← catalogue

The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe · English · Gutenberg #36237 · 511,782 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mystery of the Locks
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Mystery of the Locks

Author: E. W. Howe


        
Release date: May 27, 2011 [eBook #36237]
                Most recently updated: February 18, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36237

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS ***




Produced by Chris Curnow, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                     THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS

                          BY E. W. HOWE

              AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN"


    BOSTON
    JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
    1885

    _Copyright, 1885_,
    BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY.

    _All Rights Reserved._

    C. J. PETERS AND SON,
    ELECTROTYPERS.




CONTENTS.


I. THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS

II. THE LOCKS

III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

IV. DAVY'S BEND

V. A TROUBLED FANCY

VI. PICTURES IN THE FIRE

VII. THE LOCKS' GHOST

VIII. A REMARKABLE GIRL

IX. THE "APRON AND PASSWORD"

X. TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY

XI. THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR

XII. RUINED BY KINDNESS

XIII. THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE

XIV. THE ANCIENT MAIDEN

XV. A SHOT AT THE SHADOW

XVI. THE STEP ON THE STAIR

XVII. THE PURSUING SHADOW

XVIII. THE RISE IN THE RIVER

XIX. MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION

XX. THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS

XXI. LITTLE BEN

XXII. TUG'S RETURN

XXIII. THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN




THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS.




CHAPTER I.

THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS.


Davy's Bend--a river town, a failing town, and an old town, on a dark
night, with a misty rain falling, and the stars hiding from the
dangerous streets and walks of the failing town down by the sluggish
river which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like its
institutions and its people, and as the light of the wretched day that
has just closed hurried away from it a few hours since.

The darkness is so intense that the people who look out of their windows
are oppressed from staring at nothing, for the shadows are obliterated,
and for all they know there may be great caverns in the streets, filled
with water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their front
steps. It occurs to one of them who opens the blind to his window a
moment, and looks out (and who notices incidentally that the rays from
his lamp seem afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crust
will form somewhere above the town, up where there is light for the
living, and turn the people of Davy's Bend into rocks as solid as those
thousands of feet below, which thought affects him so much that he
closes his blinds and shutters tighter than before, determined that his
rooms shall become caves.

The rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools in the road
with untiring energy, where it joins other vagrant water, and creeps off
at last into the gutter, into the rivulet, and into the river, where it
joins the restless tide which is always hurrying away from Davy's Bend,
and bubbles and foams with joy.

The citizen who observed the intense blackness of the night comes to his
window again, and notes the steady falling of the rain, and in his
reverie pretends to regret that it is not possible for the water to come
up until his house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid of
living in a place where the nights are so dark and wet that he cannot
sleep for thinking of them. When he returns to his chair, and attempts
to read, the pattering rain is so persistent on the roof and at the
windows that the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and he
thinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, Davy's Bend would
at last be as well off as Ben's City; and this possibility is so
pleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town,
and goes to bed.

At the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its single
light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station,
where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits the
place daily,--for only a few people want to go to Davy's Bend, and not
many are left to move away,--so the agent mutters at the rain and the
darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, of
all the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business to
call him out at night. There are no people in Davy's Bend who are
overworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervous
or fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of time
in which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressingly
active is Ben's City, located in the country below them, and which is
admired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction.

Fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; for
just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certain
that the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steam
whistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hills
with a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and
reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; the
headlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around the
building, and before he has had time to look about him, or express his
surprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded,
and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from Davy's
Bend, like the river and the people.

There is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height and
weight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages put
off, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering what
disposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire into
the station with his books under his arm. Evidently the stranger is not
good natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in a
voice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels have
no representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in the
rain all night to guard his property.

The agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the stranger
is welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, which
arrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, after
both men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no one
pretends to defend Davy's Bend, so the agent readily assents to whatever
the stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place,
while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light.

When the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger,
the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth of
whiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this during
the course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner of
the packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a man
not satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,--the agent is
sure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is a
great deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in hand
to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough to
fight with very little provocation. His quick, restless eyes were always
busy,--the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed of
in a glance,--but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certain
he becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods of
importance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance.

"There must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of one
of the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "I have been agent here a good
many years; but if that is not an excess, I never had hold of one. Now
for the rest of them."

The work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agent
steps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into his
pocket.

"I am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door,
on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but I go
in this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way.
"It's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but I
guess you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel stands
directly at the head of the street. It's a pity that the town does not
afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that ends
it. I intend to go away myself as soon as I can, for the company does
not treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another man
could not be found to do the work as I do it for the money."

By this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be as
dilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he says
good night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shivering
awhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him,
floundering in the mud at every step.

There is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them,
and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which he
judges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as the
hotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sure
to run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when he
realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. After travelling in this
manner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad that
he takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walk
again in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so much
rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everything
is turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place by
way of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a
lantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in long
shadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they are
making a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other of
being jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or
to lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seem
to amuse them. Apparently they have no destination, for after one of
their bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as down
it; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the
stranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comes
up to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and,
locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, and
puts the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it.

"Tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. There will be a
sensation in Davy's Bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in a
year."

Believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him the
information he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoy
their joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries
the lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised,
was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion,
and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. The fellow who had been
addressed as Tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in a
queer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions of
merriment than ever, and changing their position so that they support
themselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, and
the other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as
though a stranger in Davy's Bend is very funny indeed.

"There will be a train going the other way in three hours,--for both the
trains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to be
seen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recovering
himself, and with a show of seriousness. "You had better take it, and go
back; really you had. Davy's Bend will never suit you. It don't suit
anybody. The last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went,
and we never expected to see another one. Look at these deserted houses
in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middle
of the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the night
is so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, and
pokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in
the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. This reminds them of
their joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against it
with their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they did
before. Meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the two
odd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting his
condition, he says,--

"It happens that I am looking for a place that suits nobody, and one
that is generally avoided. If you will point out the way to the hotel, I
will decide that question for myself to-morrow."

The little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel is
mentioned.

"I never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, and
starting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambled
along like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "It is my
business to be at the station when the train arrives, to look for
passengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but it
seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; so
I thought I'd spend the time with Tug."

The man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to making
explanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the way
he is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately,
while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps he
is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself.
However this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keep
up, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred to
as Tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room is
made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly to
turn up on the right.

Thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim light
appears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, the
stranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course in
which they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river and
the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it ended
in the other with the station. Another street crosses here at right
angles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to the
left.

When the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, the
traveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it has
been patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose for
which it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down two
steps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone is
compelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to the
rooms above. In its better days the room used as an office had probably
been a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely
cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour.

"I am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as he
brings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examination
because both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used when
leaning against the wall. "I am sorry I was not at the station to meet
you; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that I hope you will not
mention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring to
the proprietor sleeping above.

The arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before him
were to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting as
clerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler and
waiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of this
fellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so he
turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollecting
that he himself had suddenly become very grave.

"This is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing out
a chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest;
"but it is the best Davy affords. The hotel, though, is better than the
town; you will find that out soon enough."

A small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that the
light is upon him. He may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged in
some ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; but
it is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the
street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face,
which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on either
side, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it will
go hard with him.

After looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, the
stranger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him,"
whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "Davy" is a
familiar way of referring to Davy's Bend, he notices that the man who
has already been called Tug, and who has found a chair and is sitting
bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. He also remarks that Tug is
hideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which
has once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that it
glistens in the lamplight. He has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard,
both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkward
person; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idle
examination, that one of Tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open,
while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to be
aiming at something. When Tug winks with the eye that is wide open, the
one that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the
example presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, so
that the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking a
tremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right.

Tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of the
stranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that the
stranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye.
Tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easily
as in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resolute
at one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. Although he is
looking straight at him, Tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts are
not always in Davy's Bend; and, while thinking that the stranger has
important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from the
kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf of
bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler.
Covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, he
places the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help
himself.

The stranger declined, but he noticed that Tug, from his position
against the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with first
a long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend he
walked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenous
appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enough
to strangle him. This convinced the stranger that the lunch was really
prepared for Tug, and that there would have been disappointment had he
accepted the clerk's invitation.

"I don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself,
and apparently enjoying the manner in which Tug was disposing of the
cold meat, "but my name is Silas Davy. I am what is known as a good
fellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. He discovered this
town, or located it, or settled here first, or something of that kind,
and once had a great deal of property; but, being a good fellow, he
couldn't keep it. If you will give me your name, I will introduce you to
my friend, Mr. Tug Whittle."

"I don't care to know him," the guest replied, somewhat ill-humoredly,
his restless eyes indicating that his thoughts had just returned from a
journey out in the world somewhere, as they finally settled on Tug. "I
don't like his looks."

Tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the guest with his right
eye, and, after swallowing his last mouthful, with an effort, pointed a
finger at him, to intimate that he was about to speak.

"Did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off the train to-night?"
he inquired, in a deep bass voice, still pointing with his bony finger,
and aiming along it with his little eye.

The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, but at last said
he was the only passenger for Davy's Bend.

"I was expecting more of my wife's kin," Tug said, with an angry snort,
taking down his finger to turn over the meat-bone, and using his eye to
look for a place not yet attacked. "Come to think about it, though, they
are not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach town on foot,
in the morning. They are too poor to ride. I wish they were too sick to
walk, damn them. Do you happen to know what the word ornery means?"

The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply again, but finally
shook his head, after some hesitation.

"Well," the ugly fellow said, "if you stay here,--which I don't believe
you will, for you look too much like a good one to remain here
long,--I'll introduce you not only to the word but to the kin. After you
have seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls you
ornery."

Finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclusion of this speech,
Mr. Whittle went on with his eating, and was silent.

"There are a great many people who do not like Tug's looks," the clerk
went on to say, without noticing the interruption, and looking
admiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why he
was not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you are
suspicious of him. I do not say it with reference to you, for you do not
know him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of his
mind. He knows too much to suit them, and they hate him."

By this time Tug had wiped up everything before him, and after
transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to his
sleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside,
and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness.

"I suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at The Locks to-night,"
Silas Davy said. "And the windows! Lord, how the windows must rattle!
I've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and
windows at The Locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at it
to-night, for I have never known it to be so oppressive and still
before."

"And the light," Tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger a
moment, and directing it toward Davy.

"Yes, the light, of course," Davy assented. "They say--I don't know who
says it in particular, but everybody says it in general--that on a night
like this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is
seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upper
room, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sitting
down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed.
There is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those who
visit the house are not permitted to enter it. I have never seen the
light myself, but I have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and it
was as silent on the inside as a tomb. The windows and shutters being
noisy on quiet nights, I suppose they feel the need of a rest when the
wind is blowing."

The guest was paying a good deal of attention, and Davy went on talking.

"The place has not been occupied in a great many years. The man who
built it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in Davy's
Bend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that
he has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; I suppose it
is not good enough for him now, for I am told that he is very proud. He
has been trying to sell the place ever since, but Davy began going down
hill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily
ever since that nobody will take it. And I don't blame them, for it is
nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, and
respectable-looking, and well furnished."

The guest's mind is evidently in Davy's Bend now, for he has been paying
close attention to the clerk as he talks in a modest easy fashion, even
neglecting his first ambition to stare Mr. Whittle out of countenance.
It may be that he is in need of an establishment, and is looking out for
one; but certainly he takes considerable interest in the place Silas
Davy referred to as The Locks.

"Who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted the clerk to inquire.

The clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to that portion of
the room where the counter was located, took from a nail a brass ring
containing a number of keys of about the same size.

"Here are the keys," Davy said, returning to his chair, and holding them
up for inspection. "Number one admits you to the grounds through the
iron gate; number two opens the front door; number three, any of the
rooms leading off from the hall down stairs; number four, any of the
rooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number five and number
six, any of the other rooms. _We_ are the agents, I believe, though am
not certain; but anyway we keep the keys. The place came to be known as
The Locks because of the number of keys that were given to those who
applied to see it, and The Locks it has been ever since."

The stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room awhile,
thinking all the time so intently that it occurred to Tug that he was
puzzled to decide whether his family would consent to live in a place
which had the reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light.

"I would like to see this house," he said, stopping in his walk finally,
and addressing Davy. "I may become a purchaser. Will you show me the way
to it, now?"

Up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, Tug had occupied himself
by aiming at the stranger, but as if the suggestion of a walk up to The
Locks was pleasing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards the
door. Silas Davy made no other reply than to put the ring containing the
keys on his arm, and, putting out the light, the three men stepped out
into the rain together.

The Locks appear to be located towards the river; not down where the
railway train stops to take people on who desire to get away from Davy's
Bend, but higher up the street running at right angles in front of the
hotel, for the men walk in that direction, Davy and Tug ahead carrying
the lantern, with their arms locked together, and the stranger behind,
who thinks the two men are a queer pair, for they seem to enjoy being
out in the rain, and one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently but
timidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the stranger
recognizes as signifying pleasure.

Occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on reaching a
particularly bad place, and when he has passed it they go on again; up
hill and down, toward the river, and when they stop at last, it is so
dark that the stranger does not know that they have reached a stone wall
with an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes entirely up
to them.

The lock turns heavily, and Tug condescends to hold the lantern while
Silas applies both hands to the key. Upon the inside a long stone walk,
leading toward the house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch is
reached, where they are out of the rain.

Silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his arm, and, once
more calling upon Tug to hold the light, opens the door, and they all
enter the wide hall.

Considering that the house has not been occupied for eight years, it is
in good condition. As they walk through the different rooms, Davy
opening the doors from the bunch of keys on his arm, the stranger
notices that they are decently furnished, everything being plain and
substantial; and he hears for the first time, while standing in front of
the door that is not to be opened, that an old lady and her
grand-daughter live on the grounds in a detached building, who, when she
sees fit, airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there for
eight years, in the pay of the owner. This explains the good condition
of everything, and they continue their investigation by the dim light of
the lantern.

There are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the attic, all of them
furnished, from the kitchen to the parlor; and the stranger is so well
pleased that he inquires the rent asked, and the purchase price. Silas
Davy is not certain as to either, but promises that his proprietor will
give full particulars in the morning.

"I will take the house," the stranger finally says, after a lamp has
been found and lighted, and seating himself in a chair as an intimation
that he is ready for the two men to depart. "If I do not buy it I will
rent it, and I will stay here to-night."

Tug is willing to depart at once, but Silas lags behind, and seems to be
ill at ease.

"Have you any objection to giving me your name, that I may record it at
the house?" he respectfully asks.

"Oh, my name," the stranger returns. "Sure enough; I had forgotten
that."

It seems to have escaped him, for while Silas stands waiting, he studies
for a long time, contracting his brow until he looks so fierce and
savage that Tug, who has been aiming at him from the door, steps out
into the hall to get out of the way.

"You may register me as Allan Dorris," he said at last, getting up from
his chair, and looking confused, "from Nowhere-in-Particular. It is not
important where I am from, so long as I am responsible; and I will
convince your proprietor of that in the morning. You will oblige me if
you will step over to the quarters of the old lady you spoke of, and
inform her that there is a new master at The Locks, and that he has
taken possession. When you return I will show you out."

"I neglected to mention," Silas says, after making a note of what the
stranger has said on an envelope, "that you can open and close the gate
from this room, and lock and unlock it. There is also a speaking-tube
leading from this room, whereby you can converse with persons on the
outside. I will call you up when I go out. It is located here, behind
the door."

The two men step over to examine it, and Tug creeps in to look too, and
after sighting at it awhile returns to the hall.

The apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of chains running
over pulleys and disappearing through the floor, and a speaking-tube.
Silas explains that when the lever is up the gate is open, and when it
is down the gate is shut and locked. Both men try it, and conclude that,
with a little oil, it will work very well, leaving it open so that the
men may pass out.

There being no further excuse for remaining, Silas and his ugly friend
start down the stairs, the stranger holding the light at the top; and
after they have passed out of the door and slammed it to work the spring
lock, and tried it to see that it is locked, Allan Dorris returns to the
room they have just left.

The grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is kindling at the
bottom, probably put there years before, judging by the dust; and the
stranger lights this, intending to dry his wet clothing. While about it
there is a whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it and
replying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere to the effect
that Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper, is delighted to hear that the house is
to be occupied at last; that she will call upon the new master in the
morning to pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements for the
future; and, good night.

The stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever down, which
closes and locks the gate, and returns to the fire, which is burning
brightly by this time.

"Allan Dorris, from Nowhere-in-Particular," he mutters after he is
seated, and while watching his steaming garments. There is an amused
look on his face at first, as he repeats the name, but a frown soon
takes its place, that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair,
and looks at the fire.

At length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets up and walks the
floor, pausing occasionally to look curiously at the pictures on the
walls, or at the carpet, or at the furniture. If he returns to his
chair, the frown appears on his face again, and once more he walks to
get rid of his thoughts.

This is continued so long that the darkness finally gets tired of
looking in at the windows, and hurries away at the approach of day. From
time to time, as the light increases, he steps to the window and looks
out; and when walking away, after a long look at Davy's Bend through the
morning mist, he mutters:--

"Allan Dorris, if you are from Nowhere-in-Particular, you are at home
again."




CHAPTER II.

THE LOCKS.


From the southern windows of The Locks, Allan Dorris looked with curious
interest the day after his arrival, and the week and the month
following, for he remained there for that length of time without going
out, except to walk along the country roads for exercise, where he
occasionally met wagons containing men who cursed the town they were
leaving for its dullness.

The dwellings of Davy's Bend were built upon hills sloping toward the
little valley where the business houses were, and which poured a flood
of water and mud into the long streets in rainy weather through gaping
gullies of yellow clay. The rains seemed to be so fierce and frequent
there that in the course of time they had cut down the streets, leaving
the houses perching on hills above them, which were reached by flights
of steps; and this impression was strengthened by the circumstance that
it was a wet time, for it rained almost incessantly.

The houses were a good way apart, so far as he could see from his
southern windows; and this circumstance caused him to imagine that the
people were suspicious of each other, and he noticed that while many of
them had once been of a pretending character, they were now generally
neglected; and that there was a quiet air everywhere that reminded him
of the country visited in his walks.

The houses themselves appeared to look at him with a cynical air, as the
people did, as if to intimate that he need not hope to surprise them
with his importance, or with anything he might do, for their quiet
streets had once resounded to the tread of busy feet, and they had seen
strangers before, and knew the ways of men. Some of the dwellings
perching on the hills, deserted now except as to bats and owls,
resembled unfortunate city men in a village; for there was a conspicuous
air of decayed propriety about them, and an attempt at respectability
that would have been successful but for lack of means. These in
particular, he thought, made faces at him, and sneered as he passed
through their part of the town in his walks to and from the country
roads.

Several times he heard parties of men passing his house at night,
talking loudly to make themselves heard above the jolting of their
wagons; and these usually had something to say about the new owner of
The Locks, from which he imagined that there was much speculation in the
town concerning him. The house in which he lived was such a gloomy
place, and he was shut up in it alone for such a length of time, that he
came to listen to the sound of human voices with pleasure, and often
went to the windows to watch for the approach of wagons, that he might
hear the voices of their occupants; for there were no solitary
travellers that way, and while the men may have been dissatisfied with
themselves and their surroundings, they at least had company. He longed
to join these parties, and go with them to their homes, for he thought
the companionship of rough men and their families would be preferable to
the stillness of his house; but the wagons drove on, and Allan Dorris
returned to his walk across the room, and back again.

From the window most patronized by him in his lonely hours he could see
a long stretch of the river, and at a point opposite the town a steam
ferry was moored. Usually smoke was to be seen flying from its pipes
during the middle hours of the day, as it made a few lazy trips from one
shore to the other; but occasionally it was not disturbed at all, and
sat quietly upon the water like a great bird from morning until night.

From making excursions about his own premises, as a relief from doing
nothing, he found that the house in which he lived was situated in a
wooded tract of several acres in extent, entirely surrounded by a high
stone wall, with two entrances; one in front, by means of a heavy iron
gate, which looked like a prison door, and a smaller one down by the
stable. The stable, which was built of brick, had been occupied by
pigeons without objection for so many years that they were now very
numerous, and protested in reels and whirls and dives and dips in the
air against the new owner coming among them at all; perhaps they
imagined that in time they would be permitted to occupy the house
itself, and rear their young in more respectable quarters. There were a
few fruit and ornamental trees scattered among the others, but they had
been so long neglected as to become almost as wild as the native oaks
and hickories. Occasionally a tall poplar shot its head above the
others, and in his idleness Allan Dorris imagined that they were trying
to get away from the dampness below, for in the corners, and along the
stone wall, there was such a rank growth of vines and weeds that he was
almost afraid to enter the dank labyrinth himself. There was a quaking
asp, too, which was always shivering at thought of the danger that might
be concealed in the undergrowth at its feet, and even the stout
hickories climbed a good way into the air to insure their safety.

Close to the south wall, so close that he could almost touch it, stood a
stone church, with so many gables that there seemed to be one for every
pigeon from the stable, and on certain days of the week someone came
there to practise on the organ. At times the music was exquisite, and in
his rambles about the place he always went down by the south wall to
listen for the organ, and if he heard it he remained there until the
music ceased. The music pleased him so much, and was such a comfort in
his loneliness, that he did not care to see the player, having in his
mind a spectacled and disagreeable person whose appearance would rob the
spell of its charm; therefore he kept out of his way, though, on the
days when the music could be expected, Dorris was always in his place,
impatiently waiting for it to commence. There was something in the
playing with which he seemed to have been acquainted all his life; it
may have been only the expression of weariness and sad melancholy that
belongs to all these instruments, but, however it was, he regarded the
organ as an old acquaintance, and took much pleasure in its company even
when it was silent, for it occupied a great stone house like himself,
and had nothing to do.

Between the stable and the house was the residence of Mrs. Wedge, the
housekeeper--a building that had originally been a detached kitchen, but
the cunning of woman had transformed the two rooms into a pleasant and
cozy place. This looked home-like and attractive, as there were vines
over it and flowers about the door; and here Allan Dorris found himself
lingering from day to day, for he seemed to crave companionship, though
he was ashamed to own it and go out and seek it. Instead of dining in
the stone house, he usually sat down at Mrs. Wedge's table, which he
supplied with a lavish hand, and lingered about until he thought it
necessary to go away, when he tried to amuse himself in the yard by
various exercises, which were probably recollections of his younger
days; but he failed at it, and soon came back to ask the motherly old
housekeeper odd questions, and laugh good-naturedly at her odd answers.

A highly respectable old lady was Mrs. Wedge, in her black cloth dress
and snowy white cap, and no one was more generally respected in Davy's
Bend. During his life Mr. Wedge had been a strolling agent, never
stopping in a town more than a week; and thus she lived and travelled
about, always hoping for a quiet home, until her good-natured but
shiftless husband took to his bed one day, and never got up again,
leaving as her inheritance his blessing and a wild son of thirteen, who
knew all about the ways of the world, but nothing of industry. Hearing
of Davy's Bend soon after as a growing place,--which was a long time
ago, for Davy's Bend was not a growing place now,--she apprenticed her
son to a farmer, and entered the service of the owner of The Locks,
under whose roof she had since lived.

The wild son did not take kindly to farming, and ran away; and his
mother did not hear of him again until four years after she was living
alone in The Locks, when a little girl five years old arrived,
accompanied by a letter, stating that the son had lived a wanderer like
his father, and that the child's mother being dead, he hoped Mrs. Wedge
would take care of his daughter Betty until the father made his fortune.
But the father never made his fortune; anyway, he never called for the
child, and Mrs. Wedge had found in her grand-daughter a companion and a
comfort, passing her days in peace and quiet. Therefore when the new
owner offered her a home there, and wages besides, in return for her
agreement to undertake his small services, she accepted--having become
attached to the place--and lived on as before.

The house itself, which was built of stone, and almost square, contained
ten rooms; four of about the same size below, and four exactly like them
above, and two in the attic or half story in the roof. There were wide
halls up stairs and down, and out of the room that Allan Dorris had
selected for his own use, and which was on the corner looking one way
toward the gate in front, and the other toward the town, began a covered
stairway leading to the attic.

In this room he sat day after day, and slept night after night, until he
almost became afraid of the quiet that he believed he coveted when he
came to Davy's Bend; and at times he looked longingly toward the
speaking-tube behind the door, hoping it would whistle an announcement
that a visitor had arrived; for his habit of sitting quietly looking at
nothing, until his thoughts became so disagreeable that he took long
walks about the place to rid himself of them, was growing upon him.

But no visitors came to vary the monotony, except the agent on the
morning after his arrival, who received a quarter's rent in advance, and
afterwards named a price so low that Allan Dorris bought the place
outright, receiving credit for the rent already paid.

Had the dark nights that looked in at Allan Dorris's windows, and for
which Davy's Bend seemed to be famous, been able to remark it, there
would have been much mysterious gossip through the town concerning his
strange actions. Whenever he sat down, his eyes were at once fixed on
nothing, and he lost himself in thought; he was oblivious to everything,
and the longer he thought, the fiercer his looks became, until finally
he sprang from his chair and walked violently about, as if his body was
trying to escape from his head, which contained the objectionable
thoughts. At times he would laugh hoarsely, and declare that he was
better off at The Locks than he had ever been before, and that Davy's
Bend was the best place in which he had ever lived; but these
declarations did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy and
thoughtful as ever. That he was ill at ease, the dark nights could have
easily seen had they been blessed with eyes; for the dread of loneliness
grew upon him, and frequently he sent for Mrs. Wedge, confessing to her
that he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, no matter
what it was about.

Mrs. Wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified way relate how, on
her visits to the stores to purchase supplies, great curiosity was
everywhere expressed with reference to the new master of The
Locks,--what business he would engage in; where he came from; and, most
of all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought The Locks for
almost nothing.

"A great many say they would have taken the place at the price
themselves," Mrs. Wedge would continue, smoothing down the folds of her
apron, a habit of which she never tired, "but this is not necessarily
true. The people here never want to buy anything until it is out of the
market; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of which they have great
need, for they have little else to do. I believe the price at which you
took the house was lower than it was ever offered before,--but that is
neither here nor there."

Then Mrs. Wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a quaint way, and
of the people, which amused her employer; and noticing that, in his easy
chair, he seemed to enjoy her company, she would smooth out her apron
once more, and continue:--

"They all agree,"--there would be an amused smile on Mrs. Wedge's face
as she said it,--"they all agree that you do not amount to much, else
you would have gone to Ben's City, instead of coming here. This is
always said of every stranger, for Davy's Bend is so dull that its
people have forgotten their patriotism. I have not heard a good word for
the town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, and cursed, and
ridiculed. I think we despise each other because we do not move to Ben's
City, and we live very much as I imagine the prisoners in a jail do,--in
cursing our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that each
one of us will finally be fortunate, while the condition of the others
will grow worse. We are a strange community."

Dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near The Locks, and
wondered at the deserted houses which he had seen in his walks,
whereupon Mrs. Wedge explained that Davy's Bend was once a prosperous
city, containing five thousand busy people, but it had had bad luck
since; very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now remained,
and even they are trying to get away. What is the cause of this decrease
in population? The growth of Ben's City, thirty miles down the river.
The belief which existed at one time that a great town would be built at
Davy's Bend turned out to be a mistake. Ben's City seemed to be the
place; so the people had been going there for a number of years, leaving
Davy's Bend to get along as best it could.

This, and much more, from Mrs. Wedge, until at a late hour she notices
that Dorris is asleep in his chair, probably having got rid of his
thoughts; so she takes up the lamp to retire with it. Holding it up so
that the shade throws the light full upon his face, she remarks to
herself that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe man,
whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing something about men,
and arranging the room for the night, although it does not need it, she
goes quietly down the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and into
her own apartment.




CHAPTER III.

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.


Allan Dorris sleeps on, unconscious of the darkness peering in at him
from the outside, which is also running riot in the town, and
particularly down by the river, where the crazy houses with their
boarded windows seem to collect shadows during the day for use at night,
robbing the sunlight for the purpose; for there is little brightness and
warmth at Davy's Bend, but much of dampness and hazy atmosphere.

There is light and life down this way; a light in the window of the
wretched house occupied by Mr. Tug Whittle, and all the neighboring
buildings are alive with rats and vermin. Tug occupies his house for the
same reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of the town
the tenants pay no rent. Some of the buildings were once busy warehouses
and stores, but they have been turned over to the rats these ten years,
and Tug occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if it
falls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins in which to
bury the tenants. Besides, the big buildings shelter him from the cold
north winds in winter, and do not interfere with the southern breezes
from the river in summer; therefore the faded sign of "T. Whittle, Law
Office," swings in front of the little frame building back from the
street, instead of from the more imposing ones by its side.

Everybody knows Tug Whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmless
and hopelessly lazy--always excepting Silas Davy, who believes that his
friend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when Silas is unable
to hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends so
much time at night with Tug that he is unfit for work during the day, he
is also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyer
and the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it contains
nothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as
though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few broken
chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articles
common to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor.

There is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the sign
in front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderous
volume to which Mr. Whittle applies for everything, including kindling.
Silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science,
theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which to
start his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that Mr.
Whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, Silas
Davy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets of
every kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has been
repealed many years. When Silas so far forgets himself as to mildly
question something his companion has said, Mr. Whittle refers to the
book, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it may
be; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. Mr. Whittle has even
been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in Davy's Bend of
various offences; and Silas has so much respect for the volume that he
has no trouble in imagining that the den in which Tug lives is not only
a law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacred
history, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal.

Like the rats again, Tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad at
night, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, and
he is not entirely himself until after midnight. Occasionally, on dark,
bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known
that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. If
he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets up
long enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark,
when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for Silas Davy,
who is due about that hour with his supper.

But for Silas Davy, like the rats again, Tug would be compelled to steal
for a living; for he never works, but Silas believes in him, and admires
him, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his
friend, who eats it, and is not grateful. Indeed, he often looks at
Silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him as well as he
should, whereupon Silas looks downcast and miserable; but, all in all,
they get along very well together.

Up to the present rainy and wet year of our Lord eighteen hundred and no
difference what, Tug has never admired anyone, so far as is known; but
he admires Allan Dorris, the new owner of The Locks, and frequently says
to Silas that "_There_ is a man," at the same time aiming his big eye in
the direction Dorris is supposed to be. There is every reason why Tug
should admire Silas Davy, who is very good to him, but he does not,
except in a way, and which is a very poor way; and there is no reason
why he should admire Allan Dorris, who is suspicious of him, but he
does, and on this night, Silas having arrived early with his supper, he
is killing two birds with one stone, by discussing both at the same
time.

"By the horns of a tough bull," Tug says, which is his way of swearing,
"but there _is_ a man. Muscle, brain, clothes, independence, money;
everything. What, no butter to-night?"

He says this impatiently after running through the package his companion
has brought, and not finding what he was looking for; and Silas humbly
apologizes, saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel.

"Well, no matter," Tug continued in an injured way, using a pickle and
two slices of bread as a sandwich. "It will come around all right some
day. When I come into my rights, I'll have butter to spare. But this
impudent Dorris; I like him. He has the form of an Apollo and the muscle
of a giant. If he should hit you, you would fall so fast that your rings
would fly off your fingers. He's the kind of a man I'd be if I had my
rights."

While Tug is munching away at his supper, Davy remembers how unjust the
people are with reference to these same rights; how they say he has
none, and never will have, except the right to die as soon as possible.
The people say that Tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from her house
because he would not work, and because he was ugly in disposition, as
well as in face and person; that it was soon found out that he was not
so dangerous, after all, when men were talking to him, so they have
regarded him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. Some of the
people believe that Tug does not appear on the streets during the day
for fear of meeting his wife, while others contend that he goes out only
at night because he is up to mischief; but neither class care to
question him about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, and
knows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled to invent facts
for the purpose.

But Davy knows that Tug can tell a very different story, and tell it
well, and he is sure that there will be a genuine sensation when he
finally tells it, and comes into his own.

"What a voice he has, and what a eye," Mr. Whittle goes on to say,
throwing a leg over a chair to be comfortable. "I usually despise a
decent man because I am not one myself, but this fellow--damn him, I
like him."

Silas Davy was the sort of a man who is never surprised at anything. Had
he been told on a dark night that it was raining blood on the outside,
he would not have disputed it, or investigated it, believing that such
storms were common, though they had escaped his observation; therefore
he was not surprised that Tug admired Allan Dorris, although he knew he
had no reason to.

