henriette, <em>what</em> shall we do? We shall -have to pay the costs—”</p> - -<p>“The Armstrongs will have to pay them too,” -said Henriette, grimly.</p> - -<p>“Theirs won’t be so much, because none of -their witnesses will take a cent; but the Fullers -and Miss Delaney want their fees, and it’s a dollar -and a half, and there’s—”</p> - -<p>“We shall have to borrow it from John Perley,” -said Henriette.</p> - -<p>“But he isn’t here, and maybe they’ll put us -in jail if we don’t pay. Oh, Henriette, why did -you—”</p> - -<p>This, Mysie’s first and last reproach of her -sovereign, was cut short by the approach of -Pauline.</p> - -<p>At her side walked young Armstrong. And -Pauline, who used to be so timid, presented him -without a tremor.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span></p> - -<p>“I wanted to tell you, Miss Beaumont,” said -Ike, “that I did not understand that we were -disturbing you so much when you were sick. -Not being musical, we could not appreciate what -we were making you suffer. But I beg you to -believe, ma’am, that we are all very sorry. And -I didn’t think it no more than right that I should -pay all the costs of this case—which I have done -gladly. I hope you will forgive us, and that we -may all of us live as good neighbors in future. -We will try not to annoy you, and we have engaged -a very fine music-teacher.”</p> - -<p>“They have engaged <em>me</em>,” said Pauline. And -as she spoke she let the young man very gently -draw her hand into his arm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HIS_DUTY">HIS DUTY</h2> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span></p> - -<h3>HIS DUTY</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Amos Wickliff little suspected himself -riding, that sunny afternoon, towards -the ghastliest adventure of an adventurous -life. Nevertheless, he was ill at ease. His -horse was too light for his big muscles and his -six feet two of bone. Being a merciful man to -beasts, he could not ride beyond a jog-trot, and -his soul was fretted by the delay. He cast a -scowl down the dejected neck of the pony to -its mournful, mismated ears, and from thence -back at his own long legs, which nearly scraped -the ground. “O Lord! ain’t I a mark on this -horse!” he groaned. “We could make money -in a circus!” With a gurgle of disgust he looked -about him at the glaring blue sky, at the measureless, -melancholy sweep of purple and dun -prairie.</p> - -<p>“Well, give <em>me</em> Iowa!” said Amos.</p> - -<p>For a long while he rode in silence, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> -his thoughts were distinct enough for words. -“What an amusing little scamp it was!”—thus -they ran—“I believe he could mimic anything -on earth. He used to give a cat and puppy -fighting that I laughed myself nearly into a fit -over. When I think of that I hate this job. -Now why? You never saw the fellow to speak -to him more than twice. Duty, Amos, duty. -But if he is as decent as he’s got the name of being -here, it’s rough—Hullo! River? Trees?” -The river might be no more than the lightening -rim of the horizon behind the foliage, but there -was no mistake about the trees; and when Wickliff -turned the field-glass, which he habitually -carried, on them he could make out not only the -river and the willows, but the walls of a cabin -and the lovely undulations of a green field of -corn. Half an hour’s riding brought him to the -house and a humble little garden of sweet-pease -and hollyhocks. Amos groaned. “How cursed -decent it all looks! And flowers too! I have -no doubt that his wife’s a nice woman, and the -baby has a clean face. Everything certainly -does combine to ball me up on this job! There -she is; and she’s nice!”</p> - -<p>A woman in a clean print gown, with a child -pulling at her skirt, had run to the gate. She -looked young. Her freckled face was not exactly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -pretty, but there was something engaging -in the flash of her white teeth and her soft, black-lashed, -dark eyes. She held the gate wide open, -with the hospitality of the West. “Won’t you -’light, stranger?” she called.</p> - -<p>“I’m bound for here,” replied Amos, telling -his prepared tale glibly. “This is Mr. Brown’s, -the photographer’s, ain’t it? I want him to -come to the settlement with me and take me -standing on a deer.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.” The woman spoke in mellow -Southern accents, and she began to look interested, -as suspecting a romance under this vain-glory. -“Yes, sir. Deer you shot, I reckon. -I’ll send Johnny D. for him. Oh, Johnny D.!”</p> - -<p>A lath of a boy of ten, with sunburnt white -hair and bright eyes, vaulted over a fence and -ran to her, receiving her directions to go find -uncle after he had cared for the gentleman’s -horse.</p> - -<p>“Your nephew, madam?” said Amos, as the -lad’s bare soles twinkled in the air.</p> - -<p>“Well, no, sir, not born nephew,” she said, -smiling; “he’s a little neighbor boy. His folks -live three miles further down the river; but I -reckon we all think jest as much of him as if he -was our born kin. Won’t you come in, sir?”</p> - -<p>By this time she had passed under the luxuriant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> -arbor of honeysuckle that shaded the porch, -and she threw wide the door. The room was -large. It was very tidy. The furniture was of -the sort that can be easily transported where -railways have to be pieced out with mule trails. -But it was hardly the ordinary pioneer cabin. -Not because there was a sewing-machine in one -corner, for the sewing-machine follows hard on -the heels of the plough; perhaps because of the -white curtains at the two windows (curtains -darned and worn thin by washing, tied back -with ribbons faded by the same ministry of neatness), -or the square of pretty though cheap carpet -on the floor, or the magazines and the bunch -of sweet-pease on the table, but most because of -the multitude of photographs on the clumsy -walls. They were on cards, all of the same size -(not more than 8 by 10 inches), protected by -glass, and framed in mossy twigs. Some of the -pictures were scenes of the country, many of -them bits of landscape near the house, all chosen -with a marvellous elimination of the usual grotesque -freaks of the camera, and with such an -unerring eye for subject and for light and shade -that the artist’s visions of the flat, commonplace -country were not only picturesque but poetic. -In the prints also were an extraordinary richness -and range of tone. It did not seem possible that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -mere black and white could give such an effect -of brilliancy and depth of color. An artist looking -over this obscure photographer’s workmanship -might feel a thrill like that which crinkles -a flower-lover’s nerves when he sees a mass of -azaleas in fresh bloom.</p> - -<p>Amos was not an artist, but he had a camera at -home, and he gave a gulp of admiration. “Well, -he <em>is</em> great!” he sighed. “That beats any photographic -work I ever saw.”</p> - -<p>The wife’s eyes were luminous. “Ain’t he!” -said she. “It ’most seems wicked for him to be -farming when he can do things like that—”</p> - -<p>“Why does he farm?”</p> - -<p>“It’s his health. He caynt stand the climate -East.”</p> - -<p>“You are from the South yourself, I take it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, Arkansas, though I don’t see how -ever you guessed it. I met Mist’ Brown there, -down in old Lawrence. I was teaching school -then, and went to have my picture taken in his -wagon. Went with my father, and he was so -pleasant and polite to paw I liked him from the -start. He nursed paw during his last sickness. -Then we were married and came out here—You’re -looking at that picture of little Davy at -the well? I like that the best of all the ten; his -little dress looks so cute, and he has such a sweet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -smile; and it’s the only one has his hair smooth. -I tell Mist’ Brown I do believe he musses that -child’s hair himself—”</p> - -<p>“Papa make Baby’s hair pitty for picture!” -cried the child, delighted to have understood -some of the conversation.</p> - -<p>“He’s a very pretty boy,” said Amos. “’Fraid -to come to me, young feller?”</p> - -<p>But the child saw too few to be shy, and happily -perched himself on the tall man’s shoulder, -while he studied the pictures. The mother appeared -as often as the child.</p> - -<p>“He’s got her at the best every time,” mused -the observer; “best side of her face, best light -on her nose. Never misses. That’s the way a -man looks at his girl; always twists his eyes a -little so as to get the best view. Plainly she’s in -love with him, and looks remarkably like he was -in love with her, damn him!” Then, with great -civility, he asked Mrs. Brown what developer her -husband used, and listened attentively, while she -showed him the tiny dark room leading out of -the apartment, and exhibited the meagre stock -of drugs.</p> - -<p>“I keep them up high and locked up in that -cupboard with the key on top, for fear Baby -might git at them,” she explained. She evidently -thought them a rare and creditable collection.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> -“I ain’t a bit afraid of Johnny D.; he’s -sensible, and, besides, he minds every word Mist’ -Brown tells him. He sets the world by Mist’ -Brown; always has ever since the day Mist’ -Brown saved him from drowning in the eddy.”</p> - -<p>“How was that?”</p> - -<p>“Why, you see, he was out fishing, and climbed -out on a log and slipped someway. It’s about -two miles further down the river, between his -parents’ farm and ours; and by a God’s mercy -we were riding by, Dave and the baby and I—the -baby wasn’t out of long-clothes then—and -we heard the scream. Dave jumped out and ran, -peeling his clothes as he ran. I only waited to -throw the weight out of the wagon to hold the -horses, and ran after him. I could see him -plain in the water. Oh, it surely was a dreadful -sight! I dream of it nights sometimes yet; and -he’s there in the water, with his wet hair streaming -over his eyes, and his eyes sticking out, -and his lips blue, fighting the current with one -hand, and drifting off, off, inch by inch, all the -time. And I wake up with the same longing on -me to cry out, ‘Let the boy go! Swim! <em>Swim!</em>’”</p> - -<p>“Well, <em>did</em> you cry that?” says Amos.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, sir. I went in to him. I pushed a -log along and climbed out on it and held out a -branch to him, and someway we all got ashore—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span></p> - -<p>“What did you do with the baby?”</p> - -<p>“I was fixing to lay him down in a soft spot -when I saw a man was on the bank. He was -jumping up and down and yelling: ‘I caynt -swim a stroke! I caynt swim a stroke!’ ‘Then -you hold the baby,’ says I; and I dumped poor -Davy into his arms. When we got the boy up -the bank he looked plumb dead; but Dave said: -‘He ain’t dead! He caynt be dead! I won’t -have him dead!’ wild like, and began rubbing -him. I ran to the man. If you please, there -that unfortunate man was, in the same place, -holding Baby as far away from him as he could -get, as if he was a dynamite bomb that might go -off at any minute. ‘Give me your pipe,’ says I. -‘You will have to fish it out of my pocket yourself,’ -says he; ‘I don’t dast loose a hand from -this here baby!’ And he did look funny! But -you may imagine I didn’t notice that then. I -ran back quick’s I could, and we rubbed that boy -and worked his arms and, you may say, blowed -the breath of life into him. We worked more’n -a hour—that poor man holding the baby the enduring -time: I reckon <em>his</em> arms were stiff’s ours!—and -I’d have given him up: it seemed awful -to be rumpling up a corpse that way. But Dave, -he only set his teeth and cried, ‘Keep on, I <em>will</em> -save him!’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span></p> - -<p>“And you <em>did</em> save him?”</p> - -<p>“<em>He</em> did,” flashed the wife; “he’d be in his -grave but for Dave. I’d given him up. And -his mother knows it. And she said that if that -child was not named Johnny ayfter his paw, -she’d name him David ayfter Mist’ Brown; but -seeing he was named, she’d do next best, give -him David for a middle. And as calling him -Johnny David seemed too long, they always call -him Johnny D. But won’t you rest your hat on -the bed and sit down, Mister—”</p> - -<p>“Wickliff,” finished Amos; but he added no -information regarding his dwelling-place or his -walk in life, and, being a Southerner, she did -not ask it. By this time she was getting supper -ready for the guest. Amos was sure she was a -good cook the instant his glance lighted on her -snowy and shapely rolls. He perceived that -he was to have a much daintier meal than he -had ever had before in the “Nation,” yet he -frowned at the wall. All the innocent, laborious, -happy existence of the pair was clear to -him as she talked, pleased with so good a listener. -The dominant impression which her unconscious -confidences made on him was her -content.</p> - -<p>“I reckon I am a natural-born farmer,” she -laughed. “I fairly crave to make things grow,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span> -and I love the very smell of the earth and the -grass. It’s beautiful out here.”</p> - -<p>“But aren’t you ever lonesome?”</p> - -<p>“Why, we’ve lots of neighbors, and they’re all -such nice folks. The Robys are awful kind people, -and only four miles, and the Atwills are only -three, on the other side. And then the Indians -drop in, but though I try to be good to them, it’s -hard to like anybody so dirty. Dave says Red -Horse and his band are not fair samples, for they -are all young bucks that their fathers won’t be -responsible for, and they certainly do steal. I -don’t think they ever stole anything from us, -’cept one hog and three chickens and a jug of -whiskey; but we always feed them well, and it’s a -little trying, though maybe you’ll think I’m inhospitable -to say so, to have half a dozen of them -drop in and eat up a whole batch of light bread -and all the meat you’ve saved for next day and a -plumb jug of molasses at a sitting. That Red -Horse is crazy for whiskey, and awful mean -when he’s drunk; but he’s always been civil to -us—There’s Mist’ Brown now!”</p> - -<p>Wickliff’s first glance at the man in the doorway -showed him the same undersized, fair-skinned, -handsome young fellow that he remembered; he -wanted to shrug his shoulders and exclaim, “The -identical little tough!” but Brown turned his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -head, and then Amos was aware that the recklessness -and the youth both were gone out of the -face. At that moment it went to the hue of -cigar ashes.</p> - -<p>“Here’s the gentleman, David; my husband, -Mist’ Wickliff,” said the wife.</p> - -<p>“Papa! papa!” joyously screamed the child, -pattering across the floor. Brown caught the -little thing up and kissed it passionately; and he -held his face for a second against its tiny shoulder -before he spoke (in a good round voice), welcoming -his guest. He was too busy with his boy, it -may be, to offer his hand. Neither did Amos -move his arm from his side. He repeated his -errand.</p> - -<p>Brown moistened his blue lips; a faint glitter -kindled in his haggard eyes, which went full at -the speaker.</p> - -<p>“<em>That’s</em> what you want, is it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, if I want anything more, I’ll explain it -on the way,” said Amos, unsmilingly.</p> - -<p>Brown swallowed something in his throat. -“All right; I guess I can go,” said he. “To-morrow, -that is. We can’t take pictures by -moonlight; and the road’s better by daylight. -Won’t you come out with me while I do my -chores? We can—can talk it over.” In spite of -his forced laugh there was undisguised entreaty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> -in his look, and relief when Amos assented. He -went first, saying under his breath, “I suppose -this is how you want.”</p> - -<p>Amos nodded. They went out, stepping down -the narrow walk between the rows of hollyhocks -to one side and sweet-pease to the other. Amos -turned his head from side to side, against his -will, subdued by the tranquil beauty of the scene. -The air was very still. Only afar, on the river-bank, -the cows were calling to the calves in the -yard. A bell tinkled, thin and sweet, as one cow -waded through the shallow water under the willows. -After the dismal neutral tints of the prairie, -the rich green of corn-field and grass looked -enchanting, dipped as they were in the glaze of -sunset. The purple-gray of the well-sweep was -painted flatly against a sky of deepest, lustreless -blue—the sapphire without its gleam. But the -river was molten silver, and the tops of the trees -reflected the flaming west, below the gold and -the tumbled white clouds. Turn one way, the -homely landscape held only cool, infinitely soft -blues and greens and grays; turn the other, and -there burned all the sumptuous dyes of earth and -sky.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pretty place,” said Brown, timidly.</p> - -<p>“Very pretty,” Amos agreed, without emotion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span></p> - -<p>“I’ve worked awfully hard to pay for it. It’s -all paid for now. You saw my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Nice lady,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>“By ⸺, she is!” The other man swore with -a kind of sob. “And she believes in me. We’re -happy. We’re trying to lead a good life.”</p> - -<p>“I’m inclined to think you’re living as decently -and lawfully as any citizens of the United -States.” The tone had not changed.</p> - -<p>“Well, what are you going to do?” Brown -burst forth, as if he could bear the strain no -longer.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to do my duty, Harned, and take -you to Iowa.”</p> - -<p>“Will you listen to me first? All you know -is, I killed—”</p> - -<p>But the officer held up his hand, saying in the -same steady voice, “You know whatever you -say may be used against you. It’s my duty to -warn—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know you, Mr. Wickliff. Come behind -the gooseberry bushes where my wife can’t -see us—”</p> - -<p>“It’s no use, Harned; if you talked like Bob -Ingersoll or an angel, I have to do my duty.” -Nevertheless he followed, and leaned against the -wall of the little shed that did duty for a barn. -Harned walked in front of him, too miserably<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span> -restless to stand still, nervously pulling and -breaking wisps of hay between his fingers, talking -rapidly, with an earnestness that beaded his -forehead and burned in his imploring eyes. “All -you know about me”—so he began, quietly -enough—“all you know about me is that I was -a dissipated, worthless photographer, who could -sing a song and had a cursed silly trick of mimicry -which made him amusing company; and so -I was trying to keep company with rich fellows. -You don’t know that when I came to your town -I was as innocent a country lad as you ever -saw, and had a picture of my dead mother in my -Bible, and wrote to my father every week. He -was a good man, my father. Lucky he died before -he found out about <em>me</em>. And you don’t -know, either, that at first, keeping a little studio -on the third story, with a folding-bed in the -studio, and doing my cooking on the gas-jet, I -was a happy man. But I was. I loved my art. -Maybe you don’t call a photographer an artist. -I do. Because a man works with the sun instead -of a brush or a needle, can’t he create a picture? -And do you suppose a photographer can’t hunt -for the soul in a sitter as well as a portrait-painter? -Can’t a photographer bring out light -and shade in as exquisite gradations as an etcher? -Artist! Any man that can discover beauty, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> -can express it in any shape so other men can see -it and love it and be happy on account of it—<em>he’s</em> -an artist! And I don’t give a damn for a -critic who tries to box up art in his own little -hole!” Harned was excitedly tapping the horny -palm of one hand with the hard, grimy fingers of -the other. Amos thought of the white hands that -he used to take such pains to guard, and then he -looked at the faded check shirt and the patched -overalls. Harned had been a little dandy, too -fond of perfumes and striking styles.</p> - -<p>“I was an artist,” said Harned. “I loved my -art. I was happy. I had begun to make reputation -and money when the devil sent him my -way. He was an amateur photographer; that’s -how we got acquainted. When he found I could -sing and mimic voices he was wild over me, flattered -me, petted me, taught me all kinds of fool -habits; ruined me, body and soul, with his -friendship. Well, he’s dead; and God knows -she wasn’t worth a man’s life; but he did treat me -mean about her, and when I flew at him he jeered -at me, and he took advantage of my being a little -fellow and struck me and cuffed me before -them all; then I went crazy and shot him!” He -stopped, out of breath. Wickliff mused, frowning. -The man at his mercy pleaded on, gripping -those slim, roughened hands of his hard together:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> -“It ain’t quite so bad as you thought, is it, -Mr. Wickliff? For God’s sake put yourself in -my place! I went through hell after I shot him. -You don’t know what it is to live looking over -your shoulder! Fear! fear! fear! Day and -night, fear! Waking up, maybe, in a cold -sweat, hearing some noise, and thinking it meant -pursuit and the handcuffs. Why, my heart was -jumping out of my mouth if a man clapped me -on the shoulder from behind, or hollered across -the street to me to stop. Then I met my wife. -You need not tell me I had no right to marry. I -know it; I told myself so a hundred times; but -I couldn’t leave her alone with her poor old sick -father, could I? And then I found out that—that -it would be hard for her, too. And I was -all wore out. Man, you don’t know what it is to -be frightened for two years? There wasn’t a -nerve in me that didn’t seem to be pulled out as -far as it would go. I married her, and we hid ourselves -out here in the wilderness. You can say -what you please, I have made her happy; and she’s -made me. If I was to die to-night, she’d thank -God for the happy years we’ve had together; -just as she’s thanked Him every night since we -were married. The only thing that frets her is -me giving up photography. She thinks I could -make a name like Wilson or Black. Maybe I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -could; but I don’t dare; if I made a reputation -I’d be gone. I have to give it up, and do you -suppose that ain’t a punishment? Do you suppose -it’s no punishment to sink into obscurity -when you know you’ve got the capacity to do -better work than the men that are getting the -money and the praise? Do you suppose it -doesn’t eat into my heart every day that I can’t -ever give my boy his grandfather’s honest name?—that -I don’t even dare to make his father’s -name one he would be proud of? Yes, I took -his life, but I’ve given up all my chances in the -world for it. My only hope was to change as I -grew older and be lost, and the old story would -die out—”</p> - -<p>“It might; but you see he had a mother,” said -Wickliff; “she offers five thousand—”</p> - -<p>“It was only one thousand,” interrupted -Harned.</p> - -<p>“One thousand first year. She’s raised a -thousand every year. She’s a thrifty old party, -willing to pay, but not willing to pay any more -than necessary. When it got to five thousand I -took the case.”