The Story of a Country Town
by E. W. Howe · English · Gutenberg #47575 · 742,456 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Story of a Country Town
Author: E. W. Howe
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN ***
THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN.
THE
STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN
BY E. W. HOWE
AUTHOR OF “A MOONLIGHT BOY,” “THE MYSTERY OF THE
LOCKS,” ETC.
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT 1883 AND 1884
BY E. W. HOWE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PREFACE.
Should “The Story of a Country Town” find readers, it may be interesting
to them to know that it was written entirely at night, after the writer
had finished a hard day’s work as editor and publisher of a small
evening newspaper. I do not think a line of it was written while the sun
was shining, but in almost every chapter there are recollections of the
midnight bell.
No one can possibly find more fault with it than I have found myself. A
hundred times I have been on the point of burning the manuscript, and
never attempting it again; for I was always tired while working at it,
and always dissatisfied after concluding an evening’s work. I offer this
as a general apology for its many defects, and can only hope it will
meet with the charity it deserves.
I believe that when I began the story I had some sort of an idea that I
might be able to write an acceptable work of fiction, but I have changed
it so often, and worried about it so much, that at its conclusion I have
no idea whether it is very bad, or only indifferent. I think that
originally I had some hope that it might enable me to get rid of my
weary newspaper work, and help me to more ease than I have ever known,
but I am so tired now that I am incapable of exercising my judgment
with reference to it. If it prove a success or a failure I shall not be
surprised, for I have no opinion of my own on the subject.
For several years I have felt that I would like an opportunity to
address a larger audience than my newspaper’s circulation affords, but I
find now that I am very timid about it, and worry a great deal for fear
the verdict will not be favorable. A gentleman who once looked over a
portion of the manuscript said his first impression was that it was the
work of a tired man, and that the pen seemed to drag heavily in making
the words. I fear this will be the verdict of the people, and that they
will say I should have given up my newspaper writing before attempting
it. The reason I did not do this was that I had no confidence in my
ability to become an acceptable historian of a country town, therefore I
worked harder than I should during the day, and went wearily at the
story at night.
Should inquiry be made as to whether any part of the story be true, I
could only reply that I have never known anyone who did not furnish some
suggestion or idea in the construction of the book, as I have never
lived in a town that did not afford some material for the description of
Twin Mounds. I meet Jo Errings every day, and frequently lead them up to
denounce their particular Clinton Bragg; I have known several John
Westlocks, and I am afraid that Mateel Shepherds are more numerous than
is desirable. I have known troops of Mrs. John Westlocks, for in the
country where I was brought up all the women were pale, timid, and
overworked; I hope that Agnes Deming can be duplicated in every
community, and I believe that Big Adams are numerous everywhere; but I
must confess that I never knew but one Little Biggs, though his wife may
be seen hurrying out of the way, should you decide to look for her, in
every third or fourth house.
I hope there will be general sympathy for Jo Erring. In writing the
history of this creature of my fancy, I have almost come to believe that
I have an uncle of that name, and that he lived and died as I have
narrated. Sometimes I think of him wandering in the cave, crying, “Help!
Help! I am lost!” and his voice is very pitiful and distressed. At other
times he has come into my room and sat beside me as I wrote. I have been
with him to the cave on a stormy night, and heard the beginning of the
few sweet chords of music he describes, but which were immediately
broken into by the furious uproar of devils; sometimes I think I have
found him in every-day life, and that he is still listening at night to
the horrible noise of his skeleton. If some one should confess to me
that he is Jo Erring in every particular except that when the keeper of
the Twin Mounds jail gave him opportunity he ran away, I believe I
should be his friend.
In our part of the country there was a strange man answering to the
description of Damon Barker, and I often visited him when a boy, but he
lived in a hovel on the prairie, which was dirty beyond description. He
had boxes filled with strange wearing-apparel, and brass pistols
without number, and he told me stories; but he ran a nursery instead of
a mill, though I have heard that he had a sister. I originally intended
to make these two central figures in the story, but Jo Erring wandered
into my mind, and I am afraid I have made sad work of him.
E. W. H.
ATCHISON, KANSAS, Sept. 4, 1883.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE.
I. FAIRVIEW 1
II. THE HELL QUESTION AND THE REV. JOHN WESTLOCK 12
III. THE HOUSE OF ERRING 23
IV. THE RELIGION OF FAIRVIEW 32
V. THE SCHOOL IN THE CHURCH 38
VI. DAMON BARKER 48
VII. A NEW DISPENSATION 57
VIII. THE SMOKY HILL SECRET 69
IX. THE CHARITY OF SILENCE 87
X. JO ERRING MAKES A FULL CONFESSION 99
XI. WITH REFERENCE TO A MAN WHO WAS SENT
WEST TO GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY OR GET KILLED 112
XII. LOVE’S YOUNG LESSON 123
XIII. THE FLOCK OF THE GOODE SHEPHERD 134
XIV. I AM SURPRISED 148
XV. THE COUNTRY TOWN 154
XVI. MORE OF THE VILLAGE OF TWIN MOUNDS 165
XVII. THE FELLOW 177
XVIII. THE MILL AT ERRING’S FORD 185
XIX. THE FALL OF REV. JOHN WESTLOCK 202
XX. TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE 212
XXI. THE PECULIARITIES OF A COUNTRY TOWN 228
XXII. A SKELETON IN THE HOUSE AT ERRING’S FORD 244
XXIII. THE SHADOW IN THE SMOKY HILLS 264
XXIV. A LETTER FROM JO 279
XXV. THE SEA GIVES UP ITS DEAD 285
XXVI. BARKER’S STORY 296
XXVII. THE LIGHT GOES OUT FOREVER 309
XXVIII. TOO LATE 326
XXIX. THE SKELETON AGAIN 337
XXX. A LETTER FROM MR. BIGGS 350
XXXI. KILLED AT THE FORD 355
XXXII. THE TWIN MOUNDS JAIL 368
XXXIII. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND 382
XXXIV. THE GRAVE BY THE PATH 392
XXXV. THE HISTORY OF A MISTAKE 398
XXXVI. CONCLUSION 410
THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN.
CHAPTER I.
FAIRVIEW.
Ours was the prairie district out West, where we had gone to grow up
with the country.
I believe that nearly every farmer for miles around moved to the
neighborhood at the same time, and that my father’s wagons headed the
procession. I have heard that most of them gathered about him on the
way, and as he preached from his wagon wherever night overtook him, and
held camp-meetings on Sundays, he attracted a following of men
travelling the same road who did not know themselves where they were
going, although a few of the number started with him, among them my
mother’s father and his family. When he came to a place that suited him,
he picked out the land he wanted--which any man was free to do at that
time--and the others settled about him.
In the dusty tramp of civilization westward--which seems to have always
been justified by a tradition that men grow up by reason of it--our
section was not a favorite, and remained new and unsettled after
counties and States farther west had grown old. Every one who came there
seemed favorably impressed with the steady fertility of the soil, and
expressed surprise that the lands were not all occupied; but no one in
the great outside world talked about it, and no one wrote about it, so
that those who were looking for homes went to the west or the north,
where others were going.
There were cheap lands farther on, where the people raised a crop one
year, and were supported by charity the next; where towns sprang up on
credit, and farms were opened with borrowed money; where the people were
apparently content, for our locality did not seem to be far enough west,
nor far enough north, to suit them; where no sooner was one stranger’s
money exhausted than another arrived to take his place; where men
mortgaged their possessions at full value, and thought themselves rich,
notwithstanding, so great was their faith in the country; where he who
was deepest in debt was the leading citizen, and where bankruptcy caught
them all at last. On these lands the dusty travellers settled, where
there were churches, school-houses, and bridges--but little rain--and
railroads to carry out the crops should any be raised; and when any one
stopped in our neighborhood, he was too poor and tired to follow the
others.
I became early impressed with the fact that our people seemed to be
miserable and discontented, and frequently wondered that they did not
load their effects on wagons again, and move away from a place which
made all the men surly and rough, and the women pale and fretful.
Although I had never been to the country they had left, except as a baby
in arms, I was unfavorably impressed with it, thinking it must have been
a very poor one that such a lot of people left it and considered their
condition bettered by the change, for they never talked of going back,
and were therefore probably better satisfied than they had ever been
before. A road ran by our house, and when I first began to think about
it at all, I thought that the covered wagons travelling it carried
people moving from the country from which those in our neighborhood
came, and the wagons were so numerous that I was led to believe that at
least half the people of the world had tried to live there, and moved
away after an unfortunate experience.
On the highest and bleakest point in the county, where the winds were
plenty in winter because they were not needed, and scarce in summer for
an opposite reason, the meeting-house was built, in a corner of my
father’s field. This was called Fairview, and so the neighborhood was
known. There was a graveyard around it, and cornfields next to that, but
not a tree or shrub attempted its ornament, and as the building stood on
the main road where the movers’ wagons passed, I thought that, next to
their ambition to get away from the country which had been left by those
in Fairview, the movers were anxious to get away from Fairview church,
and avoid the possibility of being buried in its ugly shadow, for they
always seemed to drive faster after passing it.
High up in a steeple which rocked with every wind was a great bell, the
gift of a missionary society, and when there was a storm this tolled
with fitful and uncertain strokes, as if the ghosts from the grave lot
had crawled up there, and were counting the number to be buried the
coming year, keeping the people awake for miles around. Sometimes, when
the wind was particularly high, there were a great number of strokes on
the bell in quick succession, which the pious said was an alarm to the
wicked, sounded by the devil, a warning relating to the conflagration
which could never be put out, else Fairview would never have been built.
When any one died it was the custom to toll the bell once for every year
of the deceased’s age, and as deaths usually occur at night, we were
frequently wakened from sleep by its deep and solemn tones. When I was
yet a very little boy I occasionally went with my father to toll the
bell when news came that some one was dead, for we lived nearer the
place than any of the others, and when the strokes ran up to forty and
fifty it was very dreary work, and I sat alone in the church wondering
who would ring for me, and how many strokes could be counted by those
who were shivering at home in their beds.
The house was built the first year of the settlement, and the
understanding was that my father contributed the little money necessary,
and superintended the work, in which he was assisted by any one who
volunteered his labor. It was his original intention to build it alone,
and the little help he received only irritated him, as it was not worth
the boast that he had raised a temple to the Lord single-handed. All the
carpenter’s work, and all the plasterer’s work, he performed without
assistance except from members of his own household, but I believe the
people turned out to the raising, and helped put up the frames.
Regularly after its completion he occupied the rough pulpit (which he
built with especial reference to his own size), and every Lord’s Day
morning and evening preached a religion to the people which I think
added to their other discomforts, for it was hard and unforgiving. There
were two or three kinds of Baptists among the people of Fairview when
the house was completed, and a few Presbyterians, but they all became
Methodists without revolt or question when my father announced in his
first preaching that Fairview would be of that denomination.
He did not solicit them to join him, though he probably intimated in a
way which admitted of no discussion that the few heretics yet remaining
out in the world had better save themselves before it was too late. It
did not seem to occur to him that men and women who had grown up in a
certain faith renounced it with difficulty; it was enough that they were
wrong, and that he was forgiving enough to throw open the doors of the
accepted church. If they were humiliated, he was glad of it, for that
was necessary to condone their transgression; if they had arguments to
excuse it, he did not care to hear them, as he had taken God into
partnership, and built Fairview, and people who worshipped there would
be expected to throw aside all doctrinal nonsense.
* * * * *
As I shall have something to do with this narrative, there may be a
curiosity on the part of the reader to know who I am. I state, then,
that I am the only son of the Rev. John Westlock--and the only child,
unless a little girl born a year before me, and whom I have heard my
mother speak of tenderly as pretty and blue-eyed, is to be called up
from her grave and counted; and I have the best of reason for believing
(the evidence being my father’s word, a man whose integrity was never
doubted) that he moved to the place where my recollection begins, to do
good and grow up with the country. Whether my father remarked it in my
presence--he seldom said anything to me--I do not now remember, but I
believe to this day, in the absence of anything to the contrary, that
the circuit he rode in the country which he had left was poor, and paid
him but rarely for his services, which induced him to quit preaching as
a business, and resolve to evangelize in the West on his own account, at
the same time putting himself in the way of growing up with the country,
an idea probably new at that time, and very significant.
In the great Bible which was always lying open on a table in our house,
between the Old and the New Testament, my name and the date of my birth
were recorded in bold handwriting, immediately following the information
that Helen Elizabeth Westlock arrived by the mercy of God on the 19th of
July, and departed in like manner on the 3d of April; and I did not
know, until I was old enough to read for myself, that I had been
christened Abram Nedrow Westlock, as I had always been called Ned, and
had often wondered if any of the prophets were of that name, for my
father, and my mother, and my uncle Jo (my mother’s only brother, who
had lived at our house most of his life), and my grandmother, and my
grandfather, were all named for some of the people I had heard referred
to when the big Bible was read. But when I found Abram before the
Nedrow, I knew that I had not been neglected. This discovery caused me
to ask my mother so many questions that I learned in addition that the
Nedrow part of the name referred to a preacher of my father’s
denomination, and not to a prophet, and that my father admired him and
named me for him because he had once preached all day at a camp-meeting,
and then spent most of the following night in prayer. I therefore
concluded that it was intended that I should be pious, and early began
to search the Scriptures for the name of Abram, that I might know in
what manner he had distinguished himself.
The first thing I can remember, and this only indistinctly, was
connected with the removal of our effects from an old house to a new
one, and that the book on which I usually sat at the table was mislaid
during the day, which made it necessary for me to stand during the
progress of the evening meal. I began to cry when this announcement was
made, whereupon my father said in a stern way that I was now too old to
cry, and that I must never do it again. I remarked it that day, if I
never did before, that he was a large, fierce-looking man, whom it would
likely be dangerous to trifle with, and that a full set of black
whiskers, and a blacker frown, completely covered his face; from that
time I began to remember events, and they will appear as this narrative
progresses.
Of my youth before this time I have little knowledge except that my
mother said once in my presence that I was a very pretty baby, but that
I had now got bravely over it, and that as a child I was known in all
the country round as a great baby to cry, being possessed of a stout
pair of lungs, which I used on the slightest occasion. This, coupled
with an observation from my uncle Jo that when he first saw me, an hour
or two after birth, I looked like a fish-worm, was all I could find out
about my earlier history, and the investigation was so unsatisfactory
that I gave it up.
Once I heard my father say, when he was in a good humor, that when the
nurse employed for my arrival announced that I was a boy, my mother
cried hysterically for half an hour, as she desired a blue-eyed girl to
replace the one she had buried, and when I heard my mother tell a few
weeks afterwards, in a burst of confidence, to a number of women who
happened to be there, that my father stormed for an hour because I was
born at all, I concluded that I had never been very welcome, and
regretted that I had ever come into the world. They both wanted a
girl--when the event was inevitable--to help about the house, as Jo was
thought to be all the help necessary in the field, and in the earlier
days of my life I remember feeling that I was out of place because I did
not wear dresses, and wash dishes, thus saving the pittance paid a
farmer’s daughter during the busy season.
The only remarkable thing I ever did in my life--I may as well mention
it here, and be rid of it--was to learn to read letters when I was five
years old, and as the ability to read even print was by no means a
common accomplishment in Fairview, this circumstance gave me great
notoriety. I no doubt learned to read from curiosity as to what the
books and papers scattered about were for, as no one took the pains to
teach me, for I remember that they were all greatly surprised when I
began to spell words, and pronounce them, and I am certain I was never
encouraged in it.
It was the custom when my father went to the nearest post-office to
bring back with him the mail of the entire neighborhood, and it was my
business to deliver the letters and papers at the different houses. If I
carried letters, I was requested to read them, and the surprise which I
created in this direction was so pronounced that it was generally said
that in time I should certainly become a great man, and be invited to
teach school. If I came to a word which I did not understand I invented
one to take its place, or an entire sentence, for but few of the people
could read the letters themselves, and never detected the deception.
This occupation gave me my first impression of the country where the
people had lived before they came to Fairview, and as there was much in
the letters of hard work and pinching poverty, I believed that the
writers lived in a heavily timbered country, where it was necessary to
dig up trees to get room for planting. Another thing I noticed was that
they all seemed to be dissatisfied and anxious to get away, and when in
course of time I began to write answers to the letters I was surprised
to learn that the people of Fairview were satisfied, and that they were
well pleased with the change.
I had never thought this before, for they all seemed as miserable as was
possible, and wondered about it a great deal. This gave me fresh reason
for believing that the country which our people had left was a very
unfavored one, and when I saw the wagons in the road I thought that at
last the writers of the letters I had been reading had arrived and would
settle on some of the great tracts of prairie which could be seen in
every direction, but they turned the bend in the road and went on as if
a look at Fairview had frightened them, and they were going back another
way.
It seems to me now that between the time I began to remember and the
time I went out with my father and Jo to work, or went alone through the
field to attend the school in the church, about a year elapsed, and that
I was very much alone during the interval, for ours was a busy family,
and none of them had time to look after me. My father and Jo went to the
fields, or away with the teams, at a very early hour in the morning, and
usually did not return until night, and my mother was always busy about
the house, so that if I kept out of mischief no more was expected of me.
I think it was during this year (it may have been two years, but
certainly not a longer period) that I learned to read, for I had nothing
else to do and no companions, and from looking at the pictures in the
books I began to wonder what the little characters surrounding them
meant.
In this I was assisted by Jo, who seemed to know everything, and by slow
degrees I put the letters together to make words, and understood them.
Sometimes in the middle of the day I slipped out into the field to ask
him the meaning of something mysterious I had encountered, and although
he would good-naturedly inform me, I noticed that he and my father
worked without speaking, and that I seemed to be an annoyance, so I
scampered back to my loneliness again.
During this time, too, I first noticed that my father was not like other
men who came to our house, for he was always grave and quiet, and had
little to say at any time. It was a relief to me to hear him ask
blessings at the table, and pray morning and evening, for I seldom heard
his voice at any other time. I believe I regarded his quiet manner only
as an evidence that he was more pious than others of his class, for I
could make nothing else out of it, but often regretted that his religion
did not permit him to notice me more, or to take me with him when he
went away in the wagon. Once I asked my mother why he was always so
stern and silent, and if it was because we had offended him, to which
she replied all in a tremble that she did not know herself, and I
thought that she studied a great deal about him, too. My mother was as
timid in his presence as I was, and during the day, if I came upon her
suddenly, she looked frightened, thinking it was he, but when she found
it was not, her composure returned again. Neither of us had reason to be
afraid of him, I am certain of that, but as we never seemed able to
please him (though he never said so), we were in constant dread of
displeasing him more than ever, or of causing him to become more silent
and dissatisfied, and to give up the short prayers in which we were
graciously mentioned for a blessing.
The house where we lived, and into which we moved on the day when my
recollection begins, was the largest in the settlement; a square house
of two stories, painted so white that after night it looked like a
ghost. It was built on lower ground than Fairview church, though the
location was sightly, and not far away ran a stream fringed with
thickets of brush, where I found the panting cattle and sheep on hot
days, and thought they gave me more of a welcome than my father and Jo
did in the field; for they were not busy, but idle like me, and I hoped
it was rather a relief to them to look at me in mild-eyed wonder.
