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OLD EBENEZER.

OPIE READ'S

SELECT WORKS

Works of Strange Power and Fascination

Uniformly bound in extra cloth,
gold tops, ornamental covers, uncut
edges, six volumes in a box,

$6.00

Sold separately, $1.00 each.

OPIE READ'S SELECT WORKS

Old Ebenezer

BY

OPIE READ

Author of "My Young Master," "The Jucklins," "On the Suwanee River,"

"A Kentucky Colonel," "A Tennessee Judge," "The Colossus,"

"Emmett Bonlore," "Len Gansett," "The Tear in

the Cup and Other Stories," "The

Wives of the Prophet."

ILLUSTRATED

CHICAGO

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS

Copyrighted 1897, by Wm. H. Lee.

(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

CONTENTS

OLD EBENEZER.

CHAPTER I.

[Top]

Sam Lyman.

In more than one of the sleepy neighborhoods that lay about the drowsy town of Old Ebenezer, Sam Lyman had lolled and dreamed. He had come out of the keen air of Vermont, and for a time he was looked upon as a marvel of energy, but the soft atmosphere of a southwestern state soothed the Yankee worry out of his walk, and made him content to sit in the shade, to wait for the other man to come; and, as the other man was doing the same thing, rude hurry was not a feature of any business transaction. Of course the smoothing of Lyman's Yankee ruffles had taken some time. He had served as cross-tie purchaser for a new railway, had kept books and split slabs for kindling wood at a saw mill; then, as an assistant to the proprietor of a cross-roads store, he had counted eggs and bargained for chickens, with a smile for a gingham miss and a word of religious philosophy for the dame in home-spun. But he was now less active, and already he had begun to long for easier employment; so he "took up" school at forty dollars a month. In the Ebenezer country, the school teacher is regarded as a supremely wise and hopelessly lazy mortal. He is expected to know all of earth, as the preacher is believed to know all of heaven, and when he has once been installed into this position, a disposition to get out of it is branded as a sacrilege. He has taken the pedagogic veil and must wear it. But Lyman was not satisfied with the respect given to this calling; he longed for something else, not of a more active nature, it is true, but something that might embrace a broader swing. The soft atmosphere had turned the edge of his physical energy, but his mind was eager and grasping. His history was that dear fallacy, that silken toga which many of us have wrapped about ourselves—the belief that a good score at college means immediate success out in the world. And he had worked desperately to finish his education, had taken care of horses and waited upon table at a summer resort in the White Mountains. His first great and cynical shock was to find that his "accomplishment" certificate was one of an enormous edition; that it meant comparatively nothing in the great brutal world of trade; that modesty was a drawback, and that gentleness was as weak as timidity. And repeated failures drove him from New England to a community where, it had been said, the people were less sharp, less cold, and far less exacting. He was getting along in years when he took up the school—past thirty-five. He was tall, lean, and inclined toward angularity. He had never been handsome, but about his honest face there was something so manly, so wholesome, so engaging, that it took but one touch of sentiment to light it almost to fascinating attractiveness. Children, oftener than grown persons, were struck with his kindly eyes; and his voice had been compared with church music, so deep and so sacred in tone; and yet it was full of a whimsical humor, for the eyes splashed warm mischief and the mouth was a silent, half sad laugh.

It was observed one evening that Lyman passed the post-office with two sheep-covered books under his arm, and when he had gone beyond hearing, old Buckley Lightfoot, the oracle, turned to Jimmie Bledsoe, who was weighing out shingle nails, and said:

"Jimmie, hold on there a moment with your clatter."

"Can't just now, Uncle Buckley. Lige, here, is in a hurry for his nails."

"But didn't I tell you to hold on a moment? Look here, Lige," he added, clearing his throat with a warning rasp, "are you in such a powerful swivit after you've heard what I said? I ask, are you?"

"Well," Lige began to drawl, "I want to finish coverin' my roof before night, for it looks mighty like rain. And I told him I was in a hurry."

"You told him," said the old man. "You did. I have been living here sixty odd year, and so far as I can recollect this is about the first insult flung in upon something I was going to say. Weigh out his nails for him, Jimmie, and let him go. But I don't know what can be expected of a neighborhood that wants to go at such a rip-snort of a rush. Weigh out his nails, Jimmie, and let him go."

"Oh, no!" Lige cried, and Jimmie dropped the nail grabs into the keg.

"Oh, yes," Uncle Buckley insisted. "Just go on with your headlong rush. Go on and don't pay any attention to me."

"Jimmie," said Lige, "don't weigh out them nails now, for if you do I won't take 'em at all."

"Now, Lige," the old man spoke up, "you are talking like a wise and considerate citizen. And now, Jimmie, after this well merited rebuke, are you ready to listen to what I was going to say?"

"I am anxious and waiting," Jimmie answered.

"All right," the old oracle replied. He cleared his throat, looked about, nodded his head in the direction taken by Sam Lyman, and thus proceeded: "Observation, during a long stretch of years, has taught me a great deal that you younger fellows don't know. Do you understand that?"

"We do," they assented.

"Well and good," the old man declared, nodding his head. "I say well and good, for well and good is exactly what I mean. You know that's what I mean, don't you, Jimmie?"

"Mighty well, Uncle Buckley."

"All right; and how about you, Lige?"

"I know it as well as I ever did anything," Lige agreed.

"Well and good again," said the old man. "And this leads up properly to the subject. You boys have just seen Sam Lyman pass here. But did you notice that he had law books under his arm?"

"I saw something under his arm," Jimmie answered.

"Ah," said the old man, tapping his forehead. "Ah, observation, what a rare jewel! Yes, sir, he had law books, and what is the meaning of this extraordinary proceedin'? It means that Sam Lyman is studying law, and that his next move will be to break away from the school-teaching business."

"Impossible," Lige cried.

The old man shook his head. "It might seem so to the unobservant," he replied, "but in these days of stew, rush and fret, there is no telling what men may attempt to do. Yes, gentlemen, he is studying law, and the first thing we know he will leave Fox Grove and try to break into the town of Old Ebenezer. And it is not necessary for me to point out the danger of leaving this quiet neighborhood for the turmoil and ungodly hurry of that town. Now you can weigh out the nails, Jimmie."