</p> - -<p>Harned looked wistfully about him. “I might -raise four thousand—”</p> - -<p>“Better stop right there. I refused fifty -thousand once to let a man go.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span></p> - -<p>“Excuse me,” said Harned, humbly; “I remember. -I’m so distracted I can’t think of anything -but Maggie and the baby. Ain’t there -anything that will move you? I’ve paid for that -thing. I saved a boy’s life once—”</p> - -<p>“I know; I’ve seen the boy.”</p> - -<p>“Then you know I fought for his life; I fought -awful hard. I said to myself, if he lived I’d -know it was the sign God had forgiven me. He -did live. I’ve paid, Mr. Wickliff, I’ve paid in -the sight of God. And if it comes to society, it -seems to me I’m a good deal more use to it here -than I’d be in a State’s prison pegging shoes, and -my poor wife—”</p> - -<p>He choked; but there was no softening of the -saturnine gloom of Wickliff’s face.</p> - -<p>“You ought to tell that all to the lawyer, not -to me,” said Wickliff. “I’m only a special officer, -and my duty is to my employer, not to society. -What’s more, I am going to perform it. -There isn’t anything that can make it right for -me to balk on my duty, no matter how sorry I -feel for you. No, Mr. Harned, if you live and I -live, you go back to Iowa with me.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus9"> -<img src="images/illus9.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“HARNED HID HIS FACE”</p> -</div> - -<p>Harned in utter silence studied the impassive -face, and it returned his gaze; then he threw his -arm up against the shed, and hid his own face in -the crook of his elbow. His shoulders worked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span> -as in a strong shudder, but almost at once they -were still, and when he turned his features were -blank and steady as the boards behind them.</p> - -<p>“I’ve just one favor to ask,” said he; “don’t -tell my wife. You have got to stay here to-night; -it will be more comfortable for you, if I -don’t say anything till after you’ve gone to bed. -Give me a chance to explain and say good-bye. It -will be hard enough for her—”</p> - -<p>“Will you give me your parole you won’t try -to escape?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Nor kill yourself?”</p> - -<p>Harned started violently, and he laughed. -“Do you think I’d kill myself before poor Maggie? -I wouldn’t be so mean. No, I promise -you I won’t either run away or kill myself or -play any kind of trick on you to-night. Does -it go?”</p> - -<p>“It goes,” responded Amos, holding out his -hand; “and I’ll give you a good reputation in -court, too, for being a good citizen now. That -will have weight with the judge. And if you -care to know it, I’m mighty sorry for you.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Mr. Wickliff,” said Harned; but -he had not seemed to see the hand; he was striding -ahead.</p> - -<p>“That man means to kill himself,” thought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> -Amos; “he’s too blamed resigned. He’s got it -all planned before. And God help the poor -beggar! I guess it’s the best thing he can do -for himself. Lord, but it’s hard sometimes for -a man to do his duty!”</p> - -<p>The two men walked along, at first both mute, -but no sooner did they come well in view of the -kitchen door than they began to talk. Amos -hoped there was nothing in the rumors of Indian -troubles.</p> - -<p>“There’s only one band could make trouble,” -said Harned. “Red Horse is a mean Indian, -educated in the agency schools, and then relapsed. -Say, who’s that running up the river-bank? -Looks like Mrs. Roby’s sister. She’s got the -baby.” His face and voice changed sharply, -he crying out, “There’s something wrong with -that woman!” and therewith he set off running -to the house at the top of his speed. Half-way, -Amos, running behind him, could hear a clamor -of women’s voices, rising and breaking, and loud -cries. Mrs. Brown came to the doorway, beckoning -with both hands, screaming for them to -hurry.</p> - -<p>When they reached the door they could see the -new-comer. She was huddled in a rocking-chair, -a pitiful, trembling shape, wet to the skin, -her dank cotton skirts dripping, bareheaded, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> -her black hair blown about her ghastly face; -and on her breast a baby, wet as she, smiling and -cooing, but with a great crimson smouch on its -tiny shoulder. Near her appeared Johnny D.’s -white head. He was pale under his freckles, but -he kept assuring her stoutly that uncle wouldn’t -let the Indians get them.</p> - -<p>The woman was so spent with running that her -words came in gasps. “Oh, git ready! Fly! -They’ve killed the Robys. They’ve killed sister -and Tom. They killed the children. Oh, my -Lord! children! They was clinging to their -mother, and crying to the Indians to please not -to kill them. Oh, they pretended to be friendly—so’s -to git in; and we cooked ’em up such a -good supper; but they killed every one, little -Mary and little Jim—I heard the screeches. I -picked up the baby and run. I jumped into the -river and swum to the boat—I don’t know how -I done it—oh, be quick! They’ll be coming! -Oh, fly!”</p> - -<p>Harned turned on Amos. “Flying’s no good -on land, but maybe the boat—you’ll help?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Amos. “Here, young feller, -can you scuttle up to the roof-tree and reconnoitre -with this field-glass?—you’re considerably -lighter on your feet than me. Twist the -wheel round here till you can see plain. There’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -a hole, I see, up to the loft. Is there one out on -the roof? Then scuttle!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brown pushed the coffee back on the -stove. “No use it burning,” said she; and Amos -admired her firm tones, though she was deadly -pale. “If we ain’t killed we’ll need it. Dave, -don’t forget the camera. I’ll put up some comforters -to wrap the children in and something to -eat.” She was doing this with incredible quickness -as she spoke, while Harned saw to his gun -and the loading of a pistol.</p> - -<p>The pistol she took out of his hands, saying, -in a low, very gentle voice, “Give that to me, -honey.”</p> - -<p>He gave her a strange glance.</p> - -<p>“They sha’n’t hurt little Davy or me, Dave,” -she answered, in the same voice.</p> - -<p>Little Davy had gone to the woman and the -baby, and was looking about him with frightened -eyes; his lip began to quiver, and he pointed to -the baby’s shoulder: “Injuns hurt Elly. Don’t -let Injuns hurt Davy!”</p> - -<p>The wretched father groaned.</p> - -<p>“No, baby,” said the mother, kissing him.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! up there,” called Amos. “What do -you see?”</p> - -<p>The shrill little voice rang back clearly, -“They’re a-comin’, a terrible sight of them.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span></p> - -<p>“How many? Twenty?”</p> - -<p>“I guess so. Oh, uncle, the boat’s floated -off!”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you fasten it?” cried Harned.</p> - -<p>“God forgive me!” wailed the woman, “I -don’t know!”</p> - -<p>Harned sat down in the nearest chair, and his -gun slipped between his knees. “Maggie, give -us a drink of coffee,” said he, quietly. “We’ll -have time for that before they come.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t we barricade and fight?” said Amos, -glaring about him.</p> - -<p>“Then they’ll get behind the barn and fire -that, and the wind is this way.”</p> - -<p>“We’ve <em>got</em> to save the women and the kids!” -cried Amos. At this moment he was a striking -and terrible figure. The veins of his temple -swelled with despair and impotent fury; his -heavy features were transfigured in the intensity -of his effort to think—to see; his arms did not -hang at his sides; they were held tensely, with -his fist clinched, while his burning eyes roamed -over every corner of the room, over every picture. -In a flash his whole condition changed, -his muscles relaxed, his hands slid into his pockets, -he smiled the strangest and grimmest of -smiles. “All right,” said he. “Ah—Brown, -you got any whiskey? Fetch it.” The women<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span> -stared, while Harned passively found a jug and -placed it before him.</p> - -<p>“Now some empty bottles and tumblers.”</p> - -<p>“There are some empty bottles in the dark -room; what do you mean to do?”</p> - -<p>“Mean to save you. Brace up! I’ll get them. -And you, Mrs. Brown, if you’ve got any paregoric, -give those children a dose that will keep -them quiet, and up in the loft with you all. We’ll -hand up the kids. Listen! You must keep -quiet, and keep the children quiet, and not stir, -no matter what infernal racket you may hear -down here. You <em>must</em>! To save the children. -You must wait till you hear one of us, Brown or -me, call. See? I depend on you, and you <em>must</em> -depend on me!”</p> - -<p>Her eyes sought her husband’s; then, “I’m -ready, sir,” she said, simply. “I’ll answer for -Johnny D., and the others I’ll make quiet.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the stuff,” cried Amos, exultantly. -“I’ll fix the red butchers. Only for God’s sake -<em>hustle</em>!”</p> - -<p>He turned his back on the parting to enter the -dark room, and when he came back, with his -hands full of empty bottles, Harned was alone.</p> - -<p>“I told her it was our only chance,” said -Harned; “but I’m damned if I know what our -only chance is!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span></p> - -<p>“Never mind that,” retorted Amos, briskly. -He was entirely calm; indeed, his face held the -kind of grim elation that peril in any shape -brings to some natures. “You toss things up -and throw open the doors, as if you all had run -away in a big fright, while I’ll set the table.” -And, as Harned feverishly obeyed, he carefully -filled the bottles from the demijohn. The last -bottle he only filled half full, pouring the remains -of the liquor into a tumbler.</p> - -<p>“All ready?” he remarked; “well, here’s -how,” and he passed the tumbler to Harned, who -shook his head. “Don’t need a brace? I don’t -know as you do. Then shake, pardner, and -whichever one of us gets out of this all right -will look after the women. And—it’s all -right?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” choked Harned; “just give -the orders, and I’m there.”</p> - -<p>“You get into the other room, and you keep -there, still; those are the orders. Don’t you -come out, whatever you hear; it’s the women’s -and the children’s lives are at stake, do you -hear? And no matter what happens to <em>me</em>, you -stay <em>there</em>, you stay <em>still</em>! But the minute I -twist the button on that door, let me in, and be -ready with your hatchet—that will be handiest. -Savez?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes; God bless you, Mr. Wickliff!” cried -Harned.</p> - -<p>“Pardner it is, now,” said Wickliff. They -shook hands. Then Harned shut himself in the -closet. He did not guess Wickliff’s plan, but -that did not disturb the hope that was pumping -his heart faster. He felt the magnetism of a -born leader and an intrepid fighter, and he was -Wickliff’s to the death. He strained his ears at -the door. A chair scraped the boards; Wickliff -was sitting down. Immediately a voice began to -sing—Wickliff’s voice changed into a tipsy man’s -maudlin pipe. He was singing a war-song:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“‘We’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom!’”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The sound did not drown the thud of horses’ -hoofs outside. They sounded nearer. Then a -hail. On roared the song, all on one note. -Wickliff couldn’t carry a tune to save his soul, -and no living man, probably, had ever heard him -sing.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“‘And we’ll drive the savage crew from the land we love the best,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shouting the battle-cry—’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“Hullo! Who’s comin’? Injuns—mean noble -red men? Come in, gen’lemen all.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span></p> - -<p>The floor shook. They were all crowding in. -There was a din of guttural monosyllables and -sibilant phrases all fused together, threatening -and sinister to the listener; yet he could understand -that some of them were of pleasure. That -meant the sight of the whiskey.</p> - -<p>“P-play fair, gen’lemen,” the drunken voice -quavered, “thas fine whiskey, fire-water. Got -lot. Know where’s more. Queer shorter place -ever did see. Aller folks skipped. Nobody welcome -stranger. Ha, ha!—hic!—stranger found -the whiskey, and is shelerbrating for himself. -Help yeself, gen’lemen. I know where there’s -shum—shum more—plenty.”</p> - -<p>Dimly it came to Harned that here was the -man’s bid for his life. They wouldn’t kill him -until he should get the fresh supply of whiskey.</p> - -<p>“Where Black Blanket gone?” grunted Red -Horse. Harned knew his voice.</p> - -<p>“Damfino,” returned the drunken accents, -cheerfully. “L-lit out, thas all I know. Whas -you mean, hitting each orrer with bottles? Plenty -more. I’ll go get it. You s-shay where you are.”</p> - -<p>The blood pounded through Harned’s veins at -the sound of the shambling step on the floor. -His own shoulders involuntarily hunched themselves, -quivering as if he felt the tomahawk between -them. Would they wait, or would they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> -shy something at him and kill him the minute -his back was turned? God! what nerve the -man had! He was not taking a step the quicker—ah! -Wickliff’s fingers were at the fastening. -He flung the door back. Even then he staggered, -keeping to his rôle. But the instant he -was over the threshold the transformation came. -He hurled the door back and threw his weight -against it, quick as a cat. His teeth were set -in a grin of hate, his eyeballs glittered, and he -shook his pistol at the door.</p> - -<p>“Come on now, damn you!” he yelled. “We’re -ready.”</p> - -<p>Like an echo to his defiance, there rose an -awful and indescribable uproar from the room -beyond—screams, groans, yells, and simultaneously -the sound of a rush on the door. But -for a minute the door held.</p> - -<p>The clatter of tomahawk blades shook it, but -the wood was thick; it held.</p> - -<p>“Hatchet ready, pard?” said Wickliff. -“When you feel the door give, slip the bolt to -let ’em tumble in, and then strike for the women -and the kids; strike hard. I’ll empty my pop -into the heap. It won’t be such a big one if -the door holds a minute longer.”</p> - -<p>“What are they doing in there?” gasped -Harned.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus10"> -<img src="images/illus10.jpg" width="450" height="650" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘IT WON’T BE SUCH A BIG ONE IF THE DOOR HOLDS’”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p> - -<p>“They’re <em>dying</em> in there, that’s what,” Wickliff -replied, between his teeth, “and dying fast. -<em>Now!</em>”</p> - -<p>The words stung Harned’s courage into a rush, -like whiskey. He shot the bolt, and three Indians -tumbled on them, with more—he could -not see how many more—behind. Then the -hatchet fell. It never faltered after that one -glimpse Harned had of the thing at one Indian’s -belt. He heard the bark of the pistol, twice, -three times, the heap reeling; the three foremost -were on the floor. He had struck them -down too; but he was borne back. He caught -the gleam of the knife lurching at him; in the -same wild glance he saw Wickliff’s pistol against -a broad red breast, and Red Horse’s tomahawk -in the air. He struck—struck as Wickliff fired; -struck not at his own assailant, but at Red Horse’s -arm. It dropped, and Wickliff fired again. He -did not see that; he had whirled to ward the -other blow. But the Indian knife made only a -random, nerveless stroke, and the Indian pitched -forward, doubling up hideously in the narrow -space, and thus slipping down—dead.</p> - -<p>“That’s over!” called Wickliff.</p> - -<p>Now Harned perceived that they were standing -erect; they two and only they in the place. -Directly in front of them lay Red Horse, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> -blood streaming from his arm. He was dead; -nor was there a single living creature among the -Indians. Some had fallen before they could -reach the door at which they had flung themselves -in the last access of fury; some lay about -the floor, and one—the one with the knife—was -stiff behind Harned in the dark room.</p> - -<p>“Look at that fellow,” called Harned. “I -didn’t hit him; he may be shamming.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t hit him either,” said Wickliff, “but -he’s dead all the same. So are the others. I’d -been too, I guess, but for your good blow on -that feller’s arm. I saw him, but you can’t kill -two at once.”</p> - -<p>“How did you do it?”</p> - -<p>“Doped the whiskey. Cyanide of potassium -from your photographic drugs; that was the -quickest. Even if they had killed you and me, -it would work before they could get the women -and children. The only risk was their not taking -it, and with an Indian that wasn’t so much. -Now, pardner, you better give a hail, and then -we’ll hitch up and get them safe in the settlement -till we see how things are going.”</p> - -<p>“And then?” said Harned, growing red.</p> - -<p>Amos gnawed at the corners of his mustache -in rather a shamefaced way. “Then? Why, -then I’ll have to leave you, and make the best<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -story I can honestly for the old lady. Oh yes, -damn it! I know my duty; I never went back on -it before. But I never went back on a pardner -either; and after fighting together like we have, -I’m not up to any Roman-soldier business; nor -I ain’t going to give you a pair of handcuffs -for saving my life! So run outside and holler -to your frau.”</p> - -<p>Left alone, Wickliff gazed about him in deep -meditation, which at last found outlet in a few -pensive sentences. “Clean against the rules of -war; but rules of war are as much wasted on -Injuns as ‘please’ on a stone-deaf man! And -I simply <em>had</em> to save the women and children. -Still it’s a pretty sorry lay-out to pay five thousand -dollars for the privilege of seeing. But it’s -a good deal worse to not do my duty. I shall -never forgive myself. But I never should forgive -myself for going back on a pardner either. -I guess all it comes to is, duty’s a cursed blind -trail!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_HYPNOTIST">THE HYPNOTIST</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span></p> - -<h3>THE HYPNOTIST</h3> - -</div> - -<p>There were not so many carriages in the -little Illinois city with chop-tailed horses, -silver chains, and liveried coachmen that -the clerks in the big department shop should not -know the Courtlandt landau, the Courtlandt victoria, -and the Courtlandt brougham (Miss Abbie -Courtlandt’s private equipage) as well as they -knew Madam Courtlandt, Mrs. Etheridge, or -Miss Abbie. Two of the shop-girls promptly -absorbed themselves in Miss Abbie, one May -morning, when she alighted from the brougham. -For an instant she stood, as if undecided, looking -absently at the window, which happened to -be a huge kaleidoscope of dolls.</p> - -<p>A tall man and two ragged little girls were -staring at the dolls also. Both the girls were -miserably thin, and one of them had a bruise on -her cheek. The man was much too well clad -and prosperous to belong to them. He stroked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> -a drooping black mustache, and said, in the voice -of a man accustomed to pet children, whether -clean or dirty, “Like these dolls better than -yours, sissy?”—at the same time smiling at the -girl with the bruised cheek.</p> - -<p>A sharp little pipe answered, “I ’ain’t got no -doll, mister.”</p> - -<p>“No, she ’ain’t,” added the other girl; “but -<em>I</em> got one, only it ’ain’t got no right head. Pa -stepped on its head. I let her play with it, and -we made a head outer a corn-cob. It ain’t a -very good head.”</p> - -<p>“I guess not,” said the man, putting some -silver into her hand; “there, you take that, little -sister, and you go in and buy two dolls, one -for each of you; and you tell the young lady -that waits on you just what you told me. And -if there is any money left, you go on over to that -bakery and fill up with it.”</p> - -<p>The children gave him two rapid, bewildered -glances, clutched the money, and darted into the -store without a word. The man’s smiling eyes -as they turned away encountered Miss Abbie’s, -in which was a troubled interest. She had taken -a piece of silver from her own purse. He -smiled, as perceiving a kindly impulse that -matched his own; and she, to her own later surprise, -smiled too. The smile changed in a flash<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> -to a startled look; all the color drifted out of -her face, and she took a step forward so hastily -that she stumbled on her skirt. Recovering -herself, she dropped her purse; and a man who -had just approached went down on one knee to -pick it up. But the tall man was too quick for -him; a long arm swooped in between the other’s -outstretched hand and the gleaming bit of lizard-skin -on the bricks. The new-comer barely -avoided a collision. He did not take the escape -with good-humor, scowling blackly as he made a -scramble, while still on his knee, at something -behind the tall man’s back. This must have -been a handkerchief, since he immediately presented -a white flutter to Miss Courtlandt, bowing -and murmuring, “You dropped this too, I -guess, madam.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, thank you,” stammered Miss Courtlandt; -“thank you very much, Mr. Slater.” -She entered the store by his side, but at the -door she turned her head for a parting nod of -acknowledgment to the other. He remained a -second longer, staring at the dolls, and gnawing -the ends of his mustache, not irritated, but -sharply thoughtful.</p> - -<p>Thus she saw him, glancing out again, once -more, when inside the store. And through all -the anguish of the moment—for she was in a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span> -dire strait—she felt a faint pang that she should -have been rude to this kind stranger. In a -feeble way she wondered, as they say condemned -criminals wonder at street sights on the way to -the gallows, what he was thinking of. But had -he spoken his thought aloud she had not been -the wiser, since he was simply saying softly to -himself, “Well, wouldn’t it kill you dead!”</p> - -<p>Miss Abbie stopped at the glove-counter to -buy a pair of gloves. As she walked away she -heard distinctly one shop-girl’s sigh and exclamation -to the other, “My, I wish I was her!”</p> - -<p>A kind of quiver stirred Miss Abbie’s faded -cold face. Her dark gray eyes recoiled sidewise; -then she stiffened from head to heel and passed -out of the store.</p> - -<p>To a casual observer she looked annoyed; in -reality she was both miserable and humiliated. -And once back in the shelter of the brougham -her inward torment showed plainly in her face.</p> - -<p>Abigail Courtlandt was the second daughter -of the house; never so admired as Mabel, the -oldest, who died, or Margaret, the youngest, who -married Judge Etheridge, and was now a widow, -living with her widowed mother.</p> - -<p>Abigail had neither the soft Hayward loveliness -of Mabel and her mother, nor the haughty -beauty of Margaret, who was all a Courtlandt,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> -yet she was not uncomely. If her chin was too -long, her forehead too high, her ears a trifle too -large, to offset these defects she had a skin of -exquisite texture, pale and clear, white teeth, and -beautiful black brows.