Beyond the little stream and the pasture was the great dusty road, and
in my loneliness I often sat on the high fence beside it to watch for
the coming of the movers’ wagons, and to look curiously at those stowed
away under the cover bows, tumbled together with luggage and effects of
every kind. If one of the drivers asked me how far it was to the country
town I supposed he had heard of my wonderful learning, and took great
pains to describe the road, as I had heard my father do a hundred times
in response to similar inquiries from movers. Sometimes I climbed up to
the driver’s seat, and drove with him out to the prairie, and I always
noticed that the women and children riding behind were poorly dressed,
and tired looking, and I wondered if only the unfortunate travelled our
way, for only that kind of people lived in Fairview, and I had never
seen any other kind in the road.
When I think of the years I lived in Fairview, I imagine that the sun
was never bright there (although I am certain that it was), and I cannot
relieve my mind of the impression that the cold, changing shadow of the
gray church has spread during my long absence and enveloped all the
houses where the people lived. When I see Fairview in my fancy now, it
is always from a high place, and looking down upon it the shadow is
denser around the house where I lived than anywhere else, so that I feel
to this day that should I visit it, and receive permission from the new
owners to walk through the rooms, I should find the walls damp and
mouldy because the bright sun and the free air of Heaven had deserted
them as a curse.
CHAPTER II.
THE HELL QUESTION, AND THE REV. JOHN WESTLOCK.
My father’s religion would have been unsatisfactory without a hell.
It was a part of his hope of the future that worldly men who scoffed at
his piety would be punished, and this was as much a part of his
expectation as that those who were faithful to the end would be
rewarded. Everybody saved, to my father’s thinking, was as bad as nobody
saved, and in his well-patronized Bible not a passage for pleasurable
contemplation which intimated universal salvation was marked, if such
exists.
The sacrifices he made for religion were tasks, and his reward was a
conviction that those who refused to make them would be punished, for he
regarded it as an injustice of which the Creator was incapable to do as
well by His enemies as by His friends. I believe that he would rather
have gone to heaven without the members of his family than with them,
unless they had earned salvation as he had earned it, and travelled as
steadily as himself the hard road marked on his map as leading
heavenward.
One of the best evidences to his mind of a compassionate and loving
Saviour was the belief that all thought of unfortunate friends in
torment was blotted from the memory of the redeemed, and the lake of
fire he thought of as a remedy for the great number of disagreeable
people with whom he was compelled to come in contact below, and of whom
he would be happily rid above. Religion was a misery to be endured on
earth, that a reward might be enjoyed after death. A man must spend the
ages of his future either in a very pleasant place, with comfortable
surroundings and pleasant associates, or in a very unpleasant place,
with uncomfortable surroundings and all the mean people turned into
devils and imps for companions. It was the inevitable law; every man of
moderate sense should be able to appreciate the situation at a glance,
and do that which would insure his personal safety. If there was a
doubt--the thought was too absurd for his contemplation, but admitting a
doubt--his future would be equal to that of the worldly man, for one
cannot rot more easily than another, or be more comfortable as dust; but
if there was no doubt--and all the authorities agree that there was
none--then the difference would be in his favor.
It was the best thing offering under the circumstances, and should
therefore be accepted without hesitation. If the conditions were hard,
he could not help it; he might have suggested changes in the plan of
salvation had his judgment been invited, but the plan had been
formulated before his time, and there was nothing left for him but
obedience. If he thought he deserved credit for all he possessed (and he
was a man very likely to be seized with that suspicion), the Bible said
it came from God; that settled the matter finally and forever--he gave
thanks (for a punishment was provided if he did not, and a reward if he
did), and pretended to have had nothing to do with accumulating his
property.
Religion was a matter of thrift and self-interest as much as laying away
money in youth and strength for old age and helplessness, and he called
upon sinners to flee the wrath to come because he had been commanded to
go out and preach to all the world, for it mattered little to him
whether the people were saved or not. They had eyes, therefore let them
see; ears, therefore let them hear. The danger was so plain that they
ought to save themselves without solicitation.
That which he most desired seldom came to pass; that which he dreaded,
frequently, but no matter; he gave thanks to the Lord because it was
best to do so, and asked no questions. There were jewels for those who
earned them, and as a thrifty man he desired a greater number of these
than any other citizen of Fairview. He was the principal man in his
neighborhood below, and desired to be a shepherd rather than a sheep
above; therefore he was foremost in the church, and allowed no one to be
more zealous in doing the service of the hard master he had, after
careful thought and study, set out to serve, believing the reward worth
the service, and determined to serve well if he served at all, as was
his custom in everything else.
If I do him an injustice I do not intend it, but I have thought all my
life that he regarded children as troublesome and expensive--a practical
sort of punishment for sin, sent from time to time as the case seemed to
require; and that he had been burdened with but two was no doubt
evidence to his mind that his life had been generally blameless, if,
indeed, this opinion was not confirmed by the circumstance that one of
them had been taken from him in return for good service in the holy
cause. Once they had arrived, however, he accepted the trust to return
them to their Maker as nearly like they came as possible, for that was
commanded of him.
Because he frequently referred to the road to heaven as narrow and
difficult, and the highway in the other direction as broad and easy, I
came to believe that but for his religion he would have been a man much
given to money-getting, and ambitious for distinction, but he put such
thoughts aside, and toiled away at his work as if to get out of
temptation’s way. When he talked of the broad and easy road it was with
a relish, as though he could enjoy the pleasant places by the way-side
if he dared; and in his preaching I think he described the pleasures of
the world so vividly that his hearers were taken with a wish to enjoy
them, though it is not probable that he knew anything about them except
from hearsay, as he had always been out of temptation’s way--in the
backwoods during his boyhood, and on the prairie during his maturer
years. But when he talked of the narrow and difficult path, his manner
changed at once; a frown came upon his face; he looked determined and
unforgiving, and at every point he seemed to build sign-posts marked
“Duty!” It has occurred to me since that he thought of his religion as a
vigorous, healthy, successful man thinks in his quiet moments of a wife
sick since their marriage; although he may deserve a different fate, and
desire it, he dares not complain, for the more wearisome the invalid,
the louder the call of duty.
I think he disliked the necessity of being religious, and only accepted
and taught religion because he believed it to be the best thing to do,
for it did not afford him the peace he professed. To all appearances he
was a most miserable man, although he taught that only the sinful are
miserable, and the few acquaintances he had who were not equally devout
(strangers passing through, or those he met at the country town, for all
were pious in Fairview) lived an easy and contented life which he seemed
to covet, but nobody knew it, for he reproved them with all the more
vigor because of his envy.
When not engaged in reading at night, as was his custom, he sat for
hours looking steadily into the fire, and was impatient if disturbed. I
never knew what occupied his thoughts at these times; it may have been
his preaching, or his daily work, but more likely he was seeing glimpses
of forbidden pictures; caravans of coveted things passing in procession,
or of hopes and ambitious dwarfed by duty. Perhaps in fancy he was out
in the world mingling with people of a class more to his taste than
Fairview afforded, and was thinking he could enjoy their pleasures and
occupations if they were not forbidden, or wondering if, after all, his
principles were not mistakes. I believe that during these hours of
silent thinking he was tempted and beckoned by the invisible and
mysteriously potent forces he pretended to despise, and that he was
convinced that, to push them off, his religion must be made more
rigorous and pitiless.
That he coveted riches could be easily seen, and but for his fear of
conscience he could have easily possessed himself of everything worth
owning in Fairview, for with the exception of Theodore Meek, the next
best man in the neighborhood, he was about the only one among the people
who read books and subscribed for newspapers. None of them was his equal
in intelligence or energy, and had he desired he could have traded them
out of what little they possessed, and sold it back again at a
comfortable profit. But, “do unto others as you would have others do
unto you,” was commanded of him by his inexorable master, and he was
called upon to help the weak rather than rob them; therefore he often
gave them assistance which he could but poorly afford. This limited him
so much that he had no other hope of becoming well-to-do than that the
lands which he was constantly buying would finally become valuable by
reason of the development and settlement of the country. This he
regarded as honorable and fair, and to this work he applied himself
with great energy.
I heard little of his father, except that he was noted where he lived as
a man of large family, who provided them all with warm clothes in winter
and plenty to eat all the year round. His early history was probably as
unimportant and eventless as my own. He seldom mentioned his father to
any one, except in connection with a story which he occasionally told,
that once, when his house was on fire, he called so loud for help that
he was heard a mile. Evidently the son succeeded to this extraordinary
pair of lungs, for he sang the religious songs common in that day with
such excellence that no man attempted to equal him. While his singing
was strong and loud, it was melodious, and he had as great a reputation
for that as for piety and thrift. His was a camp-meeting voice, though
he occasionally sang songs of little children, as “Moses in the
Bulrushes,” of which there were thirty-eight verses, and the cradle song
commencing, “Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,” written by a noted
hymn-writer, otherwise my father would not have patronized him. Besides
a thorough familiarity with all the common, long, short, and particular
metres, he had a collection of religious songs preserved in a
leather-bound book, the notes being written in buckwheat characters on
blue paper fast turning yellow with age, and the words on the opposite
page. Feeling the necessity of a knowledge of notes once, he had learned
the art in a few weeks, in his usual vigorous way, and sang at sight;
and after that he preserved his old songs, and all the new ones he
fancied, in the book I have mentioned. The songs to which I refer I have
never seen in print, and he sang them on special occasions, as at a
camp-meeting when a tiresome preacher had allowed the interest to flag.
“Behold Paul a Prisoner,” a complete history of the Apostle requiring
almost an afternoon in its performance, or “Christ in the Garden,”
nearly as long, never failed to start the interest anew in an emergency,
and if the case were very desperate, he called the members of his family
into the pulpit, and sang a quartet called “The Glorious Eighth of
April,” using for the words the first hymn in the book.
This was usually sufficient to start some one to shouting, and after a
short prayer he preached as vigorously and loudly as he sang, and with
an equally good effect.
Of his brothers and sisters, although he had a great number, he seldom
talked, and I scarcely knew the names of the States in which they lived,
as they were scattered in every direction. I had heard him mention a
Samuel, a Joseph, a Jacob, an Elias, a Rebecca, a Sarah, a Rachel, and
an Elizabeth, from which I came to believe that my grandfather was a
religious man (his own name was Amos), and I once heard that his
children on Sundays carried their shoes to the brook near the
meeting-house before putting them on, that they might last the longer,
which confirmed the belief that there had been religion in his family as
there was in ours.
Of his mother he said nothing at all, and if they had neighbors he never
mentioned them. In short, he did not seem proud of his family, which
caused us to wonder why he was so much like his father, which we had
come to believe without exactly knowing why. We were certain he was like
his father in religion; in the hard way in which he worked; in his
capacity to mend his own ploughs and wagons; and in the easy manner in
which he adapted himself to his surroundings, whatever they were, for in
all these particulars he was unlike any other man we had ever known, and
different from his neighbors, who spent half a day in asking advice in a
matter which could be remedied in half an hour. The people came to our
house from miles around to borrow, and to ask the best time to plant and
to sow, but the Rev. John Westlock asked advice of no one, and never
borrowed. If he needed an extra harrow, he made one of wood to answer
until such a time as he could trade to advantage for a better one; if he
broke a plough, he managed somehow to mend it until a rainy day came,
when he made it as good as new. Even in cases of sickness he usually had
a bottle hid away that contained relief, and in all other things was
equally capable and thrifty.
If it be to the credit of a man to say that he was a slave to hard work,
I cheerfully add this testimony to the greatness of my father, for he
went to the field at daylight only to return with the darkness, winter
and summer alike; and never in my life have I seen him idle--except on
the day appointed for rest--and even then he devoured the Bible like a
man reading at so much per page. He worked hard when he preached,
talking rapidly that he might accomplish as much as possible before the
people became impatient, and he no sooner finished one song of warning,
than he began another.
My father being large and positive, it followed naturally that my mother
was small and weak, and thoroughly under his control. I don’t think she
was afraid of him, but he managed his own affairs so well that she was
willing he should manage hers, as he had given her good reason to
respect his judgment. She probably argued--if she argued the question at
all--that as his ideas were good in everything else, he would of course
know how to manage a boy, so my bringing up was left entirely to him.
She never corrected me except to say that father would not like what I
was doing, and she might find it necessary to call his attention to it,
but in the goodness of her heart she forgot it, and never told him
unless the offence was a very grave one. While she frequently pleaded
with me to be good, and cried in vexation if I would not, she never gave
commands which were enforced with severe punishments, as he did;
therefore I am afraid that I did not appreciate her kindness and favor,
but rather enjoyed my freedom when under her care as a respite from
restraint at other times. She was as quiet and thoughtful as her
husband, but seemed sad rather than angry and discontented, as was the
case with him, and it will be readily imagined that as a family we were
not much given to happiness. While I never heard my father speak harshly
to her, he was often impatient, as though he regretted he had not
married a wife as ambitious and capable as himself; but if he thought of
it, he gave it no other attention than to become more gloomy, and
pacified himself by reading far into the night without speaking to any
one.
I could find no fault with him except that he never spoke kindly to me,
and it annoyed him if I asked him questions concerning what I read in
his books. When Jo and I worked with him in the field, which we both
began to do very early in life, he always did that which was hardest and
most disagreeable, and was not a tyrant in anything save the ungrumbling
obedience he exacted to whatever he thought about the matter in hand,
without reference to what others thought on the same subject. We had to
be at something steadily, whether it helped him or not, because he
believed idle boys grew up into idle men. Other boys in the neighborhood
built the early fires, and did the early feeding, but he preferred to do
these things himself--whether out of consideration for us, or because it
was troublesome to drive us to it, I do not know. After starting the
fire in the room in which he slept, he stepped to our door and told us
to get up, to which command we mumblingly replied and slept on. After
returning from the stables, he spoke to us again, but we still paid no
attention. Ten minutes later he would start up the stairs with angry
strides, but he never caught us, for we knew that was final and hurried
on our clothes. Seeing that we were up and dressing when he reached the
head of the stairs, he would say, “Well, you’d better,” and go down
again, where we speedily followed. This was his regular custom for
years; we always expected it of him, and were never disappointed.
After the morning devotions, which consisted of reading a chapter from
the Bible and a prayer always expressed in exactly the same words, he
asked a blessing for the meal by this time ready (the blessing was as
unvarying as the prayer), and we ate in silence. Then we were warmly
clothed, if it was winter, and compelled to go out and work until we
were hungry again. I suppose we helped him little enough, but his
reasoning convinced him that, to work easily and naturally, work must
become a habit, and should be taught from youth up, therefore we went
out with him every day and came back only with the darkness.
I think he was kinder with us when at work than at any other time, and
we admired him in spite of the hard and exacting tasks he gave us to
do--he called them stints--for he was powerful and quick to aid us when
we needed it, and tender as a child if we were sick. Sometimes on cold
days we walked rather than rode to the timber, where my father went to
chop wood while Jo and I corded it. On one of these occasions I became
ill while returning home at night--a slight difficulty, it must have
been, for I was always stout and robust--and he carried me all the way
in his arms. Though I insisted I could walk, and was better, he said I
was not heavy, and trudged along like a great giant, holding me so
tenderly that I thought for the first time that perhaps he loved me. For
weeks after that I tried as hard as I could to please him, and to induce
him to commend my work; but he never did, for whether I was good or bad,
he was just the same, silent and grave, so that if I became indifferent
in my tasks, I fear he was the cause of it.
Other families had their holidays, and owned guns and dogs, which they
used in hunting the wild game then so abundant; but there was little of
this at our house, and perhaps this was the reason why we prospered more
than those around us. Usually Jo and I were given the Saturday
afternoons to ourselves, when we roamed the country with some of the
idle vagabonds who lived in rented houses, visiting turkey roosts a
great distance in the woods, and only returning long after night-fall. I
do not remember that we were ever idle in the middle of the week, unless
we were sent on errands, as buying young stock at low prices of the less
thrifty neighbors, or something else in which there was profit; so that
we had little time to learn anything except hard work, and if we learned
that well it was because we were excellently taught by a competent
master. During those years work became such a habit with me that ever
since it has clung to me, and perhaps, after all, it was an inheritance
for which I have reason to be thankful. I remember my father’s saying
scornfully to me once, as if intimating that I ought to make up by
unusual industry for the years of idleness, that I was a positive burden
and expense to him until I was seven years old. So it will readily be
imagined that I was put to work early, and kept steadily at it.
CHAPTER III.
THE HOUSE OF ERRING.
The friend and companion of my boyhood was Jo Erring, my mother’s only
brother, who had been in the family since before I was born. He was five
years my senior, and a stout and ambitious fellow I greatly admired; but
as he was regularly flogged when I was, this circumstance gave rise to
his first ambition to become a man and whip my father, whom he regarded
with little favor.
There was a kind of tradition that when he became of age he was to have
a horse and ten dollars in money, but whether this was really the price
of his work I never knew. More likely he came to our house with my
mother, as he was not wanted at home, and had lived there until other
disposition could be made of him. He usually had a horse picked out as
the one he desired, and gave it particular attention, but as each of
these in turn was disposed of at convenient opportunity, he became more
than ever convinced that he was related by marriage to a very
unscrupulous man.
I remember him at this period as an overgrown boy always wearing
cast-off clothing either too large or too small for him, and the hero
and friend of every boy on Fairview prairie. Although he was the
stoutest boy in the neighborhood, and we often wondered that he did not
sometimes whip all the others simply because he could, he never
quarrelled, but was in every dispute a mediator, announcing his
decisions in a voice good-natured and hoarse; and as he was honest and
just, and very stout, there were no appeals from his decisions. In our
rough amusements, which were few enough, he used his strength to secure
to the smaller ones their share, and gave way himself with the same
readiness that he exacted from the others; therefore he was very popular
among the younger portion of the population, and there was great joy at
school when it was announced--which pleasure I usually had--that Jo
Erring had finished his winter’s work, and was coming the next day, for
all forms of oppression must cease from that date. Sometimes he came by
the school on a winter evening with a rude sled, to which he had young
horses attached to break them, and if the larger boys climbed on to ride
home, or as far as he went, he made them all get off, and loading up
with those too small to look after their own interests in the struggle,
drove gaily away with me by his side.
There were few men more trusty than Jo, and he always made a round in
the plough-field after my father had turned out, as if to convince him
that he was mistaken in the opinion that boys were good for nothing.
When there was corn to gather, he took the slowest team and the lazy
hired man, and brought in more loads than my father and I, and if I
found any way to aid him in this I always did it. They seemed to hate
each other in secret, for the master disliked a boy who was able to
equal him in anything, as if his extra years had availed him nothing;
and I confess that my sympathies were always with Jo, for the grown
people picked at him because of his ambition to become a man, in all
other respects than age, a few years sooner than was usual. While nobody
disputed that he was a capable fellow, he was always attempting
something he could not carry out, and thus became a subject of ridicule
in spite of his worth and ability; if he was sent to the timber for
wood, he would volunteer to be back at an impossible time, and although
he returned sooner than most men would have done, they laughed at him,
and regarded him as a great failure.
It was said of him that he exaggerated, but I think that he was only
anxious that it be known what he could do if he had an opportunity; and
as every one thought less of him than he deserved, he kept on talking of
himself to correct a wrong impression, and steadily made matters worse.