CHAPTER II.

[Top]

The Noted Advocate.

Lyman must long have indulged his secret study before the observation of old Buckley Lightfoot fell upon it, for, at the close of the school term a few weeks later, the teacher announced that he had formed a co-partnership with John Caruthers, the noted advocate of Old Ebenezer, and that together they would practice law in the county seat. He offered to the people no opportunity to bid him good-bye, for that evening, with his law library under his arm, he set out for the town, twenty miles away. Old Uncle Buckley, Jimmie and Lige followed him, but he had chosen a trackless path, and thus escaped their reproaches.

The noted advocate, John Caruthers, had an office in the third story of a brick building, which was surely a distinction, being so high from the ground and in a brick house, too. There he spent his time smoking a cob pipe and waiting for clients. His office was a small room at the rear end of the building. The front room, the remainder of the suite, was a long and narrow apartment, occupied by the Weekly Sentinel, the county newspaper, published by J. Warren, not edited at all, and written by lawyers and doctors about town. The great advocate paid his rent with political contributions to the newspaper, and the editor discharged his rental obligations by supporting the landlord for congress, a very convenient and comforting arrangement, as Caruthers explained to Lyman.

"I don't see how we could be more fortunately situated," said he, the first night after the co-partnership had been effected. "What do you think of it?"

"I don't know that I could improve on an arrangement that doesn't cost any money," Lyman answered. He sat looking about the room, at the meager furniture and the thin array of books. "We've got a start, anyway, and I don't think Webster could have done anything without a start. Are all these our books?"

"Yes," said Caruthers, shaking his sandy head. "That is, they are ours as long as they are here. Once in awhile a man may come in and take one; but the next day, or the next minute, for that matter, we can go out and get another. The Old Ebenezer bar has a circulating library." He yawned and continued: "I think we ought to do well here, with my experience and your learning. They tell me you can read Greek as well as some people can read English."

"Yes, some people can't read English."

"I guess you are right," Caruthers laughed. "But they say you can read Greek like shelling corn, and that will have a big effect with a jury. Just tell them that the New Testament was written in Greek, and then give them a few spurts of it, and they've got to come. I had a little Latin and I did very well with it, but a fellow came along who knew more of it than I did and crowded me out of my place."

Just then the editor came in. He looked about, nodded at Lyman, whom he had met earlier in the day, and then sat down, with a sigh.

"Well, I have got a good send off for you fellows—already in type, but I lack eighty cents of having money enough to get my paper out of the express office."

No one said anything, for this was sad news. Warren continued: "Yes, I lack just eighty cents. It's about as good a notice as I ever read, and it's a pity to let it lie there and rust. Of course I wouldn't ask either of you for the money: That wouldn't look very well. Eighty cents, two forties. I could go to some of the advertisers, but an advertiser loses respect for a paper that needs eighty cents."

"Warren," said Caruthers, "I'd like to see your paper come out, for I want to read my roast on the last legislature, but I haven't eighty cents."

Lyman sat looking about with a dozing laugh on his lips: "Are you sure you'll not need eighty cents every week?" he asked.

The editor's eyes danced a jig of delight. "I may never need it again," he declared.

"Well, but how often are you going to print a notice of the firm?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Well, I didn't know but your paper might get stuck in the express office every time you have something about us. It's likely to go that way, you know. I've got a few dollars—"

The editor grabbed his hand: "I want to welcome you to our town," he cried. "You come here with energy and new life. Now, Caruthers, what the deuce are you laughing at? You know that no one appreciates a man of force and ideas more than I do. Just let me have the eighty, Mr. Lyman, for I've got a nigger ready to turn the press. Now, I'm ten thousand times obliged to you," he effusively added as Lyman gave him the money.

He hastened out and Caruthers leaned back with a lazy laugh. "He told the truth about needing the money. I've known his paper to be stuck in the throat of the press, and all for the want of fifty cents. I'm glad you let him have it. He's not a bad fellow. He lives in the air. Every time he touches the earth he gets into trouble."

"So do we all," Lyman replied, "and nearly always on account of money. I wish there wasn't a penny in the world."

"Sometimes there isn't, so far as I am concerned," Caruthers said. "No, sir," he added, "they keep money out of my way. And I want to tell you that I'm not a bad business man, either. But I'm close to forty and haven't laid up a cent, and nothing that I can ever say in praise of myself can overcome that fact. I don't see, however, why you should be a failure. You have generations of money makers behind you."

"Yes, hundreds of years behind me," said Lyman. "And the vein was worked out long before I came on. There is no failure more complete than the one that comes along in the wake of success. But I am not going to remain a failure. I'll strike it after awhile."

"I think you have struck it now," replied Caruthers. "Business will liven up in a day or two. When a thing touches bottom it can't go any further down, but it may rise."

"Yes," said Lyman, "unless it continues to lie there."

"But we must stir it up," Caruthers declared. "We've got the enterprise all right—we've got the will, and now all that's needed is something for us to take hold of."

"That's about so," Lyman agreed. "Unless a man has something to lift, he can never find out how strong he is."

And thus they talked until after the midnight hour, until Caruthers, his feet on a table, his head thrown back, his pipe between the fingers of his limp hand, fell asleep. Lyman sat there, more thoughtful, now that he felt alone. At the threshold of a new venture, we look back upon the hopes that led us into other undertakings, and upon many a failure we bestow a look of tender but half reproachful forgiveness. The trials and the final success of other men make us strong. And with his mild eyes set in review, Lyman thought that never before had he found himself so well seasoned, so well prepared to do something. He listened to the grinding of the press, to the midnight noises about the public square, the town muttering in its sleep. "I am advancing" he mused, looking about him. "I was not content to skimp along in New England, nor to buy cross-ties, nor to singe the pin feathers off a chicken at night, nor to worry with the feeble machinery of a dull schoolboy's head. And I will not be content merely to sit here and wait for clients that may never come. I am going to do something."

CHAPTER III.

[Top]

The Timely Oracle.