</p> - -<p>She was thin, too thin; but her dressmaker -was an artist, and Abbie would have been graceful -were she not so nervous, moving so abruptly, -and forever fiddling at something with her fingers. -When she sat next any one talking, it did -not help that person’s complacency to have her -always sink slightly on the elbow further from -her companion, as if averting her presence. An -embarrassed little laugh used to escape her at -the wrong moment. Withal, she was cold and -stiff, although some keen people fancied that her -coldness and stiffness were no more than a mask -to shield a morbid shyness. These same people -said that if she would only forget herself and -become interested in other people she would be -a lovable woman, for she had the kindest heart -in the world. Unfortunately all her thoughts -concentred on herself. Like many shy people, -Abbie was vain. Diffidence as often comes from -vanity, which is timid, as from self-distrust. -Abbie longed passionately not only to be loved, -but to be admired. She was loved, assuredly, -but she was not especially admired. Margaret<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> -Etheridge, with her courage, her sparkle, and -her beauty, was always the more popular of the -sisters. Margaret was imperious, but she was -generous too, and never oppressed her following; -only the rebels were treated to those stinging -speeches of hers. Those who loved Margaret -admired her with enthusiasm. No one admired -poor Abbie with enthusiasm. She was her father’s -favorite child, but he died when she was -in short dresses; and, while she was dear to all -the family, she did not especially gratify the -family pride.</p> - -<p>Her hungry vanity sought refuge in its own -creations. She busied herself in endless fictions -of reverie, wherein an imaginary husband and -an imaginary home of splendor appeased all her -longings for triumph. While she walked and -talked and drove and sewed, like other people, -only a little more silent, she was really in a land -of dreams.</p> - -<p>Did her mother complain because she had forgotten -to send the Book Club magazines or -books to the next lawful reader, she solaced herself -by visions of a book club in the future which -she and “he” would organize, and a reception -of distinguished elegance which “they” would -give, to which the disagreeable person who made -a fuss over nothing (meaning the reader to whom<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> -reading was due) should not be invited—thereby -reducing her to humility and tears. But even -the visionary tears of her offender affected Abbie’s -soft nature, and all was always forgiven.</p> - -<p>Did Margaret have a swarm of young fellows -disputing over her card at a ball, while Abbie -must sit out the dances, cheered by no livelier -company than that of old friends of the family, -who kept up a water-logged pretence of conversation -that sank on the approach of the first -new-comer or a glimpse of their own daughters -on the floor, Abbie through it all was dreaming -of the balls “they” would give, and beholding -herself beaming and gracious amid a worshipping -throng.</p> - -<p>These mental exercises, this double life that -she lived, kept her inexperienced. At thirty she -knew less of the world than a girl in her first -season; and at thirty she met Ashton Clarke. -Western society is elastic, or Clarke never would -have been on the edges even; he never did get -any further, and his morals were more dubious -than his position; but he was Abbie’s first impassioned -suitor, and his flattering love covered -every crack in his manners or his habits. Men -had asked her to marry them before, but never -had a man made love to her. For two weeks -she was a happy woman. Then came discovery,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -and the storm broke. The Courtlandts were in -a rage—except gentle Madam Courtlandt, who -was broken-hearted and ashamed, which was -worse for Abbie. Jack, the older brother, was -summoned from Chicago. Ralph, the younger, -tore home on his own account from Yale. It -was really a testimony to the family’s affection -for Abbie that she created such a commotion, -but it did not impress her in that way. In the -end she yielded, but she yielded with a sense of -cruel injustice done her.</p> - -<p>Time proved Clarke worse than her people’s -accusations; but time did not efface what the -boys had said, much less what the girls had said. -They forgot, of course; it is so much easier to -forget the ugly words that we say than those -that are said to us. But she remembered that -Jack felt that Abbie never did have any sense, -and that Ralph raged because she did not even -know a cad from a gentleman, and that Margaret, -pacing the floor, too angry to sit still, -would not have minded so much had Abbie made -a fool of herself for a <em>man</em>; but she didn’t wait -long enough to discover what he was; she positively -accepted the first thing with a mustache -on it that offered!</p> - -<p>Time healed her heart, but not her crushed -and lacerated vanity. And it is a question<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> -whether we do not suffer more keenly, if less -deeply, from wounds to the self-esteem than to -the heart. Generally we mistake the former for -the latter, and declare ourselves to have a sensitive -heart, when what we do have is only a thin-skinned -vanity!</p> - -<p>But there was no mistake about Abbie’s misery, -however a moralist might speculate concerning -the cause. She suffered intensely. And she -had no confidant. She had not even her old -fairyland of fancy, for love and lovers were become -hateful to her. At first she went to -church—until an unlucky difference with the -rector’s wife at a church fair. Later it was as -much her unsatisfied vanity and unsatisfied -heart as any spiritual confusion that led her into -all manner of excursions into the shadowy border-land -of the occult. She was a secret attendant -on table-tippings and séances; a reader of -every kind of mystical lore that she could buy; -an habitual consulter of spiritual mediums and -clairvoyants and seventh sons and daughters and -the whole tribe of charlatans. But the family -had not noticed. They were not afraid of the -occult ones; they were glad to have Abbie happy -and more contented; and they concerned themselves -no further, as is the manner of families, -being occupied with their own concerns.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span></p> - -<p>And so unguarded Abbie went to her evil fate. -One morning, with her maid Lucy, she went to -see “the celebrated clairvoyant and seer, Professor -Rudolph Slater, the greatest revealer of -the future in this or any other century.”</p> - -<p>Lucy looked askance at the shabby one-story -saloons on the street, and the dying lindens before -the house. Her disapproval deepened as -they went up the wooden steps. The house was -one of a tiny brick block, with wooden cornices, -and unshaded wooden steps in need not only of -painting but scrubbing.</p> - -<p>The door opened into an entry which was dark, -but not dark enough to conceal the rents in the -oil-cloth on the floor or the blotches on the imitation -oak paper of the walls.</p> - -<p>Lucy sniffed; she was a faithful and affectionate -attendant, and she used considerable freedom -with her mistress. “I don’t know about -there being spirits here, but there’s been lots of -onions!” remarked Lucy. Nor did her unfavorable -opinion end with the approach to the sorcerer’s -presence. She maintained her wooden -expression even sitting in the great man’s room -and hearing his speech.</p> - -<p>Abbie did not see the hole in the green rep -covering of the arm-chair, nor the large round -oil-stain on the faded roses of the carpet, nor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> -the dust on the Parian ornaments of the table; -she was too absorbed in the man himself.</p> - -<p>If his surroundings were sordid, he was splendid -in a black velvet jacket and embroidered -shirt-front sparkling with diamonds. He was a -short man, rather thick-set, and although his -hair was gray, his face was young and florid. -The gray hair was very thick, growing low on -his forehead and curling. Abbie thought it -beautiful. She thought his eyes beautiful also, -and spoke to Lucy of their wonderful blue color -and soul-piercing gaze.</p> - -<p>“I thought they were just awful impudent,” -said Lucy. “I never did see a man stare so, -Miss Abbie; I wanted to slap him!”</p> - -<p>“But his hair <em>was</em> beautiful,” Abbie persisted; -“and he said it used to be straight as a poker, -but the spirits curled it.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Miss Abbie,” cried Lucy, “I could -see the little straight ends sticking out of the -curls, that come when you do your hair up on -irons. I’ve frizzed my hair too many times not -to know <em>them</em>.”</p> - -<p>“But, Lucy,” said Abbie, in a low, shocked -voice, “didn’t you feel <em>something</em> when he put -on those handcuffs and sat before the cabinet in -the dark, and his control spoke, and we saw the -hands? What do you think of that?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span></p> - -<p>“I think it was him all the time,” said Lucy, -doggedly.</p> - -<p>“But, Lucy, <em>why</em>?”</p> - -<p>“Finger-nails were dirty just the same,” said -Lucy. Nor was there any shaking her. But -Abbie, under ordinary circumstances the most -fastidious of women, had not noted the finger-nails; -one witching sentence had captured her.</p> - -<p>The moment he took her hand he had started -violently. “Excuse me, madam,” said he, “but -are you not a medium <em>yourself</em>?”</p> - -<p>“No—at least, I never was supposed to be,” -fluttered Abbie, blushing.</p> - -<p>“Then, madam, you don’t perhaps realize -that you yourself possess marvellous psychic -power. I never saw any one who had so much, -when it had not been developed.”</p> - -<p>To-day Abbie ground her teeth and wrung -her hands in an impotent agony of rage, remembering -her pleasure. He would not take any -money; no, he said, there had been too much -happiness for him in meeting such a favorite of -the spiritual influences as she.</p> - -<p>“But you will come again,” he pleaded; -“only don’t ask me to take money for such a -great privilege. <em>You</em> caynt see the invisible -guardians that hover around you!”</p> - -<p>His refusal of her gold piece completed his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -victory over Abbie’s imagination. She was sure -he could not be a cheat, since he would not be -paid. She did come again; she came many -times, always with Lucy, who grew more and -more suspicious, but could not make up her -mind to expose Abbie’s folly to her people. -“Think of all the things she gives me!” argued -Lucy. “Miss Abbie’s always been a kind of -stray sheep in the family; they are all kind of -hard on her. I can’t bear to be the one to get -her into trouble.”</p> - -<p>So Lucy’s conscience squirmed in silence until -the fortune-teller persuaded Abbie to allow him -to throw her into a trance. The wretched woman -in the carriage cowered back farther into the -shade, living over that ghastly hour when Lucy -at her elbow was as far away from her helpless -soul as if at the poles. How his blue eyes -glowed! How the flame in them contracted to -a glittering spark, like the star-tip of the silver -wand, waving and curving and interlacing its -dazzling flashes before her until her eyeballs -ached! How of a sudden the star rested, blinking -at her between his eyes, and she looked; she -must look at it, though her will, her very self, -seemed to be sucked out of her into the gleaming -whirlpool of that star!</p> - -<p>She made a feeble rally under a woful impression<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> -of fright and misery impending, but in -vain; and, with the carelessness of a creature -who is chloroformed, she let her soul drift -away.</p> - -<p>When she opened her eyes, Lucy was rubbing -her hands, while the clairvoyant watched the two -women motionless and smiling.</p> - -<p>The fear still on her prompted her first words, -“Let me go home now!”</p> - -<p>“Not now,” begged the conjurer; “you must -go into a trance again. I want you to see something -that will be very interesting to you. Please, -Miss Courtlandt.” He spoke in the gentlest of -tones, but there was a repressed assurance about -his manner that was infuriating to Lucy.</p> - -<p>“Miss Abbie’s going home,” she cried, angrily; -“we ain’t going to have any more of this -nonsense. Come, Miss Abbie.” She touched -her on her arm, but trembling Abbie fixed her -eyes on the conjurer, and he, in that gentle -tone, answered:</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if she wishes; but she <em>wants</em> to -stay. You want to stay, Miss Courtlandt, don’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I want to stay,” said Abbie; and her -heart was cold within her, for the words seemed -to say themselves, even while she struggled frantically -against the utterance of them.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus11"> -<img src="images/illus11.jpg" width="450" height="500" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘SHE MUST LOOK AT IT’”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span></p> - -<p>“Do you mean it, Miss Abbie?” the girl repeated, -sorely puzzled.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, just once more,” said Miss Abbie. -And she sat down again in her chair.</p> - -<p>What she saw she never remembered. Lucy -said it was all nonsense she talked, and, anyhow, -she whispered so low that nobody could catch -more than a word, except that she seemed to be -promising something over and over again. In -a little while the conjurer whispered to her, and -with a few passes of his hand consciousness returned. -She rose, white and shaken, but quite -herself again. He bade the two good-bye, and -bowed them out with much suavity of manner. -Abbie returned not a single word. As they drove -home, the maid spoke, “Miss Abbie, Miss Abbie—you -won’t go there again, will you?”</p> - -<p>“Never,” cried Abbie—“<em>never</em>!”</p> - -<p>But the next morning, after a sleepless night, -there returned the same horrible, dragging longing -to see him; and with the longing came the -same fear that had suffocated her will the day -before—a fear like the fear of dreams, formless, -reasonless, more dreadful than death.</p> - -<p>Impelled by this frightful force that did not -seem to have anything to do with her, herself, -she left the house and boarded a street-car. She -felt as if a demon were riding her soul, spurring<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -it wherever he willed. She went to a little -park outside the city, frequented by Germans -and almost deserted of a week-day. And on -her way she remembered that this was what she -had promised him to do.</p> - -<p>He was waiting to assist her from the car. As -he helped her alight, she noticed his hands and -his nails. They were neat enough; yet she -suddenly recalled Lucy’s words; and suddenly -she saw the man, in his tasteless, expensive -clothes, with his swagger and the odor of whiskey -about him, as any other gentlewoman would -have seen him. Her fright had swept all his -seer’s glamour away; he was no longer the mystical -ruler of the spirit-world; he was a squalid -adventurer—and her master!</p> - -<p>He made her realize that in five minutes. -“You caynt help yourself, Miss Courtlandt,” -he said, and she believed him.</p> - -<p>Whether it were the influence of a strong will -on a hysterical temperament and a morbidly impressible -fancy, or whether it were a black power -from the unseen, beyond his knowledge but not -beyond his abuse, matters little so far as poor -Abbie Courtlandt was concerned; on either supposition, -she was powerless.</p> - -<p>She left him, hating him as only slavery and -fear can hate; but she left him pledged to bring<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> -him five hundred dollars in the morning and to -marry him in the afternoon; and now, having -kept her word about the money, she was driving -home, clinching in her cold fingers the slip of -paper containing the address of a justice of the -peace in the suburbs, where she must meet him -and be bound to this unclean vulture, who -would bear her away from home and kindred -and all fair repute and peace.</p> - -<p>A passion of revolt shook her. She <em>must</em> meet -him? Why must she? Why not tear his address -to bits? Why not drive fast, fast home, -and tell her mother that she was going to Chicago -about some gowns that night? Why not -stay there at Jack’s, and let this fiend, who harried -her, wait in vain? She twisted the paper -and ground her teeth; yet she knew that she -shouldn’t tear it, just as we all know we shall -not do the frantic things that we imagine, even -while we are finishing up the minutest details -the better to feign ourselves in earnest. Poor, -weak Abbie knew that she never would dare to -confess her plight to her people. No, she could -never endure another family council of war.</p> - -<p>“There is only one way,” she muttered. Instead -of tearing the paper she read it:</p> - -<p>“<i>Be at Squire L. B. Leitner’s, 398 S. Miller -Street, at 3 p.m. sharp.</i>”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span></p> - -<p>And now she did tear the odious message, -flinging the pieces furiously out of the carriage -window.</p> - -<p>The same tall, dark, square-shouldered man -that she had seen in front of the shop-window -was passing, and immediately bent and picked -up some of the shreds. For an instant the current -of her terror turned, but only for an instant. -“What could a stranger do with an address?” -She sank into the corner, and her -miserable thoughts harked back to the trap that -held her.</p> - -<p>Like one in a nightmare, she sat, watching -the familiar sights of the town drift by, to the -accompaniment of her horses’ hoofs and jingling -chains. “This is the last drive I shall ever take,” -she thought.</p> - -<p>She felt the slackening of speed, and saw (still -in her nightmare) the broad stone steps and the -stately, old-fashioned mansion, where the daintiest -of care and the trimmest of lawns had -turned the old ways of architecture from decrepitude -into pride.</p> - -<p>Lunch was on the table, and her mother -nodded her pretty smile as she passed. Abbie -had a box of flowers in her hand, purchased -earlier in the morning; these she brought into -the dining-room. There were violets for her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span> -mother and American Beauties for Margaret. -“They looked so sweet I had to buy them,” she -half apologized. Going through the hall, she -heard her mother say, “How nice and thoughtful -Abbie has grown lately!” And Margaret -answered, “Abbie is a good deal more of a -woman than I ever expected her to be.”</p> - -<p>All her life she had grieved because—so she -morbidly put it to herself—her people despised -her; now that it was too late, was their approval -come to her only to be flung away with the rest? -She returned to the dining-room and went -through the farce of eating. She forced herself -to swallow; she talked with an unnatural ease -and fluency. Several times her sister laughed -at her words. Her mother smiled on her fondly. -Margaret said, “Abbie, why can’t you go to -Chicago with me to-night and have a little lark? -You have clothes to fit, too; Lucy can pack you -up, and we can take the night train.”</p> - -<p>“I <em>would</em>,” chimed in Mrs. Courtlandt. “You -look so ill, Abbie. I think you must be bilious; -a change will be nice for you. And I’ll ask -Mrs. Curtis over for a few days while you are -gone, and we will have a little tea-party of our -own and a little lark for ourselves.”</p> - -<p>Never before had Margaret wished Abbie to -accompany her on “a little lark.” Abbie assented<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -like a person in a dream; only she must -go down to the bank after luncheon, she said.</p> - -<p>Up-stairs in her own chamber she gazed about -the pretty furnishings with blank eyes. There -was the writing-desk that her mother gave her -Christmas, there glistened the new dressing-table -that Margaret helped her about finishing, -and there was the new paper with the sprawly -flowers that she thought so ugly in the pattern, -and took under protest, and liked so much on -the walls. How often she had been unjust to -her people, and yet it had turned out that they -were right! Her thoughts rambled on through -a thousand memories, stumbling now into pit-falls -of remorse over long-forgotten petulance -and ingratitude and hardenings of her heart -against kindness, again recovering and threading -some narrow way of possible release, only -to sink as the wall closed again hopelessly about -her.</p> - -<p>For the first time she arraigned her own vanity -as the cause of her long unhappiness. Well, it -was no use now. All she could do for them -would be to drift forever out of their lives. She -opened the drawer, and took a vial from a secret -corner. “It is only a little faintness and numbness, -and then it is all over,” she thought, as she -slipped the vial into the chatelaine bag at her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> -waist. In a sudden gust of courage she took it -out again; but that instinctive trusting to hope -to the last, which urges the most desperate of us -on delay, held her hand. She put back the vial, -and, without a final glance, went down the stairs. -It was in her heart to have one more look at her -mother, but at the drawing-room door she heard -voices, and happening to glance up at the clock, -she saw how near the time the hour was; so she -hurried through the hall into the street.</p> - -<p>During the journey she hardly felt a distinct -thought. But at intervals she would touch the -outline of the vial at her waist.</p> - -<p>The justice’s office was in the second story of -a new brick building that twinkled all over with -white mortar. Below, men laughed, and glasses -and billiard-balls clicked behind bright new -green blinds. A steep, dark wooden stairway, -apparently trodden by many men who chewed -tobacco and regarded the world as their cuspidor, -led between the walls up to a narrow hall, at -the farther end of which a door showed on its -glass panels the name L. B. Leitner, J.P.</p> - -<p>Abbie rapped feebly on the glass, to see the -door instantly opened by Slater himself. He -had donned a glossy new frock-coat and a white -tie. His face was flushed.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t intend you should have to enter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> -here alone,” he exclaimed, drawing her into the -room with both hands; “I was just going outside -to wait for you. Allow me to introduce -Squire Leitner. Squire, let me make you acquainted -with Miss Courtlandt, the lady who will -do me the honor.”</p> - -<p>He laughed a little nervous laugh. He was -plainly affecting the manner of the fortunate -bridegroom, and not quite at ease in his rôle. -Neither of the two other men in the room returned -any answering smile.</p> - -<p>The justice, a bald, gray-bearded, kindly, and -worried-looking man, bowed and said, “Glad to -meet you, ma’am,” in a tone as melancholy as -his wrinkled brow.</p> - -<p>“Squire is afraid you are not here with your -own free-will and consent, Abbie,” said Slater, -airily; “but I guess you can relieve his mind.”