"I have known people to come here and denounce us for a lack of culture
who knew nothing about propriety except to eat pie with a fork," Mr.
Whittle said again; "but this Dorris,--I'll bet he practises the
proprieties instead of preaching them. He don't remind me of the people
who come here and call us ignorant cattle because we do not buy their
daub paintings at extravagant prices, or take lessons from them; _he_
don't look like the cheap fellows who declare that we lack cultivation
because we refuse to patronize their fiddle and pianow concerts,
therefore look out for Dorris. He's a man, sure enough; I'll stake every
dollar I'm worth and my reputation on it."

Although he had neglected to bring butter, the supper Silas had brought
was good enough to put Mr. Whittle in a cheerful humor, and he
continued,--

"The people around here put me in mind of the freaks in a dime museum;
but Dorris's clothes fit him, and he looks well. There are plenty of men
so common that they look shabby in broadcloth, and who are so miserably
shaped that no tailor can fit their bones; but this fellow--he would
look well with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and running wild.
Hereafter, when I refer to my rights, understand that I would be a
Dorris sort of a fellow were justice done me. Did you bring me a drink?"

Silas produced a flask from his pocket, and while Tug was mixing the
contents with sugar, by means of stirring them together with a spoon in
a tumbler, making a cheerful, tinkling sound the while, he delivered a
stirring temperance lecture to his companion. He did this so often that
Silas regarded himself as a great drunkard, although that was not one of
his failings; but he felt grateful to Tug, who drank a great deal, for
his good advice. He was so mortified to think of his bad habits and
Tug's worthiness, that he turned his face away, unable to reply.

"Dorris reminds me of a young widow two years after the funeral," Mr.
Whittle said, after drinking the dram he had prepared. "Handsome, clean,
well-dressed, and attractive. I have an ambition to be a young widow
myself, but owing to the circumstance that I have been defrauded of my
rights, at present I look like a married woman with six children who
does not get along with her husband. In short, I am slouchy, and
ill-tempered, and generally unattractive, with an old wrapper on, and my
hair down. Ben, come here."

The light in the room was so dim that it had not yet revealed to the
eyes of Silas the form of a boy seated on a low box at the side of the
room farthest from him, who now came over into the rays of the lamp, and
looked timidly at Tug.

Silas knew the boy very well; little Ben Whittle, the son of his friend,
who worked on a farm three miles in the country, and who came to town
occasionally after dark to see Silas, who treated him well, but always
returning in time to be called in the morning; for his employer was a
rough man, and very savage to his horses and cattle and boys. Ben was
dressed in a coat no longer than a jacket, buttoned tightly around his
body, and his pants were so short that they did not nearly touch the
tops of his rough shoes. He wore on his head a crazy old hat, through
the torn top of which his uncombed hair protruded, and altogether he was
such a distressing sight that Davy was always pitying him, although he
was never able to do him much good, except to treat him kindly when he
came to the hotel at long intervals, and give him something to eat.

"Are you hungry?" Tug inquired, looking sharply at the boy, as he stood
cringing before him.

"Yes, sir, if you please."

"Then help yourself," his father roughly returned, crabbed because Ben
had told the truth, and pointing to the table; whereupon the boy went to
nibbling away at the crumbs and bones remaining of the lunch brought by
Silas.

Little Ben was so surprisingly small for a boy of eleven that he was
compelled to stand to reach the crumbs and bones, but his father
regarded him as a brawny youth as tough as dogwood.

"When I was a boy of his age," Tug said to Davy, "they dressed me up in
good clothes, and admired me, and thought I was about the cutest thing
on earth, but I wasn't."

Davy looked up as if to inquire what he really was at Ben's age, and
received an answer.

"I was an impudent imp, and detested by all the neighbors; that's the
truth. My father used to go around town, and tell the people the cute
things I said, instead of making me go to work, and teaching me
industry; but the people didn't share his enthusiasm, and referred to me
as that 'worthless Whittle boy.' Ben, what can you do?"

"I can cut corn, sir, and drive the team, and plough a little," the boy
replied, startled by his father's loud voice.

"Anything else?"

"I can't remember everything, sir. I do as much as I can."

Little Ben did not look as though he could be of much use on a farm, for
he was very thin, and very weak-looking; but apparently this did not
occur to his father, who continued to stare at him as though he wondered
at his strength.

"Think of that, will you," Tug continued, addressing Silas again. "He
can cut corn, and plough, and all that, and only eleven years old. Why,
when he gets to be thirteen or fourteen he will whip old Quade, and take
possession of the farm! What could I do when I was eleven years old?
Nothing but whine, and I was always at it, although I was brought up in
a house with three-ply carpets on the floor, and always treated well. I
was treated _too_ well, and I intend to make a man out of Ben by seeing
that he is treated as mean as possible. Look here, you," he added
turning toward the boy, "when old Quade fails to lick you twice a day,
get your hat and run for me; and I'll try and make you so miserable that
you'll amount to something as a man."

It was the opinion of Davy that Ben was meanly enough treated already,
not only by his father, but by the farmer with whom he worked; for no
one seemed to be kind to the boy except himself, and he made his long
journeys to town for no other reason than to hear Davy's gentle voice.
But Davy was afraid to say this to Tug, and in his weakness could do
nothing to help him. In the present instance he looked out of the
window.

"You are a fortunate boy in one respect, at least," the admiring father
said to his son again. "Your mother hates you, and you have a prospect
of becoming a man. Many a boy at your age has a good bed to sleep on,
and plenty to eat, and will grow up into a loafer; but here you are on
the high road to greatness. Had my father been a wise man, as your
father is, I might have been a storekeeper now instead of what I am;
therefore don't let me hear you complain--I'll give you something to
complain about if I do. The ways of Providence may be a little
mysterious to you now, you robust rascal; but when the Hon. Benjamin
Whittle goes to Congress he will tell the reporter who writes him up
that his father was a kind, thoughtful man who did a great deal for
him."

There was something more than the darkness peering in at the window when
Silas Davy looked that way; a good deal more--a strange man's face,
which was flattened against the lower pane. At the moment that Silas saw
him, the man seemed to be using his eyes in investigating the other
corner of the room, for he did not know for a moment that he was
detected. When his gaze met Silas Davy's, he quickly drew away from the
window, and disappeared; but not until Silas remarked that it was a
swarthy, malicious face, and that cunning and determination were
expressed in its features. Silas was not at all astonished at the
appearance, as was his custom; but when he looked at Tug again, to pay
respectful attention to his next observation, he saw that he, too, had
seen the face, for he was preparing to go out.

"Another stranger," Tug said, as he looked for his hat. "We are becoming
a great town."

Silas asked no questions, but when his companion stepped into the dirty
street, leaving little Ben alone, he followed, and walked a few paces
behind him, as he hurried along in the direction of the inhabited
portion of the town. As they neared the dismal lamps, and while they
were yet in the darkness, they saw the figure of a tall man, enveloped
in what seemed to be a waterproof cloak, turn into the main street,
which ran parallel with the river, and walk toward the hotel where Davy
was employed. But the man wearing the cloak did not stop there, except
to examine a scrap of paper under the light; after which he turned
again, and walked in the direction of The Locks. Silas and his companion
followed, as rapidly as they could, for there were no lights now, and
they stumbled over the hills, and into the gullies, until The Locks gate
was reached, which they found ajar.

This strange circumstance did not deter them from entering at once,
though quietly and with caution, and together they crept up the
pavement, and up the front steps, through the front door, which was wide
open, and up the stairway, until they stopped in front of the door
leading into the room occupied by Allan Dorris.

Everything was still; and as they stood there in the dark, listening,
Tug was surprised to find that Davy was in front of him, whereas he had
believed that he was in his rear. Likewise Silas Davy was surprised, for
while he was sure that Tug had passed him, and gone lightly down the
stairs, a moment afterward he put his hand on him, and knew that he was
bending over, and listening at the keyhole.

But nothing could be heard except the regular breathing of Allan Dorris
as he slept in his chair, although they now realized that the mysterious
stranger had passed them on the stairs, and was on the outside; so they
crept down the stairs, and into the street, closing the door and gate
after them.

Over the hills and into the hollows again; so they travelled back to
their retreat down by the river, where they greatly surprised little Ben
and the rats by opening the door suddenly and walking in upon them.

Silas dropped down on the bed, and Tug into a chair, where they remained
a long time without speaking.

"What do you make of it?" Tug inquired at last.

"Nothing," Silas returned.

There was another long silence, which was finally broken by Tug
remarking,--

"I make nothing of it, myself. We are agreed for once."




CHAPTER IV.

DAVY'S BEND.


It was generally agreed among the people of Davy's Bend--a thousand in
number, the census said; six hundred they said themselves, for they
changed the rule, and exaggerated their own situation unfavorably--that
the town possessed more natural advantages than any other in the world.

They demonstrated this with great cleverness, by means of maps drawn on
brown wrapping-paper inside of the stores, and, after looking at their
maps, they triumphantly exclaimed, with a whack of their fists on the
counter, "There are the figures; and figures won't lie." But in spite of
their maps showing valleys occupied with railroads (which Capital
neglected to build), Ben's City, below them, continued to prosper,
whereas Davy's Bend continued to go steadily down the hill.

The people did little else than wonder at this, and curse Capital
because it did not locate in a town where nature was lavish in the
matter of location, instead of going to a place where it would always
find the necessity of contending against odds confronting it. Such a
town was Ben's City, in the estimation of those living at Davy's Bend;
but they must have been mistaken, for great houses and institutions grew
up where little had been planted, and men with money trampled upon each
other in their mad haste to take advantage of the prosperity that seemed
to be in the air. Those who drew the maps declared that a crash was soon
to come, when the capitalists who did not know their own interests would
trample upon each other in their haste to get away; but those who bought
Ben's City property, no difference at what price, soon sold out again at
an advance; and the prosperity of the place was quite phenomenal.

Never was Capital so thoroughly hated as in Davy's Bend. It was cursed a
thousand times a day, and shown to be fickle and foolish and ungrateful;
for evidences of these weaknesses on the part of Capital abounded on
every hand. There were railroads to be built out of Davy's Bend that
would pay immensely, as had been demonstrated times without number by
the local paper; but Capital stubbornly refused to build them,
preferring to earn a beggarly per cent elsewhere. There were
manufactories to be built in Davy's Bend that would make their owners
rich, as every child knew; but Capital, after a full investigation, was
so dull that it could not see the opportunity. The town was alive with
opportunities for profitable investments, but Capital, with a mean and
dogged indifference, refused to come to Davy's Bend; therefore Capital
was hated, and bullied, and cursed, and denounced; and it was generally
agreed that it deserved no better fate than to go to ruin in the general
crash that would finally overtake Ben's City.

The people of Davy's Bend were a good deal like a grumbling and idle
man, who spends the time which should be devoted to improving his
condition to grumbling about his own ill luck and the good luck of his
industrious rival, who is steadily prospering; and as men frequently
believe that the fates are against them when they are themselves their
only opposition, so it was generally believed in this wretched little
town that some sort of a powerful and alert goddess was in league with
Ben's City. While they readily admitted their own points of advantage,
even to the extent of giving themselves more credit than they deserved,
they refused to be equally fair with their competitor, as men do, and
contended, with an ignorant persistency, that Ben's City was prosperous
because of "luck," whereas they should have known that there is no such
thing, either good or bad.

But, in course of time, when they found that they would always be in the
rear, no difference whether they liked it or not, the people of the
Bend, in order to more thoroughly denounce their own town for its lack
of ability to attract Capital, began to exaggerate the importance of
Ben's City. A four-story building there became seven stories high, and
those who visited the place vied with each other in giving vivid and
untruthful accounts of its growth and prosperity on their return; all of
which their acquaintances repeated over and over, though they knew it to
be untrue, even adding to the exaggerated statements, in order to bully
their own meek town.

Probably they were not proud of the greatness of their rival; for they
talked of it as a cowardly man might exaggerate the strength of the
fellow who had whipped him, using it as an excuse for defeat. Indeed,
they were proud of nothing, except their own accounts of the greatness
of Davy's Bend a long while before, when the huge warehouses were
occupied, and before Capital had combined against it; of this they
talked in a boastful way, magnifying everything so much that many of the
listeners who had not heard the beginning of the conversation imagined
that they were talking of Ben's City; but of bettering their present
condition they had no thought,--by common consent it was so very bad
that attempts to become prosperous again were useless, so the Bend was a
little worse off every year, like an old and unsuccessful man.

Most of the business men of Davy's Bend had been clerks in the days of
the town's prosperity, making their own terms when their energetic
employers wanted to get away, and in spite of the general dullness and
lack of success, they entertained very good opinions of themselves; for
no difference what a citizen's misfortunes were, he loaded them all on
the town, and thus apologized for his own lack of ability. But for the
circumstance that he was tied to Davy's Bend, he would have been great
and distinguished; they all said the same thing, and in order to get his
own story believed, every man found it necessary to accept the
explanations of the others, or pretend to; so it happened that the
people did not hold themselves responsible for anything,--the town in
which they lived was to blame for everything that was disagreeable, and
was denounced accordingly.

The esteem with which the people regarded themselves was largely due to
the manner in which they were referred to in the local paper, a ribald
folio appearing once a week. None of the business men were advertisers,
but they all gave the publisher free pardon if he referred to them in
complimentary terms in his reading columns, and sent in his bill. Thus,
the merchant who did not own the few goods he displayed was often
referred to as a merchant prince, with an exceedingly shrewd business
head on his shoulders. Sometimes notices of this character were left
standing from week to week by the shiftless editor; a great number of
them would occasionally get together on the same page, referring to
different men as the shrewdest, the wisest, the most energetic, etc.;
and it was very ridiculous, except to the persons concerned, who
believed that the people read the notices with great pleasure.

So great was the passion for puffery among them that designing men who
heard of it came along quite frequently, and wrote the people up in
special publications devoted to that kind of literature. There would be
a pretence that the special edition was to be devoted to the town, but
it really consisted of a few lines at the beginning, stating that Davy's
Bend had more natural advantages than any other town in the world, and
four pages of puffs of the people, at so much per line; whereupon the
men made fun of all the notices except their own, believing that its
statements were true, and generally accepted as a part of the town's
history. A few of those who were able had engravings inserted, and the
puff writers, in order to make the notices and bills as large as
possible, told how long and how often the subjects had been married; how
many children they had, together with their names, where they came from,
and much other mild information of this character.

It was known that many of the complimentary sketches were written by the
persons to whom they referred; but while Harrisonfield, the grocer, gave
wide circulation to the fact that Porterfield, of the dry-goods store,
had referred to himself as an intellectual giant, and a business man of
such sterling ability that he had received flattering offers to remove
to Ben's City, he did not know that Porterfield was proving the same
indiscretion with reference to himself.

Every new man who wrote up the town in this manner was more profuse with
compliments of the people than his predecessor had been; and finally the
common language was inadequate to describe their greatness, and they
longed for somebody to come along who could "write," and who could fully
explain how much each one was doing for the town; but although they all
professed to be doing a great deal constantly for Davy's Bend, there was
no reason to believe that any of them were accomplishing anything in
this direction, for it could not have been duller than it was in the
year of our Lord just referred to.

But there was an exception to this rule, as there is said to be to all
others,--Thompson Benton, the merchant; the dealer in everything, as the
advertisements on his wrapping-paper stated, for he advertised nowhere
else. But he was reliable and sensible, as well as stout and surly; so
it was generally conceded that he was the foremost citizen of the Bend.

Not that he made a pretence to this distinction; old Thompson was modest
as well as capable, and whatever good was said of him came from the
people themselves. Had there been new people coming to Davy's Bend
occasionally, it is possible that old Thompson would not have been the
leading citizen, for it was said that he "improved on acquaintance," and
that people hated the ground he walked on until they had known him a
dozen years or more, and found out his sterling virtues; but they had
all known him a great many years, and therefore admired him in spite of
themselves.

Thompson Benton had been a resident of the town in the days of its
prosperity, and ranked with the best of those who had moved away; but he
preferred to remain, since he had become attached to his home, and
feared that he could not find one which would suit him equally well
elsewhere. Besides, he owned precious property in the Davy's Bend
cemetery, and lavished upon it the greatest care. Hard though he was in
his transactions with men, the memory of his wife was sacred to him; and
many believed that, had she lived, he would have been less plain-spoken
and matter-of-fact. This devotion was well known; and when the people
found it necessary to forgive him for a new eccentricity,--for it was
necessary to either forgive him or fight him,--they said he had never
recovered his spirits since the day a coffin was driven up to his house.