His activity kept him down, for another thing, for thereby he raised an
opposition which would not have existed had he been content to walk
leisurely along in the tracks made by his elders. He accepted none of
the opinions of the Fairview men, and it was said of him that he was a
skeptic for no other reason than that everybody else was religious, and
I am not certain but that there was some truth in this.
If the truth of a certain principle was asserted, he denied it, not by
rude controversy, but by his actions; and by his ingenuity he often made
a poorer one seem better, if the one proposed happened to be right, as
was sometimes the case--for the Fairview people had but two ways to
guess, and occasionally adopted a right method instead of a wrong one,
by accident.
I believe there was nothing he could not do. He shingled hair in a
superb manner for any one who applied, and charged nothing for the
service. And I helped him learn the art, for he practised on me so much
that I was nearly always bald. He made everything he took a fancy for,
and seemed to possess himself of the contents of a book by looking
through it; for though I seldom found him reading, he was about as
well-informed as the books themselves. When the folks were away at
camp-meeting, he added my mother’s work to his own, and got along very
well with it. I never heard of anything a Fairview boy could do better
than Jo Erring, and he did a great many things in which he had no
competition; therefore I have often wondered that the only young man
there who really amounted to anything was for some reason rather
unpopular. Jo was unfortunate in the particular that he seemed to have
inherited all the poorer qualities of both his father and mother instead
of the good qualities of either one of them, or a commendable trait from
one, and an undesirable one from the other. I have heard of men who
resembled the less worthy of their parents--I believe this is the
rule--but never before have I known a boy to resemble both his parents
in everything they tried to hide. His tendency to exaggeration he got
honestly from his mother, who was a fluent talker, but Jo was not like
her in that. In this Jo was like his father, who would not say a half
dozen words without becoming hopelessly entangled, and making long
pauses in painful effort to extricate his meaning.
Jo was often sent to a water-mill in the woods with a grist, and while
waiting for his wheat or corn to be ground, he regarded the machinery
with the closest attention, and at length became impressed with the idea
that after he had become a man, and whipped my father, he would like to
follow milling for a business. The miller, an odd but kindly man of whom
but little was known in our part of the country, admired Jo’s manly way,
and made friends with him by good-naturedly answering his questions, and
occasionally inviting him to his house for dinner; and Jo talked so much
of his ambition and his friend, that he came to be called “The Miller,”
and spent his spare time in making models, and trying them in the
rivulets which ran through the fields after a rain.
His father’s farm was skirted by Big Creek, and here he picked out a
site for his mill when he should be able to build it, at a place called
Erring’s Ford (the location really did credit to his judgment), and
having hauled a load of stones there one Saturday afternoon for a dam,
the circumstance gave rise to the only pleasantry ever known in
Fairview. When any one spoke of an event not likely to happen, he said
it would probably come about when the sky rained pitchforks on the roof
of Jo Erring’s mill; but Jo paid little attention to this banter, and
hauled more stones for the dam whenever he had opportunity, in which
work I assisted, in preference to idleness without him. He hoped to
become apprenticed to his friend the miller to learn the business, and
to complete his own enterprise by slow degrees from his small savings.
And he never lost sight of this purpose, pursuing it so steadily that a
few of those who at first laughed at him spoke at length encouraging
words, and said they believed he would finally succeed, although it
would be a long time in coming about.
I was secretly very fond of the mill enterprise, and admired Jo more
than ever, that he was bold enough to attempt carrying it out. Our plan
to run away was altered by this new interest, and we agreed that it
would be better to wait patiently until the mill was complete, and buy
our liberty from its profits; for Jo had generously agreed to ransom me
as well as himself as soon as he was able.
Jo’s mother, a very large woman who was the acknowledged head of the
House of Erring, and doctor for half that country, lived four miles from
Fairview church, on Big Creek, in a house of hewn logs, the inside of
which was a marvel for neatness. Of her husband the people knew nothing
except that he was a shingle-maker, and that he was probably a very
wicked man, for he was about the only one in the settlement who did not
profess religion, and attend the gatherings at the church. The calling
of shingle-making he followed winter and summer and he never seemed to
raise anything on his farm except a glassy kind of corn with a great
many black grains in every ear, which he planted and cultivated with a
hoe. After it was gathered, he tied most of it in bunches, and hung it
up to dry on the kitchen rafters, where it was understood to be for sale
as seed; although I never heard that it was good for anything except to
parch, and the only use he ever made of it, that I knew anything about,
was to give it to Jo and me with the air of a man conferring a great
favor.
My father liked nothing about Dad Erring except his one virtue of
attending to his own business, such as it was; and said of him that he
selected his piece of land because it was near a spring, whereas the
exercise of a little energy would have dug a well affording an equally
good supply of water on vastly superior land.
Indeed, no one seemed to like him, and the dislike was mutual, for if he
was familiar with any one except Jo, my mother, and myself, I never knew
of it. He seldom spoke even to my grandmother when I was about, and I
think only very rarely at any other time, for they seemed never to have
recovered from some old trouble. There was this much charity for him,
however--the people said no more than that he was an exceedingly odd
sort of a man (a verdict true of his appearance as well as disposition,
for he was very large, very raw-boned, and clean shaven), and let him
alone, which of all things he probably most desired.
The people frequently met him walking along the road swinging a stout
stick, and taking tremendous strides (he never owned a horse, but took
long journeys on foot, refusing a ride if offered him by a wagon going
in the same direction), but he did not speak to them unless compelled
and apparently had no other desire than to be let alone.
He never went anywhere except to the timber to make shingles, and off on
excursions afoot nobody knew whither, from which he always returned in a
few days in exactly the same mood as that in which he had started. I
have heard that he had relatives living in a settlement south of us, but
whether he went to visit them on his journeys, or spent the money he
earned in shingle-making in walking about for his health, paying for his
entertainment where-ever night overtook him, I did not know then, nor do
I know now.
Once in a long while he came to our house, always when my father was
away; and, after watching my mother awhile as she went about her work,
went away again, sometimes without saying a word, although she always
talked kindly to him, and was glad to see him. Occasionally he would
accept her invitation to refresh himself with food, but not often; and
when he did he would be offended unless she took a present of money to
buy something to remember him by. If she was dangerously ill--which was
often the case, for she was never strong--he was never sent for. Nobody
thought of him as of any use or as caring much about it; but when she
had recovered, he would come over, and, after looking at her curiously,
return home satisfied. I think that had she died, he would not have been
invited to the funeral, but I am certain that after it was all over, he
would often have visited her grave, and looked at it in quiet
astonishment.
On returning from her visits to the sick, my grandmother usually stopped
at our house, and sometimes I was lifted up behind to go home with her
to take care of the horse she rode, for my grandfather disliked horses.
Arriving at the house of hewn logs in the edge of the woods, she
dismounted and went in, and I went on to the stables. Returning after I
had finished my work, I found my grandfather on one side of the
fire-place, and my grandmother on the other, looking into the fire, or,
if it was summer, into the cavernous recess where the backlog would have
been blazing in winter. If it was evening, which was usually the case, I
was soon sent out to make the fire for the evening meal, but after this
was eaten, we resumed our places at the hearth. Sometimes I told them
what I knew was going on in the neighborhood, and caused them to ask
questions, and replied to them, and tried to lure them into a
conversation, but I never succeeded. If my grandmother told me that one
of her patients had died, the information was really intended for her
husband; and if he did not fully understand it, he directed his
questions to me, and she replied in the same way. In this way they also
discussed household affairs of which it was necessary for each to know,
storing them up until I came, but never speaking directly to each other.
After I had sat between them for an hour or more, it would suddenly
occur to my grandmother that I had been up too long already, and after
divesting me of clothing, I was thrown into the centre of a great
feather-bed, three of which stood in a row at the back end of the room.
I was put into the middle one, as if to keep my grand-parents as far
apart as possible again, for I was certain that my grandmother slept in
one, and my grandfather in the other. The one which I occupied was also
the company bed, for my grandmother evidently desired me to know that my
mother, excellent woman though she was, could not hope to learn
perfectly the art of making up a feather-bed for many years yet. If I
raised my head quietly, and looked out, I found the strange couple
sitting by the fire as I had left them, and, in wondering whether they
would remain there all night, I fell asleep.
When I awoke in the morning they were up before me, waiting for
daylight, as people were early risers in those days; and I never knew
certainly that they went to bed at all, but always wondered whether they
did not sit beside the fire throughout the long night.
After a while my grandmother came to the bed, pulled me out and into my
clothes, and sent me to the spring to wash my face for breakfast, which
was soon thereafter ready. When this was over I was started for home,
usually carrying a present of butter or eggs for my mother, and a box on
the ears for myself.
CHAPTER IV.
THE RELIGION OF FAIRVIEW
Although the people of Fairview frequently did not dress comfortably,
and lived in the plainest manner, they never failed to attend the
services at the church, to which everybody belonged, with the exception
of my grandfather, and Jo, and myself. I have often wondered since that
we were not made the subject of a special series of meetings, and
frightened into repentance; but for some unaccountable reason we were
left alone. They even discussed Jo’s situation, laying it to
contrariness, and saying that if all the rest of them were wicked, he
would be religious; but they said nothing at all to me about the
subject. I often attended the revivals, and sang the songs as loudly as
the rest of them, but when I thought that I was one of those whose
terrible condition the hymns described, it gave me such a turn that I
left that part of the house where the excitement ran highest, and joined
Jo on the back seats, who took no other interest in the novel
performance than that of looker-on.
As soon as a sufficient number of children reached a suitable age to
make their conversion a harvest, a revival was commenced for their
benefit, and they were called upon to make a full confession with such
energy, and warned to cling to the cross for safety with such
earnestness, that they generally did it, and but few escaped. If there
was one so stubborn that he would not yield from worldly pride, of
which he had not a particle--no one ever supposed it possible that he
lacked faith, though they all did--the meetings were continued from
Sunday until Monday, and kept up every night of the week at the house
where the owner of the obdurate heart lived, so that he finally gave in;
for peace and quiet, if for nothing else.
If two or three, or four or five, would not relent within a reasonable
time, the people gave up every other work, and gathered at the church in
great alarm, in response to the ringing of the bell, and there they
prayed and shouted the livelong day for the Lord to come down among
them. At these times Jo and I were usually left at home to work in the
field, and if we heard the people coming home in the evening shouting
and singing, we knew that the lost sheep had been recovered, and I often
feared they would form a ring around us in the field, and compel a full
surrender. A young woman who lived at our house to help my mother, the
daughter of a neighboring farmer, once engaged their attention for
nearly a week, but she gave up one hot afternoon, and came down the path
which led through the cornfields from the church, shouting and going on
like mad, followed by those that had been present when the Lord finally
came down, who were singing and proclaiming the event as loudly as they
could. This frightened me so much that I ran into the house, and hid
under the bed, supposing they would soon go away, and that then I could
come out; but they immediately began a prayer-meeting to give the new
convert opportunity to face a frowning world by relating her experience,
and thus they kept me in my uncomfortable position until I thought I
must smother from the heat.
My father received little aid in the conduct of these meetings except
from a very good farmer, but very bad exhorter, named Theodore Meek,
whose name had been gradually shortened by neighborhood familiarity
until he was known as The. Meek; and for a long time I thought he was
meant when reference was made to “The Meek and lowly,” supposing that
Lowly was an equally good man living in some of the adjoining
settlements. This remarkable man laughed his religion rather than
preached, or prayed, or shouted, or sang it. His singing would be
regarded at this day as a very expert rendering of a laughing song, but
to us it was an impressive performance, as were his praying and
occasional preaching, though I wonder we were not amused. The. Meek was,
after my father, the next best man in Fairview; the next largest farmer,
and the next in religion and thrift. In moving to the country I think
his wagons were next to ours, which headed the procession. He sat
nearest the pulpit at the meetings, was the second to arrive--my father
coming first--and always took up the collections. If there was a
funeral, he stood next my father, who conducted the services; at the
school-meetings he was the second to speak; and if a widow needed her
corn gathered, or her winter’s wood chopped, my father suggested it, and
The. Meek immediately said it should have been attended to before. He
also lived nearer our house than any of the others, and was oftener
there; and his house was built so much like ours that only experts knew
it was cheaper, and not quite so large. His family, which consisted of a
fat wife by a second marriage, and so many children that I never could
remember all their names--there was always a new baby whenever its
immediate predecessor was old enough to name--were laughers like him,
and to a stranger it would have seemed that they found jokes in the
Bible, for they were always reading the Bible, and always laughing.
Another assistant was Mrs. Tremaine, the miller’s widowed sister, who
had lived in the country before we came, a wax-faced woman who
apparently had no other duty to attend to than religion; for although
she lived a considerable distance from Fairview church, she was always
at the meetings, and I have thought of her as being constantly occupied
in coming from or going to church, finding it time to start back again
as soon as she reached home. The only assistance she afforded was to
pray whenever called upon in a voice so low that there was always doubt
when she had finished; but this made little difference, as it gave the
others opportunity to be heard in short exclamations concerning the
kindness of the Lord if sinners would really renounce the world and make
a full confession. Her speeches in the experience meetings were of the
same order, and when she sat down the congregation invariably began a
song descriptive of a noble woman always battling for the right, and
sure to conquer in the end; from which grew an impression that she was a
very sainted person, and that the sins of her brother, the miller, were
much on her mind. It is certain that he thought little of them himself,
never attending the services, or sending his regrets.
It was usually a part of my duty on Sunday to take one of the wagons, Jo
taking the other, and to drive about collecting infirm and unfortunate
people who would otherwise be unable to attend church; for my father
believed in salvation for all who were willing to accept it, though they
were poor, and unable to walk, or hear, or see, or understand; and he
was kinder to the unfortunate people than to any of the others, favoring
them out of his strength and abundance in a hundred ways.
There was always a suspicion in my mind, which may have been an unjust
one, that they shouted and went on in response to his preaching because
he was their friend, and wanted them to do so. In any event, he could
throw them into the greatest excitement, and cause them to exhibit
themselves in the most remarkable way, whenever he saw fit, so that they
got on very well together.
One of these unfortunates was Mr. Winter, the lame shoemaker, who
wheeled himself around in a low buggy. Pushing this into my wagon with
the assistance of his wife, after we had first made a run-way of boards,
I hauled him to Fairview, where we unloaded him in the same manner. He
was a very devout man, and a shouter, and during the revivals he wheeled
himself up and down the aisles in his buggy, which frequently squeaked
and rattled in a very uncomfortable manner, to shake hands with the
people. I suppose that at first this performance was a little odd to
people, but they got used to it; for I have noticed that while strangers
regarded Mr. Winter as a great curiosity, he attracted no more attention
at home than a man unobjectionable in the matter of legs. There was a
good deal of talk from time to time of holding special services to
restore Mr. Winter’s shrivelled legs by prayer, but if ever it was
tried, it was in secret, for I never heard of it. There were probably
half a dozen of these unfortunates altogether, and they were always
given the best corner, which was near the pulpit, where their piety
could be easily seen and heard.
With the addition of a blind woman who cried and lamented a great deal,
and whom I also went after nearly every Sunday, those I have mentioned
were the ones most conspicuous in the meetings; for while the others
were very devout, they had nothing to offer for the general good except
their presence and a capacity to rise to their feet and confess the Lord
in a few words. My father was the leader, of course, and occupied the
time himself when others could not be induced to occupy it, which was
often the case after those I have mentioned had appeared in what might
be called their specialties.
This, coupled with the unforgiving doctrines of Rev. John Westlock, was
the religion to which I was accustomed, and which I believe added
greatly to the other miseries of Fairview, for Fairview was afflicted
with a melancholy that could have resulted from nothing else. There was
little visiting, and there were no public gatherings except those at the
church already mentioned, where the business of serving the Lord was
dispatched as soon as possible to allow the people to return home and
nurse their misery. The people were all overworked, and I still remember
how the pale, unhappy women spoke in low and trembling tones at the
experience meetings of heavy crosses to bear, and sat down crying as
though their hearts were breaking. I was always touched by this pitiful
proceeding, and I doubt not their petitions went further into heaven
than any of the others.
CHAPTER V.
THE SCHOOL IN THE CHURCH.
When there was nothing else for them to do, the children of Fairview
were sent to a school kept in the church, where they studied around a
big box stove, and played at noon and recess among the mounds in the
grave lot, there being no playground, as it was not intended that the
children of Fairview should play.
The older boys told it in low whispers that a sunken grave meant that
the person buried there had been carried away by the Devil, and it was
one of our amusements to look among the graves from day to day to see if
the dreadful visitor had been around during the preceding night.
These sunken graves were always carefully filled up by relatives of the
persons buried, and I regarded this as evidence that they were anxious
to hide the disgrace which had come upon their families from neglect of
my father’s religion. After a funeral--which we were all compelled to
attend so that we might become practically impressed with the shortness
of life, and where a hymn commencing “Hark, from the tomb, a doleful
sound,” was sung to such a dismal measure that the very dogs howled to
hear it--I used to lie awake in speechless terror for a great many
nights, fearing the Devil would call on me in my room on his way out to
the grave lot to see whether the person just buried belonged to him.
The boys and girls who attended from the houses dotted about on the
prairie did not differ from other children except that they were a long
time in the first pages of their books, and seemed glad to come. I have
heard that in some places measures are found necessary to compel
attendance on the schools, but in Fairview the children regarded the
teacher as their kindest and most patient friend, and the school as a
pleasant place of retreat, where grumbling and complaints were never
heard.
The. Meek sent so many children that the teacher never pretended to know
the exact number. Sometimes there were eleven, and at other times only
seven or eight, for the older ones seemed to take turns about, working
one day and studying the next. I think The. Meek was about the only man
in our country who was as good at home as he was at church, and his
family of white-headed boys were laughers like him, and always contented
and happy. They never learned anything, and my recollection is that they
all studied out of one book while I went to school there, reciting in a
class by themselves from the same page. If the teacher came upon them
suddenly in their seats, and asked them to name the first letter of the
alphabet, the chances were that one of them would know and answer,
whereupon they all cried “A!” in a chorus. But if one of the number was
called out separately a few moments later, and asked the same question,
the round, chubby face would look up into the teacher’s, and after
meditating awhile (moving his lips during the time as if recalling the
rules governing such a difficult problem) would honestly answer that he
didn’t know! He was then sent back to study, with the warning that he
would be called out again presently, and asked to name not only the
first letter, but the second, and third, and perhaps the fourth. Going
back to his seat, the white-headed brothers gathered about him, and
engaged in deep contemplation of their book for awhile, but one by one
their eyes wandered away from it again, and they became the prey of
anyone who had it in his heart to get them into difficulty by setting
them to laughing. If they all mastered the first three letters that day
they were content, and were so pleased with their progress that they
forgot them the next.
It was always safe to go to their house and expect a warm welcome, for
there seemed enough love hid away somewhere in the big house in which
they lived, not only for all the white-headed boys (with a reserve stock
for those yet to come), but also for the friends who came to see them.
Their mother, a large, fresh-looking woman, who was noted for a capacity
to lead in prayers and blessings when her husband was away, was
good-natured, too. It was the happiest family I had ever known, for
though they were all beset with difficulties, every one of them having
either weak eyes or the scald-head, they seemed not to mind it, but
patiently applied sulphur for one and mullein tea for the other,
remedies which were kept in saucers and bottles all over the house.