</p> - -<p>At the sound of her Christian name (which -he had never pronounced before) Abbie turned -white with a sort of sick disgust and shame. -But she raised her eyes and met the intense gaze -of the tall, dark man that she had seen before. -He stood, his elbow on the high desk and his -square, clean-shaven chin in his hand. He was -neatly dressed, with a rose in his button-hole, -and an immaculate pink-and-white silk shirt; -but he hardly seemed (to Abbie) like a man of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> -her own class. Nevertheless, she did not resent -his keen look; on the contrary, she experienced -a sudden thrill of hope—something of the same -feeling she had known years and years ago, when -she ran away from her nurse, and a big policeman -found her, both her little slippers lost in -the mud of an alley, she wailing and paddling -along in her stocking feet, and carried her home -in his arms.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Courtlandt”—she winced at the -voice of the justice—“it is my duty under -the—hem—unusual circumstances of this case, -to ask you if you are entering into this—hem—solemn -contract of matrimony, which is -a state honorable in the sight of God and man, -by the authority vested in me by the State of -Illinois—hem—to ask you if you are entering -it of your own free-will and consent—are you, -miss?”</p> - -<p>Abbie’s sad gray eyes met the magistrate’s look -of perplexed inquiry; her lips trembled.</p> - -<p>“Are you, Abbie?” said the clairvoyant, in a -gentle tone.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Abbie; “of my own free-will -and consent.”</p> - -<p>“I guess, professor, I must see the lady alone,” -said the justice, dryly.</p> - -<p>“You caynt believe it is a case of true love<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span> -laffs at the aristocrats, can you, squire?” sneered -Slater; “but jest as she pleases. Are you willing -to see him, Abbie?”</p> - -<p>“Whether Miss Courtlandt is willing or not,” -interrupted the tall man, in a mellow, leisurely -voice, “I guess <em>I</em> will have to trouble you for a -small ‘sceance’ in the other room, Marker.”</p> - -<p>“And who are you, sir?” said Slater, civilly, -but with a truculent look in his blue eyes.</p> - -<p>“This is Mr. Amos Wickliff, of Iowa, special -officer,” the justice said, waving one hand at the -man and the other at Abbie.</p> - -<p>Wickliff bowed in Abbie’s direction, and saluted -the fortune-teller with a long look in his -eyes, saying:</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t Bill Marker that I killed out in Arizona -your cousin?”</p> - -<p>“My name ain’t Marker, and I never had a -cousin killed by you or anybody,” snapped back -the fortune-teller, in a bigger and rounder voice -than he had used before.</p> - -<p>Wickliff merely narrowed his bright black eyes, -opened a door, and motioned within, saying, -“Better.”</p> - -<p>The fortune-teller scowled, but he walked -through the door, and Wickliff, following, closed -it behind him.</p> - -<p>Abbie looked dumbly at the justice. He sighed,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> -rubbed his hands together, and placed a chair -against the wall.</p> - -<p>“There’s a speaking-tube hole where we used -to have a tube, but I took it out, ’cause it was -too near the type-writer,” said he. “It’s just -above the chair; if you put your ear to that hole -I guess it would be the best thing. You can -place every confidence in Mr. Wickliff; the chief -of police here knows him well; he’s a perfect -gentleman, and you don’t need to be afraid of -hearing any rough language. No, ma’am.”</p> - -<p>Abbie’s head swam; she was glad to sit down. -Almost mechanically she laid her ear to the hole.</p> - -<p>The first words audible came from Wickliff. -“Certainly I will arrest you. And I’ll take you -to Toronto to-night, and you can settle with the -Canadian authorities about things. Rosenbaum -offers a big reward; and Rosenbaum, I judge, is -a good fellow, who will act liberally.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you I’m not Marker,” cried Slater, -fiercely, “and it wouldn’t matter a damn if I was! -Canada! You caynt run a man in for Canada!”</p> - -<p>Wickliff chuckled. “Can’t I?” said he; -“that’s where you miss it, Marker. Now I -haven’t any time to fool away; you can take -your choice: go off peacefully—I’ve a hack at -the door—and we’ll catch the 5:45 train for -Toronto, and there you shall have all the law<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -and justice you want; or you can just make -one step towards that door, or one sound, and -I’ll slug you over the head, and load you into -the carriage neatly done up in chloroform, and -when you wake up you’ll be on the train with -a decent gentleman who doesn’t know anything -about international law, but does know <em>me</em>, and -wouldn’t turn his head if you hollered bloody -murder. See?”</p> - -<p>“That won’t go down. You caynt kidnap -me that way! I’ll appeal to the squire. No, -no! I <em>won’t</em>! Before God, I won’t—I was jest -fooling!”</p> - -<p>The voice of terror soothed Abbie’s raw nerves -like oil on a burn. “He’s scared now, the coward!” -she rejoiced, savagely.</p> - -<p>“There’s where we differ, then,” retorted -Wickliff; “<em>I</em> wasn’t.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all right. Only one thing: will you -jest let me marry my sweetheart before I go, and -I’ll go with you like a holy lamb; I will, by—”</p> - -<p>“No swearing, Marker. That lady don’t want -to marry you, and she ain’t going to—”</p> - -<p>“<em>Ask</em> her,” pleaded Slater, desperately. “I’ll -leave it with her. If she don’t say she loves me -and wants to marry me, I’ll go all right.”</p> - -<p>Abbie’s pulses stood still.</p> - -<p>“Been trying the hypnotic dodge again, have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> -you?” said Wickliff, contemptuously. “Well, it -won’t work this time. I’ve got too big a curl on -you.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus12"> -<img src="images/illus12.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’”</p> -</div> - -<p>There was a pause the length of a heart-beat, -and then the hated tones, shrill with fear: “I -<em>wasn’t</em> going to the window! I wasn’t going to -speak—”</p> - -<p>“See here,” the officer’s iron-cold accents interrupted, -“let us understand each other. Rosenbaum -hates you, and good reason, too; <em>he’d</em> -much rather have you dead than alive; and you -ought to know that <em>I</em> wouldn’t mind killing -you any more than I mind killing a rat. Give -me a good excuse—pull that pop you have in -your inside pocket just a little bit—and you’re a -stiff one, sure! See?”</p> - -<p>Again the pause, then a sullen voice: “Yes, -damn you! I see. Say, won’t you let me say -good-bye to my girl?”</p> - -<p>Abbie clinched her finger-nails into her hands -during the pause that followed. Wickliff’s reply -was a surprise; he said, musingly, “Got any -money out of her, I wonder?”</p> - -<p>“I swear to God not a red cent!” cried the -conjurer, vehemently.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you <em>are</em> a scoundrel, and no mistake,” -laughed Wickliff. “That settles it; you <em>have</em>! -Well, I’ll call her—Oh, Miss Courtlandt!”—he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span> -elevated his soft tones to a roaring bellow—“please -excuse my calling you, and step out -here! Or we’ll go in there.”</p> - -<p>“If it’s anything private, you’ll excuse me,” -interposed a mild voice at her elbow; and when -she turned her head, behold a view of the skirts -of the minister of justice as he slammed a door -behind him!</p> - -<p>A second later, Wickliff entered, propelling -Slater by the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Ah! Squire stepped out a moment, has he?” -said the officer, blandly. “Well, that makes it -awkward, but I may as well tell you, madam, -with deep regret, that this man here is a professional -swindler, who is most likely a bigamist -as well, and he has done enough mischief for a -dozen, in his life. I’m taking him to Canada -now for a particularly bad case of hypnotic influence -and swindling, etc. Has he got any -money out of you?” As he spoke he fixed his -eyes on her. “Don’t be afraid if he has hypnotized -you; he won’t try those games before -me. Kindly turn your back on the lady, Johnny.” -(As he spoke he wheeled the fortune-teller -round with no gentle hand.) “He has? How -much?”</p> - -<p>It was strange that she should no longer feel -afraid of the man; but his face, as he cowered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> -under the heavy grasp of the officer, braced her -courage. “He has five hundred dollars I gave -him this morning,” she cried; “but he may keep -it if he will only let me go. I don’t want to marry -him!”</p> - -<p>“Of course you don’t, a lady like you! He’s -done the same game with nice ladies before. -Keep your head square, Johnny, or I’ll give your -neck a twist! And as to the money, you’ll march -out with me to the other room, and you’ll fish it -out, and the lady will kindly allow you fifty dollars -of it for your tobacco while you’re in jail -in Canada. That’s enough, Miss Courtlandt—more -would be wasted—and if he doesn’t be -quick and civil, I’ll act as his valet.”</p> - -<p>The fortune-teller wheeled half round in an -excess of passion, his fingers crooked on their -way to his hip pocket; then his eye ran to the -officer, who had simply doubled his fist and -was looking at the other man’s neck. Instinctively -Slater ducked his head; his hand -dropped.</p> - -<p>“No, no, please,” Miss Courtlandt pleaded; -“<em>let</em> him keep it, if he will only go away.”</p> - -<p>“Beg pardon, miss,” returned the inflexible -Wickliff, “you’re only encouraging him in bad -ways. Step, Johnny.”</p> - -<p>“If you’ll let me have that five hundred,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -cried Slater, “I’ll promise to go with you, though -you know I have the legal right to stay.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll go with me as far as you have to, and -no farther, promise or no promise,” said Wickliff, -equably. “You’re a liar from Wayback! -And I’m letting you keep that revolver a little -while so you may give me a chance to kill you. -Step, now!”</p> - -<p>Slater ground his teeth, but he walked out of -the room.</p> - -<p>“At least, give him a hundred dollars!” begged -Miss Courtlandt as the door closed. In a moment -it opened again, and the two re-entered. -Slater’s wrists were in handcuffs; nevertheless, -he had reassumed a trifle of his old jaunty bearing, -and he bowed politely to Abbie, proffering -her a roll of bills. “There are four hundred -there, Miss Courtlandt,” said he. “I am much -obliged to you for your generosity, and I assure -you I will never bother you again.” He made a -motion that she knew, with his shackled hands. -“You are quite free from me,” said he; “and, -after all, you will consider that it was only the -money you lost from me. I always treated you -with respect, and to-day was the only day I ever -made bold to speak of you or to you by your -given name. Good-bye, Miss Courtlandt; you’re -a real lady, and I’ll tell you now it was all a fake<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -about the spirits. I guess there are real spirits -and real mediums, but they didn’t any of ’em -ever fool with <em>me</em>. Good-afternoon, ma’am.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus13"> -<img src="images/illus13.jpg" width="450" height="450" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘I’LL ACT AS HIS VALET’”</p> -</div> - -<p>Abigail took the notes mechanically; he had -turned and was at the door before she spoke. -“God forgive you!” said she. “Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>“That was a decent speech, Marker,” said -Wickliff, “and you’ll see I’ll treat you decent -on the way. Good-morning, Miss Courtlandt. -I needn’t say, I guess, that no one will know -anything of this little matter from the squire or -me, not even the squire’s wife. <em>I</em> ’ain’t got one. -I wish you good-morning, ma’am. No, ma’am”—as -she made a hurried motion of the money -towards him—“I shall get a large reward; don’t -think of it, ma’am. But if you felt like doing -the civil thing to the squire, a box of cigars is -what any gentleman is proud to receive from a -lady, and I should recommend leaving the brand -to the best cigar-store you know. Good-morning, -ma’am.”</p> - -<p>Barely were the footsteps out of the hall when -the worthy justice, very red and dusty, bounced -out of the closet. “Excuse me,” gasped he, -“but I couldn’t stand it a minute longer! Sit -down, Miss Courtlandt; and don’t, please, think -of fainting, miss, for I’m nearly smothered myself!” -He bustled to the water-cooler, and proffered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> -water, dripping over a tin cup on to Abbie’s -hands and gown; and he explained, with that air -of intimate friendliness which is a part of the -American’s mental furniture, “I thought it better -to let Wickliff <em>persuade him</em> by himself. He -is a remarkable man, Amos Wickliff; I don’t suppose -there’s a special officer west of the Mississippi -is his equal for arresting bad cases. And -do you know, ma’am, he never was after this -Marker. Just come here on a friendly visit to -the chief of police. All he knew of Marker was -from the newspapers; he had been reading the -letter of the man Marker swindled in Canada, -and his offer of a reward for him. Marker’s -picture was in it, and a description of his hair -and all his looks, and Wickliff just picked him -out from that. I call that pretty smart, picking -up a man from his picture in a newspaper. -Why, I”—he assumed a modest expression, but -glowed with pride—“<em>I</em> have had my picture in -the paper, and my wife didn’t know it. Yes, -ma’am, Wickliff is at the head of the profession, -and no mistake! Didn’t have a sign of a warrant. -Just jumped on the job; telegraphed for -a warrant to meet him at Toronto.”</p> - -<p>“But will he take him safely to Canada?” -stammered Miss Abigail.</p> - -<p>“Not a doubt of it,” said the justice. And it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -may be mentioned here that his prediction came -true. Wickliff sent a telegram the next day to -the chief of police, announcing his safe arrival.</p> - -<p>Miss Courtlandt went to Chicago by the evening -train. She is a happier woman, and her -family often say, “How nice Abbie is growing!” -She has never seen the justice since; but when -his daughter was married the whole connection -marvelled and admired over a trunk of silver -that came to the bride—“From one to whom her -father was kind.”</p> - -<p>The only comment that the justice made was -to his wife: “Yes, my dear, you’re right; it -<em>is</em> a woman, a lady; but if you knew all about -it, how I never saw her but the once, and all, -you wouldn’t mind Bessie’s taking it. She was -a nice lady, and I’m glad to have obliged her. -But it really ought to go to another man.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_NEXT_ROOM">THE NEXT ROOM</h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span></p> - -<h3>THE NEXT ROOM</h3> - -</div> - -<p>It was as much the mystery as the horror -that made the case of Margaret Clark (commonly -known as Old Twentypercent) of -such burning interest to the six daily journals -of the town. I have been told that the feet of -tireless young reporters wore a separate path up -the bluff to the site of old Margaret’s abode; but -this I question, because there were already two -paths made for them by the feet of old Margaret’s -customers—the winding path up the grassy slope, -and the steps hewn out of the sheer yellow bluff-side, -sliced down to make a backing for the -street. These are the facts that, whichever the -path taken, they were able to glean: Miss Margaret -lived on the bluff in the western part of town. -The street below crosses at right angles the street -running to the river, which is of the kind the -French term an “impasse.” It is a street of varied -fortunes, beginning humbly in a wide and treeless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> -plain, where jimson, dock, and mustard weed -have their will with the grass, passing a number -of houses, each in its own tiny yard, creeping up -the hill and the social scale at the same time, until -it is bordered by velvety boulevards and terraces -and lawns that glow in the evening light, and -pretty houses often painted; then dropping again -to a lonely gully, with the flaming kilns of the -brick-yard on one side, and the huge dark bulk -of the brewery on the other, reaching at last the -bustle and roar of the busiest street in town. -The great arc-light swung a dazzling white porcupine -above the brewery vats every night (when -the moon did not shine), and hung level with -the crest of the opposite bluff. By day or night -one could see the trim old-fashioned garden and -the close-cropped lawn and the tall bur-oaks that -shaded the two-story brown cottage in which for -fifteen years Margaret Clark had lived. Here -she was living at the time of these events, with -no protector except her bull-dog, the Colonel -(who, to be sure, understood his business, and I -cannot deny him a personal pronoun), and no -companion except Esquire Clark, her cat. She -did not keep fowls—judging it right and necessary -to slay them on occasion, but never having -the heart to kill anything for which she had -cared and which she had taught to know her.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span> -Therefore she bought her eggs and her “frying -chickens” of George Washington, a worthy colored -man who lived below the hill, and who kept -Margaret’s garden in order. Although he had -worked for her (satisfactory service given for -satisfactory wage) during all these fifteen years, -he knew as little about her, he declared, as the -first week he came. Nor did the wizened little -Irishwoman who climbed the clay stairway three -times a week to wash and scrub know any more. -But she stoutly maintained “the old lady was -a rale lady, and the saints would be good to -her.” One reporter, more curious, discovered -that Margaret several times had helped this -woman over a rough pass.</p> - -<p>The only other person (outside of her customers) -who kept so much as a speaking acquaintance -with Margaret was the sheriff, Amos Wickliff. -And what he knew of her he was able to -keep even from the press. As for the customers, -her malicious nickname explains her business. -Margaret was an irregular money-lender. She -loaned money for short periods on personal security -or otherwise. It should speak well for -her shrewdness that she rarely made a bad debt. -Yet she was not unpopular; on the contrary, she -had the name of giving the poor a long day, and, -for one of her trade, was esteemed lenient.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span> -Shortly after her accident, also (she had the ill-hap -to fall down her cellar-way, injuring her -spine), she had remitted a number of debts to -her poorest debtors.</p> - -<p>The accident occurred of a Wednesday morning; -Wednesday afternoon her nephew called -on her, having, he said, but just discovered her -whereabouts. The reporters discovered that this -nephew, Archibald Cary Allerton by name, was -not an invited and far from a welcome guest, -although he gave out that his mother and he -were his aunt’s sole living kindred. She would -not speak to him when he visited her, turning -her head to the wall, moaning and muttering, so -that it was but kindness to leave her. The nurse -(Mrs. Raker, the jailer’s wife, had come up from -the jail) said that he seemed distressed. He -called again during the evening, after Wickliff, -who spent most of the evening with her alone, -was gone, but he had no better success; she -would not or could not speak to him. Thursday -morning she saw Amos Wickliff. She seemed -brighter, and gave Amos, in the presence of the -nurse, the notes and mortgages that she desired -released. Thursday evening, about eight o’clock, -Amos returned to report how he had done his -commissions. He found the house flaming from -roof-tree to sills! There was no question of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> -saving the sick woman. Even as he panted up -the hill-side the roof fell in with a crash. Amos -screamed to the crowd: “Where is she? Did -you save her?” And the Irish char-woman’s -wail answered him: “I wint in—I wint in whin -it was all afire, and the fire jumped at me, so I -run; me eyebrows is gone, and I didn’t see a -sign of her!” Then Amos betook himself to -Mrs. Raker, whom he found only after much -searching; nor did her story reassure him. She -was violently agitated between pity and shock, -but, as usual, she kept her head on her shoulders -and her wits on duty. She was not in the house -when the catastrophe had happened. Allerton -had come to see his aunt. He told the nurse -that she might go to her sister, her sister’s child -being ill, and that he would stay with his aunt. -Wickliff was expected every moment. And the -patient had added her word, “Do go, Mrs. -Raker; it’s only a step; and take a jar of my -plum jelly to Sammy to take his medicine in!” -So Mrs. Raker went. She saw the fire first, and -that not half an hour from the time she left the -house. She saw it flickering in the lower windows. -It was she sent her brother-in-law to give -the alarm, while she ran swiftly to the house. -The whole lower story was ablaze when she got -up the hill. To enter was impossible. But Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> -O’Shea, the char-woman, and she did find a ladder, -and put it against the wall and the window -of Miss Clark’s chamber, which window was wide -open, and Mrs. Baker held the ladder while Mrs. -O’Shea, who was of an agile and slimmer build, -clambered up the rounds to look through the -smoke, already mixed with flame. And the room -was empty. Amos at once had the neighborhood -searched, hoping that Allerton had conveyed his -aunt to a place of safety. There was no trace of -either aunt or nephew. But Amos found a boy -who confessed (after some pressure) that he had -been in Miss Margaret’s yard, in the vineyard -facing her room. He had been startled by a -kind of rattling noise and a scream. Involuntarily -he cowered behind the vines and peered -through at the house. The windows of Miss -Clark’s room were closed, or maybe one was open -very slightly; but suddenly this window was -pushed up and Allerton leaned out. He knew -it was Allerton by the square shoulders. He did -not say anything, only turned his head, looking -every way. The boy thought it time to run. -He was clear of the yard and beginning to descend -the bluff, when he looked back and saw -Allerton running very swiftly through the circle -of light cast by the electric lamp. All the reporters -examined the lad, but he never altered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span> -his tale. “Mr. Allerton looked frightened—he -looked awful frightened,” he said.</p> - -<p>Amos was on the point of sending to the -police, when Allerton himself appeared. The -incredible story which he told only thickened -the suspicions beginning to gather about him.