His store was always open at seven in the morning, and the proprietor
always opened it himself, with a great iron key that looked as venerable
and substantial as the hale old gentleman whose companion it had been so
many years; for it was not a key of the new sort, that might lock up a
trifling man's affairs, but a key that seemed to say as plainly as could
be that it had money and notes and valuable goods of many kinds in its
charge. At six in the evening his store was closed, and the proprietor
turned the key, and put it into his pocket. At noon he ate his frugal
dinner while seated on a high stool at his desk, and he had been heard
to say that he had not eaten at home at midday in fifteen years; for on
Sundays he dined in state at five o'clock.

There were no busy days in Davy's Bend, therefore he got along without a
clerk, and managed his affairs so well that, in spite of the dulness of
which there was such general complaint, he knew that he was a little
richer at the close of every day, and that he was probably doing better
than many of his old associates who were carrying on business with a
great deal of noise and display in Ben's City. Certainly he was reputed
to be rich, and those who were less industrious said that he should have
retired years before, and given others a chance.

Thompson Benton was known as a plain-spoken man, and if he thought one
of his customers had acted dishonestly with him, he said so at the first
opportunity, and gruffly hoped it wouldn't happen again; by which he was
understood to mean that if it _did_ happen again, there would be a
difficulty in which the right would triumph. Indeed, he had been known
to throw men out of the front door in a very rough manner, two and three
at a time; but the people always said he was right, and so it usually
turned out, for he was never offended without cause. If an impostor came
to the town, the people were fully revenged if he called at Benton's
store, for the proprietor told him what he thought of him, and in
language so plain that it was always understood.

Thompson Benton's principal peculiarity was his refusal to be a fool.
The men who threatened to leave the town because they were not
appreciated received no petting from him; indeed, he told them to go,
and try and find a place where they would not grumble so much. The
successors of the business men who had moved away were always trying to
invent new methods as an evidence of their ability, and some of them did
not pay their debts because that was an old, though respectable, custom;
they rejected everything old, no matter how acceptable it had proved
itself, and got along in an indifferent manner with methods invented by
themselves, though the methods of their inventing were usually lame and
unsatisfactory. For such foolishness as this old Thompson had no
charity, as he believed in using the experience of others to his own
profit; so he raised his voice against the customs of the town, and
though he was usually abused for it, it was finally acknowledged that he
was right.

But notwithstanding his austere manner, the people had confidence in old
Thompson, and many of the town disputes were left to him. If the people
had spare money, they asked the privilege of leaving it in his iron safe
(which had belonged to the last bank that moved away), and took his
receipt for it. When they wanted it again, it was always ready; and if
the Ben's City cracksmen ever came that way to look at the safe, they
concluded that the proprietor would prove an ugly customer, for it was
never disturbed.

His family consisted of a maiden sister almost as old and odd as
himself, and his daughter Annie, who had been motherless since she was
five years old. The people said that old Thompson never smiled during
the day except when his pretty daughter came in, and that his only
recreation was in her society during two hours in the evening, when she
read to him, or played, or sang. They were all certain that he was
"wrapped up" in her, and it was also agreed that this devotion was not
without cause; for a better girl or a prettier girl than Annie Benton
was not to be found in all the country round.

The house in which he lived was as stout as brick and mortar could make
it; for the people said that he inspected every brick and stick as it
was used; and when it was completed, his prudish sister, whom he
referred to as the "Ancient Maiden," was equally careful in the
furnishing, so that it was a very good house, and kept with scrupulous
neatness. The Ancient Maiden's drafts were always honored, for nothing
was too good for Thompson Benton's home; and those who went there never
forgot the air of elegant comfort which pervaded everything. Though
Thompson Benton went down town in the morning with the men who worked by
the day, and carried a lunch basket, he dined in the evening in state,
surrounded by silver and china both rich and rare; though he worked ten
hours a day, and ate a lunch at noon, he slept at night in a bed and in
a room which would have rested a king; and his house was as good as any
man's need be.

Very early in life Annie Benton learned, somehow, that it had been one
of her father's pleasures, when he came home at night, to listen to her
mother's piano-playing, when that excellent lady was alive; and,
resolving to supply the vacant place, she studied so industriously with
the poor teachers the town afforded that at fifteen she was complimented
by frequent invitations to play for the glum and plain-spoken merchant.
If she selected something frivolous, and played it in bad taste or time,
and was not invited to play again for a long while, she understood that
her music did not please him, and studied to remedy her fault. In course
of time she found out what he wanted, though he never gave her advice or
suggestion in reference to it; and he had amply repaid her for all the
pains she had been to by saying once, after she had played for him half
an hour in a dark room, while he rested on a sofa near her, that she was
growing more like her mother every day.

"There were few ladies like your mother, Annie," old Thompson would say,
when the girl thanked him for his appreciation. "It pleases me that you
remind me of her, and if you become as good a woman as she was, it will
be very remarkable, for you have had no mother, poor child, to direct
you in her way."

Annie would try harder than ever, after this, to imitate the virtues of
the dead woman, and bothered the Ancient Maiden a great deal to find out
what she was like. She was not a drone, that much was certain; therefore
the daughter was not, and tried to be as useful in the hive as she
imagined her mother had been, in every way in which a worthy woman
distinguishes herself.

In like manner the girl learned to read to please her father, and every
day he brought home with him something he had come into possession of
during the day, and which he wanted read; a book, a pamphlet, or a
marked paragraph in a newspaper,--he seemed to read nothing himself
except business letters; but none of these, or any mention of his
affairs, ever came into his home.

Annie Benton's mother had been organist in the big stone church near The
Locks, which the first residents had built in the days of their
prosperity, and the girl learned from family friends that her father
regularly attended both services on Sunday, to hear the music; perhaps
there were certain effects possible on the great organ which were not
possible on a more frivolous instrument; but it was certain that he
never attended after her death until two or three years after his
daughter became the organist, and after she was complimented on every
hand for her voluntaries before and after the services, and for her good
taste in rendering the hymns; for old Thompson was not a religious man,
though he practised the principles of religion much better than many of
those who made professions.

But one summer morning the girl saw her father come in, and occupy the
seat he had occupied before her mother's death, and regularly after that
he came early and went away late. Except to say to her once, as they
walked home together, that she was growing more like her mother every
day, he made no reference to the subject, though he pretended to wonder
what the matter was when she threw her arms about his neck after they
reached the house, and burst into tears.

One Sunday afternoon he had said to her that if she was going down to
the church to practise, he would accompany her, and after that, every
Sunday afternoon he was invited to go with her, although she never had
practised on Sunday afternoons before. Arriving there, an old negro
janitor pumped the organ, and the girl played until she thought her
father was tired, when they returned home again, where he spent the
remainder of the day alone; thinking, no doubt, of his property in the
cemetery, and of the sad day when it became necessary to make the
purchase.




CHAPTER V.

A TROUBLED FANCY.


It was Annie Benton's playing which Allan Dorris occasionally heard as
he wandered about the yard of The Locks, for she came to the church
twice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on Sunday
afternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing;
and Dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music that
he concluded one afternoon to look at the performer.

In a stained-glass window looking toward The Locks there was a broken
square, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall and
looked through this opening.

A pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, with dark hair,
and features as regularly cut as those of a marble statue, instead of
the spectacled professor he expected to see. Allan Dorris jumped down on
the outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the
church, entered the door.

The player was so intent with her work that she did not notice his
approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stood
almost beside her. She gave a little start on seeing him, but collected
herself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there.

"I hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self-possessed way,
"but I live in the place next door called The Locks, and having often
heard you play of late, I made bold to come in."

"All are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the book
before her, and apparently paying little attention to Dorris. "You have
as much right here as I, and if I can please anyone with my dull
exercises, I am glad of the opportunity."

Allan Dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platform
devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes and
splendid teeth, as well as handsome features.

"Do you mind my saying that I think you are very pretty?" he inquired,
after looking at her intently as she turned over the music.

Allan Dorris thought from the manner in which she looked at him that she
had never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she did
not appear confused.

"I don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her an
opportunity to reply; "but I enjoyed the playing so much that I was
afraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously ugly
as to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than I expected
that I cannot help mentioning it."

"You are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding the
compliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "I imagined that the
new occupant of The Locks was older than you are."

There was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that he
was accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as much
at his ease in the presence of Annie Benton as he had been with Mrs.
Wedge, or with Silas and Tug.

"I am so old in experience that I often feel that I look old in years,"
he replied, looking at the girl again, as though about to repeat his
remark concerning her beauty. "I am glad I do not appear old to you. You
have returned my compliment."

The girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then look
intently at her music, as an apology for smiling at all.

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

Annie Benton looked a little startled at the question, but replied,----

"Twenty."

"Have you a lover?"

This seemed to require an indignant answer, and she looked at him
sharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not a
particle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. He
made the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niece
whom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking her
head.

"That's strange," he returned. "It must be because the young men are
afraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind I have
ever seen. It is fortunate that you live in Davy's Bend; a more
intelligent people would spoil you with flattery. Will you be kind
enough to play for me?"

The girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there was
nothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified her
willingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat down
to listen to the music. When the tones of the organ broke the silence,
Dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for the
music was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment.

Her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and odd
combinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too,
and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remain
in his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. The frown upon his
face was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone in
his own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wild
cries in the music, and mournful melodies. When it ceased, he walked up
to the player, and asked what she had been playing.

"I don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, but
timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "It was a combination of
many of the chords I have learned from time to time that pleased me. My
father, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and I thought you
might. It was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, and
everything else I have ever heard."

"The performance was very creditable, and I thank you for the pleasure
you have afforded me," he said. "Would you care if I should seat myself
here in this chair while you play, and look at you?"

The girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look of
mingled confusion and pleasure in her face as she replied,--

"I wouldn't care, but I could not play so well."

"Then I will go back to the pews; I don't wish to interfere with the
music. If you don't mind it, I will say that I think you are very frank
and honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. Many a worse player than
you are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords I have
just heard was improvising."

"It is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy and
fingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions in
the book, and of which I am so much in need. The exercises are so dull
that it is a great task for me to practise them; but I never tire of
recalling what I have learned heretofore, and using the chords that
correspond with my humor. I have played a great deal, lately, with The
Locks in my mind, for I have heard much of you, and have known of the
strange house all my life. Perhaps I was thinking of you when you were
listening."

"If you will close up the book, and think about me while you are
playing, I will go back to the door, and listen. The subject is not very
romantic, but it is lonely enough, Heaven knows. I should think the old
organ might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it is
shut up from day to day in a great stone house, as I am."

Allan Dorris went back by the door, and the organ was still for such a
length of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silence
that hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunder
of the double-bass, and the music began. The instrument was an unusually
good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player as
Annie Benton proved to be; and Allan Dorris thought she must have
learned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared to
listen. Dirges! The air was full of them, with processions of mourning
men and women. The girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, played
in imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with treble
accompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone,
the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain English why Allan
Dorris, the occupant of The Locks, came to Davy's Bend, and why he was
discontented and ill at ease.

The actor with the baritone voice, after telling everything he knew,
gave way for a march-movement, and a company of actors, representing all
the people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of the
music. Some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as they
passed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and their
places were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, who
looked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the back
pew, though he was no stranger to them. Not by any means; they knew him
very well. What an army! They are still coming, flinging their arms to
the time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward the
back pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as though
they have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence in
that quiet place. After a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded
as if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heard
at once. Their hatred, their dread, their fear,--all were represented in
the chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothing
cheerful or joyous. If any of the actors in the play he had been
witnessing knew anything to the credit of Allan Dorris, their voices
were so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hate
and fear and dread.

The music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and the
player sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did Dorris move
from his position for several minutes.

The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be
heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old
janitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased.

"What have you heard about The Locks?" he asked, after he stood beside
the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she
did not know; for she had expressed it all in the music.

"Everything about The Locks, and a great deal about you," she answered.

"I didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. Who talks about me?"

"The people."

"What do they say?"

"I wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dull
town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and
takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with
superstitious fear for twenty years."

She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down
the aisle.

"Whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside,
"there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me.
You know, somehow, that I am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. Do the
people say that?"

"No."

"Then how did you know it?"

"I saw it in your manner. Anyone could see that."

"A perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long in
that house," he replied, pointing to The Locks. "When the stillness of
night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be
imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe the
wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the
windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people
I have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. Did you
ever hear about the room in The Locks into which no one is permitted to
look?"

"No."

"Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that
room,--it adjoins the one I occupy,--or look into it, or inquire with
reference to it; and if I look ill at ease, it must be because of the
house I occupy. I am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May I
listen to you when you practise again?"

"Certainly," she answered. "I could not possibly have an objection."

She bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negro
janitor, who turned occasionally to look at Dorris with distrust.




CHAPTER VI.

PICTURES IN THE FIRE.


Allan Dorris was seeing pleasant pictures in the cheerful fire which
burned in his room, for he watched it intently from early evening until
dusk, and until after the night came on.

The look of discontent that had distinguished his face was absent for
the first time since he had occupied the strange old house. Perhaps a
cheerful man may see pleasant pictures in a fire which produces only
tragedies for one who is sad; for it is certain that Allan Dorris had
watched the same fire before, and cursed its pictures, and walked up and
down the room in excitement afterward with clenched fists and a wicked
countenance. But there was peace in his heart now, and it could not be
disturbed by the malicious darkness that looked in at his windows; for
the nights were so dark in Davy's Bend that they seemed not an
invitation to rest, but an invitation to prowl, and lurk, and do wicked
things.

When Mrs. Wedge brought in the lamp, and put it down on the mantel, he
did not look up to say a cheerful word, as was his custom, but continued
gazing into the fire; and she noticed that he was in better humor than
he had ever been before during their acquaintance. Usually his thinking
made him frown, but to-night he seemed to be enjoying it.

The worthy woman took pleasure in finding excuses to go to his room as
often as possible, for he seemed to bless her for the intrusion upon his
loneliness; but for once he did not seem to realize her presence, and he
was thinking more intensely than usual.

Mrs. Wedge had come to greatly admire the new occupant of The Locks.
That he was a man of intelligence and refinement there was no doubt; she
believed this for so many reasons that she never pretended to enumerate
them. Besides being scrupulously neat in his habits, which was a great
deal in the orderly woman's eyes, he was uniformly polite and pleasant,
except when he was alone, when he seemed to storm at himself.

There was a certain manly way about him--a disposition to be just to
everyone, even to his housekeeper--that won her heart; and she had lain
awake a great many nights since he had come to The Locks, wondering
about him; for he had never dropped the slightest hint as to where he
came from, or why he had selected Davy's Bend as a place of residence.

She often said to herself that a bad man could not laugh as cheerfully
as Allan Dorris did when he dropped in at her little house to spend a
half-hour, on which occasions he talked good-humoredly of matters which
must have seemed trifling to one of his fine intelligence; and she was
certain that no one in hiding for the commission of a grave offence
could have captured the affections of Betty as completely as he had
done, for the child always cried when he returned to his own room, or
went out at the iron gate to ramble over the hills, and thought of
little else except the time when she could see him again.

Mrs. Wedge had heard that children shrink from the touch of hands that
have engaged in violence or dishonor, and watched the growing friendship
between the two with a great deal of interest.

Mrs. Wedge believed that he had had trouble of some kind in the place he
came from, and that he was trying to hide from a few enemies, and a
great many friends, in Davy's Bend; for Mrs. Wedge could not believe
that anyone would select Davy's Bend as a place of residence except
under peculiar circumstances; but she always came to the same
conclusion,--that Allan Dorris was in the right, whatever his difficulty
had been. She watched him narrowly from day to day, but he never gave
her reason to change her mind--he was in the right, and in the goodness
of her heart she defended him, as she went about her work.

"Were it Betty's father come back to me, instead of a stranger of whom I
know nothing," the good woman would say aloud, as she swept, or dusted,
or scoured in her little house, "I could not find less fault with him
than I do, or be more fond of him. I know something about men, and Allan
Dorris is a gentleman; more than that, he is honest, and I don't believe
a word you say."

"Grandmother," the child would inquire in wonder, "who are you talking
to?"