I never heard The. Meek or his wife speak impatiently to any of their
children, but they were obedient for all that--much more so than those
of us who were beaten on the slightest provocation--and were very fond
of one another. While other boys were anxious to get away from home,
The. Meek’s children were content, and believed there was not another so
pleasant place in the world as the big house, built after the
architecture of a packing-box, in which they lived. I often thought of
this circumstance to their credit, and thought it was also to the credit
of the father and the mother. There were but three rooms in the house,
two down stairs, and one above as large as both of those below in which
all the boys slept; and here also were the company beds, so that had I
ever heard of an asylum at the time of which I write, I should certainly
have thought the big room with the nine or ten beds scattered about in
it was like one.
I frequently went from school to spend the night with the young Meeks,
and, after we had gone to bed in the big room upstairs, I either froze
their blood with ghost stories, or convulsed them by telling any foolish
event I happened to think of, at which they laughed until I feared for
their lives. If the uproar became particularly loud their father and
mother came up to see what it was all about, and, on being informed of
the cause, laughed themselves, and went down again.
The two sons of the crippled but devout shoemaker, Mr. Winter, were the
most remarkable scholars that attended the school, for the reason that
they seemed to have mastered all sorts of depravity by sheer force of
native genius; for though they possessed all the accomplishments of
street Arabs, and we thought they must surely be town boys, the truth
was that they were seldom allowed even to go to town, and therefore
could not have contracted the vices of civilization from the contagion
of evil society. When one of them did go he returned with a knife for
nearly every boy in the school, and cloves and cinnamon bark to last for
weeks, which were stolen from the stores. If one of us longed for
anything in their presence, they said it would be forthcoming
immediately if we got them opportunity to go to town. This was only
possible by inducing some one to allow them to drive a team, as their
father was poor, and did not keep horses.
The older (and I may add the worse) one was probably named Hardy, but he
was always known as Hard. Winter, because of his hard character; and his
brother’s evil reputation was so woven into his name that we never knew
what the latter really was, for he was known as Beef Hide Winter, a
rebuke, I believe, for his failure to get away with a hide he had once
stolen, but the boys accepted these titles with great cheerfulness, and
did not mind them. They were the mildest mannered villains, I have no
doubt, that ever lived, for no difference how convincing the proof was
against them, they still denied it with tears in their eyes, and were
always trying to convince those around them by kindness and civility
that they were not so bad as represented (though they were worse), and I
fear they were rather popular in spite of their weakness for things not
belonging to them. In course of time their petty peculations came to be
regarded in about the same light as was their father’s shouting--one of
the peculiarities of the neighborhood--and we paid them no other
attention than to watch them. At the Fourth of July celebrations in the
woods, where all sorts of persons came to set up business, the Winter
boys stole a little of everything they saw on exhibition, and generously
divided with their friends. If they were sent together to a house near
the school after water, one went through the cellar while the other went
to the well, and if he secured anything he made a division at the first
opportunity.
They always had their pockets full of things to give away, and I am
satisfied that they came by none of them honestly, for they were very
poor, and at home but seldom had enough even to eat. A habit of theirs
was to throw stones with great accuracy, a collection of which they
carried around in their pockets, ready for use, making long journeys to
the creek bottoms to select them. They always went home with Guinea-hens
or geese in their possession, which they said had been “given to them,”
but which they had really knocked over in the road near farmers’
houses. They could kill more squirrels and quails by throwing than
others of a similar age could by shooting, and it will be imagined that
their failings were but seldom mentioned, for they were dangerous
adversaries, though usually peaceable enough.
The teacher of this school at the time of which I now write--to be more
explicit, when I was eleven years old, for what I have already written
is a hurried retrospect covering a period of six years--was a very young
and pretty girl named Agnes Deming, certainly not over sixteen and I
doubt if that, who came from a neighborhood north of Fairview, where her
widowed mother lived with an eccentric brother, and although it was as
poor as ours, she spoke of it in such a way--not boastingly, but
tenderly and reverently--that we thought of the community of Smoky Hill
as a very superior one. Her father, of whom she talked a great deal, had
been captain of a sailing vessel, as I learned a little at a time, and
before his death they lived in a town by the sea, where his ship loaded.
Of the town, however, which was called Bradford, she had but slight
recollection, for when a very little girl she was sent away to school,
and came home only at long intervals to welcome her father, who was
often away a year at a time.
When ten years old, and after the ship had been absent a long time, she
was sent for hurriedly one day, and told on her arrival that her
father’s ship had gone down at sea; that all on board were lost, and
that they were going West to live with her uncle, an eccentric man whom
she had never seen. After a few months of preparation, during which time
their effects were converted into money, they commenced their journey to
the country in which they had since lived. When she was fourteen years
old her uncle found her a place to teach a summer school, and, giving
satisfaction in spite of her tender years, she had followed the calling
since, her second engagement being in our neighborhood. I remember how
generally it was said on her arrival that she would not do, as she was
very young, but before the summer was over she somehow convinced her
patrons that she would do, very well, as she was thoughtful and
intelligent, and competent in every way.
This was her brief history, and before she had lived at Fairview a year,
nobody was like Agnes Deming, for she was everybody’s friend and
adviser, and was kinder to the people than anyone had ever been before.
She was a revelation to Fairview--a woman of a kind they had never
before seen; one who uttered no complaints, but who listened patiently
to the complaints of others, and did what she could to help them.
Whoever was in distress received her sympathy and aid, and I think the
advent of this friendless little woman, with her unselfish and pretty
ways, did more good for Fairview than its religion, for the people tried
to become like her, and were better in every way.
From the description she gave I imagined her father to have been a bluff
and manly fellow, for I had heard that such followed the sea, and when I
found her crying softly to herself, I thought of course she was thinking
of him, and often regretted that he was not in Fairview to be proud of
his pretty daughter, instead of at the bottom of the restless and angry
sea. That they had been very fond of each other I felt sure; and when
the winds blew furiously around our house, as they often did, she seemed
greatly distressed, as though it was just such a storm as that in which
her father’s ship went down. She sang to us at night sometimes, in a
sad, sweet voice, but always of storms, and of shipwrecks, as if the
frightful manner of her father’s death was much on her mind, and as if
she sorrowed always because she could not hope that some day his ship
would come in, and the dreadful story of his death prove a mistake.
She said almost nothing of her mother, and in reasoning about it I
thought that perhaps Mrs. Deming was so much distressed over the death
of her husband as to be poor company, and anxious to be let alone; for
Agnes seemed glad when vacation was over, and she was again occupying
her old room in our house. Although she was originally expected to
divide her time equally with every family sending children to the
school, or to “board round,” she was oftener at our house than anywhere
else; and once when she apologized in a burst of tears for being there
so much, my mother kissed her tenderly, and it was arranged immediately,
to the great satisfaction of all, that in future she should be a
recognized member of our family. My mother was very fond of her, and so
was my father, though he seemed ashamed to be fond of anyone; and being
the most influential of the school directors, he saw that her pay was
good and prompt, and on bad days took her to school in a wagon.
When Jo and I were busy on the farm, Agnes taught us at night, and was
so patient and encouraged us so much that we learned more than we should
have done at school. While we were never at school in summer, by this
means we were the head scholars in winter, though I am not certain this
was much to our credit, for we had little opposition from the children
of Fairview.
I have never seen a bird-of-paradise, and have no knowledge of them,
except that they are very beautiful; but if their manners are as
graceful as their plumage is beautiful, and it is conceded that we of
Fairview were as ungainly and ugly as crows, I hope the impression made
by the coming of Agnes Deming to the settlement will be understood. I
am glad to be able to write it to the credit of the people that they
were not envious of her, unless it be envious in one person to strive to
be like another he admires, and they all loved her from the day she came
until the day she went away.
Although slight in figure she was the picture of health, of which she
was as careful as of her dress and manners, which were never anything
but mild and gentle. As man and boy I have honestly admired a great many
women who afterwards shocked my admiration by a careless habit or manner
when they did not know I was about; but Agnes Deming was always the same
perfect woman. My admiration for her never had a check, and every day I
found in her a new quality to respect, as did everyone who came in
contact with her.
Although I was a favorite with her, I believed that when she came into
the fortune and position she deserved--I was always expecting some such
remarkable thing as this to happen, although I was not certain just what
it would be--I was sure she would not speak to me, or any of those she
had known at Fairview with whom she had associated temporarily, and made
herself agreeable, because that was her disposition; but that she would
hurry away as soon as possible, to get rid of thoughts of how
uncomfortable and unhappy she had been among us. I do not think I should
have blamed her, for I regarded her superiority as such that I should
have been content to see her go away to enjoy proud station and rich
friends, thankful that she had lived with us at all, and made us happier
than we had been.
I am certain that her dress was inexpensive, and that she spent little
of her money in this way, for most of it was sent to her family; but her
taste and skill were such that she was always neatly and becomingly
attired (much more so than many I knew who spent a great deal for that
time to attain that end); and she was able to work over an old garment
on Saturday, and appear on Sunday the best-dressed woman in the country.
I have thought that she was familiar with all the fashions in woman’s
dress without ever having seen them, for she was always in advance of
the plates in the Lady’s Book taken by my mother.
With more fortunate surroundings she would have been a remarkable woman.
But while there were many others less good and pretty who were better
off, and while she may have had at one time bright hopes for the future,
her good sense taught her that there was really no reason why she should
expect anything better now; so she diligently performed her work, and
gave up castle-building. And so it came to pass that she was simply
mistress of the Fairview school, and mistress of all our hearts, and did
what good was possible without vain regret for that which might have
come to pass, but did not.
In my recollections of that time, there is nothing pleasant, except the
sweet and patient face of Agnes and the memory of Jo, who were always my
friends, and who protected me when I did not deserve it, and loved me in
spite of all my faults.
CHAPTER VI.
DAMON BARKER.
Barker’s Mill, visits to which had convinced Jo that he should like to
be a miller, was built on Bull River, in the centre of the only woods in
all that country.
It was said of its proprietor that he came to the country a great many
years before with a train of wagons drawn by oxen, on which was loaded
the machinery of what afterwards became the mill, together with his
general effects. Nobody seemed to know where he came from, but nobody
seemed to care, strangely enough, for he was trusty as a miller, and
honorable as a citizen. Occasionally he came to our neighborhood dressed
in an odd-fashioned cut-away coat with brass buttons, and vest and
pantaloons of an equally aristocratic pattern, but I never heard of his
going to the country town. If he had money to pay there, or other
important business, he entrusted it to some one to transact for him,
preferring to have it half done rather than to go himself. From this
circumstance I came to believe that Damon Barker had been an outlaw in
his time, and was anxious to avoid people, although he was very
well-bred, and the only polished man I had ever known.
He came to our house originally, I believe, on some sort of business,
and, becoming acquainted, happened in at long intervals afterwards, but
I never knew that he went anywhere else. We all admired him, for he was
a man to make himself welcome anywhere, and he sat quietly among us
when he came (which was always at night, as though for private reasons
he did not walk out during the day), and listened to what was being
said. My father had the greatest respect for him, and was often uneasy
under his steady gaze, as if he felt that Damon Barker was not a
Fairview man, and had knowledge and opinions of his own. They frequently
discussed all sorts of questions (or rather my father discussed them in
Barker’s presence, who only made short answers indicating that he was
familiar with the subject in hand), and I was forced to the belief that,
had he seen fit, he could have readily torn to pieces many of the
arguments advanced. His knowledge of religious topics was extensive, but
he patronized the subject as he would patronize a child, dismissing it
with a polite word as though it was of no consequence; and we wondered
that a man who understood the subject so well could be indifferent, for
it was well known that he was not religious. My father often threatened
to “speak” to him about it, but he never did, either fearing that Barker
might be able to defend his position, or respecting his disposition to
avoid the subject.
Although he was courteous and well-bred, lifting his hat and bowing to
my mother in the most courtly manner when he came and went, it was never
remarked to his discredit, although a man of his manners had never been
seen by us before. Had he been the least awkward in his politeness, I am
sure we should have laughed at him, and regarded him as a fop, for we
watched him narrowly; but his adieus and greetings were so appropriate,
natural, and easy, that we received them as a matter of course, and
accepted them as evidences not merely of different but of better
breeding than we were accustomed to. During one of his visits to the
house he invited Jo and me to the mill, asking it as a favor, and thus
it came about that occasionally we went to see him on Saturday
afternoons, returning the next day. Indeed, we were rather encouraged to
go to Barker’s, my father believing that familiarity with such a courtly
gentleman would do us no harm, if no good, and he was not greatly
displeased if we did not return until late Sunday evening, although he
always inquired what we found so entertaining at his house, and on our
replying, he found no objection to it.
The house in which Barker lived was built close to the mill, in a dense
growth of trees, but as if the shadow of these was not sufficient to
hide him, he had planted other trees among them, until the place was so
dark that the sunlight seldom found its way in at his windows. The house
was very large and strong, with doors of heavy hard wood, and I thought
that if Barker should be attacked, he would make a long defence, for he
always had provisions and fuel stored away in great quantities, and
there was a well in the cellar which I always disliked to drink out of,
fearing there might be dead men in it. There were thick wooden blinds at
all the windows, which were usually closed, and heavy iron bars across
the doors, and altogether the place was so mysterious and unusual that
it occurred to me when I first went there that if either Jo or I should
discover some of its secrets by accident, we should be cut into halves,
and thrown down the well for fear we should disclose what we had seen.
In his own room, a large apartment occupying the greater part of the
second story, were strange and curious things we had never seen before;
and these we were free to examine and question him about. Besides brass
pistols hid away in every box and drawer, there were swords and knives
of odd pattern, and handsome dresses for women and men, many of them
ornamented with gold lace, and all of a style we had never seen worn.
In a place for plunder which adjoined his room were kept half a dozen
large chests, and in looking through them, when he gave me permission, I
half expected to find bones of dead men; but I found nothing except
strange instruments, scientific apparatus, maps, drawings I had no
knowledge of, curiosities gathered during a long life, and the odd
clothing I have mentioned. If I found something more curious than the
rest, I took it to him as he sat grave and silent in his own room, and
he told me its history, what use it could be put to, and where it came
from. There were a great many books, the titles of which I could not
pronounce with all my learning, and these gave evidence of being often
used, for they were collected on a turning shelf within easy reach of
the table at which he usually sat.
If we found a curious stone or leaf, he could tell its nature and kind,
and if we asked of something we read in his books, he told us about it
in a quiet, simple way, making it quite easy of comprehension. Knowing
our ignorance, he took pains to answer the questions with which we plied
him, and we often sat on either side of him until far into the night,
listening to his explanations of matters we were curious about,
sometimes going to sleep in our chairs.
Before he knew Jo and me he had no friends--he told me this himself
early in our acquaintance--but we amused him, and he became our
companion in everything we did while at the house or mill, instructing
and benefiting us in a hundred ways. When I say he became our companion
in everything we did, I mean no more than that he was always with us,
looking on good-naturedly when we played the games at cards he taught
us, accompanying us when we walked through the woods or rowed on the
river, and giving suggestions and help in everything. He said but little
at any time, except in answer to our questions, and I think his
principal enjoyment in our companionship was to listen quietly to what
we had stored up to tell him on our different visits.
He was regarded as hard and exacting by those with whom he had business
dealings--he dealt in nothing else--but was always kind and liberal with
Jo and me, giving us money frequently, and presents when he could get
them. If we were in the mill with him, the entrance of a customer would
harden his features until we were afraid of him, and we went away until
the customer had gone when he soon became himself again, so that we grew
to be afraid of him except when we were alone.
In Barker’s room was a great box-stove in which we made wonderful fires
in winter, and the fire in it seemed never to go out; so that I have
thought in summer that, if the ashes were stirred, live coals could be
found at the bottom. Around this we always sat with him during the
winter nights (and we had opportunity to visit him oftener in winter
than at any other time, for during that season we had the least to do),
and did whatever Barker thought would best amuse us. Sometimes he gave
us suppers, prepared by his own hands from cans and bottles stored away
in other chests we had not yet examined; at other times he told us the
story of one of the brass pistols, or of the strange wearing-apparel we
had seen, holding the article in his hand to illustrate; or if we found
something belonging to a ship, he told us of the sea, of storms, of
strange countries, and of wrecks.
In all the stories of robbers and pirates that he told us--and there
were many of that kind because we preferred them--I always thought of
him as one of the participants, and was pleased when the one I had
picked out for Barker freed the captive maiden, flinging back his
companions who would murder her, with the declaration that he would have
their lives if they persisted, thereupon conducting her within sight of
her home, and, having first bidden her a gallant adieu, galloped away.
These recitals had much of dashing romance in them, and his robberies
were committed generally from motives of daring rather than gain. It was
always the mean and stingy misers who were robbed, and if a beautiful
maiden was captured at sea she was always taken to her friends, unless
she freely consented to marry the pirate captain, which was sometimes
the case.
This kind of amusement he kept up at night until we became sleepy, and,
lighting us to the room in which we were to sleep, he sat down on the
bed if we desired it, and continued the story until we were asleep, when
he returned to his own apartment. It seemed to me he dreaded the hour
when we would go to sleep and leave him alone; and once when I awoke in
the middle of the night, and crept to his door, I found him sitting over
the table with his hat and coat on, as if ready to run away.
Barker’s widowed sister, the Mrs. Tremaine already mentioned, whose
husband had been a drunkard and a doctor, was his housekeeper (when she
was at home, which was seldom the case). I believe she was originally
called Betts, or Bett, but this was shortened to B., and by this name
she was generally known. It was understood that Dr. Tremaine had been
unkind to her before his death, and that their married life had been
very miserable, though I never heard either Barker or herself say so.
But such was generally thought to be the case nevertheless, for
certainly the excellent woman had had trouble. It was also understood
that he died in drink, probably from catching fire on the inside, and
that with his last breath he referred to his wife as a snake, and to his
neighbors as devils. This impression, like the other one with reference
to his disposition, had no foundation I ever heard of except that his
relict worried a great deal about people who were going to ruin from
drink. We supposed, of course, that she was prompted to this by the
memory of her late husband, as she was prompted to insist on everybody’s
being religious by the wickedness of her brother, the miller. Having no
other place to go after her husband’s death, she determined to move West
and live with her brother, and had arrived at Fairview a few years
before we did. Although there was not a drunkard in the county, she
immediately began a war on rum, and when I first encountered the words
“Delirium Tremens,” in connection with drunkenness, I remember thinking
I was acquainted with his widow.
Next to her desire to save everybody from drunkenness, she wanted to
save everybody from sin, and spent most of her time in discussing these
two questions; but she had little opposition, for everybody in that
country was religious as well as temperate. When she became acquainted
with the Rev. John Westlock she at once hailed him as a man raised up to
do a great work, and was always with him in the meetings he held in
different places, nothing being thought of it if he took her with him
and brought her back again.