</p> - -<p>He said that he had found his aunt disinclined -to talk. She told him to go into the other room, -for she wished to go to sleep; and although he -had matters of serious import to discuss with -her, he could not force his presence on a lady, -and he obeyed her. He went into the adjoining -room, and there he sat in a chair before the door. -The door was the sole means of exit from the -bedchamber. The two rooms opened into each -other by the door; and the second room, in -which Allerton sat, had a door into a small hall, -from which the staircase led down-stairs. Allerton -was ready to swear to his story, which was -that he had sat in the chair before the door until -he heard a singular muffled scream from the other -room. Instantly he sprang up, opened the door, -and ran into the other room. The bed was opposite -the door. To his terror and amazement, -the bed was empty, the room was empty. He -ran frantically round the room, and then flung -up the window, looking out; but there was nothing -to be seen. Moreover, the room was twenty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> -feet from the ground, nor was there so much as -a vine or a lightning-rod to help a climber. It -was past believing that a decrepit old woman, -who could not turn in bed alone, should have -climbed out of a window and dropped twenty -feet to the ground. Besides, there was the boy -watching that side of the house all the time. He -had seen nothing. But where was Margaret -Clark? The chief of police took the responsibility -of arresting Allerton. Perhaps he was -swayed to this decisive step by the boy’s testimony -being in a measure corroborated by a -woman of unimpeachable character living in the -neighborhood, who had heard screams, as of something -in mortal pain or fear, at about the time -mentioned by the boy. She looked up to the -house and was half minded to climb the steps; -but the sounds ceased, the peaceful lights in the -house on the hill were not disturbed, and, chiding -her own ears, she passed on.</p> - -<p>The fire broke out a little later, hardly a quarter -of an hour after Allerton went away. This -was established by the fact that the boy, who -ran at the top of his speed, had barely reached -home before he heard the alarm-bells. The -flames seemed to envelop the whole structure -in a flash, which was not so much a matter -of marvel as other things, since the house<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> -was of wood, and dry as tinder from a long -drought.</p> - -<p>It was possible that Allerton was lying, and -that while he and the boy were gone the old -woman had discovered the fire and painfully -crawled down-stairs and out of the burning house; -but, in that case, where was she? How could a -feeble old woman thus vanish off the face of the -earth? The next day the police explored the -ruins. They half expected to find the bones of -the unfortunate creature. They did not find a -shred of anything that resembled bones. If -Allerton had murdered his aunt, he had so contrived -his crime as to destroy every vestige of -the body; and granting him a motive to do such -an atrocious deed, why should so venturesome -and ingenious a murderer jeopard everything by -a wild fairy tale? The reporters found themselves -before a blank wall.</p> - -<p>“Maybe it <em>ain’t</em> a fairy tale,” Amos Wickliff -suggested one day, two days after the mystery. -He was giving “the boys” a kind word on the -court-house steps.</p> - -<p>“It’s to be hoped it is a true story,” said -the youngest and naturally most hardened reporter, -“since then he’ll die with a better conscience!”</p> - -<p>“They never can convict him on the evidence,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span> -interrupted another man. “I don’t -see how they can even hold him.”</p> - -<p>“That’s why folks are mad,” said the youngest -reporter, with a pitying smile.</p> - -<p>“There’s something in the talk, then?” said -Amos, shifting his cigar to the other side of his -mouth.</p> - -<p>“<em>Are</em> they going to lynch that feller?” asked -another reporter.</p> - -<p>“Say so,” the first young man remarked, -placidly; “a lot of the old lady’s chums are -howling about stringing him up. They’ve the -notion that she was burned alive, and they’re -hot over it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s <em>your</em> paper, old man; you had ’most -two columns, and made it out Mrs. Kerby heard -squealing <em>after</em> the boy did; and pictured the -horrible situation of the poor old helpless woman -writhing in anguish, and the fire eating nearer -and nearer. Great Scott! it made <em>me</em> crawl to -read it; and I saw a crowd down-town in the -park, and if one fellow wasn’t reading your -blasted blood-curdler out loud; and one woman -was crying and telling about the old party lending -her money to buy her husband’s coffin, and -then letting her off paying. That made the -crowd rabid. At every sentence they let off a -howl. You needn’t be grinning like a wild-cat;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span> -it ain’t funny to that feller in jail, I bet. Is it, -Amos?”</p> - -<p>“You boys better call off your dogs, if you -can get ’em,” was all the sheriff deigned to -answer, and he rose as he spoke. He did not -look disturbed, but his placid mask belied him. -Better than most men he knew what stormy -petrels “the newspaper boys” were. And better -than any man he knew what an eggshell was -his jail. “I’d almost like to have ’em bust that -fool door, though,” he grimly reflected, “just -to show the supervisors I knew what I was talking -about. I’ll get a new jail out of those old -roosters, or they’ll have to get a new sheriff. -But meanwhile—” He fell into a perplexed -and gloomy reverie, through which his five -years’ acquaintance with the lost woman drifted -pensively, as a moving car will pass, slowly revealing -first one familiar face and then another. -“I suppose I’m what the lawyers would call her -next friend—hereabouts, anyhow,” he mused, -“and yet you might say it was quite by accident -we started in to know each other, poor old lady!” -The cause of the first acquaintance was as simple -as a starved cat which a jury of small boys were -preparing to hang just under the bluff. Amos -cut down the cat, and almost in the same -rhythm, as the disciples of Delsarte would say,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> -cuffed the nearest executioner, while the others -fled. Amos hated cats, but this one, as if recognizing -his good-will (and perhaps finding some -sweet drop in the bitter existence of peril and -starvation that he knew, and therefore loath to -yield it), clung to Amos’s knees and essayed a -feeble purr of gratitude. “Well, pussy,” said -Amos, “good-bye!” But the cat did not stir, -except to rub feebly again. It was a black cat, -very large, ghastly thin, with the rough coat of -neglect, and a pair of burning eyes that might -have reminded Amos of Poe’s ghastly conceit -were he not protected against such fancies by -the best of protectors. He could not remember -disagreeably that which he had never read. -“Pussy, you’re about starved,” said Amos. “I -believe I’ve got to give you a stomachful before -I turn you loose.”</p> - -<p>“<em>I’ll</em> give the kitty something to eat,” said a -voice in the air.</p> - -<p>Amos stared at the clouds; then he whirled -on his heel and recognized both the voice, which -had a different accent and quality of tone from -the voices that he was used to hear, and the little, -shabby, gray-headed woman who was scrambling -down to him.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus14"> -<img src="images/illus14.jpg" width="450" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">“‘<em>I’LL</em> GIVE THE KITTY SOMETHING TO EAT’”</p> -</div> - -<p>“<em>Will</em> you?” exclaimed Amos, in relief, for he -knew her by repute, although they had never<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span> -looked each other in the face before. “Well, -that’s very nice of you, Miss Clark.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll keep him with pleasure, sir,” said the old -woman. “I’ve had a bereavement lately. My -cat died. She was ’most at the allotted term, I -expect, but so spry and so intelligent I couldn’t -realize it. I couldn’t somehow feel myself attracted -to any other cat. But this poor fugitive—— Come -here, sir!”</p> - -<p>To Amos’s surprise, the cat summoned all its -forces and, after one futile stagger, leaped into -her arms. A strange little shape she looked to -him, as she stood, with her head too large for -her emaciated little body, which was arrayed in -a coarse black serge suit, plainly flotsam and jetsam -of the bargain counter, planned for a woman -of larger frame. Yet uncouth as the woman -looked, she was perfectly neat.</p> - -<p>“I’m obliged to you for saving the poor creature,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“I’m obliged to you, ma’am, for taking it off -my hands,” said Amos. He bowed; she returned -his bow—not at all in the manner or with -the carriage to be expected of such a plain and -ill-clad presence. Amos considered the incident -concluded. But a few days later she stopped -him on the street, nervously smiling. “That -cat, sir,” she began in her abrupt way—she never<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> -seemed to open a conversation; she dived into it -with a shiver, as a timid swimmer plunges into -the water—“that cat,” said she, “that cat, sir, -is a right intelligent animal, and he has pleased -the Colonel. He’s so fastidious I was afraid, -though I didn’t mention it; but they are very -congenial.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad they’re friendly,” says Amos; “the -Colonel would make mince-meat of an uncongenial -cat. What do you call the cat?”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t, on account of circumstances, you -know, call him after my last cat, Miss Margaret -Clark, so I call him Esquire Clark. He knows -his name already. I thank you again, sir, for -saving him. I just stopped you so as to tell you -I had a lot of ripe gooseberries I’d be glad to -have you send and pick.”</p> - -<p>“Why, that’s good of you,” said Amos. “I -guess the boys at the jail would like a little -gooseberry sauce.”</p> - -<p>She nodded and turned round; the words -came over her shoulder: “Say, sir, I expect -you wouldn’t give them jam? It’s a great deal -better than sauce, and—<em>I</em> don’t mind letting -you have the extra sugar.” Amos was more bewildered -than he showed, but he thanked her, -and did, in fact, come that afternoon with a -buggy. The first object to greet him was the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> -large white head and the large black jaws of the -Colonel, chained to a post. Amos, who is the -friend of all dogs, and sometimes has an uninvited -following of stray curs, gave the snarling -figure-head a nod and a careless greeting: “All -right, young feller. Don’t disturb yourself. I’m -here, all proper and legal. How are you?” The -redoubtable Colonel began to wag his tail; and -as Amos came up to him he actually fawned on -him with manifestations of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“I guess he’s safe to unloose, ma’am,” said -Amos.</p> - -<p>Old Twentypercent was looking on with a -strange expression. “He likes you, sir; I never -saw him like a stranger before.”</p> - -<p>“Well, most dogs like me,” said Amos. “I -guess they understand I like them.”</p> - -<p>“I reckon you’re a good man,” said Old -Twentypercent, solemnly. From this auspicious -beginning the acquaintance slowly but steadily -waxed into a queer kind of semi-friendship. -Amos always bowed to the old woman when he -met her on the street. She sent the prisoners in -the jail fruit every Sunday during the season; -and Amos, not to be churlish, returned the -courtesy with a flowering plant, now and then, -in winter. But he never carried his gifts himself, -esteeming that such conduct would be an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span> -intrusion on a lady who preferred a retired life. -Esquire Clark, however, was of a social turn. -He visited the jail often. The first time he -came Amos sent him back. The messenger, Mrs. -Raker, was received at the door, thanked warmly, -sent away loaded with fruit and flowers, but -not asked over the threshold, which made Amos -the surer that he was right in not going himself. -Nevertheless, he did go to see Miss Clark, but -hardly on his own errand. A carpenter in the -town, a good sort of thriftless though industrious -creature, came to Amos to borrow some money. -He explained that he needed it to pay interest on -a debt, and that his tools were pledged for security. -The interest, he mourned, was high, and -the debt of long standing. The creditor was -Old Twentypercent.</p> - -<p>“It’s a shame I ’ain’t paid it off before, and -that’s a fact,” he concluded; “but a feller with -nine children can’t pay nothing—not even the -debt of nature—for he’s ’fraid to die and leave -them. And the blamed thing’s been a-runnin’ -and a-runnin’, like a ringworm, and a-eatin’ me -up. Though my wife she says we’ve more’n paid -her up in interest.” Amos had an old kindness -for the man, and after a visit to his wife—he -holding the youngest two of the nine (twins) on -his knees and keeping the peace with candy—he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span> -told the pair he would ask Miss Clark to allow a -third extension, on the payment of the interest.</p> - -<p>“Well, but I don’t know’s he’s even got that,” -said the wife, anxiously. “We’d a lot of expenses; -I don’t s’pose we’d orter had the twins’ -photographs taken this month, but they was so -delicate I was ’fraid we wouldn’t raise ’em; and -Mamie really couldn’t go to school without new -shoes. Children’s a blessing, I s’pose, but it’s a -blessing poor folks had got to pay for in advance!”</p> - -<p>“<em>So!</em>” says Amos. “Well, we’ll have to see -to that much, I guess. I’ll go this night.” He -betook himself to his errand in a frame of mind -only half distasteful. The other half was curious. -His visit fell on a summer night, a Sunday night, -when the air was soft and still and sweet with -the tiny hum of insects and the smell of drying -grass and the mellow resonance of the church-bells. -Amos climbed the clay stairs. The white -porcupine blazed above the bluffs. It gave light -enough to see the color of the grass and flowers; -yet not a real color, only the ghost of scarlet and -green and white, and only a ghost of the violet -sky, while all about the devouring shadows sank -form and color alike in their olive blacks. The -stars were out in the sky and the south wind in -the trees. Amos stepped across the lawn—he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span> -was a light walker although a heavy-weight—and -stopped before the front door, which had -long windows on either side. He had his arm -outstretched to knock; but he did not knock, -he stood and watched the green holland shade -that screened the window rise gradually. He -could see the room, a large room, uncarpeted, -whereby the steps of the inmate echoed on the -boards. He could see a writing-desk, a table, -and four or five chairs. These chairs were entirely -different from anything else in the room; -they were of pretty shape and extremely comfortable. -Immediately the curtain descended at -a run, and the old woman’s voice called, “You’re -a <em>bad</em> cat; don’t you do that again!” The voice -went on, as if to some one present: “Did you -ever see such a trying beast? Why, he’s almost -human! Now, you watch; the minute I turn -away from that window, that cat will pull up the -shade.” It appeared that she was right, for the -curtain instantly rolled up again. “No, honey,” -said Miss Clark, “you mustn’t encourage the -kitty to be naughty. ’Squire, if I let that curtain -stay a minute, will you behave!” A dog’s -growl emphasized this gentle reproof. “You -see the Colonel disapproves. Don’t pull the -dog’s tail, honey. Oh, mercy! <em>’Squire!</em>” Amos -heard a crash, and in an instant a flame shot up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span> -in a cone; and he, with one blow dislodging the -screen from the open window, plunged into the -smoke. The cat had tipped over the lamp, and -the table was in a blaze. Amos’s quick eye -caught sight of the box which served Esquire for -a bed. He huddled feather pillow and rug on -the floor to invert the box over the blaze. The -fire was out in a moment, and Margaret had -brought another lamp from the kitchen. Then -Amos had leisure to look about him. There was -no one in the room. Yet that was not the most -pungent matter for thought. Old Margaret, -whom he had considered one of the plainest -women in the world, as devoid of taste as of -beauty, was standing before him in a black silk -gown. A fine black silk, he pronounced it. She -had soft lace about her withered throat, and a -cap with pink ribbons on her gray hair, which -looked silvery soft. Her skin, too, seemed fairer -and finer: and there were rings that flashed and -glowed on her thin fingers. It was not Old -Twentypercent; it was a stately little gentlewoman -that stood before him. “How did you -happen to come, sir?”—she spoke with coldness.</p> - -<p>“I came on an errand, and I was just at the -door when the curtain flew up and the cat -jumped across the table.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span></p> - -<p>She involuntarily caught her breath, like one -relieved; then she smiled. “You mustn’t be -too hard on ’Squire; he’s of a nervous temperament; -I think he sees things—things outside -our ken.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Amos was unable not to see that -there had been on the table a tumbler full of -some kind of shrub, four glasses, and a decanter -of wine. And there had been wine in all the -glasses. But where were the drinkers? There -were four or five plates on the table, and a segment -of plum-cake was trodden underfoot on the -floor. Before she did anything else, old Margaret -carefully, almost scrupulously, gathered -up the crumbs and carried them away. When -she returned she carried a plate of cake and a -glass of wine. This refreshment was proffered -to Amos.</p> - -<p>“It’s a domestic port,” she said, “but well -recommended. I should be right glad to have -you sit down and have a glass of wine with me, -Mr. Sheriff.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you mayn’t be so glad when you -hear my errand,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>She went white in a second, and her fingers -curved inward like the fingers of the dying; she -was opening and shutting her mouth without -making a sound. He had seen a man hanged<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span> -once, and that face had worn the same ghastly -stare of expectation.</p> - -<p>“If you knew I was come to beg off one of -your debtors, for instance,” he went on; “that’s -my errand, if you want to know.”</p> - -<p>Her face changed. “It will go better after a -glass of wine,” said she, again proffering the wine -by a gesture—she didn’t trust her hand to pass -the tray.</p> - -<p>Amos was a little undecided as to the proper -formula to be used, never having taken wine with -a lady before; he felt that the usual salutations -among “the boys,” such as “Here’s how!” or -“Happy days!” or “Well, better luck next -time!” savored of levity if not disrespect; so -he grew a little red, and the best he could do -was to mumble, “Here’s my respects to you, -madam!” in a serious tone, with a bow.</p> - -<p>But old Margaret smiled. “It’s a long while,” -said she, “since I have taken wine with a—a -gentleman outside my own kin.”</p> - -<p>“Is that so?” Amos murmured, politely. -“Well, it’s the first time I have had that pleasure -with a lady.” He was conscious that he was -pleasing her, and that she was smiling about -her, for all the world (he said to himself) as if -she were exchanging glances with some one. A -new idea came to him, and he looked at her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> -compassionately while he ate his cake, breaking -off bits and eating it delicately, exactly as she ate.</p> - -<p>She offered him no explanation for the wineglasses -or for the conversation that he had overheard. -He did not hear a sound of any other -life in the house than their own. The doors -were open, and he could see into the bedroom -on one side and into the kitchen on the other. -She had lighted another lamp, enabling him to -distinguish every object in the kitchen. There -was not a carpet in the house, and it seemed -impossible that any one could be concealed so -quickly without making a sound.</p> - -<p>Amos shook his head solemnly. “Poor lady!” -said he.</p> - -<p>But she, now her mysterious fright was passed, -had rallied her spirits. Of her own motion she -introduced the subject of his errand. “You -spoke of a debtor; what’s the man’s name?”</p> - -<p>Amos gave her the truth of the tale, and with -some humor described the twins.</p> - -<p>“Well, I reckon he has more than paid it,” -she said at the end. “What do you want? -Were you going to lend him the money?”</p> - -<p>“Well, only the interest money; he’s a good -fellow, and he has nine children.”</p> - -<p>“Who have to be paid for in advance?” She -actually tittered a feeble, surprised little laugh,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> -as she rose up and stepped (on her toes, in the -prim manner once taught young gentlewomen) -across the room to the desk. She came back with -a red-lined paper in her meagre, blue-veined -hand. She handed the paper to Amos. “That -is a present to you.”</p> - -<p>“Not the whole note?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. Because you asked me. You tell -Foley that. And if he’s got a dog or a cat or a -horse, you tell him to be good to it.”</p> - -<p>This had been a year ago; and Amos was sure -that Foley’s gratitude would take the form of a -clamor for revenge. Mrs. Foley dated their present -prosperity entirely from that day; she had -superadded a personal attachment to an impersonal -gratitude; she sold Miss Clark eggs, and -little Mamie had the reversion of the usurer’s -shoes. Amos sighed. “Well, I can’t blame -’em,” he muttered. From that day had dated -his own closer acquaintance.</p> - -<p>He now occasionally paid a visit at the old -gentlewoman’s home. Once she asked him to -tea. And Raker went about for days in a broad -grin at the image of Amos, who, indeed, made a -very careful toilet with his new blue sack-coat, -white duck trousers, and tan-colored shoes. He -told Raker that he had had a delightful supper. -Mrs. O’Shea, the char-woman, was without at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> -kitchen stove, and little Mamie Foley brought in -the hot waffles and jam. Esquire Clark showed -his gifts by vaulting over the grape-arbor, trying -to enter through the wire screen, bent on joining -the company, and the Colonel wept audibly -outside, until Amos begged for their admission. -Safely on their respective seats, their behavior, in -general, was beyond criticism. Only once the -Colonel, feeling that the frying chicken was unconscionably -long in coming his way, gave a low -howl of irrepressible feeling; and Esquire Clark -(no doubt from sympathy) leaped after Mamie -and the dish.</p> - -<p>“’Squire, I’m ashamed of you!” cried Miss -Clark; “Archie, <em>you</em> know better!” Amos paid -no visible attention to the change of name; but -she must have noticed her own slip, for she said: -“I never told you the Colonel’s whole name, did -I? It’s Colonel Archibald Cary. I’d like you -never to mention it, though. And ’Squire Clark -is named after an uncle of mine who raised me, -for my parents died when I was a little girl. -Clark Byng was his name, and I called the cat -by the first part of it.”</p> - -<p>Amos did not know whether interest would be -considered impertinent, so he contented himself -with remarking that they were “both pretty -names.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span></p> - -<p>“Uncle was a good man,” said Miss Clark. -“He was only five feet four in height, but very -fond of muscular games, and a great admirer -of tall men. Colonel Cary was six feet two. I -reckon that’s about your height?”</p> - -<p>“Exactly, ma’am,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>She sighed slightly; then turned the conversation -to Amos’s own affairs.