"Oh, these people's tongues," Mrs. Wedge would reply, with great
earnestness, looking at Betty as though she were a guilty tongue which
had just been caught in the act of slandering worthy people. "I have no
patience with them. Even Mr. Dorris is not free from their slander, and
I am tired of it."

"But who says anything against Mr. Dorris, grandmother?"

Sure enough! Who had accused him? No one, save his friend Mrs. Wedge,
unless his coming to Davy's Bend was an accusation; but she continued to
defend him, and declared before she went to sleep every night; "I'll
think no more about it; he is a worthy man, of course."

But whatever occupied his thoughts on the evening in question, Allan
Dorris was not displeased to hear an announcement, from the
speaking-tube behind the door, of visitors, for they were uncommon
enough; and going to it, a voice came to him from the depths announcing
that Silas and Tug were at the gate, and would come up if he had no
objection. Pulling the lever down, which opened the gate, he went down
to admit them at the door, and they came back with him.

During his residence in the place he had met the two men frequently, for
they took credit to themselves that he was there at all, since his
coming seemed to please the people (for it gave them something to talk
about, even if they did not admire him); and when he returned to his
house in the evening, he often met the strange pair loitering about the
gate. He had come to think well of them, and frequently invited them to
walk in; but though they apparently wanted to accept his invitation,
they acted as though they were afraid to: perhaps they feared he would
lose the little respect he already entertained for them on acquaintance.
But they had evidently concluded to make him a formal call now, induced
by friendliness and curiosity, for they were smartened up a little; and
it had evidently been arranged that Silas should do the honors, for Tug
kept crowding him to the front as they walked up the stairs.

Apparently Tug did not expect a very warm reception at The Locks, for he
lagged behind, and sighted at Allan Dorris with his peculiar eyes, as
though he had half a mind to try a shot at him; and when he reached the
landing from the level of which the doors opened into the rooms of the
second story, he looked eagerly and curiously around, as if recalling
the night when he traced the shadow there, but which had escaped him.

Allan Dorris invited both men into the apartment he usually occupied,
and there was a freedom in his manner that surprised them both. The pair
had decided to visit him from a curiosity that had grown out of their
experience with the shadow; and although they expected to find him stern
and silent, and angered at their presence, he was really in good humor,
and seemed glad to see them; perhaps he was so lonely that he would have
welcomed a visit from a ghost. They both noticed that the ragged beard
which he had worn on his face when he first arrived was now absent; for
he was clean shaven, and this made him appear ten years younger. He
looked a good deal more like a man in every way than he did on the night
of his arrival, when he sat moping in the hotel office; and Silas and
Tug both wondered at the change, but they were of one mind as to his
clean face; it was a disguise.

Tug's suit of black glistened more than ever, from having been recently
brushed; and as soon as he had seated himself, he set about watching
Allan Dorris with great persistency, staring him in the face precisely
as he would look at a picture or an ornament. Silas seated himself some
distance from the fire, and seemed greatly distressed at his friend's
rudeness.

"I like you," Mr. Whittle said finally, without moving his aim from
Dorris's face.

Dorris seemed amused, and, laughing quietly, was about to reply, when
Tug interrupted him.

"I know you don't like me, and I admire you for it, for every decent man
despises me. I am not only the meanest man in the world, but the most
worthless, and the ugliest. My teeth are snags, and my eyes are bad, and
my breath is sour, and I am lazy; but I like you, and I tell you of it
to your teeth."

Tug said this with so much seriousness that his companions both laughed;
but if he understood the cause of their merriment, he pretended not to,
for he said,--

"What are you laughing at?" glaring fiercely from one to the other. "I
am not trying to be funny. I hate a funny man, or a joky man. I have
nothing for a funny man but poison, and I have it with me."

Dorris paid no more attention to his fierce companion than he would to a
growling dog, and continued laughing; but Silas shut up like a knife, as
Tug took from his vest pocket a package carefully wrapped in newspaper,
and after looking at it a moment with close scrutiny, continued,--

"Whenever you find me telling jokes, expect me to giggle at my own wit,
and then pour the contents of this package on my tongue, and swallow it;
and it will be no more than I deserve. I have but one virtue; I am not
funny. You have no idea how I hate the low persons who advertise
themselves as comedians, or comediennes, or serio-comic singers, or you
would not accuse me of it."

Silas had often seen this package before, for Tug had carried it ever
since they had been acquainted, frequently finding it necessary to renew
the paper in which it was wrapped. From certain mysterious references to
it Tug had dropped, Silas believed the powder was intended for a
relative more objectionable than any of the others, though he
occasionally threatened to use it in a different manner, as in the
present instance. Indeed, he seemed to carry it instead of a knife or a
pistol; and Silas had noticed on the night when they were following the
shadow that his companion carried the package in his hand, ready for
instant use.

"You are the kind of a man I intended to be," Tug continued, putting
away his dangerous package with the air of a desperado who had been
flourishing a pistol and took credit to himself for not using it. "I
might have been worthy of your friendship but for my wife's relations,
but I admire you whether you like it or not. Do your worst; I am your
friend."

Tug had not taken his huge eye from Dorris's face since entering, except
to look at the poison; but he removed it as Mrs. Wedge came in to
prepare the table for the evening meal.

Dorris was a good deal like Tug in the particular that he did not sleep
much at night, but he slept soundly when the morning light came up over
the woods to chase away the shadows which were always looking into his
window; therefore he frequently ate his breakfast at noon, and his
supper at midnight.

There was a roast of beef, a tea urn, a pat of butter, and a loaf of
bread, on the platter carried by the housekeeper, while Betty followed
with the cups and saucers, and the potatoes, the napkins, and the sugar.

"I am obliged to you for your good opinion," Dorris said, while the
cloth was being laid, "and if you will remain to supper with me, we will
become better acquainted."

It occurred to Silas that Dorris looked at Tug, in spite of his
politeness, as he might look at an amusing dog that had been taught to
catch a bacon rind from off his nose at the word of command, and
wondered that Tug felt so much at home as he seemed to; for he was
watching the arrangements for supper with great eagerness. Silas was
sure the invitation to supper would be accepted, too, for Tug had never
refused an invitation of any kind in his life, except invitations to be
a man and go to work, which the people were always giving him.

At a look from Dorris, Mrs. Wedge went out, and soon returned with
additional plates, besides other eatables that seemed to be held in
reserve; and during her absence the master had been placing the chairs,
so that by the time the table was arranged, the three men were ready to
sit down, which they did without further ceremony. Among other things
Mrs. Wedge brought in a number of bottles and glasses, which were put
down by the side of Dorris, and these now attracted the aim of Tug.

"If you offer us drink," he said, "I give you fair warning that we will
accept, and get drunk, and disgrace you. We haven't a particle of
decency, have we, you scoundrel?"

This, accompanied by a prodigious poke in the ribs, was addressed to
Silas Davy, who had been sitting meekly by, watching the proceedings.
Tug had a habit of addressing Silas as "his dear old scoundrel," and
"his precious cut-throat," although a milder man never lived; and he
intently watched Dorris as he opened one of the bottles and filled three
of the glasses. Two of them were placed before Tug and Silas, and though
Silas only sipped at his, Tug drank off the liquor apportioned to him
greedily. This followed in rapid succession, until two of the bottles
had been emptied, Dorris watching the proceedings with a queer
satisfaction.

He also helped them liberally to the roast beef and the gravy, and the
potatoes, and the bread and butter, to say nothing of the pickles and
olives; but Tug seemed to prefer the liquor to the tea, for he partook
of that very sparingly, though he was anxious to accept everything else
offered; for he occasionally got up from the table to tramp heavily
around the room, as if to settle that already eaten to make room for
more.

Allan Dorris enjoyed the presence of the two men, and encouraged the
oddities of each by plying them with spirits. Although the drink had
little effect on Silas, who was very temperate, Tug paid tribute to its
strength by opening his wide eye to its greatest extent, as if in wonder
at his hospitable reception, and closing the other tighter, like a man
who had concluded to give one side of his body a rest.

As the evening wore away, and the liquor circulated more freely through
his blood, Tug recited, between frequent snorts, what a man he had been
until he had been broken up and disgraced by his wife's relations, Silas
earnestly vouching for it all, besides declaring that it was a shame, to
which their host replied with enthusiasm that it was an outrage that
such a bright man and such a good-looking man as Tug had been treated so
unjustly, at the same time filling up the glasses, and proposing that
they drink to the confusion and disgrace of the relations. Neither of
them seemed to realize that Dorris was making game of them; for Tug
listened to all he said--and he said a great deal--with an injured air
that was extremely ludicrous; and when Davy related that when Mr.
Whittle was in practice, the judges begged the favor of his opinion
before rendering their decisions on difficult legal questions, Dorris
regretted that he had not known the judges, for he felt sure that they
were wise and agreeable gentlemen. But at the same time Dorris felt
certain that if he should be invited to attend the man's funeral, he
would laugh to himself upon thinking how absurdly dignified he must look
in his coffin.

Silas had never known Tug when he was great, of course, for he had
flourished in the time of Silas's father; but he nevertheless believed
it, and seemed to have personal knowledge of the former magnificence of
the rusty old lawyer. Indeed, but few of the present inhabitants of
Davy's Bend had known Tug when he was clean and respectable, for he
always claimed that his triumphs were triumphs of the old days, when
Davy's Bend was important and prosperous, and among the energetic
citizens who had moved away and made decay possible.

"I don't amount to anything except when I am drunk--now," Tug said,
getting on his feet, and taking aim at his host, "but fill me with
aristocratic liquor, and I am as cute as the best of them. Have you ever
heard the story of the beggar on horseback? Well, here he is, at your
service. Will the rich and aristocratic owner of this house oblige the
beggar by pouring out his dram? Ha! the beggar is at full gallop."

Dorris good-naturedly obeyed the request, and while Tug was on his feet,
his aim happened to strike Silas.

"Silas, you greatest of scoundrels," he said, "you thoroughly debased
villain, loafer, and liar, I love you."

Reaching across the table, Tug cordially shook hands with his friend,
who had been doing nothing up to that time save enjoying Tug's humor,
and indorsing whatever he said. Whether Silas enjoyed being called a
scoundrel, a villain, a loafer, and a liar, is not known, but he
certainly heard these expressions very frequently; for Tug seemed to
tolerate him only because of his total and thorough depravity, though
the other acquaintances of Silas regarded him as a mild-mannered little
man without either vices or virtues.

"I have but two friends," Tug said again, seating himself, and gazing
stiffly at his host, "Rum and Davy; rum cheers me when I'm sad, and Davy
feeds me when I'm hungry, though the splendid thief does not feed me as
well as he might were he more industrious. Rum has a bad reputation, but
I announce here that it is one of my friends. I am either ravenously
hungry, or uncomfortable from having eaten too much, all the time, so
that I do not get much comfort from victuals; but rum hits me just
right, and I love it. You say it will make me drunk. Very well; I _want_
to get drunk. If you argue that it will make me reckless, I will hotly
reply that I _want_ to be reckless, and that a few bottles will make me
as famous as a lifetime of work and success will make a sober man.
Therefore I hail rum as my best friend, next to the unscrupulous rascal
known for hailing purposes, when there are boots to be polished, or
errands to run, as Hup-avy."

The eminent legal mind hurriedly put his hand to his mouth, as though
thoroughly humiliated that he had hiccoughed, and, looking at Dorris
with the air of a man who commits an unpardonable indiscretion and hopes
that it has not been noticed, continued with more care, with a great
many periods to enable him to guard against future weakness.

"Although I have but two friends, I have a host of enemies. Among them
Tigley. My wife's cousin. When I was a reputable lawyer, Tigley appeared
in Davy's Bend. Tigley was a fiddler. And spent his time in playing in
the beer halls for the drinks. The late Mrs. Whittle believed him to be
a great man. She called him a mastero, though he played entirely by ear;
and excused his dissipation on the ground that it was an eccentricity
common to genius. If Tigley ever comes in my way again there will be
something to pay more disagreeable than gold. He taught me to like rum."

Silas, who acted as a kind of chorus, intimated to Dorris that his
friend referred to a word of four letters beginning with an "h," and
ending with an "l."

"That's _one_ reason why I am a drunkard," the victim of too many
relatives added, after a moment's thought. "The other is that I could
never talk up to the old women except when I was drunk, and it was
necessary to talk up to her so often that I finally craved spirits."

Tug crooked his elbow and produced the package from his vest pocket,
which he waved aloft as an intimation that Tigley's nose should be held,
when next they met, until he swallowed its contents.

"By-the-way," Tug said, as if something new had occurred to him, "I warn
you not to believe anything I say; I lie because I enjoy it. Drinking
whiskey, and lying, and loving Davy, are my only recreations. Then there
was Veazy Vaughn, the Vagrant--my wife's uncle--he is responsible for my
idleness. When he came here, twenty odd years ago, I tried to reclaim
him, and went around with him; but he enjoyed vagrancy so much, and
defended his position so well, that I took a taste of it myself. I liked
it. I have followed it ever since."

There was not the slightest animation about Tug, and he sat bolt upright
like a post while he talked with slow and measured accent, to avoid
another hiccough, and his great eye was usually as motionless as his
body.

"The late Mrs. Whittle treated her relatives so well that other
worthless people who were no kin to her began to appear finally, and
claim to be her cousins and nieces and nephews," Tug said. "And she used
my substance to get up good dinners for them. They came by railroad. By
wagon. On foot. And on horseback. I was worse than a Mormon, for I
married a thousand, at least, on my wedding-day. Some of them called me
'Uncle W,' while others spoke of me as their 'Dear Cousin T;' but when
the last dollar of my money was invested in dried beef, and the
relatives had eaten it, I protested, and then they turned me out. The
relations have my money, and I have their bad habits. I have nothing
left but the poison, and they are welcome to that."

He once more produced the package, and as he laid it on the table,
Dorris half expected to see a troop of ill-favored people come dashing
in, grab up the paper, and run away with it. But none of them came, and
Tug went on:

"I was a polite man until my wife's relations made me selfish. We always
had gravy when they were around, and good gravy at that; but by the time
I had helped them all, there was none left for me. I now help myself
first. Will the Prince pass the Pauper the fresh bottle of rum?"

The bottle was handed over, and the rare old scoundrel helped himself to
a full glass of its contents, drinking as deliberately as he had talked,
apparently taking nine big swallows without breathing, at the same time
thinking of the one he loved the best, as a means of curing the
hiccoughs.

"I like Mrs. Wedge," Tug said, looking at that excellent woman with a
tipsy grin, as she came into the room with some new delicacy for her
employer's guests. "She looks so common, somehow, and I don't believe
she knows any more about manners than I do. Whenever you see her eating
her dinner, you'll find that she puts her arms on the table, as I do,
though it's not polite. Polite things are not natural, in my opinion;
mind I don't assert it as positive. I hate cold water, but it's polite
to bathe; and your respectable shirt-collars rub all the hide off my
neck. And anything that's good for me, I don't like. There's oatmeal,
and graham grits, and such like--they are healthy, therefore I don't
like their taste; but give me milk gravy, or salt risin' bread, or fried
beef, or anything else that's not good for me, and you'll find me at
home, as the man who had the party said on his cards."

During this discourse Mr. Whittle's great eye was following Mrs. Wedge
about the room, but when she disappeared it lit on Dorris.

"I'm with the crowd, though, when it comes to my wife's kin," he said,
eyeing his host in an impudent way. "A good many don't say so; but it
makes them all hot to fill their houses with their relations. Whenever
you go to see your relations, depend upon it that they are glad when you
are gone. They may pretend to like you, but they don't, except when you
are away from them. But in all other respects I'm common. Common! I'm so
common that I like boiled cabbage; and the olives you blow about--I'd as
soon eat green pignuts soaked in brine. _Common!_" He yelled out the
words as though he were calling some one of that name in the cellar. "If
men were judged by their commonness, I would be a chief with plumes in
my hat."

Allan Dorris and Silas Davy were seated with their backs to the windows
overlooking the town, while Tug sat opposite them, and in transferring
his gaze from one to the other, in dignified preparation for resuming
his conversation, which both his companions were enjoying, he saw the
mysterious face he had seen once before peering into the room, and which
was hastily withdrawn.