Together they established a lodge of Good Templars at Fairview, although
the people were all sober and temperate, and once a week they met to
call upon the fallen brother to shun the cup, and to redeem the country
from debauchery and vice. Barker said they spent one-half the evening in
“opening” and the other half in “closing.” He also said once that his
sister was very much offended that my father preached without pay, for
she would have enjoyed making fancy work, to the neglect of her
brother’s house, to sell at fairs to pay the minister’s salary, and that
she was a brilliant woman at festivals. Barker often criticised her,
half in jest and half in earnest, and once when Jo and I were at his
house for dinner, and something had been lost, he remarked that if B.
were as familiar with her home as she was familiar with the number of
gallons of liquor consumed annually, or with the Acts of the Apostles,
things would be more comfortable. I think he disliked her because she
paid so much attention to other people’s faults and so little to her
own; but he treated her courteously, although he appeared to avoid her,
and they were not much together. B. frequently left home for days at a
time, compelling her patient brother to prepare his own meals or do
without, but he never complained unless she chose to construe
half-jesting, half-earnest raillery into complaint. At such times she
had a way of replying to his light words with a seriousness that I
thought disgusted him, and made him resolve never to mention the matter
again.
That she was a miserable housekeeper I had frequent occasion to know,
and Barker’s house always seemed like a bachelor’s home, as there was
nothing about it to indicate that a woman lived there. Jo used to say of
Mrs. Tremaine that she talked as the women write who furnish recipes to
the newspapers; and when she came to our house the room in which she sat
seemed damp for several days thereafter. Once after she had slept there,
and I was put into the bed she had occupied a night or two afterward, I
amused my mother by asking her to change the sheets, as they seemed like
ice and would not thaw out, and the good humor with which she did this
convinced me that she did not like B. very well herself. Her face was
large and round and of a waxen color, and though it was said by some
that she was handsome I never thought so; nor did I admire her dress,
which was very rich and expensive, though exceedingly plain. Her teeth
were very white, and quite prominent, because she always wore what was
intended to be an enchanting smile, and when she kissed me (which she
usually did in the earlier days of our acquaintance, as a compliment to
a child) I thought she must have just finished washing her face, her
lips were so cold and damp. Her hair being very dark, and her face very
pale, I thought she resembled a well-dressed and affable corpse risen
from the dead, whose business it was to go among the people and warn
them that unless they repented of their sins they would very much regret
it after death.
CHAPTER VII.
A NEW DISPENSATION.
In spite of the discontent which prevailed there, Fairview progressed
with the years of its history. The hard work of the people paid, and
they gradually became well-to-do, although they seemed surprised that
they were not in the poor-house, an event they were always promising
their families.
The old houses in which they had at first lived were replaced with new
ones, the new ones were furnished better than the old ones had been, and
there was a general prosperity which surprised them, for they had not
expected it so soon, if at all. New people came to settle in spite of
the fact that they were neither invited nor expected, and many of those
who came first had money ahead, and were regarded by those who came
later as of a very old and aristocratic stock. Strangest of all, it was
announced that a new minister had been engaged, and that he would arrive
with his family, consisting of a wife and one child, in a few days. My
father made the announcement at the close of his preaching one spring
morning. He had preached to them, he said, because they were too poor to
pay a better man; the Lord had prospered them, and he cheerfully made
way for a successor who had not only religious enthusiasm, but extensive
learning as well. He would continue to exhort his brethren whenever
occasion seemed to require, and aid in doing the work of the Master,
but he believed the good of the church demanded the arrangement he had
made.
There was unusual feeling in his words as he reviewed the hard struggle
of the settlement, and when he had finished, The. Meek, though
apparently in greater convulsions of laughter than ever, managed to say
a few kind words for their pastor, guide, and friend, and two or three
of the other men followed in a similar strain. The women began to cry
softly, as though the occasion were a funeral, and one by one the people
went forward to shake him by the hand, which I thought surprised him,
not being certain but that they were glad to get rid of him, while
Brother Winter wheeled vigorously about, calling upon everybody to
praise the Lord. It was a very unusual occasion, and those who had
lounged outside to read the inscriptions on the head-boards in the grave
lot came back again to see what it was all about, and heard the news
with surprise and astonishment. Finally, the miller’s sister prayed for
everybody, but in a voice so low that nobody knew it, after which the
meeting broke up, and the congregation gathered in little knots in the
church and in the yard to talk of the new minister.
Great curiosity was everywhere expressed, and the curious naturally came
to my father for information. He knew nothing except that the new
minister had been transferred from an Eastern State at his own request;
that his name was the Rev. Goode Shepherd, and that he would be there
for the next service a week from that day; that a house had been secured
for him in the eastern part of the settlement, and that as he was a
minister, he was, of course, a good man, and without question of use to
the church, else the Lord would not permit him to preach. This was all
he knew, or all he cared to tell, and the people went home to wonder and
to talk about it.
* * * * *
Rev. Goode Shepherd came West, I am of the opinion, because the East was
crowded with good men, and because he had heard there was a scarcity of
such in our direction. Although he had some vague ideas on the subject
of growing up with the country, he probably consented to come because
somebody recommended it, and not because he was exactly clear himself
how the move was to be of benefit.
Had some one in whose judgment he had equal confidence suggested after
his arrival that he had better go back again, I have no doubt that he
would have become convinced finally that the Lord had said it, instead
of a friend, and quietly returned to the place from which he had come;
for he was always uncertain whether his convictions were the result of
inspiration, or whether they were the result of the gossip he had heard.
I had remarked of my father’s religion that it was a yoke that did not
fit him, and which was uncomfortable to wear; but the Rev. Goode
Shepherd’s religion was his vocation and pleasure, and he believed in it
with all the strength of which he was capable. That he was poor was
evidence to him that he was accepted of the Master who had sent him,
rather than that his life had been a failure; and the work expected of
him he performed cheerfully and with enthusiasm. He had no desire to do
anything which was not religious; and the higher walks of his
profession, and heaven finally as his reward, were all he desired or
expected. There was abundant scope in theology for his ambition, and,
far from craving an active business life, he rather chose his profession
because it offered excuse for knowing so little about the affairs of
men.
I have thought that because he took pleasure in his religion, and loved
it, was one reason why it was not so hard and unforgiving as my
father’s, for on this question there was nothing in common between them
except that both believed that there is a heaven, and that it is
desirable to be saved. The Rev. Goode Shepherd believed that learning
and luxury could go hand in hand with religion; my father, that luxury
was an invention of the Devil to make men forget, and that learning
could be trusted to only a very few, because, unless coupled with the
most pronounced piety, it was very dangerous. The Rev. Goode Shepherd
believed that a religious life was most easily lived, and that a
merciful Providence had ordered it that way because the children of men
are weak; my father, that the easy road to travel was the broad one
which led to torment, and that the other was narrow and difficult, but
ending very pleasantly as a recompense for travelling it, and that it
was ordered that way so that only the brave and deserving should win the
prize, ridding the righteous of the weak and the undeserving by burning
them up. The Rev. Goode Shepherd believed that while walking the golden
streets of the heavenly city he would meet many of the friends he had
worried about, saved by love infinitely greater than he expected; my
father, that he would miss many faces in Paradise he had half expected
to see, but who had fallen exhausted by the wayside and given up the
struggle.
The new dispensation did much for Fairview, and its advancement after
the coming of Mr. Shepherd was certainly more rapid than it had ever
been before.
I never knew, but it seems probable to me now, that Mr. Shepherd was
educated for the ministry because he was quiet and religious as a boy,
and had always led a blameless and exemplary life. I think his expenses
at school were paid by relatives none too well off themselves, and that
he went directly from college to the pulpit. I don’t know what made me
think it, but I always believed a widowed mother--aided, perhaps, by an
older sister or two engaged in teaching--had provided for his education
by the closest economy; that he had always intended to become famous to
repay them for their kindness, but finding it a harder task than he had
imagined, that he had, in later life, settled down to the conviction
that to be good is better than to be great.
When his tall form and pale face appeared above the pulpit at Fairview
for the first time, the impression was general among the people that he
was older than they expected. The one child he had written he was
possessed of turned out to be a pretty girl of nineteen or twenty, who
attracted a great deal of attention as she came in with her mother and
sat down near the pulpit. Both sat throughout the service without
looking around, perhaps because they thought it was not likely they
would see much if they should commit that impropriety. His first
preaching impressed everyone favorably, though his side whiskers were
against him, as was also the tall hat standing on the pulpit beside him.
His presence, however, chilled the usual experience meeting following,
for only the men talked, and it was short and dull. The. Meek’s laugh
was not heard at all, and Brother Winter sat quietly in his corner, as
though undecided whether, under the circumstances, he would be warranted
in pushing to the front. The miller’s sister had nothing to say either,
spending her time in watching the minister’s wife and daughter, who did
not recognize the impertinence, and altogether the occasion was not what
was expected.
When the meeting was dismissed, my father stepped forward to welcome Mr.
Shepherd to Fairview. After him came The. Meek, and so, one by one, the
people advanced to be introduced, and, after awkwardly shaking him by
the hand, retired again. Mr. Shepherd led my father back to where his
respectable wife and pretty daughter were, and performed the ceremony of
introduction, and I imagined as my father looked at them that he thought
they were birds of too fine plumage for that clime, and would soon fly
away again. The. Meek stood immediately behind him, and was next
presented, and then came all the congregation in the order of their
importance, except the younger ones, who stood near the door looking on,
and who crowded out hurriedly when Mr. Shepherd came toward them,
followed by his wife and daughter. Although they desired acquaintance
with the new minister and his family above all other things, they were
so awkward and uncertain in their politeness that they hoped the new
minister would somehow gradually become acquainted with them without an
introduction, and never discover that they did not know how to be
comfortable in the presence of strangers. Jo Erring was among the number
of the intimidated, and I thought he was anxious that the new people
should not see him until he had gone home and smartened himself up, as
if they were of more importance than he had expected, for he kept
himself behind the others. Jo had a habit of appearing on Sunday in his
every-day attire--because everybody else wore their best on that day, it
was said--and this was one of the days he violated the custom of the
country, probably for the reason that the occasion was an extraordinary
one.
It was my father’s custom to invite the ministers who came to Fairview
to spend the day at our house, that they might be convenient for the
evening service; and although he hesitated a long while in this case, as
if afraid the accommodations he could offer were not good enough, he
hurriedly consulted with my mother at the last moment, and walked out to
the gate, when they were preparing to start for home. I could not hear
from where I stood what was said, but I believed the invitation had been
given and accepted, and when he began to look around the yard, I was so
certain that I was wanted to drive them home that I put myself in his
way, as the wagon road led through lanes and gates, and could not be
easily described. My mother had already hurried home by the path through
the field, that she might be there to meet them. When I went up to the
wagon in response to my father’s beckon, he lifted me into the seat
beside Mr. Shepherd, his wife and daughter occupying the back one, and
said I would show the way and open the gates.
As we drove off I felt that the bright eyes of the girl were devouring
my plain coat, for she sat directly behind me, and I regretted I had not
thought to ask Jo to trim my hair that morning. The grease on my rough
boots contrasted sharply with the polish of Mr. Shepherd’s patent
leathers, and my great red hands were larger than his, which were very
white, and shaped like a woman’s. I soon saw he was a poor driver, and
asked him to give me the reins, which he willingly did, with a
good-natured apology for his incapacity, pleading lack of experience in
that direction.
I knew they wanted to talk of Fairview and its people, but were shy of
me, so I pretended to be busy in looking after the horses, but they said
nothing except that there was a great number present, which was true, as
the house was full. I pointed out the houses as we went along, and tried
to be entertaining.
“Old Lee lives there,” I said, as we passed the house of the renter on
our farm. “He wasn’t at church to-day; he has probably gone over to the
turkey roost in Bill’s Creek bottom.”
I had said it to shock them, but they laughed very gayly over it, and
the girl--I had heard them call her Mateel--said she presumed that wild
turkeys were plentiful. I had secretly been longing to look at her, so I
turned partly around, and replied that the woods were full of them. She
was a very pretty girl, dressed more expensively than I had ever seen
Agnes dressed, but not with so much taste. She was rather pale, too, and
I could not help thinking that her health was not very good.
“There’re deer here, too,” I said to them, finding that the subject
promised to be amusing.
Mr. Shepherd and the girl looked very much interested, but the
minister’s wife was so stately and dignified that I felt sure I could
never be comfortable in her presence.
“One came running through our field once when Jo and I were ploughing,”
I continued. “The folks were away at camp-meeting, and Jo took the gun
and went after it. I heard him shoot after a long while, and then he
came back, and said it was too heavy for him to carry home, but that if
I would finish the land on which we were ploughing, while he rested, we
would hitch to the wagon and go after it. I felt so pleased about it
that I finished the work, and when I was through, he looked at the sun,
and said we might as well eat supper before starting, and that I had
better take the harness off the horses while they were feeding, as they
would be more comfortable. At supper he asked me if under the
circumstances I didn’t feel it a duty to give him my pie, which I did,
and after he had eaten it, he took me to one side, and said that though
he was ashamed of it himself, he was compelled to confess that he had
missed.”
This amused them more than ever, and the girl asked who Jo was. This
reminded me that I had neglected my friend, and I immediately gave a
short and glowing history of him, not failing to mention that he knew
of more turkey roosts than old Lee, and that we would visit one of them
soon, and return by their house with a fat turkey. They thanked me, and
Mr. Shepherd even said he would like to go with us, whereupon I
explained the process of killing them on moonlight nights, which was by
getting them between your gun and the moon, where they could be easily
seen.
I should no doubt have told them other things equally ridiculous, but by
this time we had reached the gates, and soon thereafter we stopped at
the house, where my father came out and took them in. When Jo appeared
to help me with the horses, I found that he was smartly dressed, and
rightly concluded that he had hurried home to change after seeing the
family at the church.
While we were at the stables he asked me a great many questions about
the girl, and I pleased him by saying that I had talked so much about
him on the way over that she had asked me who he was, and that I had
replied he was my uncle, and the principal young man in Fairview.
“What did she say then?” he asked eagerly.
“That she desired to make your acquaintance, and that she was certain
she had picked you out in church.”
It was a dreadful lie, but I did not regret it, seeing how well he was
pleased.
“Then what did you say?” he asked.
I was not certain what would please him most, so I replied that the
conversation then became general, and that Mr. Shepherd had said he
would go with us some night to the turkey roost in Bill’s Creek bottom.
When we returned to the house, the three were sitting alone in the best
room, looking idly at the books scattered about, and the few ornaments
my mother had found time to prepare. As I sat down on the sill of the
open door with a view of being handy in case I was wanted, I regretted
that Agnes was not there to entertain them, for she had gone home a few
weeks before, and I was certain they would have been surprised to find
such a bright girl in that dull country.
“Ha!” Mr. Shepherd said, when he saw me. “The young man that drove us
over. I suppose you know a great deal about horses?”
I thought he made the last remark as an apology that he had not attended
to his team himself, so I replied that I knew something about them, but
I was sorry he had chosen that subject, as it was not likely to interest
his daughter, whom I was anxious to talk with.
“I am sorry to say I know very little about horses,” he said, “but I
intend to learn. I bought mine at the station where we left the
railroad. What do you think of them?”
With a view of bringing Jo into the conversation again, I said I would
go and ask his opinion, as he was a very good judge. I returned
presently, and said Jo thought they would do very well. As if
remembering Jo as a very amusing person I had been telling them about,
he said:--
“Bring the young man in. I should like to talk with him.”
I went out after Jo, but did not go far, as he had slipped up near the
door, which stood open, to listen to what was being said. He was very
red in the face, but followed me in.
“This is your uncle Jo, is it?” Mr. Shepherd inquired, after I had sat
down again, leaving Jo standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, having a vague notion I ought to introduce
them, but not knowing how to go about it. “My uncle Jo Erring. He lives
here.”
Mr. Shepherd advanced toward him pleasantly, and I thought he reached
him just in time to keep him from falling down with fright.
“I am very glad to know you, Mr. Erring,” he said, in his easy way,
taking him by the hand. “This is my wife, and this my daughter,”
pointing to one, and then to the other, while shaking his hand. “I have
no doubt we shall become famous friends.”
Jo raised his eyes to recognize the introduction, and he said to me
afterwards that he was just getting ready to bolt out of the room, and
run away, when somehow they made it pleasant for him to stay.
My uncle was a very intelligent fellow, and he soon became quite
entertaining, giving them accounts of the country and the people which
were no doubt very droll, for when I went out presently I heard them
laughing merrily at what he said. At dinner Mr. Shepherd observed that
since becoming acquainted with Mr. Erring he felt like an old citizen,
whereupon my father looked up hurriedly and was about to ask who that
was, when he suddenly remembered, and muttered, “Oh! you mean Jo.”
It was sometimes the case that when there was company Jo and I were
compelled to wait at dinner, but I was glad that on this day Jo was
seated next Mateel, and did not suffer the humiliation. A sort of rude
politeness was natural to him, and on this occasion he displayed it to
such advantage that I glowed with pride. While the others were talking
of graver matters he gave an account of the Fairview revivals, which
amused Mateel so much that she asked to be excused for laughing. I had
never seen two persons get along better together, and I felt certain
that she would regard him as a very intelligent young man, which pleased
me, for nobody else seemed to do him justice, and they all tried to
humiliate and disgrace him whenever it was possible.
It was a very good dinner to which we sat down, and the Shepherds
complimented it so gracefully that my mother was greatly pleased;
indeed, they found it convenient to make themselves agreeable to all of
us, so that the afternoon was passed very pleasantly, more so than any
other Sunday afternoon ever passed in that house; for my father seemed
to think that if Mr. Shepherd, with all his learning, could afford to
throw aside his Sunday gloom, he would risk it. I had never seen him in
so good a humor before, but I knew he would make up for it the next day;
for whenever he was good-natured he was always particularly gloomy for a
long time after it, as though he had committed an indiscretion of which
he was ashamed.
Before night it had been arranged that Jo should drive the Shepherds
home after the service, as it would be very dark, tying a horse behind
the wagon on which to ride back; and it followed that he drove them to
the church. When we arrived there the building was crowded to its utmost
capacity; the new minister was a success.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SMOKY HILL SECRET.
It having been decided to begin the summer school a few weeks earlier
than at first intended, it became necessary for me to go after the
teacher; so it was arranged that I should drive over to Smoky Hill on
Friday, and return any time the following day.
My mother shared the feeling that the neighborhood where Agnes lived was
superior to ours--although none of us knew why we had this
impression--and after taking unusual pains with my toilet, she asked Jo
to cut my hair, which he kindly did just before I drove away in the
wagon, from the high seat of which my short legs barely touched the
floor.
I knew nothing of the settlement except the direction, which was north,
and that the uncle with whom Agnes lived was named Biggs, but they said
I could easily inquire the way. The distance was twenty miles, and by
repeated inquiries I found that Mr. Biggs--who was called Little Biggs
by those living near him--lived in the first white house after crossing
the north fork of Bull River, and when I came in sight of the place I
knew it as well as if I had lived within hailing distance all my life.
It was just such a place as I expected to find; an aristocratic porch on
two sides of a house evidently built after the plans of an
architect--the first house of such pretensions I had ever seen--with a
gravel walk leading down to the gate, and a wide and neglected yard in
front. A broken and dismantled wind-mill stood in the barn-yard, and
around it was piled a great collection of farm machinery in an equally
advanced stage of decay, all rotting away for lack of care and use.