A year passed by. Caruthers dozed with his cob pipe between the fingers of his limp hand, waiting for clients whose step was not heard upon the stairs. But the office had not been wholly without business. Once a man called to seek advice, which was given, free, as an advertisement for more work from his neighborhood, and once Lyman had defended a man charged with the theft of a sheep. The mutton was found in the fellow's closet and the hide of the animal was discovered under his bed; and with such evidence against him it was not expected that a lawyer could do much, so, when the prisoner was sentenced to the penitentiary, Caruthers congratulated his partner with the remark: "That was all right. We can't expect to win every time. But we were not so badly defeated; you got him off with one year, and he deserved two. To cut a thief's sentence in two ought to help us."

"Among the other thieves," Lyman suggested.

"Oh, yes," Caruthers spoke up cheerfully. "A lawyer's success depends largely upon his reputation among thieves."

"Or at least among the men who intend to stretch the law. Let me see; we have been in business together just one year, and our books balance with a most graceful precision. We are systematic, anyway."

"Yes," Caruthers replied, letting his pipe fall to the floor, "system is my motto. No business, properly systematized, is often better than some business in a tangle."

Warren, the editor, appeared at the door. "Are you busy?" he asked.

"Well, we are not in what you might call a rush," Lyman answered. "Are you busy?" he inquired, with a twinkle in his eye.

Before answering, Warren stepped into the room and sat down with a distressful sigh. "I am more than that," he said, dejectedly. "I am in hot water, trying to swim with one hand."

"What's the trouble?"

"Oh, a sort of summer, fall, spring and winter complaint." He took out a note book, turned over the leaves, returned it to his pocket and said: "I lack just sixty-five, this time."

"Dollars?" Lyman asked.

Warren gave him a quick, reproachful look. "Now, Judge, what airs have I ever put on to cause you to size me up that way? Have I ever shown any tax receipts? Have I ever given any swell dinners? Sixty-five cents is the amount I am short, Judge, and where I am to get it, the Lord only knows. My paper is lying over yonder in the express office, doing no good to anybody, but they won't let me take it out and stamp intelligence upon it. The town sits gaping for the news, with a bad eye on me; but what can I do with a great corporation arrayed against me? For sixty-five cents I could get the paper out, and it's full of bright things. The account of your defense of the sheep thief is about as amusing a thing as I ever read, and it will be copied all over the country; it would put a nation in a good humor irrespective of party affiliations, but sixty-five millions of people are to be cheated, and all on account of sixty-five cents, one cent to the million."

"Things are down to a low mark when you have to make your estimates on that basis. One cent to the million," said Lyman with a quiet laugh.

"Distressful," Warren replied. "The country was never in such a fix before. Why, last year about this time I raised eighty cents without any trouble at all."

"Yes," said Lyman, "you raised it of me."

"That's a fact," Warren admitted. "But do you think the country is as well off now as it was then?"

"Not financially, but it may be wiser."

"Now, look here, Judge, am I to accept this as an insinuation?"

"How so?" Lyman asked, looking up, his eyes full of mischief.

"Why, speaking of being wiser. I don't know but you meant—well, that you were too wise to help me out again. You can't deny that the notice of the partnership was all right."

"We have no complaint to enter on that ground," Caruthers drawled.

"Pardon me, Chancellor, but it wasn't your put-in," Warren replied. "Your suggestions are worth money and you ought not to throw them away. But the question is, can I get sixty-five cents out of this firm?"

"Warren," said Lyman, "I am in sympathy with your cheerful distress."

"But are you willing to shoulder the debt of sixty-five millions of people? Are you in a position to do that?"

"No," Caruthers drawled, leaning over with a strain and picking up his pipe from the floor.

"Chancellor," said the editor, "as wise as you are, your example is sometimes pernicious and your counsel implies evil."

"Oh, I am simply speaking for the firm," Caruthers replied. "As an individual Lyman can do as he pleases with his capital. Come in, sir."

Some one was tapping at the door, and Lyman, looking around, recognized the short and wheezing bulk of Uncle Buckley Lightfoot, the oracle. He almost tumbled out his chair to grasp the old fellow by the hand; and then, smoothing his conduct, he introduced him, with impressive ceremony.

"Yes, sir," said the old man, sitting down and looking about, "he got away from us a little the rise of a year ago, and I don't think Fox Grove has been the same since then; and it is a generally accepted fact that the children don't learn more than half as much. Me and Jimmie and Lige agreed on this point, and that settled it so far as the community was concerned. And Sammy, we hear that you have got to be a great lawyer. A man came through our county not long ago and boasted of knowing you, and a lawyer must amount to a good deal when folks go about boasting that they know him. And look here, my wife read a piece out of the paper about you—yes, sir, read it off just like she was a talkin'; and when she was done I 'lowed that maybe, after all, you hadn't done such an unwise thing to throw yourself headlong into the excitement of this town. And mother she said that no matter where a man went, he could still find the Lord if he looked about in the right way, and I didn't dispute her, but just kept on a sittin' there, a wallopin' my tobacco about in my mouth. Yes, sir; I am powerful tickled to see you."

Long before he had reached the end of his harangue, Warren had taken hold of his arm. "It was my paper your wife read it in," he said in tones as solemn as grace over meat. "I am the editor of the paper, and two dollars will get it every week for a year."

The old man shrugged himself out of the editor's imploring clasp, and looked at him. "Why," said he, "you don't appear to be more than old enough to have just come out of the tobacco patch, a picking off worms, along with the turkeys. But, in the excitement of the town, boys, I take it, are mighty smart. However, my son, I ain't got any particular use for a paper, except to have a piece read out of it once in awhile, but I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll agree to print some pieces that Sammy will write for you, I'll take your paper. He was always a writin' and a tearin' it up when he boarded with me, and I was sorry to see him wastin' his labor in that way when he mout have been out in the woods shootin' squirrels; so if you'll agree——"

"I print his sketches every week, and some of them have been stolen by the big city papers," the editor cried, unable longer to restrain himself.

"Then I didn't know what I was missin'. Two dollars, you say? Well; here you are, sir, and now you just rip me off a paper every week. See if that's a two dollar bill."

"It's a five," Warren gasped.