Tug jumped up from his chair at sight of it, and hurried to the window
with such haste that the table was almost upset; but the face, as well
as the figure to which it belonged, had disappeared. Throwing up the
sash, Tug found that he could step out on to a porch, and from this he
dropped into the yard with a great crash through the vines and
lattice-work. Silas Davy quickly followed, by way of the stairs,
suspecting the cause of Tug's disappearance; and Dorris was left alone.

All this had occupied but a few moments, and he probably thought of the
circumstance as one of the many eccentricities of the two odd men; for
after pulling down the lever to close the gate (it is a wonder that he
was not surprised to find it open) he sat down before the fire and
engaged in the pleasant thoughts that were interrupted early in the
evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

Silas did not come up with Tug until he reached the vicinity of the
hotel, where a single street lamp burned all night, and while they were
hurrying along without speaking, the figure they were pursuing passed
quickly on the opposite side of the street from the hotel. The rays of
the lamp were so feeble that the figure was only a shadow; but they
easily recognized it as the one seen before--that of a man above the
medium height, enveloped in a long cloak, not unlike those worn by women
in wet weather, with a slouch hat pulled down over his face.

The two men hurried after it, but in the darkness they were frequently
compelled to stop and listen for the footsteps of the pursued, in order
to detect his course. Each time the echoes were more indistinct, for the
fellow was making good use of his legs; and in this manner they traced
his course to the river bank, near the ferry landing, where the
ferry-boat itself was tied up for the night. They concluded that the
fugitive had a skiff tied there somewhere, which he intended to use in
leaving the place, and, hurrying on board the ferry-boat, they rapped
loudly at the door of the little room on the upper deck where the crew
usually slept, with a view of procuring means of following.

The fellow who had charge of the ferry, a native of the low lands lying
along the river, was known as "Young Bill Young," although he greatly
desired that the people call him "Old Captain Young;" therefore both men
pounded vigorously on the door, and loudly called "Captain Young," as a
tribute to his vanity. "Captain Young" soon appeared, for he always
slept in a bunk with his clothes on, which he said reminded him of his
sea days, although he had never really seen any other water than that on
which he operated his ferry. As the two hurriedly explained to him that
they wanted a boat, Young Bill Young went to the lower deck, and
unlocked one that floated at the stern, and soon Tug and his friend were
pulling down the river with long strokes, for there were two pairs of
oars. Occasionally they stopped rowing to listen, but nothing could be
heard save the gentle ripple of the current; whereupon they worked with
greater vigor than before.

They had rowed in this manner for an hour or more, when, stopping to
listen again, the plash of oars was indistinctly heard on the water
ahead of them. Lying down in the prow of the boat, Tug could see the
boat and its occupants low down on the water, between him and the first
rays of light of the coming morning. There was a heavy fog on the river,
which was lying close to the water, but this had lifted sufficiently to
permit an inspection through the rising mist. There were two figures in
the boat; one rowing, who was evidently the man they had twice seen
looking in at them, and the other a much smaller person, who was seated
in the stern, and steering. This fact Tug regarded as so remarkable that
he told Davy to lie down, and take a look, and when Davy returned to his
oars, after a long inspection, he said:--

"I make out two."

"A big one and a little one," Tug replied, bending to the oars, and
causing the boat to hurry through the water. "Earn your supper up at The
Locks, and I'll introduce you to them."

On the left hand a smaller stream put into the main river, and at its
mouth there was an immense growth of willows, besides a chute, an
island, and a bend. Into this labyrinth the boat they were pursuing
effectually disappeared; for though Tug and Silas rowed about until
broad daylight they could find no trace of it or its occupants.

A short distance up the smaller stream was a lonely station on a
railroad that did not run into Davy's Bend, and while rowing around in
the river, the roar of an approaching train was heard, and the fact that
this stopped at the station, with a blast from the engine-whistle
indicating that it had been signalled, may have been important; but it
did not occur to either Silas or Tug, who pulled their boat back to town
in silence.




CHAPTER VII.

THE LOCKS' GHOST.


There was general curiosity in Davy's Bend with reference to the new
occupant of The Locks, and when the people had exhausted themselves in
denouncing their own town more than _it_ deserved, and in praising Ben's
City more than it deserved, they began on Allan Dorris, and made him the
subject of their gossip.

Whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with reference to him,
and express them, was sure of a welcome at any of the houses where the
speculation concerning his previous history went on from day to day;
and, this becoming generally known, there was no lack of fresh material
for idle tongues. Whenever he walked into the town, he knew that the
stores turned out their crowds to look at him, and that in passing the
residences which were occupied, the windows were filled with curious
eyes. But although there were a hundred theories with reference to him,
it was only positively known that he one day appeared at his gate, two
months after his arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which was
inscribed in gold letters:

     DR. DORRIS.

This curiosity of the people brought Dr. Dorris a great deal of
business, for many of them were willing to pay for the privilege of
seeing him, and he applied himself to practice with such energy that he
was soon in general demand. As the people knew more of him, their
curiosity became admiration; and many of them defended him from
imaginary charges as warmly as did Mrs. Wedge, for there was every
reason that the people should admire him, except that he had located at
Davy's Bend.

That he was skilful and experienced as a physician became apparent at
once, and it was therefore generally believed that he was only there
temporarily; for certainly no one who was really capable would consent
to remain long in Davy's Bend.

His heart was not in his work; this was a part of the gossip concerning
him, though it is difficult to imagine how the idea originated; for he
appeared to be pleased when he was called out at night, as though the
companionship of even those in distress suited him better than the
solitude of his own house; but though he was always trying to be
cheerful, he could not disguise the fact that his mind was busy with
matters outside of his work. Perhaps this was the excuse of the people
for saying that his heart was not in his work, and the charge may have
been true. While busy, he gave whatever was in hand careful and
intelligent attention, but as soon as he was idle again, he forgot his
surroundings, and permitted his mind to wander--nobody knew where. When
addressed, he good-naturedly remembered that he was in Davy's Bend, and
at the service of its people, and did whatever was expected of him with
so much gentleness and ability that he won all hearts. This was his
brief history during the summer following his arrival, except as shall
be related hereafter.

The sun, which had been struggling for mastery over the mist and the
fog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the pleasanter weather, and his
business, served to make him more cheerful than he had been; and had he
cared to think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt have
forced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, and that he had
every reason to feel contented, though he was not.

Still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his rather busy
life, and nights when he sent for Mrs. Wedge and Betty to keep him
company; for there were strange sounds through his house, when the
summer air was still and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattled
in the most unaccountable manner.

Thus it came about that they were with him one night long after their
usual time to retire, Dorris being particularly nervous and restless,
and having asked them to come up to his room rather late in the evening.

Mrs. Wedge had told him of Annie Benton a dozen times already, but she
made it a baker's dozen, and told him again of her simple history; of
her popularity in the town, though the people all seemed to be shy of
her, and of her gruff father, who, in Mrs. Wedge's opinion, would resent
the appearance of a lover in the most alarming manner. Mrs. Wedge
thought she observed that Dorris was fond of this subject, and kept on
talking about it; for he was paying close attention as he lounged in his
easy chair. Dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts of Thompson
Benton's jealousy of his daughter that Mrs. Wedge believed that he
regarded him as he might regard a growling mastiff, which growled and
snapped at whoever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and not
expected of him.

Mrs. Wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of old Thompson,--or of
any one else, for that matter,--so she added this declaration to the
great number she was constantly making in his defence, and repeated it
to herself whenever he was in her mind.

She was pleased with the circumstance that he admired Annie Benton, and
though she said a great deal in her praise, it was no more than the
truth, for she was a girl worthy of admiration and respect. But the
subject was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, Dorris
roused himself from one of his reveries, and asked her to tell him the
history of The Locks, as a last resort to induce her to keep him
company.

The worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed down the folds of her
apron, and began by saying,--

"Betty, open the door leading into the hall."

The child did as she was directed, and, coming back, brought up a low
chair, and rested her head on her grandmother's knee.

"Listen," Mrs. Wedge said again.

They were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could be distinctly
heard on the stair; it came up to the landing, and, after hesitating a
moment, seemed to pass into the room into which no one was to look. The
little girl shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, where
she hid away in the folds of her dress.

Dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he had heard it
frequently, and at night the thought had often occurred to him that some
one was in the house, going quietly from one room to another. A great
many times he had taken the light, and looked into every place from the
cellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and discovered nothing,
except that when in the attic he heard the strange, muffled, and ghostly
noises in the rooms he had just left.

"It is not a ghost to frighten you," Mrs. Wedge said, looking at her
employer, "but the spirit of an unhappy woman come back from the grave.
Whenever the house is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair,
but I have never regarded it with horror, though I have been familiar
with it for a great many years. I rather regard it as a visit from an
old friend; and before you came I often sat alone in this room after
dark, listening to the footsteps.

"Jerome Dudley, who built The Locks, was a young man of great
intelligence, energy, and capacity; but his wife was lacking in these
qualities. Perhaps I had better say that he thought so, for I never
express an opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both my
friends. I may say with propriety, however, that they were unsuited to
each other, and that both knew and admitted it, and accepted their
marriage as the blight of their lives. Differently situated, she would
have been a useful woman; but she was worse than of no use to Jerome
Dudley, as he was contemptible in many ways towards her in spite of his
capacity for being a splendid man under different circumstances.

"The world is full of such marriages, I have been told; so I had
sympathy for them both, and was as useful to them as I could be. When I
came here as housekeeper, I knew at once that they were living a life of
misery, for they occupied different rooms, and were never together
except at six o'clock dinner.

"Mr. Dudley always went to his business in the morning before his wife
was stirring, and did not return again until evening; and, after
despatching his dinner, he either went back to his work, or into his own
room, from which he did not emerge until morning. He was not a gloomy
man, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that she was a
drawback rather than a help to him.

"The management of the house was turned over to me completely, and when I
presided at the table in the morning, he was always good-natured and
respectful, (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in the
same room with him) and frequently told me of his successes, and he had
a great many, for he was a money-making man; but I am sure he never
spoke of them to his wife. His household affairs he discussed only with
me, and the fact that I remained in his service until I entered yours
should be taken as evidence that I gave satisfaction."

Dorris bowed respectfully to Mrs. Wedge in assent, and she proceeded,--

"Mrs. Dudley spent her time in her own room in an indolent way that was
common to her, doing nothing except to look after her little girl, who
was never strong. The child was four years old when I came, and the
father lavished all his affection upon it. He had the reputation of
being a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave but few his
confidence, which I think was largely due to his unsatisfactory home;
and I have heard him say that but two creatures in all the world seemed
to understand him--the child, and myself. It was a part of my duty to
carry the child to its father's room every night before putting it to
bed; and though I usually found him at a desk surrounded with business
papers, he always had time to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or romp
with it if awake.

"While the mother cheerfully turned over the household affairs to me
entirely, she was jealous of the child, and constantly worried and
fretted with reference to it. The father believed that his daughter was
not well cared for, in spite of the mother's great affection, for she
humored it to its disadvantage; and I have sometimes thought that the
child was sick a great deal more than was necessary. From being shut up
in a close room too much, it was tender and delicate, and when the door
was open, it always went romping into the hall until brought back again,
which resulted in a cold and a spell of sickness. This annoyed Mr.
Dudley, and from remarks he occasionally made to me I knew he believed
that if the little girl should die, the mother would be to blame.

"'It would be better if she had no mother,' he was in the habit of
saying. When children are properly managed, they become a comfort; but
if a foolish sentiment is indulged in, the affections of the parents are
needlessly lacerated, and they become a burden. I say this with charity,
and I have become convinced of it during my long life. Little Dudley was
managed by the mother with so much mistaken affection that she was
always a care and a burden. Instead of going to bed at night, and
sleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she was always
wakeful, fretful, and ill, and Mr. Dudley's rest was disturbed so much
that I thought he had some excuse for his bad humor; for nothing is so
certain as that all this was unnecessary. The child was under no
restraint, and was constantly doing that which was not good for her, and
though her mother protested, she did nothing else.

"Because the father complained of being disturbed at all hours of the
night, the mother accused him of heartlessness and of a lack of
affection, but he explained this to me by saying that he only protested
because his child was not cared for as it should be; because that which
was intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, and because
he was in constant dread for its life.

"Whether the mother was to blame or not will perhaps never be known; but
it is certain that the child died after a lingering illness, and the
father was in a pitiful state from rage and grief. He did not speak to
his wife during the illness, or after the death, which she must have
accepted as an accusation that she was somehow responsible; for she soon
took to her bed, and never left it alive except to wearily climb the
stairs at twelve o'clock every night, to visit the child's deserted
room,--the room next to this, and into which no one is permitted to
look. Her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the parlor,
and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the hour the child died,
she wrapped the coverings about her, and went slowly up the stairs,
clinging to the railing with pitiful weakness with one hand, and
carrying the lamp with the other.

"I frequently tried to prevent her doing this; but she always begged so
piteously that I could not resist the appeal. She imagined, poor soul,
that she heard the child calling her, and she always asked me not to
accompany her.

"One night she was gone such a long time that at last I followed, and
found her dead, kneeling beside her child's empty crib, and the light
out. Mr. Dudley was very much frightened and distressed; and I think the
circumstance hastened his departure from Davy's Bend, which occurred a
few weeks later. He has never been in the house since.

"It is said that once a year--on the third of May--at exactly twelve
o'clock at night, a light appears in the lower room, which soon goes
out, and appears in the hall. A great many people have told me that they
have seen the light, and that it grows dimmer in the lower hall, and
brighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where the empty
crib still stands, precisely as if it were carried by some one climbing
the stair. It soon disappears from the upper room, and is seen no more
until another year rolls round. I have never seen the light, but I have
often heard the step. Sometimes it is silent for months together, but
usually I hear it whenever I am in the main house at night. Just before
there is a death in the town, or the occurrence of any serious accident,
it goes up and down with unvarying persistency; but there is a long rest
after the death or the accident foretold has occurred."

When Mrs. Wedge had ceased talking, there was perfect silence in the
room again, and the footsteps were heard descending the stair.
Occasionally there was a painful pause, but they soon went on again, and
were heard no more.

"Poor Helen," Mrs. Wedge said, wiping her eyes, "how reluctantly she
leaves the little crib."

Mrs. Wedge soon followed the ghost of poor Helen down the stair,
carrying Betty in her arms; and as Dorris stood on the landing lighting
them down, he thought, as they passed into the shadow in the lower hall,
that poor Helen had found her child, and was leaving the house forever,
content to remain in her grave at last.




CHAPTER VIII.

A REMARKABLE GIRL.


Annie Benton had said that she usually practised once a week in the
church; and during the lonely days after his first meeting with her,
Allan Dorris began to wonder when he should see her again. The sight of
her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, had afforded him a
strange pleasure, and he thought about her so much that his mind
experienced relief from the thoughts that had made him restless and ill
at ease. But he heard nothing of her, except from Mrs. Wedge, who was as
loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her as he rode about on
his business affairs, and a few times he had walked by her father's
house, after dark, and looked at its substantial exterior.

There was something about the girl which fascinated him. It may have
been only the music, but certainly he longed for her appearance, and
listened attentively for notice of her presence whenever he walked in
his yard, which was his custom so much of late that he had worn paths
under the trees; for had he secured all the business in Davy's Bend he
would still have had a great deal of time on his hands.

During these weeks he sometimes accused himself of being in love with a
girl he had seen but once, and laughed at the idea as absurd and
preposterous; but this did not drive thoughts of Annie Benton out of his
mind, for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her presence.
After listening during the hours of the day when he was not occupied, he
usually walked in the path for a while at night, hoping it might be
possible that she had changed her hours, and would come to practise
after the cares and duties of the day were over. He could see from his
own window that the church was dark; but he had little to do, so he took
a turn in the path down by the wall to convince himself that she was not
playing softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. But he was
always disappointed; and, after finding that his watching was hopeless,
he went out at the iron gate in front, and walked along the roads until
he recovered from his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home.

This was his daily experience for several weeks after his first meeting
with the girl, for even the Sunday services were neglected for that
length of time on account of the pastor, who was away recruiting his
health; when one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the
organ again. Climbing up on the wall, and looking at the girl through
the broken window, he imagined that she was not playing with the old
earnestness, and certainly she frequently looked toward the door, as if
expecting someone. Jumping down from the wall, he went around to the
front door, which he found open, and entered the church. The girl heard
his step on the threshold, and was looking toward him when he came in at
the door leading from the vestibule.