There was a general air of neglect everywhere, and I thought Mr. Biggs
was an indifferent farmer, or else an invalid. Boards were off the
fences, and gates off the hinges, and pigs roamed in every place where
they did not belong. A herd of them, attracted by the sound of my
wheels, dashed out from under the porch, and went snorting into the
vegetable garden through a broken fence. I noticed these things as I
stopped at a large gate intended for wagons to drive through, and while
wondering whether I had better drive in there, or tie the team and walk
up to the house. While debating the question I saw that a large,
boyish-looking young man was pitching hay near the barn, and, noticing
that he had stopped his work and was looking at me, I motioned for him
to come out. Impatiently throwing down his fork, he came out to the
fence, and, resting his chin on the top board, he looked at me with
great impudence.
“Does Mr. Biggs live here?” I civilly inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Biggs lives here,” he answered, drawling the first word as if
to express disgust.
“Well, then,” I said, “if you will open the gate I’ll come in.”
He threw it open with a bang, as if to express an unfavorable opinion of
me, and I drove through, and stopped down by the stables. He followed
sullenly, after banging the gate again, and, picking up his fork without
looking at me, went on with his pitching. I began to feel uncomfortable
at this cool reception, and inquired quite respectfully:--
“Is Mr. Biggs at home?”
“No,” the fellow replied, “he’s not at home,” plunging his fork
viciously into the hay as though he were wishing I was under it.
“Is Miss Agnes at home, then?”
“Yes, Miss Agnes is at home.” He looked up in better humor, as though
the name of Agnes was not so disagreeable as that of Biggs.
“Well, I’m told to stay here to-night, and take Agnes to her school
to-morrow. If you’ll show me where to stand the horses I’ll put them
away.”
He laid down his fork at this and went to look through the stables.
There seemed to be a spring somewhere near, for the stalls were oozy and
wet, and unfit for use, and the fellow was debating in his mind which
was the worst or the best one, I could not tell which. Finally he found
a place, but the feed boxes were gone; and then another, but it had no
place for the hay. I was following him around by this time, and said the
last one would do very well, as it was the best one there.
He helped me to unhitch the horses, and while we were about it I looked
up at the house and saw Agnes at one of the windows. She went away
immediately, however, and I supposed she would be down to welcome me;
but she didn’t come, and I began to feel very uncomfortable. I had
consoled myself for the rudeness of the young man by the thought that he
would be very much ashamed of his incivility when Agnes came running
down to meet me; but she didn’t come, and kept away from the window, and
I was uncertain whether I had better return home or seek shelter for the
night at another house.
I noticed in the meantime that the fellow helping me was a giant in
stature, and that he had a very little head, on which was perched a hat
evidently bought for one of the children. The band and shape being gone,
it looked very much like an inverted V.
“I suppose you are the preacher’s boy?” he said, after eying me a long
while, as though that was a very good reason why he should dislike me.
On my replying that such was the case, he looked at me as if thinking I
was larger or smaller than he had imagined, and continued apparently in
better humor:--
“I have heard of you. I live here. I’m the hired man. My name is Big
Adam; lazy Adam, _she_ calls me.”
I had heard that little eyes denoted cunning, and little ears great
curiosity, and Big Adam’s were so particularly small that I determined
to be very wary of him during my stay.
“She owns the farm, though Biggs pretends to own it,” Big Adam went on,
“but, while they do not agree in this, they agree that Big Adam hasn’t
enough to do, and is very lazy, and between them I have a great deal of
trouble. I do all the work that is done here, and though you may think
from looking around that I am not kept very busy, I am. There are four
hundred acres here, and they expect me to keep it in a high state of
cultivation. You see how well I succeed; it’s the worst-looking place on
earth.”
I began to understand him better, and said it looked very well when I
drove up.
“May be it does--from the road, but I haven’t been out there for a year
to see. I am kept too busy. But if you stay here long I’ll take you out
into the field, and show you weeds higher than your head. Instead of
spending the money to mend the stables and fences, they buy more land
with it, to give Big Adam something to do; for they are always saying
that I am fat from idleness. I am fat, but not from idleness. I haven’t
had time this spring to comb my hair. Look at it.”
He took off the Λ-shaped hat, and held his head down for
me to see. It reminded me of the brush heaps in which we found rabbits
at home, and I wished Jo had come along; he would have been delighted to
shingle it.
“But you go into the house,” he said, putting on his hat again, and,
taking up the fork he had laid down to hunt a stall for my horses:
“you’ll hear enough of lazy Adam in there. They’ll tell you I’m lazy and
shiftless, because I can’t do the work of a dozen men; and they’ll tell
you I am surly, because I can’t cheerfully go ahead and do all they ask
me to. A fine opinion of Big Adam you’ll have when you go away; but I
ask you to notice while you are here if Big Adam is not always at work:
and Agnes will tell you--she is the only one among them who pretends to
tell the truth--that she has never seen me idle. But go on into the
house; I am not allowed to talk to strangers.”
Accepting this suggestion, I went through a gate which was torn off its
hinges and lying flat in the path, and, walking up the steps, I knocked
timidly at the front door. While waiting for some one to answer my rap,
I noticed a door-plate hanging on one screw, and, careening my head
around, read “Lytle Biggs.” I then understood why his neighbors called
him Little Biggs--it was his name.
I hadn’t time to congratulate myself on this discovery, for just then
the door-plate flew in, and Agnes stood before me. Although she was
friendly to me as usual there was a constraint in her manner that I
could not understand, and as she led the way in she looked as though she
was expecting the house to blow up.
“My uncle is away,” she said, confusedly, after we were seated in a room
opening off from the hall where I had entered, “but we expect him home
to-night. My mother is not well, and demands a great deal of care, or I
should have come down to the gate to meet you when you drove up.”
She was so ill at ease that I hurried to explain my errand, and I
thought she was greatly relieved to know I had not come on a visit.
“I shall be ready in the morning at any time you are,” she said; and I
wondered she could leave her mother, for I had been fearing that perhaps
I should have to go back without her.
There was a great romp and noise in the room above the one in which we
sat, and she looked out through the door leading into the hall as if
half expecting to see somebody come tumbling down the stairs.
“My uncle’s children,” she said, seeing I wondered at the noise. “He has
eight.”
I wondered she had not told of them before, and then I remembered that
she seldom talked of her uncle’s family or of her mother.
“How are they all?” I inquired, thinking I must say something.
There was a great crash in the room overhead and a cry of pain, and
Agnes went quickly to the door to listen. Being convinced that one of
them had fallen over a chair, she came back, and replied to my question.
“Very noisy,” she said, half laughingly. “I fear they will annoy you; it
is so quiet at your house, and there is so much confusion here.”
I said, “Oh! not at all,” not knowing what other reply to make.
“My uncle Lytle”--I pricked up my ears at this, as her pronunciation of
her uncle’s name was different from that given it by his neighbors--“my
uncle Lytle is trying to bring them up in town fashion here in the
country, and they are seldom allowed to go out of doors, so that they
can’t be blamed for being rude and bad. All of them except the baby
would be out at the stables with Big Adam if they were given the
opportunity, but their father’s orders are to keep them away from the
stables, and in the house. So we make the best of them.”
Just then they all came tearing out into the hall above to the stair
rail, and I knew they were peeping over; but some one came out hurriedly
after them, and, driving them all back into the room again, shut the
door with a bang.
“They are anxious to see you,” Agnes said, smiling. “They have the
greatest curiosity imaginable. There will be no peace until they are
allowed to look at you.”
Feeling that I was an intruder in the house, for some reason, I
suggested that she let them come down, promising I would amuse them as
best I could. She thought a moment, and then, excusing herself, went
out. After a long time I heard her coming back with them. Six of them
rushed into the room ahead of her, and, taking up a position behind the
chairs, looked at me curiously. The other two she carried in her arms,
one of them being an infant not more than four or five months old.
They seemed a queer lot to me, their clothing being of a pattern I had
never seen before, and I noticed that the boys wore their hair in long
curls, and that their frocks were braided. All of their faces were pale,
which did not result solely from their being lately washed, and the
older boys were dressed in short trousers, and wore shoes, though it was
summer, a peculiarity which attracted my attention particularly, because
most of the boys I had known went barefooted. Agnes placed the baby on
my knee, and I soon had all the children about me, asking questions and
going through my pockets. Indeed, I succeeded very well in amusing them.
While they were playing around, I heard some one come down the stairs,
and go down the hall to a door which I judged led into the kitchen.
Presently Agnes went out too, and I supposed they were making
arrangements for supper, which thought was probably suggested by the
fact that it was late, and that I was very hungry. The children amused
themselves with me for a considerable time, and were more noisy than
ever, when unfortunately one of them fell headlong over a chair and set
up a most terrible cry. Immediately a little dried-up old woman came
hurrying into the room, who, picking up the screaming one, and roughly
taking the baby out of my arms, drove them all up the stairs before her,
slapping and banging them as they went, so that they were all screaming
by the time the door up stairs closed upon them.
While she was collecting them I saw that the newcomer’s hair was twisted
behind her head in a tight little knot, and that she was very slender,
and very short; that her features were small and sharp, and dried-up
like a mummy’s, and that, altogether, she was the most repulsive-looking
creature I had ever seen. I half expected that she would give me a rap
as she went out, she looked so sour and ugly. I supposed she was a
servant; possibly Adam’s mother, and when Agnes came in, which she did a
moment after, looking very much frightened, I had it in my mind to say
that the old woman of the sky had swept the children away with a
broomstick.
“I was afraid they would annoy you,” she said hurriedly, as though it
was necessary to say something before I could remark on the queer little
old woman who had driven them away.
I was about to reply that we were getting along very well until one of
them fell down, when she continued:--“My uncle has just driven up. He is
coming in.”
At that moment the door opened softly, and a very small and handsomely
dressed man stepped into the room. He spoke to Agnes pleasantly, and as
he looked inquiringly at me, she explained:--
“One of my pupils from Fairview, Ned Westlock. I shall go home with him
to-morrow, as the school opens a week earlier than was expected.”
I knew now why his neighbors called him Little Biggs--because he was
very short, and very thin, and very little.
“Ah! Ned Westlock.”
After he had said this, he looked at me very attentively while he
removed his gloves. Placing them in his tall hat, he set both away, and
came back to me.
“I am very glad to know you,” Mr. Biggs said. “I am glad to have you a
guest at our house.”
This was encouraging, as nobody else had said as much, and I felt
better.
“I need not apologize,” he said, “for the rough but honest ways of us
farmers,” looking admiringly at his thin legs, and brushing at a speck
of dirt which seemed to be on one of them, “for I believe you come of an
agricultural family yourself.”
I was surprised at this reference to his rough ways, for he was
extremely fastidious in his dress and manner. I managed to admit,
however, that I came of an agricultural family.
“Those of us who live in the country, and earn our bread in the sweat of
our brow,” Mr. Biggs went on, seating himself beside me, “cannot be
particular. Our clothing, our food, and our ways are rough, but
substantial and honest. We have other matters to look after, such as
following the plough, sowing the grain, and tossing the hay. We may have
our ambitions like other men, but they are dwarfed and bent by holding
the plough, and pitching the hay. When did you come, and how long do you
stay?”
I replied that I had arrived but a few hours before, and that I would
depart the next day at any hour Agnes was ready.
“I am sorry,” Mr. Biggs was good enough to say, “I should be delighted
to show you how we carry on a four hundred acre farm. Other great
farmers have from four to a dozen hired men about them, but Big Adam and
I do all the work here; and we are equal to it, though it keeps us very
busy, as you will imagine. We have no time for the fine arts, you may be
certain.”
He ran on gayly in this way, making himself out in ignorance and muscle
the equal of one of our Fairview farmers, although he was really nothing
else to my mind than a fop, until Agnes came in and said we were to walk
out to supper. There was no one in the supper room when we entered it,
and although I expected other members of the family every moment, none
came. Agnes was there most of the time, but did not sit down, and
supplied the place of a servant.
“Those of us who live in the country,” said Mr. Biggs, helping me to
meat and bread with the greatest ceremony, “cannot be particular as to
what we eat, except that it is substantial and hearty. Meat and bread
and milk make muscle, and muscle is in great demand on a farm. Big Adam
and I find a great deal of it necessary in tilling these four hundred
acres, therefore we insist on plenty of plain and substantial food.
Excuse me, if I eat like a hog.”
The supper was a very good one, but he talked a great deal about its
being plain but hearty; and although he was dainty in his eating, and
ate nothing but bread and milk, and toasted bread and tea, he kept
apologizing for his ravenous appetite. He had something to say, too,
about shovelling in his food with a knife, and bolting it--he did
neither, but on the contrary was very delicate--and as he kept watching
me, I thought that he must be apologizing for his guest, which made me
very uncomfortable at my bad manners, for up to that time I had not been
backward in falling to. But as he continued to denounce his unnatural
craving for food, and frequently expressed the fear that the meal lacked
so much of what I was accustomed to, that I could not possibly make out
a comfortable supper, I finally made up my mind he did not mean me at
all.
When I had finished he was waiting for me, and we adjourned to the room
in which I had played with the children. Lighting a cigar (which he said
was a very poor one, but which he observed in the course of the evening,
as an example of his extravagance, had cost twenty cents) he took a
dressing-gown from a closet, and, putting it on, sat down before me, the
picture of luxurious ease.
While we sat there I heard the family of eight, accompanied by their
mother and the little old woman who had frightened me, come banging down
the stairs, and file into the supper room, where there were a steady
noise and wrangle until they had finished and gone up the stairs again.
I heard Big Adam protesting to some one that it was not pleasant to be
always “jawed at,” and that he did all he could; but when the argument
threatened to become boisterous, I heard a pleasanter voice intercede,
and establish a peace, and I was sure this was Agnes’s. Mr. Biggs
stopped once or twice to listen to the confusion, as if trying to hear
what was being said, but recollecting that if he could hear, I could as
well, he began talking again to draw my attention from it. He tried to
make me believe the children were making the disturbance, and said:--
“There can be no order in a house full of children, and very little
comfort.” He stopped to think a moment, but the uproar in the supper
room was so great that he went on trying to draw my attention away from
it. “I confess to thinking something of them, but every pleasure they
bring is accompanied by inconvenience, expense, and annoyance. Have I
told you yet that I am a philosopher?”
I had suspected that something was wrong with him, though I could not
tell what it was. I replied politely, however, that he had not.
“Well, I am one,” the little man said with a show of pride. “A great
many men regard children as blessings. Now I have failed to discover any
kind of a blessing or pleasure in being called up in the middle of the
night to run for a doctor when there is croup in the house. Usually,
too, in such cases the medical man lives a great many miles away, over a
rough road. Whenever I go to bed early to make up lost sleep, or come
home particularly tired from tossing the hay or holding the plough,
either Annie, or Bennie, or Carrie, or Davie, or Effie, or Fannie, or
Georgie, or Harry, is sick, and I am compelled to go for a doctor. This
never fails if the night is very wet, the roads unusually heavy, or the
weather particularly cold. While everybody admires little children, I am
sure they would be much more popular if their teeth came more easily;
and that there would be a greater demand for them if they did not take a
hundred different diseases to which they are not exposed. I am that kind
of philosopher.”
The fire in the end of his cigar having about gone out, from holding it
in his hand and waving it at me, he revived it with a great deal of
puffing, and went on:--
“Understand me, Ned Westlock; I do not complain. I am like other men,
except that I am not a fool; and while I accept the bitter with the
sweet, I point out the bitter and refuse to call it palatable. I am at a
loss to understand, for example, why the Creator is more considerate of
pigs than He is of children; for I believe pigs cut their teeth before
birth, and seldom die except when fat from good health, and at the hands
of a butcher. Children, on the other hand”--he used his right hand to
represent the pigs, and his left to represent the children--“are never
well, and for every tooth there is an insolent doctor with a bill, to
say nothing of measles, coughs, rashes, and fevers. I have seen it
estimated that it requires three thousand eight hundred and seventy-nine
dollars and thirty-five or forty cents to raise a baby to manhood or
womanhood. A pig may be raised to maturity with a few hundred buckets of
slop, a few bushels of corn, and a wisp of hay occasionally for a bed.
What do you think of that?”
As he looked at me as though I had been stubbornly arguing the cause of
the children, I replied that the pigs had the best of it, so far,
decidedly.
“If you have never talked with a philosopher before, you may never have
had your attention called to the fact, which possibly has escaped your
own notice, that children do not appreciate good treatment, as do pigs
and other animals. The very worst thing you can do for a boy is to treat
him well. Where do you find the good boys?”
He made a pause as if expecting a reply, and I said, “I don’t know,” but
I knew at once that he was impatient that I had replied, for he wanted
to do all the talking himself.
“In families where boys are always hungry and abused,” he resumed.
“Where do you find your bad boys? In families where they are treated
well, of course. A boy who has plenty to eat, and plenty to wear, and
nothing to do, is always impudent and worthless; and parents who go to
trouble and expense that their children may be happy and idle pay a big
price for a pestilence. I do not pretend to say that in practice I am
more of a philosopher than my neighbors; but it is a fact, nevertheless,
that the pig that slips into the house and litters it up is beaten with
a broomstick until he understands, when tempted on future occasions,
that the practice is dangerous. If the pigs get on the porch, and you
open the door suddenly, they run away in great haste, having been taught
by harsh means that they are not expected there; and if we would teach
children in the same way, we should have more comfort with them. But
practically we regard the training of pigs as more important than the
training of children, and suffer much discomfort in consequence. I
recognize certain inexorable masters, and obey them to avoid
uncomfortable consequences; and a child must have a master, or it will
become disagreeable and annoying.”
He stopped to listen to the noise made by his family up stairs. It was
very uproarious, and I thought he was regretting that his philosophy had
not been made to bear some practical fruit.
“If you were a young man,” he continued, coming out of a brown study,
“and had driven from Fairview to ask my advice on this question, I
should advise you thus: ‘Sir, if you covet the society of little
children, hire them to play at your house until you are tired; for then
you can send them away, and enjoy the quiet following their absence. You
will find that pleasant enough, but if you have a house full of your
own, that alters the case; for like the deserving poor, they then are
always with you--in sickness as well as in health, and when they are
disagreeable as well as when they are not.’ That would be my candid
advice; you may accept it, or let it alone, as you choose.”
He waved the hand at me which he had previously used to represent the
pigs, as though I had been asking him to counsel me on the subject, and
as if he were impatient that I did not accept his advice at once. But
recollecting himself, he took a delicate knife from his pocket, and
after profuse apologies for his ill-manners, proceeded to pare his
finger nails, looking occasionally at me as if doubting my ability to
understand his philosophy, for I had scarcely said a word in reply to
it.
“I understand your father is a singer,” he said, after his fingers were
mentally pronounced satisfactory.
I replied with a show of pride that he had the finest voice ever heard
in Fairview church, and that he was famous for it.
“He ought to stop it,” Mr. Biggs abruptly said. “People enjoy his
singing, I have no doubt, but if he were a friend of mine--I have not
even the pleasure of his acquaintance--I would say to him, ‘Quit
singing, Reverend John, if you would become great.’ How does it come he
is not in the Legislature? Because he sings. The people do not associate
statesmanship with singing. When a man is honored for singing, he is
honored for little else. Did you ever know a great man who sang?”
I replied that I had not, for I had never known a great man.