"Glad it's that much; change it, please."

"I'll go out and get it changed."

"Don't put yourself to that much trouble. Give it to Sammy and I bet he'll change it in a jiffy, for it don't take a lawyer more than a minute to do such things."

Caruthers looked up with a squint in his eye.

"I think," said Lyman, "that we'd better let him go out and get the change; that is, unless my partner can accommodate us."

"I have nothing short of a twenty," Caruthers replied, shutting his eyes.

"Then run along, son, and fetch me the change," said the old man. "But hold on a minute," he added, as Warren made a glad lunge toward the door. "Be sure that the money changers in the temple don't cheat you, for I hear they are a bad lot, and me and Jimmie and Lige have agreed that they ought to have been lashed out long ago."

"They have never succeeded in getting any money out of me," Warren laughed; and as he was going out he said to Lyman: "I am going to flash this five in the face of the Express Company. I didn't know before that your pen was made of a feather snatched from an angel's wing."

"Yes, sir," Uncle Buckley began, looking at Lyman, and then at Caruthers, "we have missed him mightily. Mother says he was the most uncertain man to cook for she ever run across. Sometimes he'd eat a good deal, and then for days, while he was a studyin' of his law, and especially when he was a writin' and a tearin' up, he wouldn't eat hardly anything. So you see he kept things on the dodge all the time, and that of itself was enough to make him interestin' to the women folks. We've had it pretty lively out in Fox Grove. The neighbors all wanted me to split off and go along with them into the new party, but I told 'em all my ribs was made outen hickory and was Andy Jackson Democrat. But the new party swept everything and got into power; and I want to know if anybody ever saw such a mess as they made of the legislature."

The old man began to move uneasily and to glance about with an anxious expression in his eye. "Sammy," said he, "of course I know you, but I ain't expected to know everybody."

"Yes," said Lyman, smiling at him.

"Well, it just occurred to me whether I wa'n't jest a little brash to let that young feller off with that money. In the excitement of the town he might forget to come back."

"Don't worry; he'll be back. There he comes now."

Warren came in, his face beaming, and gave the old man the money due him. Uncle Buckley looked at him a moment, and then, with an air of contrite acknowledgment, shook his head as he seriously remarked:

"I done you an injury jest now, by sorter questionin' whether you wouldn't run off with that change, and I want to ask your pardon."

"Oh, that's all right," Warren laughed.

"No, it ain't all right, and I want to apologize right here in the presence of——"

"All right, you may tie it on as a ribbon if you want to, but it isn't necessary. Now you sit over here with me and tell me all about yourself and your neighborhood, for I'm going to give you a write-up that'll be a beauty to behold. You fellows go ahead with your nodding, and don't pay any attention to us. But you want to listen. Come to my sanctum, Mr. Lightfoot."

"I reckon it's safe," said the old man, following him. Caruthers turned his slow eyes upon Lyman. "Has that old fellow got any money?" he asked.

"Well, he's not a pauper."

"Suppose we could strike him for a hundred for six months?"

"No, he's a friend of mine."

"But," said Caruthers, "if we are going to raise money we'll have to borrow from friends. Our enemies won't let us have it."

"That's true, but our enemies in protecting themselves should not be permitted to drive us against our friends. That old man would let me have every cent he has. But he has labored more than forty years for his competence, and I will not rob him of a penny."

"Rob him," Caruthers spoke up with energy. "We'll pay him back."

"How?"

"Oh, you know how. With a little money we can get a start. We can rent an office on the ground floor, and then business will come."

"Yes," said Lyman, "but I don't want that old man to be mixed up in the excitement. Suppose we try the bank."

"You try it. McElwin does not care for me particularly. Suppose you go over and see him. Offer him a mortgage on our library."

"I'll do it. Wait until Uncle Buckley has been pumped; I want to bid him good-bye."

"Go through there, and see him on your way out. The bank will be closed pretty soon."

"All right. But don't hang a hope on the result."

Lyman shook hands with Uncle Buckley, and then went across the street to the First National Bank, the financial pride of Old Ebenezer. The low brick building stood as a dollar mark, to be stared at by farmers who had heard of the great piles of gold heaped therein, and James McElwin, as with quick and important step he passed along the street, was gazed upon with an intentness almost religious. Numerous persons claimed kinship with him, and the establishment of third or fourth degree of cousinhood had lifted more than one family out of obscurity. The bank must have had a surplus of twenty thousand dollars, a glaring sum in the eyes of the grinding tradesmen about the public square. An illustrated journal in the East had printed McElwin's picture, together with a brief history of his life. The biographer called him a self-made man, and gave him great credit for having scrambled for dimes in his youth, that he might have dollars in middle life. That he had once gone hungry rather than pay more than the worth of a meal at an old negro's "snack house," was set forth as a "sub-headed" virtue. He had married above him, the daughter of a neighboring "merchant," whose name was stamped on every shoe he sold. The old man died a bankrupt, but the daughter, the wife of the rising capitalist, remained proud and cool with dignity. The union was illustrated with one picture, a girl, to become a belle, a handsome creature, with a mysterious money grace, with a real beauty of hair, mouth and eyes. The envious said that circumstances served to make an imperious simpleton of her.

It was this man, with these connections, that Lyman crossed the street to see. But to the lawyer it was not so adventurous as grimly humorous. His Yankee shrewdness had pronounced the man a pretentious fraud.

The banker was in his private office, busy with his papers. Lyman heard him say to the negro who took in his name: "Mr. Lyman! I don't know why he should want to see me. But tell him to come in."

As Lyman entered the banker looked up and said: "Well, sir."

Lyman sat down and crossed his legs. The banker looked at his feet, then at his head.

"Mr. McElwin," said Lyman, "we have not met before, though I, of course, have seen you often, but——"

"Well, sir, go on."

"Yes, that's what I am doing. I say that we have not met, but I board at the house of a relative of yours, and I therefore feel that I know you."

"Board with a relative of mine?" the banker gasped.

"Yes, with Jasper Staggs, and I want to tell you that he is about as kind hearted an old fellow as I ever met, quaint and accommodating. He is a cousin of yours, I believe."