</p> - -<p>An instinct of delicacy kept him from ever -questioning her, and she vouchsafed him no information. -Once she asked him to come and -see her when he wanted anything that she could -give him. “I’m at home to you every day, except -the third of the month,” said she. On reflection -Amos remembered that it was on the third -that he had paid his first visit to Miss Clark.</p> - -<p>“Well, ma,” he remarked, walking up and -down in front of his mother’s portrait in his office, -as his habit was, “it is a queer case, ain’t it? -But I’m not employed to run the poor old lady -to cover, and I sha’n’t let any one else if I can -help it.”</p> - -<p>Had Amos been vain, he would have remarked -the change in his singular friend since their -friendship had begun. Old Margaret wore the -decent black gown and bonnet becoming an -elderly gentlewoman. She carried a silk umbrella. -The neighbors began to address her as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span> -“Miss Clark.” Amos, however, was not vain, -and all he told his mother’s picture was that the -old lady was quality, and no mistake.</p> - -<p>By this time, on divers occasions, she had -spoken to Amos of her South Carolina home. -Once she told him (in a few words, and her -voice was quiet, but her hands trembled) of the -yellow-fever time on the lonely plantation in the -pine woods, and how in one week her uncle, her -brother and his wife, and her little niece had -died, and she with her own hands had helped to -bury them. “It was no wonder I didn’t see -things all right after that,” she said. Another -time she showed him a locket containing the old-fashioned -yellow photograph of a man in a soldier’s -uniform. “He was considered very handsome,” -said she. Amos found it a handsome -face. He would have found it so under the -appeal of those piteous eyes had it been as ugly -as the Colonel’s. “He was killed in the war,” -she said; “shot while he was on a visit to us to -see my sister. He ran out of the house, and the -Yan—your soldiers shot him. It was the fortune -of war. I have no right to blame them. -But if he hadn’t visited our fatal roof he might -be living now; for it was in the very last year of -the war. I saw it. I fell down as if shot myself—better -if I had been.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span></p> - -<p>“Well, I call that awful hard,” said Amos; “I -should think you would have gone crazy!”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, sir, no!” she interrupted, eagerly. -“My mind was perfectly clear.”</p> - -<p>“But how you must have suffered!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suffered,” said she. “I never thought -to speak of it.”</p> - -<p>A week after this conversation her nephew -came. The day was September 3d. Nevertheless, -on that Wednesday night she summoned Amos. -He had been out in the country; but Mrs. Raker -had heard through little Minnie Foley, who came -for some crab-apples and found Miss Clark moaning -on the cellar floor. The jail being but a few -blocks away, Mrs. Raker was on the scene almost -as soon as George Washington. By the time -Amos arrived the two doctors had gone and -Miss Clark was in bed, and the white bedspread -or white pillows under her head were hardly -whiter than her face.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Raker’s making some gruel,” said she, -feebly, “and if you’ll stay here I have something -to say. It’s an odd thing, you’ll think,” -she added, wistfully, when he was in the arm-chair -by her bed (it was one of the chairs from -the other room, he noticed)—“an odd thing for -a miserable old woman with no kin and no friends -to be loath to leave; but I’m like a cat, I reckon.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span> -It near tore my soul up by the roots to leave -the old place, and now it’s as bad here.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you talk such nonsense as leaving, -Miss Clark,” Amos tried to console her. But -she shook her head. And Amos, recalling what -the doctors said, felt his words of denial slipping -back into his throat. He essayed another tack. -“Don’t you talk of having no friends here either. -Why, poor Mrs. O’Shea has blued all my shirts -that she was washing, so they’re a sight to see—all -for grief; and little Mamie Foley ran crying -all the way down the street.”</p> - -<p>“The poor child!”</p> - -<p>“And why are you leaving <em>me</em> out?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to leave you out, Mr. Sheriff—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, say Amos when you’re sick, Miss Clark,” -he cried, impulsively; she seemed so little, so -feeble, and so alone.</p> - -<p>“You’re a kind man, Amos Wickliff,” said -she. “Now first tell me, would you give the -Colonel and ’Squire a home as long as they need -it?”</p> - -<p>Amos gave an inward gasp; but it may be imputed -to him for righteousness some day that -there was only an imperceptible pause before he -answered, “Yes, ma’am, I will; and take good -care of them, too.”</p> - -<p>“Here’s something for you, then; take it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span> -now.” She handed him a large envelope, sealed. -“It’s for any expenses, you know. And—I’ll -send ’em over to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>He took the package rather awkwardly. “Now -you know you have a nephew—” he began.</p> - -<p>“I know, and I know why he’s here, too. -And in that paper is my will; but don’t you open -it till I’m dead a month, will you?”</p> - -<p>Amos promised in spite of a secret misgiving.</p> - -<p>“And now,” she went on, in her nervous way, -“I want you to do something right kind for me—not -now—when Mrs. Raker goes; she’s a good -soul, and I hope you’ll give her the envelope I’ve -marked for her. Yes, sir, I want you to do -something for me when she’s gone. Move in -the four chairs from down-stairs—the pretty ones—all -the rest are plain, so you can tell; and -fetch me the tray with the wineglasses and the -bottle of shrub—you’ll find the tray in the buffet -with the red curtains down-stairs in my office. -Then you go into the kitchen—I feel so sorry to -have to ask a gentleman to do such things, but -I do want them—and you’ll see a round brown -box with Cake marked on it in curly gilt letters, -and you’ll find a frosted cake in there wrapped -up in tissue-paper; and you take it out, and get -a knife out of the drawer, and fetch all those -things up to me. And then, Amos Wickliff, all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span> -the friend I’ve got in the world, you go and stay -outside—it ain’t cold or I wouldn’t ask it of you—you -stay until you hear my bell. Will you?”</p> - -<p>Amos took the thin hand, involuntarily outstretched, -and patted it soothingly between both -his strong brown hands.</p> - -<p>“Of course I will,” he promised. And after -Mrs. Raker’s departure he did her bidding, saying -often to himself, “Poor lady!”</p> - -<p>When the bell rang, and he came back, the -wineglasses and the decanter were empty, and -the cake was half gone. He made no comment, -she gave him no explanation. Until Mrs. Raker -returned she talked about releasing some of her -debtors.</p> - -<p>The following morning he came again.</p> - -<p>“I declare,” thought Amos, “when I think of -that morning, and how much brighter she looked, -it makes me sick to think of her as dead. She -had been doing a lot of things on the sly, helping -folks. It was her has been sending the -money for the jail dinner on Christmas, and the -ice-cream on the Fourth, and books, too. ‘It’s -so terrible to be a prisoner,’ says she. Wonder, -didn’t she know? I declare I <em>hate</em> her to be dead! -Ain’t it possible—Lord! wouldn’t that be a go?” -He did not express even to himself his sudden -flash of light on the mystery. But he went his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> -ways to the armory of the militia company, the -office of the chief of police (which was the very -next building), and to the fire department. At -one of these places he wrote out an advertisement, -which the reporters read in the evening -papers, and found so exciting that they all -flocked together to discuss it.</p> - -<p>All this did not take an hour’s time. It was -to be observed that at every place which he visited -he first stepped to the telephone and called -up the jail. “Are you all right there, Raker?” -he asked. Then he told where he was going. -“If you need, you can telephone me there,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“I guess Amos isn’t taking any chances on -this,” the youngest reporter, who encountered -him on his way, remarked to the chief of police.</p> - -<p>The chief replied that Amos was a careful man; -he wished some others would be as careful, and -as sure they were right before they went ahead; -a good deal of trouble would be avoided.</p> - -<p>“That’s right,” said the reporter, blithely, and -went his lightsome way, while the chief scowled.</p> - -<p>Amos returned to the jail. He found the -street clear, but little knots of men were gathering -and then dispersing in the street facing the -jail. Amos thought that he saw Foley’s face in -the crowd, but it vanished as he tried to distinguish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span> -it. “No doubt he’s egging them on,” -muttered Amos. He was rather taken aback -when Raker (to whom he offered his suspicions) -assured him, on ear evidence, that Foley was -preaching peace and obedience to the law. “He’s -an Irishman, too,” muttered Amos; “that’s awful -queer.” He spent a long time in a grim -reverie, out of which he roused himself to despatch -a boy for the evening papers. “And you -mark that advertisement, and take half a dozen -copies to Foley”—thus ran his directions—“tell -him I sent them; and if he knows anybody -would like to read that ‘ad,’ to send a paper to -<em>them</em>. Understand?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe it’s a prowl after a will-o’-wisp,” -Amos sighed, after the boy was gone, “but it’s -worth a try. Now for our young man!”</p> - -<p>Allerton was sitting in his cell, in an attitude -of dejection that would have been a grateful -sight to the crowd outside. He was a slim-waisted, -broad-shouldered, gentle-mannered -young fellow, whose dark eyes were very bright, -and whose dark hair was curly, and longer than -hair is usually worn by Northerners not studying -football at the universities. He had a mildly -Roman profile and a frank smile. His clothes -seemed almost shabby to Amos, who never -grudged a dollar of his tailor’s bills; but the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> -little Southern village whence he came was used -to admire that glossy linen and that short-skirted -black frock-coat.</p> - -<p>At Amos’s greeting he ran forward excitedly.</p> - -<p>“Are they coming?” he cried. “Say, sheriff, -you’ll give me back my pistol if they come; you’ll -give me a show for my life?”</p> - -<p>Amos shrugged his shoulders impatiently. -“Your life’s all right,” said he; “it’s how to -keep from hurting the other fellows I’m after. -The fire department will turn out and sozzle ’em -well, and if that won’t do they will have to face -the soldiers; but I hope to the Lord your aunt -won’t let it come to that.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think my aunt is living?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how she could be burned up so -completely. But see here, Mr. Allerton, wasn’t -there no trap-door in the room?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir; there was no carpet on the floor; she -hadn’t a carpet in the house. Besides, how could -she, sick as she was, get down through a trap-door -and shut it after her? And you could <em>see</em> -the boards, and there was no opening in them.”</p> - -<p>“So Mrs. O’Shea says, too,” mused the sheriff; -“but let’s go back. Had your aunt any motive -for trying to escape you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid she thought she had,” said the -young man, gravely.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span></p> - -<p>“Mind telling me?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir. I reckon you don’t know my aunt -was crazy?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve had some such notion. She lost her -mind when they all died of yellow-fever—or was -it when Colonel Cary was killed?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know precisely. I imagine that she -was queer after his death, and all the family dying -later, that finished the wreck. There were some -painful circumstances connected with the colonel’s -death—”</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard them.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. Well, sir, my mother was not to -blame—not so much to blame as you may think. -She was almost a stranger to her sister, raised in -another State; and she had never seen her or -Colonel Cary, her betrothed; and when she did -see him—well, sir, my mother was a beautiful, -daring, brilliant girl, and poor Aunt Margaret -timid and awkward. <em>She</em> broke the engagement, -not Cary.”</p> - -<p>“It was to see your mother he came to the -plantation!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. And he was killed. Poor Aunt -Margaret saw it. She came back to the house -riding in a miserable dump-cart, holding his -head in her lap. She wouldn’t let my mother -come near him. ‘Now he knows which loved<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> -him best,’ she said ‘He’s <em>mine</em>!’ And it didn’t -soften her when my mother married my father. -She seemed to think that proved she hadn’t -cared for Colonel Cary. Then the yellow-fever -came, and they all went. Her mind broke down -completely then; she used to think that on the -day Colonel Cary was shot they all came back for -a while, and she would set chairs for them and -offer them wine and cake—as if they were visiting -her. And after they left she would pour the -wine in the glasses into the grate and burn the -cake. She said that they enjoyed it, and ate -really, but they left a semblance. She got hold -of some queer books, I reckon, for she had the -strangest notions; and she spent no end of money -on some spiritual mediums; greedy harpies that -got a heap of money out of her. My father and -mother had come to Cary Hall, then, to live, -and of course they didn’t like it. The great -trouble, my mother often said to me, was that -though they were sisters, they were raised apart, -and were as much strangers as—we are. You -can imagine how they felt to see the property -being squandered. Ten thousand dollars, sir, -went in one year—”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure it did go?” said the sheriff.</p> - -<p>“Well, the property was sold, and we never -saw anything afterwards of the money. And the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span> -estate wasn’t a bottomless well. It isn’t so -strange, sir, that—that they had poor Aunt -Margaret cared for.”</p> - -<p>“At an insane asylum?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, for five years. I confess,” said the -young man, jumping up and pacing the room—“I -confess I think it was a horrible place, horrible. -But they didn’t know. It was only after -she recovered her senses and was released that -we began to understand what she suffered. Not -so much then, for she was shy of us all. She -was so scared, poor thing! And then—we began -to suspect that she was not cured of her delusions. -Maybe there <em>were</em> consultations and talk -about her, though indeed, sir, my mother has assured -me many times that there was no intention -of sending her back. But she is very shrewd, -and she would notice how doors would be shut -and the conversation would be changed when she -entered a room, and her suspicions were aroused. -She managed to raise some money on a mortgage, -and she ran away, leaving not a trace behind her. -My mother has reproached herself ever since. -And we’ve tried to find her. It has preyed upon -my mother’s mind that she might be living somewhere, -poor and lonely and neglected. We are -not rich people,” said the young man, lifting his -head proudly, “but we have enough. I come to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> -offer Aunt Margaret money, not to ask it. We’ve -kept up the place, and bit by bit paid off the -mortgage, though it has come hard sometimes. -And it was awkward the title being in that kind -of shape, and ma wouldn’t for a long time get it -quieted.”</p> - -<p>“But how did you ever find out she was -<em>here</em>?”</p> - -<p>The young Southerner smiled. “I reckon I -owe being in this scrape at all to your gentlemen -of the press. One of them wrote a kind of character-sketch -about her, describing her—”</p> - -<p>“I know. He’s the youngest man on the list, -and an awful liar, but he does write a mighty -readable story.”</p> - -<p>“He did this time,” said Allerton, dryly; “so -readable it was copied in the papers all over, I -expect; anyhow, it was copied in our local sheet—inside, -where they have the patent insides, you -know. It was entitled ‘A Usurer, but Merciful!’ -I showed it to my mother, and she was -sure it was Aunt Margaret. Even the name was -right, for her whole name is Margaret Clark -Cary. She hadn’t the heart to cast the name -away, and she thought, Clark being a common -name, she wouldn’t be discovered.”</p> - -<p>Amos, who had sat down, was nursing his -ankle. “Do you suppose,” said he, slowly—“do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> -you suppose that taking it to be the case she -wasn’t so much hurt as the doctors supposed, -that <em>then</em> she could get out of the room?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how she could. She was in the -room, in the bed, when I went out. I sat down -before the door. She couldn’t pass me. I -heard a screech after a while, a mighty queer -sound, and I ran in. Sir, I give you my word of -honor, the bed was empty! the room was empty!”</p> - -<p>“How was the room lighted?”</p> - -<p>“By a large lamp with a Rochester burner, -and some fancy of hers had made her keep it -turned up at full blaze. Oh, you could see -every inch of the room at a glance! And then, -too, I ran all round it before I ran to the window, -pushed it up, and looked out. I would be willing -to take my oath that the room was empty.”</p> - -<p>“You looked under the bed?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. And in the closet. I tell you, -sir, there was no one in the room.”</p> - -<p>Amos sat for the space of five minutes, it -seemed to the young man, really perhaps for -a full minute, thinking deeply. Then, “I -can’t make it out,” said he, “but I believe -you are telling the truth.” He stood -up; the young man also rose. In the silence -wherein the younger man tried to formulate -something of his gratitude and yet keep his lip<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> -from quivering (for he had been sore beset by -homesickness and divers ugly fears during the -last day), the roar of the crowd without beat -through the bars, swelling ominously. And now, -all of an instant, the jail was penetrated by a -din of its own making. The prisoners lost their -heads. They began to scream inquiries, to shriek -at each other. Two women whose drunken disorder -had gone beyond the station-house restraints, -and who were spending a week in jail, -burst into deafening wails, partly from fright, -partly from pity, and largely from the general -craving of their condition to make a noise.</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said Amos, laying a kindly -hand on young Allerton’s shoulder, “the Company -B boys are all in the yard. But I guess you -will feel easier if you go down-stairs. Parole of -honor you won’t skip off?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, God bless you, sir!” cried Allerton. -“I couldn’t bear to die this way; it would kill -my mother! Yes, yes, of course I give my word. -Only let me have a chance to fight, and die fighting—”</p> - -<p>“No dying in the case,” Amos interrupted; -“but what in thunder are the cusses cheering for? -Come on; this needs looking into. <em>Cheering!</em>”</p> - -<p>He hurried down the heavy stairs into the hall, -where Raker, a little paler, and Mrs. Raker, a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> -little more flushed than usual, were examining -the bolts of the great door.</p> - -<p>Amos flung a glare of scorn at it, and he -snorted under his breath: “Locks! No need -of locking <em>You</em>! I could bust you with the -hose!”</p> - -<p>As if in answer, the cheering burst forth anew, -and now it was coupled with his name: “Wickliff! -Amos! <em>Amos!</em>”</p> - -<p>“Let me out!” commanded Wickliff, and he -slipped back the bolts. He stepped under the -light of the door-lamp outside, tall and strong, -and cool as if he had a Gatling gun beside him.</p> - -<p>A cheer rolled up from the crowd—yes, not -only from the crowd, but from the blue-coated -ranks massed to one side, and the young faces -behind the bayonets.</p> - -<p>Amos stared. He looked fiercely from the -mob to the guardians of the law. Then, amid a -roar of laughter, for the crowd perfectly understood -his gesture of bewilderment and anger, -Foley’s voice bellowed, “All right, sheriff; we’ve -got her safe!”</p> - -<p class="tb">They tell to this day how the iron sheriff, -whose composure had been proof against every -test brought against it, and whom no man had -ever before seen to quail, actually staggered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> -against the door. Then he gave them a broad -grin of his own, and shouted with the rest, for -there in the heart of the rush jailward, lifted -up on a chair—loaned, as afterwards appeared -(when it came to the time for returning), from -Hans Obermann’s “Place”—sat enthroned old -Margaret Clark; and she was looking as if she -liked it!</p> - -<p>They got her to the jail porch; Amos pacified -the crowd with free beer at Obermann’s, and -carried her over the threshold in his arms.</p> - -<p>He put her down in the big arm-chair in his -office, opposite the portraits of his parents, and -Esquire Clark slid into the room and purred at -her feet, while Mrs. Raker fanned her. It was -rather a chilly evening, the heat having given -place to cold in the sudden fashion of the climate; -but good Mrs. Raker knew what was due -to a person in a faint or likely to faint, and she -did not permit the weather to disturb her rules. -Calmly she began to fan, saying meanwhile, in a -soothing tone, “There, there, don’t <em>you</em> worry! -it’s all right!”</p> - -<p>Raker stood by, waiting for orders and smiling -feebly. And young Allerton simply gasped.</p> - -<p>“You were at Foley’s, then?” Amos was the -first to speak—apart from Mrs. Raker’s crooning, -which, indeed, was so far automatic that it can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> -hardly be called speech; it was merely a vocal -exercise intended to quiet the mind. “You <em>were</em> -at Foley’s, then?” says Amos.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” very calmly; but her hands were -clinching the arms of the chair.</p> - -<p>“And you saw my advertisement in this evening -paper?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir; Foley read it out to me. You -begged M. C. C. to come back and help you -because you were in great embarrassment and -trouble—and you promised me nobody should -harm me.”</p> - -<p>“No more nobody shall!” returned Amos.</p> - -<p>“But maybe you can’t help it. Never mind. -When I heard about how they were talking about -lynching him”—she indicated her nephew—“I -felt terrible; the sin of blood guiltiness seemed -to be resting on my soul; but I couldn’t help -it. Mr. Sheriff, you don’t know I—I was once -in—in an insane asylum. I was!”</p> - -<p>“That’s all right,” said Amos. “I know all -about that.”