“Well,” he answered curtly, “I know them all, and none of them sing. Or
play. The darkey who can sing and dance is popular with an idle crowd,
but the solid people who have gardens to spade, or walls to whitewash,
avoid the musical negro, for his talent is likely to be exhausted in
that direction. I don’t pretend to know why it is against a man that he
is able to entertain people with his voice, or with the skill of his
fingers; I only know it is the case. It would be a kindness for somebody
to say as much to Reverend John; you may convey the information to him,
with my compliments, if you wish.”
I had been wishing all evening that Agnes would come in, and ask me to
sing, as I thought I had talent in that direction, and even debated in
my mind whether I would roar the “Hunter’s Horn,” or “Glorious Day of
Rest” for the amusement of my host; but I was now glad she had been so
considerate of my feelings, and spared me the humiliation. I was quite
certain that if she should ask me to sing after what Mr. Biggs had said,
I should declare I had never attempted to do such a ridiculous thing.
“Every man who tells an uncomfortable truth,” Mr. Biggs began again,
after lighting a fresh cigar by the remains of the old one, “is called a
beast. I am called a beast in this neighborhood (which is known for
taxing and voting purposes as Smoky Hill) because I tell a great many
unpalatable truths; I have eyes and intelligence, therefore I cannot
help noticing (and mentioning) that the people of this country pay more
attention to raising thorough-bred stock than to raising thorough-bred
children which you must admit is ridiculous. I hear that The. Meek, for
instance, has his stable full of fine stock, and his house full of
sore-eyed children. The. Meek is evidently an ass; I’m glad I do not
know him. If I did, I should make myself disagreeable by mentioning the
circumstance.”
I may as well mention here that Mr. Biggs was not the kind of man he
claimed to be. On the contrary, he made his living by indorsing the
follies of other people, but he had pointed out their mistakes to
himself so often that I suppose he really believed he was generally
despised for telling the truth.
“We have many of the same kind of men in Smoky Hill. It affords me
pleasure to assure you that I am unpopular with them, and they take
great comfort in the belief that I am likely to die in a year or two of
consumption. But I have already had the satisfaction of attending the
funerals of five men who predicted that I was not long for the world; I
expect to help bury the rest of them at intervals in the future. While I
get a little stronger every year, by care and common sense, they get a
little weaker, by carelessness and ignorance, and finally they are
buried, with L. Biggs, Esq., the consumptive, looking contentedly on.
The trouble with these men is that they eat everything coming in their
way, like pigs, lacking observation to teach them that a greater number
of people die of over-feeding than die of over-drinking or over-working.
The last Smoky Hill glutton that died was the Most Worthy Chief of a
temperance society, and he was always quarreling with his wife because
she didn’t have pie for breakfast. For my part, I detest pie.”
I was about to say that while I agreed with him in everything else, I
should be compelled to make an exception in the pie particular; but he
did not give me opportunity, for he proceeded:--
“In my visits to the homes of cultured but unwise people, I am
frequently tempted to do violence to my stomach by eating late at night,
but recollecting the fate of the Smoky Hill men, I respectfully decline.
When I am offered cake, and nightmare in other forms, I do not greedily
accept and devour everything set before me, but instead I say, ‘If you
have cold oatmeal mush, or a bit of graham bread, I will refresh myself
with that, but no cake, I thank you, although the assortment is fine,
and reflects great credit on the lady of the house.’ Thus I preserve my
health, and prove my philosophy. But no doubt I am wearying you; I will
show you to bed.”
He did not ask me whether I was tired of his company, but picked up the
light as though he could decide questions for boys without their
assistance, and leading the way up stairs, I meekly followed. Opening a
door after reaching the upper floor, he gave me the light, said good
night, and went down again, as though he had not had enough of his own
company, and would sit up a while longer.
There were two comfortable beds in the room to which Mr. Biggs had shown
me, and Big Adam occupied one of them already, sound asleep. His clothes
were piled up in a heap by the side of it, with the Λ-shaped hat on top,
ready to go on the first thing in the morning. He mumbled occasionally
in his sleep, and I thought he was saying he did the best he could, and
that it wasn’t pleasant to be “jawed at,” which made me think again of
the terrible old woman with the parchment face, the little head, the
little body, and the little knot of hair on the back of her head. I felt
like kneeling down by my bed and praying that the queer woman might not
have a habit of walking through the house at night, accompanied by the
kitchen butcher-knife freshly sharpened at the grindstone, for there was
no lock on the door. But speedily occupying the other bed, and putting
out the light, I had hardly begun thinking of the curious family before
I was sound asleep.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CHARITY OF SILENCE.
When I went down to breakfast the next morning, I found Agnes waiting
for me, and the meal ready; and as was the case the night before, she
presided at the table without sitting down. I ate alone, and in silence,
as it was explained that Mr. Biggs was not yet up, though it was late,
and Agnes did not seem to be in a mood for talking. The circumstance
that other members of the family kept out of the room made me think that
I was regarded in the house as a sort of a machine likely to explode and
hurt somebody, and could be approached only by those who knew where the
safety valve was which blew me off; for I supposed Mrs. Biggs and Mrs.
Deming to be very aristocratic people, who could not tolerate a
country-bred boy. Therefore I did not feel in very good humor myself,
thinking that Agnes was ashamed to exhibit me to her friends. Going out
to the stables in lazy preparation for returning home, I found Big Adam
pitching hay, as I had left him the day before.
“Well, young Westlock, how are you now?” he inquired, leaning on his
fork.
I returned his greeting, and said I would hitch up when he had time to
help me.
“You needn’t be in a hurry about it,” he said, returning to his work.
“If I were you I would manage to get home just at dark, for then you’ll
have nothing to do during the day. If you get back too early the
preacher may find something for you to do.”
There was a good deal of truth in this, and I thanked him for the
suggestion.
“I know something about hired help and boys on a farm. I have had a ripe
experience in the service of Biggs. I thought he would talk you to death
last night; it’s a terrible death to die. What did he say?”
I repeated portions of the conversation, and gave particular stress to
what he had said concerning his and Big Adam’s doing the work of half a
dozen men.
“He is always saying that,” Big Adam said indignantly, “but I assure you
on my honor that he never held a plough or pitched hay a day in his
life. Why, he is not here a third of his time. He came home last night
after an absence of four weeks; I don’t know where he has been, but to
some of the towns a long way off, probably. At ten or eleven o’clock he
will breakfast, and then I shall hitch up and drive him over the place,
during which time he will point out and suggest enough work to keep a
dozen men busy for months; and after assuring me it ought all to be done
before night, he will return to the house to lounge about. In a day or
two he will go away again, and come back when he gets ready. That’s the
kind of a farmer Biggs is, but I must say for him that he is quiet and
peaceable. I wish I could say as much for his sister, the old pelican.”
Up to this time Big Adam had been wearing his Λ-shaped hat
so far back on his head that I was wondering it did not fall off; but as
if there were some people so contemptible that he could not possibly
mention them without showing his temper, he jerked the hat over on his
low forehead when he said this, and, looking out from under it with his
little eyes, viciously said, “Damn.”
“And who is his sister?” I asked.
“Old Missus Deming, Agnes’s mother; the little old woman they were
careful you should not see.”
It came to me all at once--how foolish of me not to have thought of it
before--why Agnes never talked about her mother, and why she always
seemed to be glad to be away from her; she was disagreeable, not only to
Big Adam, but to every one around her. I understood now that Agnes was
frightened when I first came for fear I should see her mother, and not
for fear her mother would see me, as I had imagined; and I felt so much
better that I had a mind to walk in the yard in plain view of the house,
that Mrs. Deming might regret not having made my acquaintance. I told
Adam that I had seen her, however, and narrated the circumstance of her
appearance in the room after the children.
The hired man expressed his satisfaction at this very much as I have
seen young colts express it, by kicking his legs out in various
directions, and snorting. After he had enjoyed himself in this manner
for a while he said:--
“It’s just like her, though. They might have known better than to have
left her alone. It’s a wonder she didn’t hit you; I wish she had, for
then you would despise her, as I do.”
He continued to chuckle to himself as though it was a satisfaction to
him that I had seen his enemy; and putting his finger in his mouth, he
drew it out in such a manner that it sounded like pulling a cork; then
thumping his jaws he made a sound of liquor coming out of a bottle. This
pantomime I interpreted to mean that if he were better off he would
celebrate the event with something expensive to drink. I found out
afterward that this was a habit with him when in a good humor, and he
had acquired such skill by practice that if your back was turned to him
the deception was perfect.
“She’s the worst woman on earth,” he continued, leading me behind the
barn to be more confidential. “They say she never smiled in her life,
and I believe it. She grumbles, and growls, and jaws from morning until
night; but what can they do? Bless you, she owns the farm!”
I looked astonished, to induce him to go on.
“Yes, she owns the place, and you bet she looks after it. When she came
here with Agnes, six or seven years ago, her brother had a great tract
of land bought on credit, and she paid for it with the money she brought
along, and built the house you slept in last night. Since then she has
been so disagreeable that Biggs is seldom at home, and won’t see her
when he is. Did you see his wife?”
I replied that I had been denied that pleasure.
“You would have seen a sight if you had; a woman who hasn’t combed her
hair for six years, because she has that old hen to look after, besides
the care of the children. I don’t believe she ever sleeps; for if I wake
up in the night she is either being railed at by that she devil or is up
with the children. I believe she is the only person living whose lot is
worse than mine. When I am in the field I am out of my misery, but she
never has that opportunity of escaping hers. When Agnes is away I often
cook my own meals, and I am the only one besides Agnes that pays her any
attention. Except to keep a family of children around her, I think Biggs
never notices her; and when he is at home he occupies a room away from
the noise and confusion. But she is patient, and never complains,
although there is no hope; for the old woman will outlive us all. She
lives on growling and grumbling, for she is afraid to eat for fear of
poison, and hesitates to sleep for visions of strangling. She talks
about poisoning and strangling for hours at a stretch, and accuses the
Biggses of wanting to murder her, because she knows it humiliates them.
I hear that her late husband was a fine fellow, a sea captain. He was a
very sensible man, I judge, for he drowned himself rather than live with
her. I think a great deal of Captain Deming’s memory; he is the only
great man I know even by reputation. Here’s to him.”
He pulled another cork, which appeared to come with difficulty, and
thumped on his jaws to represent the gurgling of liquor as it flows out
of the bottle.
“Agnes is like him. It will be a great relief to her to go home with
you. Does she ever talk of her mother?”
“No,” I answered.
“I thought not; nor does she ever talk of the Devil. But I’ll be bound
she talks a great deal of her father. I think Agnes will never marry,
preferring to remain an old maid rather than introduce a husband to her
mother; and I don’t blame her. She complains during the few weeks that
the poor girl is at home because Agnes is not away earning money for her
strong-box, into which goes every dollar of it. If Agnes has any money,
Biggs gives it to her; for she has to account for every penny of her
earnings to her mother, who says she needs that, and more, to buy
something decent to wear. She talks a great deal about having nothing
decent to wear, as if anything would look well on her angular old bones
except a shroud.”
“What does Biggs do for a living?” I asked, anxious to know as much
about the family as possible.
“To be candid with you,” Big Adam replied, in a confidential way, “I
don’t know; although he has some way of making money, for he always has
it. He organizes the farmers for one thing, and is a member of the
Legislature for another. Once he started a Farmers’ Store here, at a
place over in the hills there,” pointing in the direction, “where the
roads cross, and where the Smoky Hill post-office is kept. He told the
people they must organize for protection, and he somehow made them agree
to patronize his store if he would start one. They were honest men who
made the agreement, and lived up to it a long while; but in time they
found out that he was charging them a great deal more for his goods than
the dangerous men he had warned them against in town. I was in the place
when they came in to hang him; and one man walked up to the rope-reel,
and wanted to know how much rope would be necessary. But Biggs made them
a speech from a vinegar barrel, and so worked upon their feelings that
they went away content with the harmless revenge of calling him a little
whiffet. Biggs put me in charge, and galloped away to find a purchaser
for his store. He found one by representing that an entire neighborhood
of fools had signed an agreement to pay him in cash whatever price he
asked for his goods. The purchaser wanted to shoot Biggs when he found
out how matters really stood--for he had paid a big price--but for some
reason he changed his mind. Biggs is that kind of man. Now you know as
much about him as I do.”
As though he had been idling away too much time already, Big Adam began
to work with great energy, and refused to talk any more, so I put the
horses to the wagon alone; but after I had driven through the gate and
into the road he came out as if there was one word more he desired to
say, and lifting himself up by putting one foot on the wheel, he
whispered in my ear:--
“My father was killed by the Indians.”
He looked so distressed that I expressed some sort of regret, and said
it was a pity.
“Good-bye,” he added, giving me his hand; “my last name is Casebolt. My
mother is married the second time.”
I shook his great fat hand again, and he went back to his work. Driving
round to the front of the house I found Agnes waiting for me, and,
lifting her little trunk into the wagon, we drove away, no one appearing
at the doors or windows to bid her good-bye. My mother had told me to
invite Mrs. Deming to visit her, but out of regard for Agnes I resolved
to say that I had forgotten it. As we went past the stables Big Adam
motioned for me to stop, and raising himself up beside me by putting his
foot on the wheel again, he whispered,--
“My brothers and sisters are all dead.”
He stepped down from the wheel; and putting the whip to the horses I
soon left the place behind me.
I saw that Agnes had been crying, for her eyes were red and swollen; but
I pretended not to notice it, and hoped her spirits would revive as we
neared Fairview.
“You will excuse me, Ned,” she said, after we had driven a long time in
silence, “if I have neglected you, but I have not been myself for
several days. Big Adam talks a great deal, and I saw you down in the
yard with him a long while. You should not believe all he says. I am
unhappy on my own account.”
I did not know what to say in reply, for I was anxious for her to
believe that I thought her mother was not at home, or something of that
sort; so I jerked one of the horses roughly, and said “Whoa,” as if the
animal were preparing to run away. I knew she was distressed that I knew
how unhappy she was at home, and was trying to lay the blame on herself,
as she did in everything; therefore I watched the dangerous horse very
intently for several minutes, and finally got down to walk around the
wagon, to see if anything was wrong. After I had pounded the tires
awhile with a stone, although they were new, I climbed back into my
seat, and we drove on again.
“The people of Fairview have been very kind to me,” Agnes continued, not
minding that I did not care to talk on the subject, “and I have been
happier there than here; although it is very ungrateful in me, and a
poor return for the patient way in which they bear with me at home. I am
so wicked and selfish.”
The tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and I wondered whether it was
wrong to tell white lies, for I was sure Agnes was fibbing in defence of
her family. She thought about the matter a long time after that, and
looked at me narrowly,--although I pretended not to know it,--and seemed
to conclude at last that I had made good use of my time with Big Adam,
and that she must depend upon the charity of my silence. Any way, she
said no more upon the subject, and we rode in silence for several miles.
“You have always taken a great interest in my father,” she said, at
last, wiping her eyes, and dismissing the unpleasant subject. “I have
brought you his picture as a present.”
She took it out of a little package she carried, and gave it to me. It
was a handsome face, and looked very much as I had imagined, except that
it was clean-shaven. I put it away carefully, and she said:--
“My life would have been very different had he lived, and I should not
have been so unkind to every one. He was always so brave and good that I
should have striven to be like him, for everybody loved him. But he is
dead, and I cannot be content without him. It is this that makes me
fretful, and unworthy of my many good friends. Oh dear, I am going to
cry.”
She did cry again, apologizing for it in a way that reminded me of her
uncle; and I sat there feeling like a fool while she was giving vent to
her grief, and until she had regained her self-possession once more.
“I am sorry I did not see him buried, and that he did not have a quiet
place to rest,” Agnes continued, wiping her eyes; “for I dream at night
of his storm-tossed ship, and always think of the sea as forever rolling
and tossing his poor body about, refusing it rest and peace. Often in
the wicked waves I see his white face turned imploringly to me, and the
noises of the night I torture into his cries to me for help. If I knew
where he was buried, and could sometimes visit his grave, I should be
more content, and less unhappy.”
I had heard a song called “When the Sea gives up its Dead,” and without
thinking what I did I softly hummed it.
“When he came home at the time I saw him last, he carried me about in
his great strong arms along the beach, and said that if some day he
never came back, for me not to dislike the sea, for it had been his
friend in many a storm, and had rocked him to sleep almost every night
since he was born. ‘It will never prove treacherous,’ he said. ‘My ship
may, but never the sea. The “Agnes” is not like the stout girl in whose
honor she was named; she is getting old, and should she founder with me
in the storms, and go down, never feel unkindly toward the sea. It has
been my friend so many years that should it swallow me up I desire you
to think that I deserved it.’ He went away soon after that, and we have
never seen him since.”
Although the tears came into her eyes again, she bravely wiped them
away.
“I am sorry for you,” I made bold to say, looking at her pretty face. “I
wish I were a man, and old enough; I would marry you, and make you happy
in spite of yourself. I cannot tell you how much I desire your good, or
how much I love you. Your presence at our house has made us a different
family. My mother is more content, and my father less gloomy; and surely
Jo and I know more since you came. I love you because you are good and
pretty, and I think you are prettier to-day than I have ever seen you
before. If I were a little older I would fall in love with you, and
worry you a great deal with my attentions.”
“It wouldn’t worry me, Ned,” she answered, with a return of her old
cheerfulness. “I should like it. But I thought you were in love with
me.”
“Oh, I am, of course--as a boy,” I answered; “but I mean if I were a
man. If you should concentrate the love you distribute in Fairview on
one man, I should like to be the man. That’s what I mean. You love
everybody in Fairview just alike.”
“I am not so certain of that,” she replied. “I think I am very partial
to you. Who is most gallant and thoughtful to me of all my pupils? Why,
you are, of course; and I love you best of any of them. When I get to be
an old woman, and you a young man, I shall show my love for you by
selecting you a wife; and if I am unable to find you a very good one,
you shall remain single, as I intend to do. I regard you as my best
friend, and I want you to think so. When you came yesterday, I wanted to
run down and kiss you, but I could not leave my mother.”
“But you never have kissed me,” I said, “although you say you love me.”
“I will now, if you will let me,” she replied, and putting her arms
round me, she kissed me as innocently as if I had been a child. I was
very much abashed but thanked her as for any other favor.
“You are the first girl that ever kissed me,” I said.
“Well, let me be the last one, unless I should want to kiss you again.
But we are in sight of Fairview, and while we are alone, I want to tell
you about Big Adam. His father is an outlaw, living somewhere in the
great West; and, although he occasionally comes to Smoky Hill, it is
always at night. His mother is a rough woman who smokes and drinks, and
his brothers and sisters are very bad people. I don’t know where they
all live, though I frequently hear of them, but never anything to their
credit. It is said that his mother’s house, which is situated in a deep
hollow near the river, is a rendezvous for bad men, and frequently it is
raided by the officers looking for her bold husband. Big Adam is the
only honest one among them, and that is why he says they are all dead;
but even he talks too much.”
I knew she wanted me to believe that he had misrepresented her family,
though she was certain he had not; therefore I only said that Fairview
church looked very pretty from the high point over which the road led
us. I had never thought so before, but the country surrounding it was
much finer than the Smoky Hill district, and I began to think that if I
could travel more I might grow more content with my own home.
Our house was built in a rather low place, and I noticed with surprise,
what I had not had opportunity of noticing before, that a great many new
fields were being opened in different directions. Fairview was quietly
and rapidly settling up.