"Well,—er, yes. But state your business, if you please. I am very busy."

"I presume so, sir, but I am afraid that my business may not strike you in a very favorable way. I want to borrow one hundred dollars."

"Upon what collateral, sir?"

"Mainly upon the collateral of honor."

The banker looked at him. Lyman continued: "I feel that such a statement in a bank sounds like the echo of an idle laugh, but I mention honor first, because I value it most. I also have, or represent, a law library."

"Is it worth a hundred dollars?"

"Well, I can't say that it is, but I should think that the library, reinforced by my honor, is worth that much."

The banker began to stroke his brown beard. "So you have come here to joke, sir——"

"Oh, not at all," Lyman broke in, "this is a serious matter."

"It might be if I were to let you have the money."

"That isn't so bad," Lyman laughed. "But seriously, I am in much need of a hundred dollars, and if you'll let me have it for six months I will pay it back with interest."

"I can't do it, sir."

"You mean that you won't do it."

"You heard me, sir."

"I realize the bad form in which I present my case, Mr. McElwin, and I know that if you had made a practice of doing business in this way you would not have been nearly so successful, but I will pledge you my word that if you will let me have the money——"

"Good day, sir, good day."

Lyman walked out, not feeling so humorous as when he went in. He looked up and down the dingy, drowsy street. At first he might have been half amused at his failure, tickled with the idea of describing it to Caruthers and the newspaper man, but a sense of humiliation came to him. He knew that in the warfare of business his operation was but a guerrilla's dash, and he was ashamed of himself; and yet he reflected that his great enemy might have been gentler to him. He walked slowly down the street, without an objective point; he passed the group of village jokers, sitting in front of the drug store, with their chairs tipped back against the wall; he passed the planing mill, with its rasping noise, and in his whimsical fancy it sounded like the Town Council snoring. He loitered near a garden where plum trees were in bloom; he looked over at a solemn child digging in the dirt; he caught sight of a pale man with the mark of death upon him, lying near a window, slowly fanning himself. He spoke to the child and the wretched little one looked up and said: "I am digging a grave for my pa." Lyman leaned heavily upon the fence; his heart was touched, and taking out a small piece of money he tossed it to the boy. The grave digger took it up, looked at it a moment in sad astonishment, put it aside and returned to his work.

The office was deserted when Lyman returned. Caruthers had not hung a hope on the result of the attempted negotiations.

CHAPTER IV.

[Top]

A Fog Between Them.

The following afternoon when Lyman went to the office, having spent the earlier hours in the court house, to assure the Judge that he had no motions to make, and no case to be passed over to the next term—he found Caruthers with his feet on the table.

"Getting hot," said Caruthers.

"Is it? I thought we had been playing freeze-out," Lyman replied, throwing his hat upon the table and sitting down.

"Then you didn't do anything with his Royal Flush?"

"Brother McElwin? No. He fenced with his astonishment until he could find words, and then he granted me the privilege to retire."

"Wouldn't take a mortgage on the library?"

"No; he said it wasn't worth a hundred."

"But you assured him that it was."

"No; I had to acknowledge that it wasn't."

"You are a fool."

"Yes, perhaps; but I'm not a thief."

"No! But it's more respectable to be a thief than a pauper."

"It is not very comforting to be both—to know that you are one and to feel that you are the other."

"Lyman, that sort of doctrine may suit a long-tailed coat, a white necktie and a countenance pinched by piety, but it doesn't suit me."

"It suits me," Lyman replied. "I was brought up on it. I think mother baked it in with the beans."

"Watercolor nonsense!" said Caruthers. "My people were as honest as anybody, but they didn't teach me to look for the worst of it."

"But didn't they teach you that without a certain moral force there can be no real and lasting achievement?"

Caruthers turned and nodded his head toward the bank. "Is there any moral force over there? Did you notice any saintly precepts on his wall? I don't think you did. But wasn't there many a sign that said, 'get money'?"

"Caruthers, you join with the rest of this town in the belief that McElwin is a great man. I don't. He is a community success, a neighborhood's strong man, but in the hands of the giants who live in the real world he is a weakling."

"He is strong enough, though, not to tremble at the sound of a footstep at the door, and that's exactly what we sit here doing day after day. The joy of the hoped-for client is driven away by the fear of the collector." He was silent for a moment, and then he said: "I don't feel that there's any advantage in being hooked up with a saint."

"I don't know," Lyman replied. "I never tried it."

"I have," said Caruthers, looking at him.

Lyman laughed and rubbed his hands together. "You are the only one that has ever insinuated such a compliment, if you mean that I am a saint. But I hold that there's quite a stretch between a saint and a man who has a desire simply to be honest. Saint—" He laughed again. "Why, the people where I was brought up called me a rake."

"They were angels. But why don't you say where you were 'raised.' Why do you say 'brought up?' You were not brought up; you were raised."

"Yes, that's true, I guess. But we raised vegetables where I was brought up."

"Cabbages?"

"Yes, some cabbages. Round about here, though, they appear to make pumpkins more of a specialty. But come a little nearer with your meaning concerning the saint. I take it that you are tired of the partnership. Am I right?"

"Well," Caruthers spoke up, "we haven't done anything and we have no prospects."

"You are right," said Lyman. "But I am poorer and you are about as well off as you were."

"Do you mean to insinuate—"

"Oh, I don't insinuate, though it's a habit among the people where I was brought up."

"If you don't insinuate, what then? what do you mean?"

"That you've got about all the money I had."

"The devil, you say!"

"I didn't mention the devil. I didn't think it was necessary to speak in the third person of one who is already present."

Caruthers started and took his feet off the table. Lyman regarded him with a cool smile.

"Lyman, I thought that we might have parted friends."

"We can at least part as acquaintances," Lyman replied. "Until a few moments ago I was willing to stand a good deal from you; that part of your principles that I do not like I was willing to ascribe to a difference of opinion, but just now you called me a fool because I had refused to declare those books to be worth a hundred dollars. Up to that time we might have parted in reasonably good humor, but since then I haven't thought very well of you. And you'll have to take it back before you leave."

"You say I'll have to take it back."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"I never had to take anything back."