</p> - -<p>“There, there, there!” murmured Mrs. Raker, -“don’t think of it!”</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t that they were cruel to me—they -weren’t that. They never struck or starved me; -they just gave me awful drugs to keep me quiet; -and they made me sit all day, every day, week<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span> -in, week out, month in, month out, on a bench -with other poor creatures, who had enough company -in their horrible dreams. If I lifted my -hands there was some one to put them down -to my side and say, in a soft voice, ‘Hush, be -quiet!’ That was their theory—absolute rest! -They thought I was crazy because I could see -more than they, because I had visitors from the -spirit-land—”</p> - -<p>“I know,” interrupted Amos. “I was there -one night. But I—”</p> - -<p>“You couldn’t see them. It was only I. They -came to <em>me</em>. It was more than a year after they -all died, and I was so lonely—oh, nobody knows -how desolate and lonely I was!—and then a -medium came. She taught me how to summon -them. At first, though I made all the preparations, -though I put out the whist cards for uncle -and Ralph and Sadie, and the toys for little -Ro, I couldn’t seem to think they were there; -but I kept on acting as if I knew they were -there, and having faith; and at last they did -come. But they wouldn’t come in the asylum, -because the conditions weren’t right. So at last -I felt I couldn’t bear it any longer. I felt like -I was false to the heavenly vision; but I couldn’t -stand it, and so I pretended I didn’t see them -and I never had seen them; and whatever they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> -said I ought to feel I pretended to feel, and I -said how wonderful it was that I should be -cured; and that made them right pleased; and -they felt that I was quite a credit to them, and -they wrote my sister that I was cured. I went -home, but only to be suspected again, and so I -ran away. I had put aside money before, thousands -of dollars, that they thought that I spent. -They thought I gave a heap of it to that medium -and her husband; I truly only gave them -five hundred dollars. So I went forth. I hid -myself here. I was happy here, where <em>they</em> -could come, until—until I saw Archibald Allerton -on the street and overheard him inquiring -for me. I was dreadfully upset. But I decided -in a minute to flee again. So I drew some -money out of the bank, and I bought a blue -calico and a sun-bonnet not to look like myself; -and I went home and wrote that letter I gave -you, Mr. Sheriff, with my will and the money.”</p> - -<p>“The parcel is unopened still,” said Amos. -“I gave you my word, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. I knew you would keep your -word. And it was just after I wrote you I slipped -down the cellar stairs. It came of being in a -hurry. I made sure I never <em>would</em> get on my -feet again, but very soon I discovered that I was -more scared than hurt. And I saw then there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span> -might be a chance of keeping him off his guard -if he thought I was like to die, and that thus -I might escape the readier. It was not hard to -fool the doctors. I did just the same with them -I did with the asylum folks. I said yes whenever -I thought they expected it, and though I -had some contradictory symptoms, they made -out a bad state of things with the spine, and -gave mighty little hope of my recovery. But -what I hadn’t counted on was that my <em>friends</em> -would take such good care of me. I didn’t -know I had friends. It pleased me so I was -wanting to cry for joy; yet it frightened me so -I didn’t know which way to turn.”</p> - -<p>“But, great heavens! Aunt Margaret,” the -young Southerner burst out, unable to restrain -himself longer, “you had no need to be so afraid -of <em>me</em>!”</p> - -<p>The old woman looked at him, more in suspicion -than in hope, but she went on, not answering: -“The night I did escape, it was by -accident. I never would say one word to him -hardly, though he tried again and again to start -a talk; but I would seem too ill; and he’s a -Cary, anyhow, and couldn’t be rude to a lady. -That night he went into the other room. He -was so quiet I reckoned he was asleep, and, thinking -that here might be a chance for me, I slipped<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> -out of bed, soft as soft, and slipped over to the -crack of the door—it just wasn’t closed!—and -I peeked in on him—”</p> - -<p>“And you were behind the door when he -heard the noise?” exclaimed Amos. “But what -made the noise?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I reckon just ’Squire jumping out of the -window; he gave a kind of screech.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t understand,” cried Allerton. -“I went into the room, and it was empty.”</p> - -<p>“No, sir,” said Miss Cary, plucking up more -spirit in the presence of Wickliff—“no, sir; I -was behind the door. You didn’t push it shut.”</p> - -<p>“But I ran all round the room.”</p> - -<p>“No, sir; not till you looked out of the window. -While you were looking out of the window -I slipped out of the door; and I was so -scared lest you should see me that I wasn’t afraid -of anything else; and I got down-stairs while -you were looking in the closet, and found my -clothes there, and so got out.”</p> - -<p>“But I was <em>sure</em> I went round the room first,” -cried Allerton.</p> - -<p>“Very likely; but you see you didn’t,” remarked -Amos.</p> - -<p>“It was because I remembered stubbing my -toe”—Allerton was painfully ploughing up his -memories—“I am <em>certain</em> I stubbed my toe, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span> -it must have been going round the—no; by—I -beg your pardon—I stubbed it against the bed, -going to the window. I was all wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Just so,” agreed Amos, cheerfully. “And -then <em>you</em> went to Foley, Miss Cary. Trust an -Irishman for hiding anybody in trouble! But -how did the house catch fire? Did you—”</p> - -<p>But old Margaret protested vehemently that -here at least she was sackless; and Mrs. Raker -unexpectedly came to the rescue.</p> - -<p>“I guess I can tell that much,” said she. -“’Squire came back, and he’s got burns all over -him, and he’s cut with glass bad! I guess he -jumped back into the house and upset a lamp -once too often!”</p> - -<p>“I see it all,” said Amos. “And then you -came back to rescue your nephew—”</p> - -<p>“No, sir,” cried Margaret Cary; “I came -back because they said you were in trouble. It’s -wicked, but I couldn’t bear the thought he’d -take me back to the crazies. I’m an old woman; -and when you’re old you want to live in a house -of your own, in your own way, and not be -crowded. And it’s so awful to be crowded by -crazies! I couldn’t bear it. I said he must take -his chance; and I wouldn’t read the papers for -fear they would shake my resolution. It was -Foley read your advertisement to me. And then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span> -I knew if you were in danger, whatever happened -to me, I would have to go.”</p> - -<p>Amos wheeled round on young Allerton. -“Now, young fellow,” said he, “speak out. -Tell your aunt you won’t touch a hair of her -head; and she may have her little invisible family -gatherings all she likes.”</p> - -<p>Allerton, smiling, came forward and took his -aunt’s trembling hand. “You shall stay here -or go home to your sister, who loves you, whichever -you choose; and you shall be as safe and -free there as here,” said he.</p> - -<p>And looking into his dark eyes—the Cary -eyes—she believed him.</p> - -<p>The youngest reporter never heard the details -of the Clark mystery, but no doubt he made -quite as good a story as if he had known the -truth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DEFEAT_OF_AMOS_WICKLIFF">THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF</h2> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span></p> - -<h3>THE DEFEAT OF AMOS WICKLIFF</h3> - -</div> - -<p>“What’s the matter with Amos?” Mrs. -Smith asked Ruth Graves; “the boy -doesn’t seem like himself at all.” -Amos, at this speaking, was nearer forty than -thirty; but ever since her own son’s death he -had been “her boy” to Edgar’s mother. She -looked across at Ruth with a wistful kindling of -her dim eyes. “You—you haven’t said anything -to Amos to hurt his feelings, Ruth?”</p> - -<p>Ruth, busy over her embroidery square, set -her needle in with great nicety, and replied, “I -don’t think so, dear.” Her color did not turn -nor her features stir, and Mrs. Smith sighed.</p> - -<p>After a moment she rose, a little stiffly—she -had aged since Edgar’s death—walked over to -Ruth, and lightly stroked the sleek brown head. -“I’ve a very great—<em>respect</em> for Amos,” she said. -Then, her eyes filling, she went out of the room; -so she did not see Ruth’s head drop lower. Respect?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> -But Ruth herself respected him. No -one, no one so much! But that was all. He -was the best, the bravest man in the world; but -that was all. While poor, weak, faulty Ned—how -she had loved him! Why couldn’t she love -a right man? Why did not admiration and respect -and gratitude combined give her one throb -of that lovely feeling that Ned’s eyes used to -give her before she knew that they were false? -Yet it was not Ned’s spectral hand that chilled -her and held her back. Three years had passed -since he died, and before he died she had so -completely ceased to love him that she could -pity him as well as his mother. The scorching -anger was gone with the love. But somehow, in -the immeasurable humiliation and anguish of -that passage, it was as if her whole soul were -burned over, and the very power of loving shrivelled -up and spoiled. How else could she keep -from loving Amos, who had done everything -(she told herself bitterly) that Ned had missed -doing? And she gravely feared that Amos had -grown to care for her. A hundred trifles betrayed -his secret to her who had known the -glamour that imparadises the earth, and never -would know it any more. Mrs. Smith had seen -it also. Ruth remembered the day, nearly a -year ago, that she had looked up (she was singing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> -at their cabinet organ, singing hymns of a -Sunday evening) and had caught the look, not -on Amos’s face, but on the kind old face that -was like her mother’s. She understood why, -the next day, Mrs. Smith moved poor Ned’s -picture from the parlor to her own chamber, -where there were four photographs of him already.</p> - -<p>“And now she is reconciled to what will never -happen,” thought Ruth, “and is afraid it -won’t happen. Poor Mother Smith, it never -will!” She wished, half irritably, that Amos -would let a comfortable situation alone. Of -late, during the month or six weeks past, he had -appeared beset by some hidden trouble. When -he did not reckon that he was observed his -countenance would wear an expression of harsh -melancholy; and more than once had she caught -his eyes tramping through space after her with -a look that made her recall the lines of Tennyson -Ned used to quote to her in jest—for she -had never played with him:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Right through’ his manful breast darted the pang</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That makes a man, in the sweet face of her</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That he loves most, lonely and miserable.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Then, for a week at a time, he would not come -to the village; he said he was busy with a murder<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> -trial. He was not at their house to-day; it -was they who were awaiting his return from the -court-house, in his own rooms at the jail, after -the most elaborate midday dinner Mrs. Raker -could devise. The parlor was less resplendent -and far prettier than of yore. Ruth knew that -the change had come about through her own -suggestions, which the docile Amos was always -asking. She knew, too, that she had not looked -so young and so dainty for years as she looked -in her new brown cloth gown, with the fur trimming -near enough a white throat to enhance -its soft fairness. Yet she sighed. She wished -heartily that they had not come to town. True, -they needed the things, and, much to Mother -Smith’s discomfiture, she had insisted on going -to a modest hotel near the jail, instead of to -Amos’s hospitality; but it was out of the question -not to spend one day with him. Ruth began -to fear it would be a memorable day.</p> - -<p>There were his clothes, for instance; why -should he make himself so fine for them, when -his every-day suit was better than other people’s -Sunday best? Ruth took an unconscious delight -in Amos’s wardrobe. There was a finish -about his care of his person and his fine linen -and silk and his freshly pressed clothes which -she likened to his gentle manner with women<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> -and the leisurely, pleasant cadence of his voice, -which to her quite mended any breaks in her -admiration made by a reckless and unprotected -grammar. Although she could not bring herself -to marry him, she considered him a man that -any girl might be proud to win. Quite the same, -his changing his dress put her in a panic. Which -was nonsense, since she didn’t have any reason -to suppose—The cold chills were stepping up -her spine to the base of her brain; <em>that</em> was his -step in the hall!</p> - -<p>He opened the door. He was fresh and -pressed from the tailor, he was smooth and perfumed -from the barber, and his best opal-and-diamond -scarf-pin blazed in a new satin scarf. -Certainly his presence was calculated to alarm a -young woman afraid of love-making.</p> - -<p>Nor did his words reassure her. He said, -“Ruth, I don’t know if you have noticed that -I was worried lately.”</p> - -<p>“I thought maybe you were bothered about -some business,” lied Ruth, with the first defensive -instinct of woman.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s it; it’s about a man sentenced -to death.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Ruth.</p> - -<p>“Yes, for killing Johnny Bateman. He’s -applied for a new trial, and the court has just<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> -been heard from. Raker’s gone to find out. If -he can’t get the hearing, it’s the gallows; and -I—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Amos, no! that would be too awful! -Not <em>you</em>!”</p> - -<p>“—I’d rather resign the office, if it wouldn’t -seem like sneaking. Ah!” A rap at the door -made Amos leap to his feet. In the rap, so -muffled, so hesitating, sounded the diffidence -of the bearer of bad news. “If <em>that’s</em> Raker,” -groaned Amos, “it’s all up, for that ain’t his -style of knock!”</p> - -<p>Raker it was, and his face ran his tidings -ahead of him.</p> - -<p>“They refused a new trial?” said Amos.</p> - -<p>“Yes, they have,” exploded Raker. “Oh, -damn sech justice! And he’s only got three days -before the execution. And it’s <em>here</em>! Oh, ain’t -it h—?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is,” said Amos, “but you needn’t -say so here before ladies.” He motioned to the -portrait and to Ruth, who had leaned out from -her chair, listening with a pale, attentive face.</p> - -<p>“Please excuse me, ladies,” said Raker, absently; -“I’m kinder off my base this morning. -You see, Amos, my wife she says if hanging Sol -is my duty I’ve jest got to resign, for she won’t -live with no hangman. She’s terrible upset.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span></p> - -<p>“It ain’t your duty; it’s mine,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>“I guess you don’t like the job any more’n -me,” stammered Raker, “and it ain’t like Joe -Raker sneakin’ off this way; but what can I do -with my woman? And maybe you, not having -any wife—”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Amos, very slowly, “I haven’t -got any wife; it’s easier for me.” Nevertheless, -the blood had ebbed from his swarthy cheeks.</p> - -<p>“But how did it happen?” said Ruth.</p> - -<p>“’Ain’t Amos told you?” said Raker, whose -burden was visibly lightened—he pitied Amos -sincerely, but it is much less distressful to pity -one’s friends than to need to pity one’s self. -“Well, this was the way: Sol Joscelyn was a -rougher in the steel-works across the river, and -he has a sweetheart over here, and he took her -to the big Catholic fair, and Johnny was there. -Johnny was the biggest policeman on the force and -the best-natured, and he had a girl of his own, it -came out, so there was no cause for Sol to be jealous. -He says now it was his fault, and she says -’twas all hers; but my notion is it was the same -old story. Breastpins in a pig’s nose ain’t in it -with a pretty girl without common-sense; and -that’s Scriptur’, Mrs. Raker says. But Sol felt -awful bad, and he felt so bad he went out and took -a drink. He took a good many drinks, I guess;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> -and not being a drinkin’ man he didn’t know -how to carry it off, and he certainly didn’t have -any right to go back to the hall in the shape he -was in. It was a friendly part in Johnny to take -him off and steer him to the ferry. But there -was a little bad look about it, though Sol went -peaceful at last. Sol says they had got down to -Front Street, and it was all friendly and cleared -up, and he was terrible ashamed of himself the -minnit he got out in the air. He was ahead, he -says, crossing the street, when he heard Johnny’s -little dog yelp like mad, and he turned round—of -course he wasn’t right nimble, and it was a -little while before he found poor Johnny, all -doubled up on the sidewalk, stabbed in the -jugular vein. He never made a sign. Sol got -up and ran after the murderer. The mean part -is that two men in a saloon saw Sol just as he -got up and ran. Naturally they ran after him -and started the hue-and-cry, and Sol was so -dazed he didn’t explain much. Have I got it -straight, Amos?”</p> - -<p>“Very straight, Joe. You might put in that -the prosecuting attorney, Frank Woods, is on -his first term and after laurels; and that, unluckily, -there have been three murders in this -locality inside the year, and by hook or crook -all three of the men got off with nothing but a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> -few years at Anamosa; and public sentiment, in -consequence, is pretty well stirred up, and not -so particular about who it hits as hitting <em>somebody</em>; -and that poor Sol had a chump of a -lawyer—and you have the state of things.”</p> - -<p>“But why are you so sure he wasn’t guilty?” -said Ruth. The shocked look on her face was -fading. She was thinking her own thoughts, -not Amos’s, Raker decided.</p> - -<p>“Partly on account of the dog,” said Amos. -“First thing Sol said when they took him up -was, ‘Johnny’s dog’s hurt too’; and true enough -we found him (for I was round) crawling down -the street with a stab in him. Now, I says, -here’s a test right at hand; if the dog was -stabbed by this young feller he’ll tell of it when -he sees him, and I fetched him right up to Sol; -but, bless my soul, the dog kinder wagged his -tail! And he’s taken to Sol from the first. -Another thing, they never found the knife that -did it; said Sol might have throwed it into the -river. Tommy rot!—I mean it ain’t likely. Sol -wasn’t in no condition to throw a knife a block -or two!”</p> - -<p>“But if not he, who else?” said Ruth.</p> - -<p>Amos was at a loss to answer her exactly, and -yet in language that he considered suitable “to -a nice young lady”; but he managed to convey<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span> -to her an idea of the villanous locality where the -unfortunate policeman met his death; and he told -her that from the first, judging by the character -of the blow (“no American man—a decent man -too, like Sol—would have jabbed a man from -behind that way; that’s a Dago blow, with a -Dago knife!”), he had suspected a certain Italian -woman, who “boarded” in the house beneath -whose evil walls the man was slain. He suspected -her because Johnny had arrested “a great friend -of hers” who turned out to be “wanted,” and in -the end was sent to the penitentiary, and the -woman had sworn revenge. “That’s all,” said -Amos, “except that when I looked her up, she -had skipped. I have a good man shadowing her, -though, and he has found her.”</p> - -<p>“And that was what convinced you?”</p> - -<p>“That and the man himself. Suppose we -take a look at him. Then I’ll have to go to -Des Moines. I suspected this would come, and -I’m all ready.”</p> - -<p>So the toilet was for the Governor and not for -her; Ruth took shame to herself for a full -minute while Raker was speaking. Amos’s dejection -came from a cause worthy of such a man -as he. Perhaps all her fancies....</p> - -<p>“That will suit,” Raker was saying. “He -has been asking for you. I told him.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span></p> - -<p>“Thank you, Joe,” said Amos, gratefully.</p> - -<p>“I don’t propose to leave <em>all</em> the dirty jobs to -you,” growled Raker. And he added under his -breath to Ruth, when Amos had stopped behind -to strap a bag, “Amos is going to take it hard.”</p> - -<p>He led the way, through a stone-flagged hall, -where the air wafted the unrefreshing cleanliness -of carbolic acid and lime, up a stone and -iron staircase worn by what hundreds of lagging -feet! past grated windows through which how -many feverish eyes had been mocked by the -brilliant western sky! past narrow doors and the -laughter and oaths of rascaldom in the corridor, -into an absolutely silent hall blocked by an iron-barred -door. There Raker paused to fit a key -in the lock, and on his commonplace, florid -features dawned a curious solemnity. Ruth -found herself breathing more quickly.</p> - -<p>The door swung inward. Ruth’s first sensation -was a sort of relief, the room looked so little -like a cell, with its bright chintz on the bed -and the mass of nosegays on the table. A black-and-tan -terrier bounded off the bed and gambolled -joyously over Amos’s feet.</p> - -<p>“Here’s the sheriff and a lady to see you, Sol,” -Raker announced.</p> - -<p>The prisoner came forward eagerly, holding -out his hand. All three shook it. He was a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> -short, cleanly built man, who held his chin -slightly uplifted as he talked. His reddish-brown -hair was strewn over a high white forehead; -its disorder did not tally with the neatness -of his Sunday suit, which, they told Ruth -afterwards, he had worn ever since his conviction, -although previously he had been particular -to wear his working-clothes. Ruth’s eyes were -drawn by an uncanny attraction, stronger than -her will, to the face of a man in such a tremendous -situation. His skin was fair and freckled, -and had the prison pallor, face and hands. But -the feature that impressed Ruth was his eyes. -They were of a clear, grayish-blue tint, meeting -the gaze directly, without self-consciousness or -bravado, and innocent as a child’s. Such eyes -are not unfrequent among working-men, but the -rest of us have learned to hide behind the glass. -He did not look like a man who knew that he -must die in three days. He was smiling. Looking -closer, however, Ruth saw that his eyelids -were red, and she observed that his fingers were -tapping the balls of his thumbs continually.