"I seem to have known you a long time," he said, as he sat down near
her, after exchanging the small civilities that were necessary under the
circumstances, "and I have been waiting for you as anxiously as though
you were my best friend. I have been very busy all my life, and I don't
enjoy idleness, though I imagined when I was working hard that I would
relish a season of rest. I have little to do here except to wait for you
and listen to the music. Had you delayed your coming many days longer I
should have called on you at your home. You are the only acquaintance I
have in the town whose society I covet."

There was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting him, and that
she was pleased that he came in so promptly. Her manner indicated it,
and she was perfectly willing to neglect her practice for his company,
which had not been the case before. She was better dressed, too; and
surely she would have been disappointed had not Dorris made his
appearance.

Annie Benton, like her father, improved on acquaintance. She was neither
too tall nor too short, and, although he was not an expert in such
matters, Dorris imagined that her figure would have been a study for a
sculptor. A woman so well formed as to attract no particular comment on
first acquaintance, he thought; but he remarked now, as he looked
steadily at her, that there was a remarkable regularity in her features.
There are women who do not bear close inspection, but Annie Benton could
not be appreciated without it. Her smile surprised every one, because of
its beauty; but the observer soon forgot that in admiring her pretty
teeth, and both these were forgotten when she spoke, as she did now to
Dorris, tiring of being looked at; for her voice was musical, and
thoroughly under control:

"I have dreaded to even pass The Locks at night ever since I can
remember," she said with some hesitation, not knowing exactly how to
treat the frankness with which he acknowledged the pleasure her presence
afforded him, "and I don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is
lonely. They say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious light, and a
footstep on the stair; and I am almost afraid to talk about it."

Allan Dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought when in the midst
of a conversation, and though he said he had been waiting patiently to
hear the music, it did not arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting
for his reply, and gone to playing.

Now that he was in her presence he did not seem to realize the pleasure
he expected when he walked under the trees and waited for her. Perhaps
he was thinking of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so
accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the chirping of a
cricket; but more likely he was thinking that what he had in his mind to
say to the girl, when alone, was not at all appropriate now that he was
with her.

"An overture to 'Poor Helen,'" Dorris thought, when he looked up, and
heard the music, after coming out of his reverie; for it was full of
whispered sadness, and the girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in
her mind when she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step
on the stair; and when he walked back to the other end of the church, he
thought of the pretty girl in white, at the instrument, as a spirit come
back to warn him with music to be very careful of his future.

Where had the girl learned so much art? He had never heard better music,
and though there was little order in it, a mournful harmony ran through
it all that occasionally caused his flesh to creep. She was not playing
from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by making odd
combinations with the stops; and so well did she understand the secret
of the minors that her playing reminded him of a great orchestra he had
once heard, and which had greatly impressed him.

Where had this simple country-girl learned so much of doubt, of despair,
and of anguish? Allan Dorris thought that had _his_ fingers possessed
the necessary skill, _his_ heart might have suggested such strains as he
was hearing; but that a woman of twenty, who had never been out of her
poor native town, could set such tales of horror and unrest and
discontent to music, puzzled him. The world was full of hearts
containing sorrowful symphonies such as he was now listening to, but
they were usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be but
one explanation--the organist was an unusual woman; the only flower in a
community of rough weeds, scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by God in
His mercy; a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was therefore
modest in its innocence and purity. But her weird music; she must have
thought a great deal because of her motherless and lonely childhood, for
such strains as her deft fingers produced could not have been found in a
light heart.

"There are few players equal to you," he said, standing by her side when
she finally concluded, and looked around. "A great many players I have
known had the habit of drowning the expert performance of the right hand
with the clumsy drumming of the left; but you seem to understand that
the left hand should modestly follow and assist, not lead, as is the
habit of busy people. There are many people who have devoted a lifetime
to study, surrounded with every advantage, who cannot equal you. I am an
admirer of the grand organ, and have taken every occasion to hear it;
but there is a natural genius about your playing that is very striking."

"No one has ever told me that before," she replied, turning her face
from him. "I have never been complimented except by the respectful
attention of the people; and father once said I could play almost as
well as my mother. Your good opinion encourages me, for you have lived
outside of Davy's Bend."

Well, yes, he _had_ lived outside of Davy's Bend, and this may have been
the reason he now looked away from the girl and became lost to her
presence. He did not do this rudely, but there was a pathetic
thoughtfulness in his face which caused the girl to remain silent while
he visited other scenes. Perhaps Allan Dorris is not the only man--let
us imagine so, in charity--who has lived in other towns, and become
thoughtful when the circumstance was mentioned.

"If there is genius in my playing, I did not know it, for it is not the
result of training; it comes to me like my thoughts," the girl finally
continued, when Dorris looked around. "When you were here before, you
were kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain passage gave
evidence of great study and practice. I am obliged to you for your good
opinion, but the strains really came to me in a moment, and while they
pleased me, I never studied them."

The girl said this with so much simple earnestness that Allan Dorris
felt sure that his good opinion of her playing would not cause her to
practise less in the future, but rather with an increased determination
for improvement.

"I think that your playing would attract the attention of the best
musicians," he said. "The critics could point out defects, certainly,
for a great many persons listen to music not to enjoy it, but to detect
what they regard as faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would
cheerfully forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experience,
and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. I only wonder where you
learned it."

"Not from competent teachers," she replied, as though she regretted to
make the confession. "The best music I ever heard was that of the bands
which visit the place at long intervals. I have seldom attended their
entertainments, but my father has listened with me when they played on
the outside, and we both enjoyed it. All that I know of style and
expression I learned from them. I once heard a minstrel band play in
front of the hall, on a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an
audience, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that I
remember it yet. It is dreadful to imitate minstrel music in a church,
but you have spoken so kindly of my playing that I will try it, if you
care to listen."

They were both amused at the idea, and laughed over it; and after Dorris
had signified his eagerness to hear it, and reached his favorite place
to listen, the back pew, he reclined easily in it, and waited until the
stops were arranged.

The music began with a crash, or burst, or something of that kind, and
then ran off into an air for the baritone. This was the girl's favorite
style of playing, and there was really a very marked resemblance to a
band. There was an occasional exercise for the supposed cornets, but the
music soon ran back into the old strain, as though the players could not
get rid of the prospect of an empty house, and were permitting the
baritone to express their joint regrets. The accompaniment in the treble
was in such odd time, and expressed in such an odd way, that Dorris
could not help laughing to himself, although he enjoyed it; but finally
all the instruments joined in a race to get to the end, and the music
ceased. He started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and when
half way she said to him:

"At another time I heard a band coming up from the river. The players
seemed to be in better spirits that day"--

A distant march, and a lively one, came from the organ, and surely there
were banners in front of the players. The music gradually became louder,
and finally the girl said,--

"Now it turns the corner of the street."

Then came a crash of melody, and Dorris was almost tempted to look out
of the window for the procession that he felt sure was passing. It was
just such an air as a band-master might select to impress the people
favorably on his first appearance in a town; and every member did his
best until the grand finale, which exhausted the powers of the organ.

When the girl turned round, Dorris was laughing, and she joined him in
it.

"It is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, though her face
indicated that she did not think it was so dreadful, after all, and that
she enjoyed it; "but when father comes to hear me practise, he insists
on hearing the band pieces; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and
quadrilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. The
hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of great use to me,
for their music is all well arranged, and father says that if I can
equal them he will be very proud of me. Please don't laugh at the idea,
for father never says anything that is silly, and he knows good music
when he hears it. I know it is the fashion to make light of the
barrel-organ; and the people talk a great deal about bribing the players
to leave town; but father says a great many customs are not founded in
good sense, and perhaps this is one of them. We so rarely find innocent
pleasure that we should be free to enjoy it, no matter what it is, or
where found, whether custom happens to look on approvingly or not."

"I am glad you said that," Dorris returned, "for I enjoy coming here to
listen to your practising, and whether the world approves or not, I
intend to come whenever there is opportunity, and you do not object. It
is my opinion that you have never been appreciated here, and I will
repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appreciating it. Do you
know that you are a remarkable girl?"

Dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there was nothing
offensive in his frankness. He seemed to say whatever occurred to him,
without stopping to think of its effects.

"It never occurred to me," she said.

"Really and truly?"

"Really and truly," she replied. "If there is merit in my playing, I
might have lived all my life without finding it out, but for you."

"Then let me be the first to tell you of it. You are very pretty, and
you have talent above those around you. I hear that your father is a
very sensible man; he no doubt appreciates what I have said, but dreads
to tell you of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose much
of the charm that is so precious to him. The friends of Cynthia Miller
force themselves into the belief that you are no handsomer than she, and
that your playing is no better than her drumming. All the other Davy's
Bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; but I, who have
lived in intelligent communities, and am without prejudice, tell you
that I have never seen a prettier girl in my life. You have intelligence
and capacity, too. Mrs. Wedge has told me the pretty story of how you
became an organist, and I admire you for it. Some people I have known
were content to be _willing_ to do creditable things, and came to
believe in time that they had accomplished all they intended, without
really accomplishing anything; but I admire you because you do not know
yourself how much of a woman you are; at least you make no sign of it. I
am glad to be the first to do justice to a really remarkable woman."

The remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear this; for she was
very much flustered, and hung her head.

"If a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he continued, "should
fall in love with me, I believe I should die with joy; for a girl like
you could find in her heart a love worth having. I don't know what I
should do under such circumstances, for I have had no experience; but I
imagine I should be very enthusiastic, and express my enthusiasm in some
absurd way. No one ever loved me, that I can remember; for as a child I
do not believe I was welcome to the food I ate, though I was not more
troublesome than other children who receive so much attention that they
care nothing for it. I have been indignant at men for beating their
dogs, and then envied the love the brutes displayed while the smart was
yet on their bodies. It has so chanced that the dogs I have owned were
well treated and ungrateful, and finally followed off some of the
vagrants who were hard masters. I have thought that they despised me
because they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be
uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and hard treatment; but
certainly they regarded me with indifference and suspicion. But I didn't
try to force them to admire me; I rather kept out of their way; for an
animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you cannot force or
persuade a man to admire any one he dislikes."

"It is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. "Such doubts
as you express have often come to me, but I have comforted myself with
the poor reflection that there is so little love in the world that when
it is divided among the people, it does not amount to as much as they
wish. I know nothing of your situation, past or present, but is it not
possible that everyone has the same complaint that you have?"

"There is force in your suggestion," he replied thoughtfully, "but I do
not believe that I overdraw my condition; I know too much of real
wretchedness to permit myself to worry over fancied wrongs. I hope I am
too sensible to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and then
grieve because of a lack of it. I might long for something which does
not exist, but so long as I am as well off as others, I will be as
content as others; but when I have seen that which I covet, and know
that I am as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes
me regret which I can shake off, but which, nevertheless, is always in
my mind. This regret has no other effect than to make me gloomy, which
no man should be; I can get it out of my actions when I try, but I
cannot get it out of my mind. Happiness is not common, I believe; for I
have never known a man or woman who did not in some way excite my pity
on closer acquaintance, but owing to a strange peculiarity in my
disposition, I have always felt the lack of honest friendship. This is
my malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because of it, as I pity
them because of their misfortunes. It must be that I have a disagreeable
way about me, and repel friendship, though I am always trying to be
agreeable, and always trying to make friends. I have little ambition
above this; therefore I suppose it may be said that I am no more
unfortunate than others who have greater ambitions, and fail in them. I
have been told that men who have great success find friends a bother and
a hindrance; so it comes about that we are all disappointed, and I am no
worse off than others. How old are you?"

"I shall be twenty on my next birthday; you asked me that before."

"A little too old to become my pupil," he continued, "but let me say
that if you are as contented as you look, make no experiments in the
future; pursue the course you have already pursued as long as you live,
and never depart from it. If you are given to dreaming, pray for sound
slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and occupy them, extol your
plain home, and put aside everything save simplicity, honesty, and duty.
There is nothing out in the great world, from which I came, which will
afford the happiness you know here. I know everything about the world
except the simplicity and peace of your life, and these are the jewels
which I seek in Davy's Bend. The road leading from this town is the road
to wretchedness, and I have heard that those who have achieved greatness
would scatter their reputation to the quarters from whence it came for
the quiet contentment you know. Many lives have been wrecked by day
dreaming, by hope, by fancy. Pay attention only to the common realities.
If you feel that there is a lack in your life, attack it as an evil, and
convince yourself that it is a serious fault; an unworthy notion, and a
dangerous delusion."

"Must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a
tone of regret. "Can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days?
This dreaming which you say is so dangerous--I have always believed it
to be ambition--has been the only solace of my life. I have longed so
intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that
I cannot believe it was wrong; I almost believe you are dangerous, and I
will leave you."

She walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as
Dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back
again.

"That is what you ought to do--go away and never come into my presence
again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "That was a
good resolve; you should carry it out."

Annie Benton looked puzzled as she asked why.

"Because every honest sentiment I ever expressed seemed wrong, and
against the established order. The friendship of the people does not
suit me--neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though I am to
feel dissatisfied with that which The King offers, I am not content with
it. I wander aimlessly about, seeking--I know not what. A more
insignificant man than I it would be difficult to find; but in a world
of opulence, this mendicant, this Prince Myself, finds nothing that
satisfies him. A beggar asking to be chooser, I reject those things that
men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible.
Sent into the world to long for an impossibility, I have fulfilled my
mission so faithfully that I sometimes wonder that I am not rewarded for
it. _You_ must not follow a path that ends in such a place."

He pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to The
Locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect.

"For you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet
every new day for its fresh pleasures, I am a dangerous companion, for
my discontent is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you are a
suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your music has lulled me
into the only peace I have ever known; but principle--which has always
guided me into that which was distasteful--demands that I advise you to
keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping that you will not
heed the advice."

"I regret that what you say--that I am contented with everything around
me--is not true," the girl replied, "but though I am not, and wish I
were, I do not repine as you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew."

"Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my laugh. I will laugh at
myself."

Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was
contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither
of them knew what they were laughing about.

"I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for I am
usually gay. Gay! I am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused
me to forget. It's all over now; let's laugh some more."

And he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it
was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told
what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that
it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. The
different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at
the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was
feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band.

"It makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently,
and that I am to return to my cheerful room in The Locks, the gayest
house in the world. Bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that
place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in
the town. I leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the
wind--I can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the
windows and shutters. But if you will let me, I will walk home with you,
although I am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. I wish
it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. I am becoming so funny
of late I must break my spirit some way."

It was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to
accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to
lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for
Dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's
wages.

"They say here that if Thompson Benton should see a gentleman with his
daughter," Dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to
him straight. I suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to
clear out; but I will risk it."

"They say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl
answered, "because he does not trifle. Father is the best man in the
world."

"The lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, "but I am
anxious to meet this gentleman of whom I have heard so much, so you had
better not invite me in, for I will accept. A lion's den would be a
happy relief to the gayety of The Locks, where we go on--the spectres
and I--in the merriest fashion imaginable."

Dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked along he several
times suggested another laugh, saying, "now, all together," or, "all
ready; here we go," as a signal for them to commence, in such a queer
way that the girl could not help joining.

"I am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your pleasure. Just at
present I am a circus tune, but if you prefer a symphony, you have only
to say the word. I am sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down
over me, and cause me to be oblivious to everything until you appear
again. Something tells me that the stout gentleman approaching is the
lion."

They were now in the vicinity of the home of the Bentons', and the girl
laughingly replied that the stout gentleman was her father. By the time
they reached the gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at Dorris
from under his shaggy eyebrows. Annie presented the stranger to her
father, who explained who he was, and said that, having been attracted
by the music in the church, he had taken the liberty of walking home
with the player.

"I have the habit myself," old Thompson grunted, evidently relieved to
know that Dorris was not a lover, and looking at him keenly.

He held the gate open for the girl, who walked in, and then closed it,
leaving Dorris on the outside. He raised his hat, wished them good
night, and walked away, and he imagined when he looked back that the
girl was standing at the door looking after him.




CHAPTER IX.

THE "APRON AND PASSWORD."


The guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had
disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the
dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save Silas Davy, the
patient man-of-all-work.

A queer case, the proprietor. Instead of being useful to the hotel, as
would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not
even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table
necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Armsby, who
did about everything around the place, from tending the office to
superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these
particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat
her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which
was known far and near for its fine attention to guests.

Armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned
a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the
lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the
thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to
welcome them. In addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged
to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business,
even had he been inclined that way.

Mrs. Armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and
encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards
the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been
heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not
greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband
whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. He never got out of
bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was
finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a
cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night
before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that
he was usually forgiven. Indeed, the people found no other fault with
his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "Apron and
Password," probably a tribute to the English way of naming houses of
public entertainment; for they argued that if Mrs. Armsby could forgive
her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the
place was known.

But he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife--not because she made
the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly
fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable Mrs. Armsby: for though
she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing
events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the
guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano.

It was said that as a girl Mrs. Armsby had been the favorite of a circle
of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of
her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it
necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she
went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a
very remarkable woman. She had been Annie Benton's first teacher, in
addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house
occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in
the upper rooms.

Armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his
supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing.

"There are a great many unhappy women in the world, Davy," Armsby said,
looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the
reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. I wouldn't be a woman
for all the money in Thompson Benton's safe; I am thankful that I am a
man, if for nothing else. It is very pretty to say that any woman is so
good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for
most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and
thoughtless; but Mrs. Armsby has her own way here. She has a maid and a
man, and I fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. Instead of being
bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full
charge. Pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? Help yourself
to the sardines."

Davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when Mr. Armsby
said:

"You will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they
cost sixty cents a box--the three you have on your plate cost a dime.
But they are as free as the air you breathe. Help yourself; have some
more, and make it fifteen cents."

Davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing
around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told
that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that
Armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his
rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his
wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no
other time. There was a bottle of olives on the table, and when Davy
took one of them, Armsby explained that he had imported them himself at
enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the
stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of
years.

"Any guests to-night?" Armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed
that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself.

"No," Davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff.

"I am sorry for that," Armsby continued. "Mrs. Armsby enjoys a lively
parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself
agreeable. What a wonderful woman she is to fix up! Always neat, and
always pleasant; but she has little else to do. You don't take very
kindly to the ladies yourself, Davy?"

The boarders frequently accused Davy of being fond of various old widows
and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely
hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials;
but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to
give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry.

"Why, bless me, Davy," Armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in
astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! Let me see the back of your
head."

Silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the
ceiling.

"It's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. But we must all
expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. I know a man who
does not mistreat his wife, but I never knew one who wasn't bald. You
might as well quit washing your head in salt water, Davy; for it will do
no good."

The facts were that Davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but
Armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that
other people's hair was falling out.

"Better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony
again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. All the men are unjust
to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it
has always been my policy to make Mrs. Armsby a notable exception. Is
there another woman in the Bend who handles all the money, and does
exactly as she pleases? You are around a good bit; do you know of
another?"

Davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of
handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a
vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for Silas was not a talkative man.

"Whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model
husband. "I never complain; indeed, I find much to admire. There is not
another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of
people."

Mrs. Armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her
husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. While she
was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he
had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had
proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the
country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and
how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that
event he would have to be present.

His wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the
first meal of the next day, and Armsby said to Davy,--

"Poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into
the kitchen to watch Jennie peel the potatoes. If business was not so
dull--you say it is dull; I know nothing about it myself--I would hire a
companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her
during the day. It's too bad."

Unfortunately for the patrons of the Apron-and-Password, Armsby had been
to New York; and though he had remained but two days, since his return
he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous.
When a New York man was mentioned, Armsby pretended to know him
intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began
and ended. Whenever a New York institution was referred to, he was
familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the Davy's Bend
people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in New
York, and inducing Armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did
with cheerful promptness.

He never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when
he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation,
Silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for
Armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man.

"You ought to wear the apron, Silas," Mr. Armsby said, looking at Silas
with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if
your application should be greeted with the blacks. I don't recommend
that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will
show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has
never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about,
sooner or later. Only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness.
But if you have faults, I should advise you not to run the risk of being
humiliated, for the members are very particular. A lazy man, or a
shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man
belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as
they make them. This is the reason we must be particular in admitting
new members. Reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others
stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. There's nothing
like it."

The landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the
lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then
continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in
the lodge connection,--

"When I first went to New York I became acquainted with the very best
people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in
every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been
selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the
fullest extent. One day I went over into--"

Armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in
vexation.

"It is strange I am unable to name the town," he said; "I am as familiar
with it as I am with my own stable. Well, no matter; anyway it is a big
suburb, and you reach it by crossing the--"

Again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had
crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped
his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to
walk up and down the room.

"If I should forget your name, or Mrs. Armsby's, it would not be more
remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "I was brought
up in sight of them; but what I started out to say was, that I walked
into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter
looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking I was a
robber, no doubt, until I gave him a certain sign. You should have seen
the change in his manner! He came through a little door at the side, and
shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the
inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of
other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table.

"'President Judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.'

"All the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. It was not feigned,
either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to
which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the
city, though I protested that I was so well acquainted that I could get
along very well alone. But they insisted upon it, and when they began to
quarrel rather fiercely about it, I gave them a sign (which reminded
them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all
good-natured at once, and one of them said,--

"'Thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will
occasionally forget. Will you do us the favor to pick out one of our
number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'"

Davy noticed that Mrs. Armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though
Armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did
not mention the circumstance.

"I liked the looks of Mr. Judd," Armsby continued, "so I said that if
the other brothers would not take offence, I would like his company. The
others said, 'Oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be
brothers at the same time, and President Judd at once began arranging
his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big
roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others
said it wasn't half enough."

Davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for
the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much
interested in what Armsby was saying.

"Well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. You cannot
imagine how potent it was. We made it when we wanted a carriage, and the
driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when
we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels,
which were nothing like this, but larger--very much larger."

Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were
hotels larger than the "Apron and Password;" but as the proprietor
himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it
was certainly very astonishing.

"I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the
second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when
the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets,
thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd remained with
me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice
as big as The Locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with
presents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the greatest
thing in the world; I am sorry you do not wear it."

Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to
smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when Mrs.
Armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and
distressed.

"Silas," she said, "don't believe a word Armsby has said to you, or ever
will say, on this subject. Before he became a slave to this dreadful
lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says
now. Do you know what they do at the lodges?"

Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member _could_ know.

"Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put
fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign,
or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger
when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or
three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, and my
advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been talking to you a good deal
about the matter lately, and I suspect he wants the fun of initiating
you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them
opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks."

Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas made up his mind
to ask Tug's opinion,--Tug would know,--but he said nothing.

"Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on to say; "but, bless you,
they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them
out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came
home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out
to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half
the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on
the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it
in its case again; but I fear the lesson did the misguided man little
good, for he has been as bad as ever since. But while these men might be
pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are
utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing
on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic
fashion than ever. If you should join, you would be expected to do this,
and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the
face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. Besides,
it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and
most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My
only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty
to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will
all be disgraced. It is your misfortune as well as mine, Silas, that
Armsby is not a drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are
of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. If
a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it;
but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds
in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time
that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out
of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. Whittle is a very fortunate woman."

Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas was preparing to
follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as Tug's.
Whenever Tug had use for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of
whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend
had possession.

Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he
found Tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait
toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas caught
sight of him. When the pair travelled, Davy always lagged behind, as he
did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt
that his place was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even
the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that Tug would some
day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit
was untrue. It was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his
own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession,
on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of
trumpeters behind; and Silas was content to wait. Tug occasionally
illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging
his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to
Silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going
after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around.

Tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the
street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived,
he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the
right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards,
and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old
warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing
freight arriving by the boats when the Bend was an important town. It
was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, Tug
gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret.

After they had blown awhile, Tug began crawling around the building on
his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his
hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. When Tug had reached
the other end of the warehouse, he motioned Davy to come up to him; and
when he did so this is what he saw:--

A light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a
woman seated in the stern--the woman they had seen when they followed
the shadow down the river, after its appearance at Allan Dorris's
window. They were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a
waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow
down the river, and she was very small. Her back was turned toward them,
and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were
covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose
to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other
end of the building.

"I intend to steal her," Tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the
same time reaching down into Davy's pocket and taking out a
handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use.




CHAPTER X.

TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY.


After resting a while, and looking carefully around to make sure that
they were not watched, Tug and Silas crawled cautiously back to the bank
which overlooked the boat and its singular occupant, and after warning
his companion to remain where he was by shaking his hand at him like a
club, Tug began to climb down the bank, feeling every step as he went
with the cunning stealth of a tiger. Gradually he worked his way to the
water's edge; so careful was he, that even Silas, watching him with
breathless interest above, could not hear his step, and at last he stood
on the brink of the water. The boat was in an eddy, floating easily
about, and when it came within Tug's reach, he clapped the handkerchief
over the woman's mouth, tied it in a knot at the back of her head, and
came clambering up the bank with her on his shoulders. Without saying a
word, he started to retrace his steps, only stopping once or twice to
see that his booty was not smothering, when, finding the little woman
all right, he went on over the fences and sloughs, and through the
alleys and yards, until he entered his own door.

"Now then, sister," he said, putting the woman on her feet, and
breathing heavily from his exercise, "Tell us who you are. Davy, make a
light."

Silas came lagging in about this time, and did as he was told, though he
was a long time about it, for the matches were damp, and the flame slow
in coming up. Everything seemed to be damp in Davy's Bend, and it was no
wonder that the matches were slow and sleepy, like the other inhabitants
of the town; therefore they came to life with a sputtering protest
against being disturbed. While Silas was rubbing them into good humor,
Tug was closely watching the little woman with his great eye, and
getting his breath; and when the light was fairly burning, he went over
to her side, and removed the handkerchief from her mouth.

"Gentlemen!" she cried out, in a weak voice, as soon as she could.
"Gentlemen! In the name of God! I appeal to you as gentlemen!"

"Don't gentleman me," Tug said, bringing the light over to look at the
woman's face. "I'm not a gentleman; I'm a thief, and I've stolen a
woman. Nor is _he_ a gentleman," pointing to Davy, and holding his head
to one side to get a bead on him. "He's the greatest scoundrel that ever
lived. Look at the audacious villain now! Look at him! Did you ever see
a person who looked so much like the devil? And he _is_ the devil, when
he gets started. He's keen to get at you now, and I'll have trouble with
him if you are at all unreasonable."

Davy looked like anything but a villain as he meekly watched the pair
from the other side of the room; indeed, he was thinking that Tug was
carrying the matter entirely too far, and was becoming alarmed. But Tug
did not share this feeling of apprehension, for he seemed desperately in
earnest as he held the lamp close to the woman's face, who tried to
shield it from his sight with her thin, trembling hands, and cried out
in the same weak voice: "Gentlemen! In the name of God! I appeal to you
as gentlemen!"

A very small woman, with shrivelled face and sharp features, was Tug's
booty, and she trembled violently as she piteously held out her hands to
the two men. Tug thought of her as the key to the problem he had been
attempting to solve, so he stood between her and the door to prevent
escape. But Silas felt sure that the woman had but lately risen from a
sick bed; for she was weak and trembling, and from sitting long in the
damp river air, there was a distressed and painful flush in her face.

"Come now, sister," Tug said, seating himself in front of her, and
frowning like a pirate. "Tell us what you know, and be carried back to
your boat. If you refuse to do it, we will take you on a journey to the
Hedgepath graveyard, in the woods over the river, where we will erect a
stone Sacred to the Memory of an Obstinate Woman. Which will you have?
Use your tongue; which will you have?"

But the woman made no other reply than to appeal to them as gentlemen,
in the name of God, and cry, and wring her hands.

"In case you ever see that foxy companion of yourn again, which is
extremely doubtful, for I have a companion who murders for the love of
it--(Here, now, take your hand off that knife, will you," Tug said, by
way of parenthesis to Silas, looking at him sharply. Then going over to
him, he pretended to take a knife out of Davy's inside coat pocket, and
hide it in the cupboard). "If you ever see your friend Sneak again, say
to him that I intend to get his head. He is bothering a friend of mine,
and I intend to create a commotion inside of him for it."

Tug walked over to the table where the lamp stood, and, taking the
package of poison from his pocket, carefully divided it into two doses;
a large one for a man, and the other for a smaller person, probably a
woman. He also took occasion, being near to Davy, to whisper to him that
the woman reminded him of his wife's sister Sis.

"You are evidently a married woman, sister," the bold rascal said,
seating himself in front of his captive, and looking at her in the
dignified manner which distinguished him. "I suppose you were very
handsome as a girl, and the men fell desperately in love with you, and
were very miserable in consequence. But I will let you into a secret;
you are bravely over your beauty now. I suppose your mother braided your
hair, and did all the work, that your hands might be as pretty as your
face; and certainly she believed that while the boys might possibly fail
in life, _you_ would be all right, and marry a prince, and repay her for
her kindness. Your poor mother rented a pianow for you, too, I reckon,
and hired you a teacher; and when you could drum a little, she thought
you could play a great deal, and felt repaid for all her trouble,
believing that you would turn out well, and make your brothers feel
ashamed of themselves for being so worthless. And while I don't know it,
I believe that she paid five dollars to somebody to make you a artist,
and that you painted roses and holly-hocks on saucers and plates, which
your poor mother, in the kindness of her heart, recognized, and greatly
admired. I shall believe this as long as I live, for you _look_ like a
painter and a pianowist out of practice."

This train of thought amused Mr. Whittle so much that he paused as if to
laugh; but he apparently thought better of it, though his scalp crawled
over on his forehead,--an oddity which distinguished him when he was
amused.

"Did your poor mother get to sleep peacefully at night, after working
all day for you?" inquired Mr. Whittle fiercely. "You don't answer; but
you know she didn't. You know she spent the night in wrangling with your
father to induce him to give her money that she might buy you more
ribbons and millinery and dry goods; and kid gloves, probably, although
your brother Bill was out at his toes, and hadn't so much as a cotton
handkercher; and how your mother went on when your husband came courting
you! He wasn't good enough for you _then_, whoever he was; though I'll
bet he thinks he's too good for you _now_, whoever he is; and what a
time you must have had borrowing silverware and chairs for the wedding!
I've been married, and I know. Your tired mother hoped that when her
children grew up they would relieve her, and love her, and be good to
her; but I'll bet you find fault because she didn't 'do' more for you;
and that your brother Bill, who ran away because you had all the pie in
the house, is taking care of her, providin' she aint dead from bother
and too much work, which is likely. And after all this trouble in your
behalf, look at you now!"

The little woman seemed to be paying some attention to what he was
saying, for she looked at him timidly out of the corners of her black
eyes a few times, and occasionally forgot to wring her hands and cry.

"Look at you now, I say! Your health has gone off after your beauty, for
you seem to have neither with you, and I find you wandering around at
night with a Thief. A great fall you've had, sister, providin' you ever
were young and pretty, for I was never acquainted with a worse-looking
woman than you are; and if you knew my wife you would be very indignant,
for she has the reputation of being a Terror for looks. When I was
younger I fell in love with every girl I met, and had no relief until
they married; _then_ I soon got over it, for you ought to know how they
fade under such circumstances; but you are worse than the rest of them;
you are so ugly that I feel sorry for you. Honestly, I wonder that you
do not blush in my presence; and I am not handsome, God knows. I really
feel sorry for you, but in connection with your friend Prowler you are
annoying an amiable and a worthy gentleman, who happens to be a friend
of Mr. Blood's, the party sitting opposite you; and I fear he does _not_
feel sorry for you. A little less of that word 'gentlemen,' sister, if
you please."

The woman was appealing to them again as before: "Gentlemen! In the name
of God! I appeal to you."

"Promise to take your friend Prowler, and leave this country," Mr.
Whittle continued, "and never return, and you shall go free; but if you
refuse--Blood!"

Tug sprang up and glared savagely at his meek little partner, at the
same time advancing toward him.

"You sha'n't satisfy that devilish disposition of yourn by shooting a
woman in the back when _I'm_ around, you cut-throat," he said. "Haven't
I always been ready to join you in putting men out of the way, and
haven't I enjoyed the pleasure of it with you? Then why do you want to
take the credit of this job to yourself, and enjoy it alone? You must
wait, Blood, until she speaks. We _may_ forgive her, providin' she
speaks up cheerful and don't attempt to deceive us."

Again Tug pretended to take a dangerous weapon from his companion,
standing between Davy and the prisoner while about it; after which he
regarded him fo

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/36237