"No? Then you are about to encounter a new phase of life. Singular, isn't it, that we never know when we are about to stumble upon something new."

"You don't mean——"

"I don't know that I do. But I mean that you'll take that back or carry away a thrashing that will make you stagger. Did you ever see a man wabbling off after a thrashing that he was hardly able to carry? Sad sight sometimes. The last man that I whipped weighed about forty pounds more than I do. He presumed on his weight. But he soon found out that his flesh was very much in his way. He was a saw mill man and a bully; and it so tickled Uncle Buckley that nothing would do but I must come to his house and live as one of the family. Out at Fox Grove a man who won't be imposed upon stands high."

"Lyman, I don't want any trouble, and——"

"Oh, it won't be any trouble."

"And I acknowledge that I was hasty. I take it back, and here's my hand on it."

"I'm obliged to you for taking it back, Caruthers, but I don't want to take your hand. I don't understand it, but a spiritual something seems to have arisen between us."

"All right," said Caruthers, "but I hope we don't part as enemies."

"Oh, no, not as enemies. You speak of parting as if you were the one who has to vacate."

"Yes, I have rented an office over on the other side of the square, on the ground floor."

"It is very kind of you to leave me here," said Lyman. "You might have ordered me out. I am glad you didn't."

"Such a proceeding could never have entered my head," Caruthers replied. "In fact, I thought that if the separation must come you would rather stay here. You appear to have a fondness for that clanking old press out there."

"Yes, I can make it grind out my rent. When are you going to vacate the premises?" Lyman asked, his grave countenance lighted with a smile.

"Now, or rather in a very few minutes."

"Is there anything holding you?"

"Come Lyman, old man, don't jog me that way. And I wish you wouldn't look at me with that sort of a smile. Everybody says you have the kindest face in the world——"

"Without a bristle to hide its sweetness," Lyman broke in.

"Yes," Caruthers assented, "the innocence of a boy grown to manhood without knowing it."

"And you have remained to tell me this?"

"Oh, I'll go now," said Caruthers, getting up.

"I wish you would. Up to a very short time ago I thought you one of the most whimsically entertaining men I ever met, but as I said just now, a spiritual disparagement has arisen between us, a thick fog, and I wish you would clear the atmosphere."

"Well," said Caruthers, "I am off. I don't know what to take with me," he added, looking about. "I suppose I owe you more or less, and I'll leave things just as they are until I am prepared to face a statement."

"All right. Good day."

"But you won't shake hands?"

"Yes, through the fog," said Lyman, holding out his hand. Caruthers grasped it, dropped it, as if he too felt that it came through a fog, and hastened out. Just outside he met Warren coming in. "What's he looking so serious about?" the editor asked.

"Sit down," said Lyman. "Don't take the chair he had—the other one, that's it. Well, we have split the law trust and he goes across the square to open a new office."

"Is that so? Well, I reckon there's a good deal of the wolf about him. Yes, sir, he has seen me bleeding under the heel of the Express Company, without so much as giving me the——"

"Moist eye of sympathy," Lyman suggested.

"That's all right, and it fits. Say, you are more of a writer than a lawyer. And that's exactly in line with what I came in to tell you. I got a half column ad. this morning from a patent medicine concern in the North, and they want an additional write-up. It all comes through your sketches."

"Do you think so?"

"I know it. A drummer told me this morning that he had heard some fellows talking about my paper in a St. Louis hotel, the best hotel in the town, mind you—and I can see from the exchanges that the Sentinel is making tracks away out yonder in the big road. And it's all owing to that quaint Yankee brain of yours, Lyman. Yes, it is. Why, the best lawyers in this town have written for my paper. The Circuit Judge reviewed the life of Sir Edmond Saunders, whoever he was, and Capt. Fitch, the prosecuting attorney, wrote two columns on Napoleon, to say nothing of the hundreds of things sent in by the bar in general, and it all amounted to nothing, but you come along in the simplest sort of a way and make a hit."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Oh, it's not a question of think; I know it. And now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll let this law end of the building take care of itself and we'll give our active energies to the paper. You do the editing and I'll do the business. You put stuff into the columns and I'll wrestle with the express agent. And I'll divide with you."

"Warren," said Lyman, getting up and putting his hands on the newspaper man's shoulders, "there's no fog between you and me."

Warren looked up with a smile. He was a young fellow with a bright face, and the soft curly hair of a child. "Fog? No, sunshine. There couldn't be any fog where you are, Lyman. I'm not much of a scholar. I've had to squirm so much that I haven't had time to study, but I know a man when I see him, and I don't see how any woman could give you much attention without falling in love with you, hanged if I do."

Lyman blushed and shook him playfully. "I am delighted to pool distresses with you," he said, "but don't try to flatter me. Women laugh at me," he added, sitting down.

"No, they laugh with you. But that's all right. Now, let's talk over our prospects."

CHAPTER V.

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The Belle of the Town.

Once in a long while Banker McElwin made it a policy to gather up a number of his boastful relations, reinforced by a number of friends, and then conduct the party to the house of another kinsman, where he would give them an evening of delight. He did not give notice of these gracious recognitions, preferring to make the event sweeter with surprise. On his part it was a generous forgetfulness of self-importance—it was as if a placid and beneficent moon had come to beam upon a cluster of stars. To the men he would quote stocks, as if, a lover of letters, he were giving a poem to a "mite society." Upon the ladies he would smile and throw off vague hints of future silks and fineries.

One evening this coterie gathered at the home of Jasper Staggs. Old Jasper, in his earlier days, had been a town marshal, and it was his boast that he had arrested Steve Day, the desperado who had choked the sheriff and defied the law. This great feat was remembered by the public, and old Jasper nursed it as a social pension. But it did not bring in revenue sufficient to sustain life, so he made a pretense of collecting difficult accounts while his wife and "old maid" daughter did needlework and attended to the few wants of one boarder, Sam Lyman. The "banker's society" recognized the Staggs family in the evening of the day which followed Sam Lyman's call at the First National, and was in excitable progress while Lyman, in ignorance of it all, prolonged his talk with Warren. In the family sitting room the banker talked of the possibility of a panic in Wall Street. In the parlor the younger relatives were playing games, with Annie Staggs, the old maid, as director of ceremonies. After a time they hit upon the game of forfeits. Miss Eva McElwin, the great man's daughter, fell under penalty, and the sentence was that she should go through the ceremony of marriage with the first man who came through the door. At that moment Sam Lyman entered the room. He was greeted with shouts and clapping of hands, and he drew back in dismay, but Miss Annie ran to him and led him forward. Eva McElwin, with a pout, turned to some one and said:

"What, with that thing?"