</p> - -<p>“I’m real glad to see you,” he said. “Won’t -you set down? Poker, you let the lady alone”—addressing -the dog. “He’s just playful; he -won’t bite. Mr. Wickliff lets me have him -here; he was Johnny’s dog, and he’s company<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> -to me. He likes it. They let him out whenever -he wants, you know.” His eyes for a -second passed the faces before him and lingered -on the bare branches of the maple swaying between -his window grating and the sky. Was he -thinking that he would see the trees but once, -on one terrible journey?</p> - -<p>Raker blew his nose violently.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m off to Des Moines, Sol,” said Amos.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. And about Elly going? I don’t -want her to go to all that expense if it won’t do -no good. I want to leave her all the money I -can—”</p> - -<p>“You never mind about the money.” Amos -took the words off his tongue with friendly gruffness. -“But she better wait till we see how I -git along. Maybe there’ll be no necessity.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a kinder long journey for a young lady,” -said Joscelyn, anxiously, “and it’s so hard getting -word of those big folks, and I hate to think -of her having to hang round. Elly’s so timid -like, and maybe somebody not being polite to -her—”</p> - -<p>“I’ll attend to all that, Joscelyn. She shall -go in a Pullman, and everything will be fixed.”</p> - -<p>“Can you git passes? You are doing a terrible -lot of things for me, Mr. Wickliff; and Mr. -Raker too, and his good lady” (with a grateful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span> -glance at Raker, who rocked in the rocking-chair -and was lapped in gloom). “It does seem like -you folks here are awful kind to folks in trouble, -and if I ever git out—” He was not equal to -the rest of the sentence, but Amos covered his -faltering with a brisk—</p> - -<p>“That’s all right. Say, ’ain’t you got some -new flowers?”</p> - -<p>Joscelyn smiled. “Those are from the boys -over to the mill. Ten of them boys was over to -see me Sunday, no three knowing the others were -coming. I tell you when a man gits into trouble -he finds out about his friends. I got awful good -friends. The roller sent me that box of cigars. -And there’s one little feller—he works on the -hot-bed, one of them kids—and he walked all the -six miles, ’cross the bridge and all, ’cause he -didn’t have money for the fare. Why he didn’t -have money, he’d spent it all in boot-jack tobacco -and a rosy apple for me. He’s a real nice -little boy. If—if things was to go bad with me, -would you kinder have an eye on Hughey, Mr. -Wickliff?”</p> - -<p>Amos rose rather hastily. “Well, I guess I -got to go now, Sol.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;" id="illus15"> -<img src="images/illus15.jpg" width="450" height="550" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">THE FAREWELL</p> -</div> - -<p>Ruth noticed that Sol got the sheriff’s big hand -in both his as he said, “I guess you know how -I feel ’bout what you and Mr. Raker—” This<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span> -time he could not go on, his mouth twitched, -and he brushed the back of his hand across his -eyes. Ruth saw that the palm had a great white -welt on it, and that the sinews were stiffened, -preventing the fingers from opening wide. She -spoke then. She held out her own hand.</p> - -<p>“I know you didn’t do it,” said she, very deliberately; -“and I’m sure we shall get you free -again. Don’t stop hoping! Don’t you stop one -minute!”</p> - -<p>“I guess I can’t say anything better than -that,” said Amos. In this fashion they got -away.</p> - -<p>Amos did not part his lips until they were -back in his own parlor, where he spoke. “Did -you notice his hand?”</p> - -<p>Ruth had noticed it.</p> - -<p>“A man who saw the accident that gave him -those scars told me about it. It happened two -years ago. Sol had his spell at the roll, and he -was strolling about, and happened to fetch up at -the finishing shears, where a boy was straightening -the red-hot iron bars. I don’t know exactly -how it happened; some way the iron caught on -a joint of the bed-plates and jumped at him, -red-hot. He didn’t get out of the way quick -enough. It went right through his leg and -curved up, and down he dropped with the iron<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span> -in him. Near the femoral artery, they said, too; -and it would have burned the walls of the artery -down, and he would have bled to death in a flash. -Sol Joscelyn saw him. He looked round for -something to take hold of that iron with that -was smoking and charring, but there wasn’t anything—the -boy’s tongs had gone between the -rails when he fell. So he—he took his <em>hands</em> -and pulled the red-hot thing out! That’s how -both his hands are scarred.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the poor fellow!” said Ruth; “and -think of him <em>here</em>!”</p> - -<p>Amos shook his head and strode to the window. -Then he came back to her, where she -was trying to swallow the pain in the roof of her -mouth. He stretched his great hands in front -of him. “How could I ever look at them again -if they pulled that lever?” he sobbed—for the -words were a sob; and immediately he flung -himself back to the window again.</p> - -<p>“Amos, I know they won’t hang him; why, -they <em>can’t</em>. If the Governor could only see him.” -Ruth was standing, and her face was flushed. -“Why, Amos, <em>I</em> thought maybe he might be -guilty until I saw him! I know the Governor -won’t see him, but if we told him about the poor -fellow, if we tried to make him see him as we -do?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span></p> - -<p>Amos drearily shook his head. “The Governor -is a just man, Ruth, but he is hard as nuts. -Sentiment won’t go down with him. Besides, -he is a great friend of Frank Woods, who has got -his back up and isn’t going to let me pull his -prisoner out. Of course he’s given <em>his</em> side.”</p> - -<p>“The girl—this Elly? If she were to see the -Governor?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether she’d do harm or not. -She’s a nice little thing, and has stood by Sol -like a lady. But it’s a toss up if she wouldn’t -break down and lose her head utterly. She -comes to see him as often as she can, always -bringing him some little thing or other; and -she sits and holds his hand and cries—never -seems to say three words. Whenever she runs -up against me she makes a bow and says, ‘I’m -very much obliged to you, sir,’ and looks scared -to death. <em>I</em> don’t know who to get to go with -her; her mother keeps a working-man’s boarding-house; -she’s a good soul, but—”</p> - -<p>He dropped his head on his hand and seemed -to try to think.</p> - -<p>It was strange to Ruth that she should long to -go up to him and touch his smooth black hair, -yet such a crazy fancy did flit through her brain. -When she thought that he was suffering because -of her, she had not been moved; but now that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> -he was so sorely straitened for a man who was -nothing to him more than a human creature, her -heart ached to comfort him.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Amos; “we’ve got to work the -other strings. I’ve got some pull, and I’ll work -that; then the newspaper boys have helped me -out, and folks are getting sorry for Sol; there -wouldn’t be any clamor against it, and we’ve got -some evidence. I’m not worth shucks as a talker, -but I’ll take a talker with me. If there was -only somebody to keep her straight—”</p> - -<p>“Would you trust me?” said Ruth. “If you -will, I’ll go with her to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Amos’s eyes went from his mother’s picture to -the woman with the pale face and the lustrous -eyes beneath it. He felt as stirred by love and -reverence and the longing to worship as ever -mediæval knight; he wanted to kneel and kiss -the hem of her gown; what he did do was to -open his mouth, gasp once or twice, and finally -say, “Ruth, you—you are as good as they make -’em!”</p> - -<p class="tb">Amos went, and the instant that he was gone, -Ruth, attending to her own scheme of salvation, -crossed the river. She entered the office of the -steel-works, where the officers gave her full information -about the character of Sol Joscelyn.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span> -He was a good fellow and a good workman, always -ready to work an extra turn to help a fellow-workman. -She went to his landlady, who -was Elly’s mother, and heard of his sober and -blameless life. “And indeed, miss, I know of a -certainty he never did git drunk but once before, -and that was after his mother’s funeral; and she -was bedfast for ten years, and he kep’ her like a -lady, with a hired girl, he did; and he come home -to the dark house, and he couldn’t bear it, and -went back to the boys, and they, meaning well, -but foolish, like boys, told him to forget the -grief.” Ruth went back to Sol’s mill, between -heats, to seek Sol’s young friend. She found -the “real nice little boy” with a huge quid in -his cheek, and his fists going before the face of -another small lad who had “told the roller lies.” -He cocked a shrewd and unchildish blue eye at -Ruth, and skilfully sent his quid after the flying -tale-bearer. “Sol Joscelyn? Course I know -him. He’s a friend of mine. Give me coffee -outer his pail first day I got here; lets me take -his tongs. I’m goin’ to be a rougher too, you -bet; I’m a-learnin’. He’s the daisiest rougher, -he is. It’s <em>grand</em> to see him ketch them white-hot -bars that’s jest a-drippin’, and chuck ’em -under like they was kindling-wood. He’s licked -my old man, too, for haulin’ me round by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span> -ear. He ain’t my own father, so I didn’t interfere. -Say, you goin’ to see Sol to-night? You -can give him things, can’t you? I got a mince-pie -for him.”</p> - -<p>Ruth consented to take the pie, and she did -not know whether to laugh or cry when, examining -the crust, she discovered, cunningly stowed -away among the raisins and citron, a tiny file.</p> - -<p>When she told Sol, he did not seem surprised. -“He’s always a-sending of them,” said he; -“most times Mr. Raker finds ’em, but once he -got one inside a cigar, and I bit my teeth on it. -He thinks if he can jest git a <em>file</em> to me it’s all -right. I s’pose he reads sech things in books.”</p> - -<p class="tb">Amos went to Des Moines of a Monday afternoon; -Tuesday night he walked through the jail -gate with his head down, as no one had ever seen -the sheriff walk before. He kept his eye on the -sodden, frozen grass and the ice-varnished bricks -of the walk, which glittered under the electric -lights; it was cruelty enough to have to hear -that dizzy ring of hammers; he would not see; -but all at once he recoiled and stepped <em>over</em> the -sharp black shadow of a beam. But he had his -composure ready for Raker.</p> - -<p>“Well!—he wouldn’t listen to you?”</p> - -<p>“No; he listened, but I couldn’t move him,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span> -nor Dennison couldn’t, either. He’s honest -about it; he thinks Sol is guilty, and an example -is needed. Finally I told him I would resign -rather than hang an innocent man. He said -Woods had another man ready.”</p> - -<p>“That will be a blow to Sol. I told him you -would attend to everything. He said he’d risk -another man if it would make you feel bad—”</p> - -<p>“<em>I</em> won’t risk another man, then. But the -Governor called my bluff. Where’s Miss Graves?”</p> - -<p>“Gone to Des Moines with Elly. Went next -train after your telegram.”</p> - -<p>“And Mrs. Smith?”</p> - -<p>“She’s in reading the Bible to Sol. I don’t -know whether it’s doing him any good or not; he -says ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘That’s right’ to every -question she asks him; but I guess some of it’s -politeness. And he seems kinder flighty, and -his mind runs from one thing to another. But -he says he’s still hoping. He’s made a list of all -his things to give away; and he’s said good-bye -to the newspaper boys. I never supposed that -youngest one had any feeling, but I had to give -him four fingers of whiskey after he come out; -he was white’s the wall, and he hadn’t a word to -say. It’s been a terrible day, Amos. My woman’s -jest all broke up; she wanted me to make a -rope-ladder. Me! Said she and old Lady Smith<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span> -would hide him. ‘Polly,’ says I, ‘I know my -duty; and if I didn’t, Amos knows his.’ She -’ain’t spoke to me since, and we had a picked-up -dinner. Well, <em>I</em> can’t eat!”</p> - -<p>“You best not drink much either, then, Joe,” -said Amos, kindly; and he went his ways. Dark -and painful ways they were that night: but he -never flinched. And the carpenters on the -ghastly machine without the gate (the shadow -of which lay, all night through, on Amos’s curtain) -said to each other, “The sheriff looks sick, -but he ain’t going to take any chances!”</p> - -<p>The day came—Sol’s last day—and there were -a hundred demands for Amos’s decision. In the -morning he made his last stroke for the prisoner. -He told Raker about it. “I found the -tool at last,” he said, “in the place you suspected. -Dago dagger. I’ve expressed it to Miss -Graves and telegraphed her. It’s in <em>her</em> hands -now.”</p> - -<p>“Sol says he ’ain’t quit hoping,” says Raker. -“Say, the blizzard flag is out; you don’t think -you could put it off for weather, being an outdoor -thing, you know?”</p> - -<p>“No,” says Amos, knitting his black brows; -“I know my duty.”</p> - -<p>Towards night, in one of his many visits to the -condemned man, Sol said, “Elly’ll be sure to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span> -come back from Des Moines in—in time, if she -don’t succeed, won’t she?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sure,” said Amos, cheerfully. He spoke -in a louder than common voice when he was -with Sol; he fought against an inclination to -walk on tiptoe, as he saw Raker and the watch -doing. He wished Sol would not keep hold of -his hand so long each time they shook hands; -but he found his hands going out whenever he -entered the room. He had a feeling at his heart -as if a string were tightening about it and cutting -into it: shaking hands seemed to loosen -the string. From Sol, Amos went down-stairs -to the telephone to call up the depot. The electricity -snapped and roared and buzzed, and baffled -his ears, but he made out that the Des -Moines train had come in two hours late; the -morning train was likely to be later, for a storm -was raging and the telegraph lines were down. -Elly hadn’t come; she couldn’t come in time! -Amos changed the call to the telegraph office.</p> - -<p>Yes, they had a telegram for him. Just received; -been ever since noon getting there. -From Des Moines. Read it?</p> - -<p>The sheriff gripped the receiver and flung -back his shoulders like a soldier facing the firing-squad. -The words penetrated the whir like -bullets: “Des Moines, December 8, 189-. Governor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span> -refused audience. Has left the city. My -sympathy and indignation. T. L. Dennison.”</p> - -<p>Amos remembered to put the tube up, to ring -the bell. He walked out of the office into the -parlor; he was not conscious that he walked on -tiptoe or that he moved the arm-chair softly as -if to avoid making a noise. He sank back into -the great leather depths and stared dully about -him. “They’ve called my bluff!” he whispered; -“there isn’t anything left I can do.” He could -not remember that he had ever been in a similar -situation, because, although he had had many -a buffet and some hard falls from life, never had -he been at the end of his devices or his obstinate -courage. But now there was nothing, nothing -to be done.</p> - -<p>“By-and-by I will go and tell Sol,” he -thought, in a dull way. No; he would let him -hope a little longer; the morning would be time -enough.... He looked down at his own hands, -and a shudder contracted the muscles of his -neck, and his teeth met.</p> - -<p>“Brace up, you coward!” he adjured himself; -but the pith was gone out of his will. That -which he had thought, looking at his hands, -was that <em>she</em> would never want to touch them -again. Amos’s love was very humble. He knew -that Ruth did not love him. Why should she?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> -Like all true lovers in the dawn of the New -Day, he was absorbed in his gratitude to her for -the power to love. There is nothing so beautiful, -so exciting, so infinitely interesting, as to -love. To be loved is a pale experience beside it, -being, indeed, but the mirror to love, without -which love may never find its beauty, yet holding, -of its own right, neither beauty nor charm. -Amos had accepted Ruth’s kindness, her sympathy, -her goodness, as he accepted the way her -little white teeth shone in her smile, and the -lovely depths of her eyes, and the crisp melody -of her voice—as windfalls of happiness, his by -kind chance or her goodness, not for any merit -of his own. He was grateful, and he did not -presume; he had only come so far as to wonder -whether he ever would dare—But now he only -asked to be her friend and servant. But to have -her shrink from him, to have his presence odious -to her ... he did not know how to bear -it! And there was no way out. Not only the -State held him, the wish of the helpless, trusting -creature that he had failed to save was -stronger than any law of man. He thought of -Mrs. Raker and her foolish schemes: that woman -didn’t understand how a man felt. But all -of a sudden he found himself getting up and going -quickly to his father’s picture; and he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> -saying out loud to the painted soldier: “I know -my duty! I know my duty!” Without, the snow -was driving against the window-pane; that accursed -Thing creaked and swayed under the flail -of the wind, but kept its stature. Within, the -tumult and combat in a human soul was so fierce -that only at long intervals did the storm beat its -way to his consciousness. Once, stopping his -walk, he listened and heard sobs, and a gentle -old voice that he knew in a solemn, familiar monotony -of tone; and he was aware that the women -were in the other room weeping and praying. -And up-stairs Sol, who had never done a -mean trick in his life, and been content with so -little, and tried to share all he got, was waiting -for the sweetheart who never could come, turning -that pitiful smile of his to the door every -time the wind rattled it, “trying to hope!”</p> - -<p>He had not shed a tear for his own misery, -but now he leaned his arm on the frame of his -mother’s portrait and sobbed. He was standing -thus when Ruth saw him, when she flashed up -to him, cold and wet and radiant.</p> - -<p>She was too breathless to speak; but she did -not need to speak.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got it, Ruth!” he cried. “O God, -you’ve got the reprieve!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have, Amos; here it is. I couldn’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> -telegraph because the wires were down, but the -Governor and the railroad superintendent fixed -it so we could come on an engine. I knew you -were suffering. Elly is with Mother Smith and -Mrs. Raker, but I—but I wanted to come to -you.”</p> - -<p>If he had thought once of himself he must -have heard the new note in her voice. But he -did not think once of himself; he could only -think of Sol.</p> - -<p>“But the Governor, didn’t he refuse to see -you?” said he.</p> - -<p>“No; he refused to see poor Mr. Dennison.” -Ruth used the slighting pity of the successful. -“<em>We</em> didn’t try to go to him; we went to his -wife.”</p> - -<p>Amos sat down. “Ruth,” he said, solemnly, -“you haven’t got talent, you’ve got genius!”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course,” said Ruth, “he might snub -<em>us</em> and not listen to us, but he would <em>have</em> to -listen to his wife. She is such a pretty lady, -Amos, and so kind. We had a little bit of -trouble seeing her at first, because the girl (who -was all dressed up, like the pictures, in a black -dress and white collar and cuffs and the nicest -long apron), she said that we couldn’t come in, -the Governor’s wife was engaged, and they were -going out of town that day. But when Elly began<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span> -to talk to her she sympathized at once, and she -got the Governor’s wife down. Then I told her -all about Sol and how good he was, and I cried -and Elly cried and <em>she</em> cried—we all cried—and -she said that I should see the Governor, and -gave us tea. She was as kind as possible. And -when the Governor came I told him everything -about Sol—about his mother and the little boy -at the mill and the dog, and how he saved the -other boy, pulling out that big iron bar red-hot—”</p> - -<p>“But,” interrupted Amos, who would have -been literal on his death-bed—“but it wasn’t a -very big bar. Not the bar they begin with—a -finished bar, just ready for the shears.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind; it was big when I told it, and -I assure you it impressed the Governor. He got -up and walked the floor, and then Elly threw -herself on her knees before him; and he pulled -her up, and, don’t you know, not exactly laughed, -but something like it. ‘I can’t make out,’ said -he, ‘from your description much about the guilt -or innocence of Solomon Joscelyn, but one thing -is plain, that he is too good a fellow to be -hanged!’”</p> - -<p>“And did you take the dagger I sent, and my -telegram?”</p> - -<p>“Your telegram? Dagger? Amos, I’m so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span> -sorry, but we didn’t go back to our lodgings at -all. We had our bags with us, and came right -from the Governor’s here!”</p> - -<p>“Then you didn’t say anything about evidence?”</p> - -<p>“Evidence?” Ruth looked distressed. “Oh, -Amos! I forgot all about it!”</p> - -<p>Amos always supposed that he must have -been beside himself, for he caught her hand and -kissed it, and cried, “You darling!” Nothing -more, not a word; and he went abjectly down -on his knees before her chair and apologized, -until, frightened by her silence, he looked up—and -saw Ruth’s eyes.</p> - -<p class="tb">After all, the evidence was not at all wasted; -for the Italian woman, thanks to a cunning use -of the dagger, made a full confession; and, the -public wrath having been sated on Sol, a more -merciful jury sent the real assassin to a lunatic -asylum, which pleased Amos, who was not certain -whether he had not stepped from one hot -box into another. Ruth told Amos, when he -asked her the inevitable question of the lover, -“I don’t know when exactly, dear, but I think -I began to love you when I saw you cry; and I -was <em>sure</em> of it when I found I could help you!”</p> - -<p>Honest Amos did not analyze his wife’s heart;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span> -he was content to accept her affection as the -gift of God and her, and his gratitude included -Sol and Elly; wherefore it comes to pass that a -certain iron-worker, on a certain day in December, -always dines with Amos Wickliff, his wife, -and Mother Smith. Amos is no longer sheriff, -but a citizen of substance and of higher office, -and they live in what Mother Smith fears is almost -sinful luxury; and on this day there will -be served a dinner yielding not to Christmas -itself in state; and after dinner the rougher will -rise, his wineglass in hand. “To our wives!” he -will say, solemnly.</p> - -<p>And Amos, as solemnly, will repeat the toast: -“To our wives! Thank God!”</p> - -<p class="center tb">THE END</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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