“Anything Big Adam may have said to you,” Agnes said as we were nearing
the house, “is to be private between you and me.”
I readily promised, though I had been thinking but a moment before of
adding largely to it, and astonishing Jo.
“Since we are good friends we must have our secrets, and this is our
first one. You may tell Jo that I kissed you.”
I blushed because she had divined that I intended to tell him about her
mother, but comforted myself with the reflection that she could not know
for a certainty.
My mother was waiting for us; and the place was so quiet and pleasant,
and the late dinner she had prepared so good, that I began to feel like
a very favored fellow. Jo and the man of the house were away somewhere,
and we spent the afternoon like three happy children, suddenly free from
some exacting restraint. Agnes and I made so much of my mother, that I
remember her as being happier on that day than any other, and when I
think of her now, so long after, I am glad that it is as she sat in her
easy chair between us that afternoon, saying little, but looking content
and happy.
CHAPTER X.
JO ERRING MAKES A FULL CONFESSION.
Inasmuch as that young man continued to haul stone to Erring’s Ford for
a dam, and would talk of nothing else, it became certain, in course of
time, that Jo would never make a farmer; so it was agreed, at a
convention attended by my father and my grandmother, that he should be
apprenticed for two years to Damon Barker, of the establishment on Bull
River. Barker had suggested it, I believe, as he needed some one to
assist him, and was much pleased with Jo besides, who had already
learned to help him in many ways during visits to the place. These
visits were allowed to become frequent and protracted when it was
decided that he should be sent there to learn milling as a business.
When it was announced to Jo that the arrangement had been made--it was
one Sunday afternoon--he took me out to the hayloft of the stable to
talk about it.
“I am to be given a chance,” he said, “and that is all I ask. I intend
to work hard, and at the end of two years I shall be in position to
commence my mill in earnest. I am seventeen years old now; I shall be
nineteen then, and by the time I am twenty-one, ‘Erring’s Mill’ will be
in operation. It seems a very long time to wait, and a big undertaking,
but it is the best I can do.”
He was lying on his back, looking through the holes in the roof at the
sky, and I thought more than ever that he was brave and capable, and
that he had always been treated unjustly in Fairview. I was
thinking--it had not occurred to me before--that I should be very
lonesome without him; and he seemed to be thinking of it, too, for he
said:--
“But it is only for three or four years, Ned,” as if we had been talking
instead of thinking of the separation, “and at the end of that time I
may be able to make you my assistant, or, better still, my partner. We
have had a very wretched time of it in the past, but there may be a
great deal of pleasure in store for us in the future. If we work as hard
as we expect, I believe everything will come out right yet. They say you
are old of your age. I am not old of my age; on the other hand I am very
dull: but I shall be a man then, and in any event one need not be old to
be useful. People here think differently, but it is because the
community is slow and ignorant. Here the man who owns a piece of land
and a team is supposed to have accomplished all that it is possible for
a man to accomplish; but Barker told me once that there are men who make
a Fairview fortune in a day. I don’t want to be like the people here,
for none of them are contented or happy; but I intend to be like the
people who I am certain live in other countries. I cannot believe but
that there is a better way to live than that accepted at Fairview, and
that somewhere--I don’t know where, for I have never travelled--happy
homes may be found, and contented people, where parents love their
children, and where people love their homes. Therefore I shall begin
differently, and work harder, and to more purpose, than the people here
have done, to the end that I may be a different man.”
Heaven help you, Jo, in that. There never was a happy man in Fairview,
and I hoped with all my heart that Jo might become one, as he deserved.
“I have always been lonely and friendless,” he went on. “They never
wanted me at home; your father never seemed satisfied with me here, and,
excepting you, I have never had a friend in my life. I care nothing for
my family; I fear it is sad depravity, but I cannot help it. They have
never treated me well, and care nothing for me, and I cannot feel kindly
toward them, for no one can love without a reason. You do not fall in
love with the woman that wounds you, but you do fall in love with the
woman that is kind to you. I think a great deal of you, but you gave me
reason for it by thinking a great deal of me. I never knew until I
thought of going away how much I did think of you.”
He talked so pitifully of the neglect to which he had always been
subject, and I knew so well it was true, that I could only reply through
my tears that he was my best friend, and that I thought more of him than
any one else in the world.
“While they all occasionally have kind words for others, they never have
a word of encouragement for me, but I am glad that I did not deserve it.
I should hate to feel that I deserve all the unkindness I have received
here, and that I was as idle and unworthy as they seem to think me; but
I never did, and I hope you honestly think so. You are the only one
among them who was fair and just, and after I have gone away I shall
only have you to remember pleasantly. I am glad that I am going to a
place at last where I shall be welcome and useful.”
I thought that afternoon that all of them were unjust to Jo and steadily
refused to give him the credit he deserved; I think so now, a great many
years after, with a maturer mind and greater experience.
“We have been very ignorant here, you and I.” It was very disgraceful,
but very true. “Your father is wise enough, but as he takes no pains to
impart it to others, we have had little benefit of his wisdom. For the
next two years I shall live with a man who is educated, and who will
willingly teach me, and I intend to tax his patience with my studies.
Barker is not only learned, but he is courteous, and I can learn
something of polite manners. He bows like a king; only a very few men
are able to make a really good bow. I asked him once where he learned
it, but he only laughed, and said everyone ought to be polite without
learning it anywhere. It made me ashamed, for politeness never came
natural with me. Perhaps I am so awkward because I do not come of a good
family.”
Certainly his father and mother were not polite to each other, or to
their son.
“I have made many terrible mistakes from not knowing any better, and
they will humiliate me all my life. Once I went with your mother to call
at the new minister’s--this is in the strictest confidence, and never to
be repeated--and I did a thing so dreadful that I am blushing now in
thinking of it. I wore a little cap (I have since burned it), and
although I know now it was hideously ugly, I thought then that it made
me very handsome. I bought it of a boy who had lived in town, and I had
seen town boys wear them. So I shuffled into their parlor wearing your
father’s boots, with a pair of his pantaloons tucked into their tops,
and the cap on my head. The Shepherds are very well-bred people, and
after I had stumbled across the room, and fallen into a chair all in a
heap, Mateel--how pretty she was that night, and how pretty she always
is!--came over to me, and asked to lay away my cap. I thought it very
amiable in me not to trouble her, so I refused to give it up. In fact, I
said:--
“‘NO, I THANK YOU; I AM VERY COMFORTABLE AS I AM!’
“And I sat the entire evening through with that cap on my head. Nobody
had ever told me to remove my cap in the presence of ladies, and being
of a poor family, I did not know it without being told. I know better
now, for Barker laughed at me, and explained why it was wrong.”
Under other circumstances I should have laughed, but Jo was so serious
that I did not think of it.
“They asked me to sing; simply to be polite, I am now certain. Your
mother did not say for me not to, so I stumbled over to the melodeon,
and sang nine verses of the ‘Glorious Eighth of April’ in a voice so
loud that the windows rattled. They were all blushing for me, but I
never once suspected it. I had heard your father sing the same song a
hundred times, and I supposed it was all right. ‘Is that all?’ they
asked when I had finished. I regretted that it was, thinking they were
entertained, and I came very near singing it all over again. I told
Barker about it, and he gave me lessons in propriety an entire
afternoon. I felt coming home that I had in some way committed an
indiscretion, but I could not tell exactly what it was until Barker
pointed it out. He suggested that I write an apology, and as I have it
here, I will read it, if you care to listen.”
He took from his pocket a neatly written note, and after I had signified
an anxiety to know its contents, he read:--
“MISS SHEPHERD,--I feel that my remarkable conduct at your house a
few weeks ago needs an explanation, and I write this to confess
candidly that it was caused by my ignorance, and should not be
regarded as a lack of respect to you or your father and mother.
“It is because I have lived in the backwoods all my life, and
because no one ever took sufficient interest in me to say that I
should have removed my cap from my head, but if I am forgiven, and
allowed to visit you again, I will be careful that there is no
repetition of the offence. With reference to the tiresome song I
sang, I have only the same plea; I did not know any better. I know
now that I cannot sing; I can only bellow. When I tell you that the
noise I made is regarded as music in Fairview, you will realize
more vividly than I can tell you that the community where I have
grown up is not cultured. I am distressed that I acted as I did,
and hope you will accept this humble apology. Please express my
regrets to your father and mother, and regard this note as in
confidence.
“Very truly yours,
JO ERRING.”
After folding the note carefully, and putting it back in the envelope
from which he had taken it, he inquired:--
“What do you think of it?”
Knowing Barker had suggested it, and probably dictated the words, I said
it was neat and appropriate, and the best thing that could be done under
the circumstances, for I had no opinion of my own on the delicate
question.
“They are the only well-bred people I have ever known, if I except
Barker and Agnes,” Jo said, after a long silence, “and though I should
like to visit them often, I am afraid I can never get the courage to go
there again. They have undoubtedly a poor opinion of me, for they can
never understand how a young man of my age could be so uncouth, but
other families of good manners will perhaps come to Fairview, and I
intend to take lessons from Barker, and cultivate their acquaintance. I
have great respect for polished people, but I never admired a quality in
others that I did not lack it myself, therefore I fear I shall make but
poor progress. But this is a small matter compared with learning the
mill business. Perhaps I had better renounce society until I am the best
miller on the river.”
“It won’t be long, Jo,” I answered, and feeling that what I said was
true.
“Barker says he can teach me all he knows in half a year. After that, I
will experiment for myself, and perhaps I may be able to discover
something which will repay him for his kindness to me. If I am apt at
anything--which I sometimes doubt--it is with machinery, and there is so
little of it at Barker’s that I hope I will be able to master it all in
a few months. I am familiar with all of it now, and I shall work very
hard until I can take it all apart, and put it together again better
than it was before.”
We were both quiet a long while, busy with our own thoughts, until Jo
said:--
“I am going away to-morrow. When are you coming to see me?”
I had it in my mind to say, “On Tuesday,” but as that would be the next
day after his departure, and impossible, I said instead that I would
come as soon as I could; certainly not later than that day a week.
“I shall be very busy, and lonely, too, and I hope you will come often.
You haven’t been out of my sight more than a day at a time since you
were born, and you are the only brother I ever had. I don’t intend to
come here much, and as you enjoy visiting at Barker’s we will arrange it
in that way. They will perhaps tolerate me here once in a long while, to
see if I have cut off any of my fingers in the cog-wheels, but for no
other reason. I have been an intruder ever since I can remember, and
lonely and homeless.”
I felt that this was true, unjust and cruel as it was, and could say
nothing, although Jo spoke of it in a husky voice, as though it would be
a relief to cry if it were not unmanly.
“Your mother has been kinder to me than any of them, if I except Agnes,
who is the friend of every one, but her health has always been poor, and
she has a great deal to do. She often comes into my room at night, if
she suspects that I am not well, and asks if she can do anything for me;
but I know she is always tired, and I feel more like helping her than
allowing her to help me. I shall always remember her gratefully for it,
and believe that were she less unhappy herself we would have been a
different family.”
The mention of Agnes reminded me that she had presented me with her
father’s picture, and taking it from my pocket I gave it to Jo, but he
did not care to look at it then, and said he would take it, and give it
back at some future time.
“Your father is never unkind to her,” he continued, determined to talk
on that subject, “but they are more like strangers than man and wife.
They have not occupied the same room for years, therefore she is always
striving to reconcile him, knowing that he is discontented and
dissatisfied, though I cannot see that she is to blame for it, and as a
true woman--and she is one, if ever one lived--this makes her very
unhappy. I know less of your father every day, and I fear that something
unfortunate will come of his discontent. I hope it will not turn out
that religion is a bad thing for him, as Barker predicts. I never
mentioned it to you before, but the night you were away your mother came
softly into our room, and asked why I had gone to bed so early. I said I
was unusually tired, and that I had to get up very early in the morning;
nothing more than that. She remained there for two hours, as if anxious
to be with me, and there was enough light in the room for me to see that
tears were in her eyes, and that she was in great distress.
“‘Since six o’clock,’ she said to me, ‘my husband has not changed his
position, or spoken. It is his habit every night. He is always thinking,
and always silent and discontented. If I knew what his trouble is,
perhaps I could help him, as I am anxious to do, but he will not tell me
(though I do not ask him, for I am afraid). He thinks all day at his
work, you have told me, and I believe he thinks all night, for I have
known him to get up at midnight, and walk the floor until day. He is
always considerate of me, and never speaks unkindly, but he has never
been my husband except in name, and the fear that I have done something
to offend him makes me very wretched, for I have always tried to be all
that he desired. There is something dreadfully portentous in this; I do
not know what it is, but I am certain that it will finally make us very
miserable.
“‘I have never spoken of this before; I never intend to speak of it
again, and I only mention it now because I feel that I can live but a
few years longer, and I must speak of it to make clear a request I have
to make. Ned is out of the house to-night, and farther away from me then
ever before since he was born. After you two have gone to sleep here in
this room, I always come in to kiss him good-night. And, Jo, I
frequently kiss you, too. Since he was a baby in my arms, I have never
kissed him except when he was asleep, because his father seemed to
dislike such exhibitions of affection. But I come to his bed every
night, and kiss him after he has gone to sleep.’
“She cried softly to herself awhile, and remained so quiet that I could
hear her tears fall in little plashes to the floor.
“‘The request that I have to make is that after I am dead you will tell
him of this. I have made a mistake in raising him, and I know I should
have cultivated his affection for me after he put on boots and mittens,
and went out with his father to work, but I was afraid, for none of that
is allowed in this house, as you know. I do not feel free to be kind to
you, Jo, or show you any attention, for fear my husband will regard it
as an interference with his discipline, which excuse he has used to
separate me from my boy.
“‘I know he regards me as cold-hearted, like his father, but I am not. I
love him as every mother loves her only child, but he does not
understand it, and lately he avoids me whenever he can.
“‘You won’t be here long; Damon Barker wants you to live at the mill,
and you won’t come back very often, for you have no reason to, therefore
I ask you, now that I have opportunity, to tell Ned that I have always
loved him as a mother should, and that I was indifferent to him because
his father told me to be, and said it was for the best. He is getting to
be quite a boy now, and when he comes home tired and ill-humored, I know
he thinks we are unjust to make him work so hard, but tell him, Jo, that
it is his father who did it, and that I always protested against it. I
want you to take good care of him after I am dead, and I believe you
will, for I can see you are very fond of him, as he is of you. I believe
you will both become good and intelligent men some day; men who will
love your wives and children, instead of treating them as they are
treated in Fairview, and I want you to believe when you are grown up
that I raised you as best I could. You have lived here nearly as long as
I have, and this is your home, as well as Ned’s, and if you have not
been contented and happy, it was not because I did not love you both. I
trusted too much to another’s judgment, and was afraid to do what I felt
I should have done. When you become men you will think a great deal of
this period in your lives, for it is indelibly stamped on your memory by
its discomforts, but I hope you will remember that I was sick a great
deal, and could not pay you the attention I wanted to. Good night.’”
After wiping away our tears, for the story affected us both to that
extent, we resolved over and over again to be more considerate of her in
the future, as we now better understood her strange disposition toward
us. I do not know that we had ever been more inconsiderate than other
boys, but we all seemed to be waiting at our house for an opportunity to
get away, and find more pleasant companions, which made us unthoughtful
of each other, and I think it was to this she referred in her talk with
Jo.
When we went into the house again, my father was sitting in his
accustomed place, thinking. He had not changed his position since we
went out of the room, an hour or two before, and I think he regretted he
could not go out into the fields and lose his thoughts in working. He
looked up when we came in, and addressing himself to Jo, said:--
“Are you glad to go?”
“Yes, sir,” Jo promptly responded.
This did not seem to surprise him, and he kept on thinking, as though he
might have known it without asking.
“I have no doubt you think I have been a hard master,” my father said.
“I have been, but because I believed it was best to teach boys to work.
Before you reach my age, you will know I was right, and that the course
I have pursued with you was the best one. But to show you that I am
anxious for your success, I offer to help you start the mill at The
Ford, if you apply yourself at Barker’s and give me reason to believe
that you are worthy and capable. Whatever else you may think of me, you
know I keep my word in everything. Bear this in mind during the next two
years.”
When he began thinking again, I thought it was that although he always
did that which was for the best, he was blamed for it, and hated.
“I have no advice to give you, because you would take nothing kindly
from me, and because I seldom give it to anyone. Every man must advise
himself, after he is convinced what course he had better pursue. The
world is full of people giving good advice to others, but I have thought
we should all be better off if we would advise ourselves more, and
others less. If I could take the good advice I am capable of giving, I
should have no occasion to accept it from others. The same is true in
your case; advise yourself, and see that your advice is good. I believe
you will succeed over there, and I earnestly hope you will. No more need
be said on the subject.”
When he began his thinking again, I thought it was to wonder why Jo
should not feel grateful to him now instead of in the future (he was
sure he would then), after he was dead, and in need of no evidence that
the course he had pursued was right.
* * * * *
That night I resolved to remain awake to see if my mother came to me in
my room. She did not disappoint me, and, coming in quietly, sat down on
the foot of the bed, where she remained in deep study a long while. I
could not see her face, but I was certain it was thoughtful and sad, and
that she felt ill at ease, and wretched. The moon was shining outside,
and she pulled aside the curtain to look at us. At last she got up, and
bending over the bed kissed me tenderly. I threw my arms about her neck,
and said: “Mother!”
She fell on her knees beside the bed, and sobbed in such distress that
my father heard her, and came in hurriedly from the other room to
inquire what was the matter. But only her sobbing answered him, and
speaking to her tenderly, as if divining what had affected her, he led
her away, with his arm around her.
“Your father has been thinking again,” Jo said, as the door closed upon
them. “I was awake, too. Ned, never keep anything from me again.”
CHAPTER XI.
WITH REFERENCE TO A MAN WHO WAS SENT WEST TO GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY,
OR GET KILLED.
A few months after the Shepherds came to Fairview, and after they had
become fairly settled in their new home (they lived beyond Erring’s
Ford, and on the other edge of the timber which began there), a fellow
arrived who was thoroughly disliked from the moment of his appearance,
because he had an insolent manner, an insolent walk, and was insolent in
everything he did, to say nothing of his flashy dress and a general air
of impudence. His name was Clinton Bragg, and as he appeared there in
company with the Shepherds, it was soon understood that in the country
from which they came their families had been intimate and friends. I
think he only consented to visit Fairview church on the Sunday of his
first appearance, as a geologist consents to enter a dirty pit in the
earth, for the satisfaction of seeing curious specimens and formations,
and he regarded the people he saw, whom he looked at with a cool stare,
as a herd of peculiar beasts or a drove of something.
Mr. Shepherd had applied himself with great industry to
agriculture--although it was not expected of him, as his salary was
sufficient for his support--but a member of the congregation had given
him the free use of a piece of land, and he devoted certain hours of
each day to cultivating it. His appetite and strength (both of which had
deserted him years before) had returned from this exercise, and he
progressed so well that it was known that after he had remained at
Fairview as long as the rules of the church allowed, he would give up
preaching altogether and follow agriculture instead.
The people thought a great deal of him, as he was kind and gentle, and
preached a religion less rigorous than my father’s had been, and they
were useful to him in so many ways that he was greatly pleased with the
people and the community, for I think he had never lived in a place
before where he was of so much importance. Therefo
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