"Oh, you've got to," was shouted. "Yes, you have."

"Well, what is expected of me?" Lyman asked.

"Why," Miss Annie cried, "you've got to marry a young lady, the belle of Old Ebenezer."

He had often gazed at the girl, in church, had been struck by her beauty, but had shared the belief of the envious—that she was a charming "simpleton."

"Well, don't you think you'd better introduce us?"

"Oh, no, it will be all the funnier."

"Marry, and get acquainted afterwards, eh? Well, I guess that is the rule in society. I beg your pardon," he added, speaking to Miss McElwin, "for not appearing in a more appropriate garb, but as there seems to be some hurry in the matter, I haven't the time nor the clothes to meet a more fashionable demand. I am at your service."

He offered his arm and the girl took it with a laugh, but with more of scorn than of good humor.

"Take your places here," Miss Annie said. And then she cried: "Oh, where is Henry Bostic? We'll have him perform the ceremony. He'll make it so deliriously solemn." She ran away and soon returned, with a young man serious enough to have divided the pulpit with any circuit rider in the country.

The ceremony was performed, and then began the congratulations. "Oh, please quit," Miss McElwin pleaded. "I'm tired of it. Zeb," she said, turning to a bold looking young man, "tell them to quit."

"Here," he commanded, "we've got enough of this, so let's start on something else. Let's play old Sister Phoebe. Why the deuce won't they let us dance?"

"Henry," said Miss Annie, stepping out upon the veranda with the serious young man, "they always called you queer, but I must say that you know how to perform a marriage ceremony."

"I trust so," he answered.

"You do; and when you are ordained——"

"I was ordained this morning."

"What!" she cried. "Then the marriage came near being actual. It only required the license."

"The last legislature repealed the marriage license law," he replied.

"Mercy on me!" she cried.

"Mercy on them," said the young man who had been regarded as queer.

She took hold of a post to steady herself. She heard the deep voice of the banker; the droning tone of "Old Sister Phoebe" came from the parlor.

"Don't tremble so. It can't be helped now," said the young man. "It's nothing to cry about. How did I know? You said you wanted me to perform a marriage ceremony, and I did. How did I know it was in fun? You didn't say so. The father and mother were in the other room. They could have come in and objected. How did I know but that they had given their consent, and stayed in the other room for sentimental reasons? I am not supposed to know everything."

"Oh, but who will tell Cousin McElwin?" she sobbed. "And who will tell Zeb Sawyer? Oh, it's awful, and it's all your fault, and you know it. You are crazy, that's what you are."

"Well, you can exercise your own opinion about that. You people have all along said that I would never do anything, but if I haven't done something tonight to stir up the town——"

"Oh, you malicious thing. I don't know what to do! Oh, I don't know what is to become of me!"

"It's all very well to cry, for marriages are often attended by tears, but you should not call me malicious. Mr. McElwin laughed when my mother told him I was going to preach, and it almost broke her heart."

"Revengeful creature," she sobbed, clinging to the post.

"No, the Gospel is not revengeful, but it humbles pride, for that is a service done the Lord. Step in there and see if Mr. McElwin has anything to laugh about now. He laughed at my poor mother when he knew that all her earthly hope was centered in me. Well, I'll bid you good night."

"Oh, no," she cried, seizing him. "You shall not leave me to face it all. You shall not."

"No, that wouldn't be right. I'll face it."

CHAPTER VI.

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Humbled into the Dust.

Lyman found favor with the company, that is, with the exception of Eva McElwin, whose position demanded a certain reserve. He had sought to engage her in conversation, and she had listened as if struck with the tone of his voice, but she turned suddenly away, remembering, doubtless, that she was present as an act of condescension, and that for the time being she was the social property not of any stranger, but of her "poor kin." Lyman looked after her with a smile and a merry twinkle of mischief in his eye. He had heard it said that her complexion was of a sort that would never freckle, and he was amused at his having remembered a remark so trivial. He had looked into her eyes, had plunged into them, he fancied, for she had merely glanced up at him: and he thought of the illumined-blue that mingles in the rainbow, and he mused that he had never seen a head so fine, so gracefully poised. And then he speculated upon the petulant waste of her life. Almost divine could have been her mission; what a balm in a house of sickness and distress. He thought of the pale man whom he had seen lying near the window; he fancied himself thus doomed to lie and waste slowly away, and he pictured the delight it would be to see her enter the room, like an angel sent to soothe him with her smile. She turned toward him to listen to a worshiping cousin, and Lyman saw her lips bud into a pout, and it was almost a grief to see her so spoiled and so shallow.

"Well, I see you are getting acquainted right along," said Zeb Sawyer, speaking to Lyman. "A man doesn't have to live here long before he knows everybody. But I'm kept so busy that I haven't much time for society."

"What business are you in?" Lyman asked.

"Mules; nothing but mules. Oh, well, occasionally I handle a horse or so, but I make a specialty of buying and selling mules. Good deal of money in it, I tell you. McElwin used to do something in that line himself. Yes, sir, and he paid me a mighty high compliment the other day—he said I was about as good a judge of mules as he ever saw, and that, coming from a man as careful as he is, was mighty high praise, I tell you. Helloa, what's up?"

From the family sitting room had come a roar and a noise like the upsetting of chairs. And into the parlor rushed McElwin, followed by his wife, Staggs, Mrs. Staggs, and the white and terrified Miss Annie.

"A most damnable outrage!" McElwin shouted, making straight for Lyman. "I mean you, sir," he cried, shaking his fist at Lyman. "You, sir. You try to bunco me and now you conspire with an imbecile to humble me into the dust. I mean you, sir. You have married my daughter. That fool is an ordained preacher, and your sockless legislature did away with marriage licenses."

Lyman looked about and saw Miss Eva faint in her mother's arms; he saw terror in the faces about him, and his cheek felt the hot breath of Sawyer's rage. He stepped back, for the banker's hand was at his throat.

"Pardon me," he said, with a quietness that struck the company with a becalming awe. "Pardon me, but I did not know that there was any conspiracy. Is there a doctor present? If there's not, send for one to attend the young lady."

Some one ran out. McElwin stood boiling with fury. Sawyer thrust forth his hand. Lyman knocked it up. "I will not step back for you," he said. "I have committed no outrage and I am not here to be insulted and pounced upon. Mr. McElwin, you ought to have sense enough to look calmly upon this unfortunate joke." He turned, attracted by a wail from Mrs. McElwin. Again he addressed the banker, now not so furious as awkwardly embarrassed. "They were playing and the young lady was to go through the marriage ceremony with the first man to enter the room, a common farce hereabouts, as you know; and I was the first man to enter. Don't blame me for a playful custom, or the action of a populist legislature."

"That may be all true, sir, but how could you presume, even in fun, to stand up with her? How is she?" he demanded, turning toward a woman who had just come from a room whither they had taken the "bride."

"Oh, she is all right. She was more scared than hurt."

He gave her a look of contempt, as if he had been hit with a sarcasm; and then he addressed himself to Lyman. "I ask, sir, how you could presume to stand up with her?"

"Well, I was told that I had to."

"And you were willing enough, no doubt."

"I didn't hang back very much; they didn't have to tear my clothes."

"But I wish they had torn your flesh, as you have torn mine. Who ever knew of so disgraceful and ridiculous a situation? It beats anything I ever heard of."

"But it can be made all right," said old man Staggs. "Nobody's hurt."

"We can get a divorce," Zeb Sawyer suggested.

"Yes," said Lyman, "but our friends, the populists, have enacted rather peculiar divorce laws. And without some vital cause, the application must be signed by both parties. It's in the nature of a petition."

"Well, that can be arranged," McElwin declared, with a sigh. "Annie, is Eva better?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. And you must pardon me for talking to you as I did just now, for I was never so upset in my life. Cousin Jasper, I wish you would have my carriage ordered. Annie, tell Mrs. McElwin that we will go home at once. Mr. Lyman, let me see you a moment in private."

Lyman followed him out upon the veranda. He had not analyzed his own feelings, but he was conscious of a strange victory.

"Mr. Lyman, you came to me and wanted to borrow a hundred dollars."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I can let you have it."

"No, I thank you."

"What, you don't want it?"

"Well, it wouldn't look exactly right for a rich man's son-in-law to borrow money so soon after marriage."

"Confound your impudence, sir—I beg your pardon."

"I thank you," said Lyman.

"You thank me? What for?"

"For begging my pardon."

"Come, that is all nonsense, Mr. Lyman. Tell my wife that I'll be ready in a moment," he shouted with his head thrust in at the door. "The most absurd of nonsense," he said, turning back to Lyman. "It will raise a horse laugh throughout the county, and will then be dismissed as a good joke on me. Yes, sir, on me. And now will you agree to conform to the requirements of that ridiculous legislature, and sign the petition to the court?"

"I haven't been informed that the legislature requires me to sign any petition. And I have no favors to ask of the court."

"Is it possible, Mr. Lyman, that you do not see the necessity of it?"

"And is it possible, Mr. McElwin, that you do not see the humor of it?"

"The absurdity, yes. But I see no fun in it. I am a dignified man, sir."

"Of course you tell me this in confidence—that you are a dignified man. All right—I won't say anything about it. But even dignity sometimes stands in need of advice. Go home and get a good night's sleep."

"Do you mean that you won't agree—"

"Not tonight."

"Mr. Lyman, I have heard that you are one of the kindest hearted of men."

"Oh, then you have heard of me? And I was not an entire stranger when I called at your bank? Yes, I suppose I have been what they were pleased to term a good fellow, and it strikes me that I have got the worst end of the bargain all along; so now, for once in my life, I am going to be mean. I will not sign your petition, Mr. McElwin."

"What, sir, do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it. I cannot afford to surrender a position so deliciously absurd."

"Then I will compel you, sir." He began to choke with anger.

"All right. I suppose you will invite me to be present."

"I will compel you to leave this town."

"What! After forming so strong an attachment?"

"You are not a gentleman, sir."

"No? Well, I have married into a pretty good family."

"I will not bandy words with you. But I will see you, and perhaps when you least expect it."

"Very well. Good night, and please remember that there is no humor in the law, that the statutes do not recognize a joke, and that, for the present at least, the young woman is my wife."

CHAPTER VII.

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The Wedding Breakfast.

At the breakfast table the next morning old man Staggs spread himself back with a loud laugh as Lyman entered the room. His wife looked at him with sharp reproof.

"Jasper, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said. "It is a sin to laugh at a trouble. Sit down, Mr. Lyman."

"Cousin Sam," said Lyman, and the old man roared again. "Well, sir," he declared, with the tears streaming out of his eyes, "I never saw anything like it in my life. It knocked him, knocked him prosperous, as old Moxey used to say. Best joke I ever heard of."

"Jasper, don't," his wife pleaded. "For my sake don't. I am afraid he'll never speak to us again."

"Well, what of that? Can we coin his words and pass them for money? And he has never given us anything but words. He has been promising Annie a silk dress since she was fourteen. Won't speak to us again. What do you want? More promises? I'm gettin' tired of 'em. Why, he has even flung ridicule on my arrest of that desperate man, the most dangerous fellow that ever trod shoe leather. And, as Mr. Lyman don't appear to be upset, I'm glad the thing happened."

"But nearly all the blame falls on me," Miss Annie whimpered. "I am afraid ever to meet him again."

"Oh, you are afraid he won't make you another promise. Well, that would be a terrible loss. Lyman, jest help yourself to that fried ham. Tilt up the dish, and dip out some of the gravy. Sorry we haven't got cakes and maple syrup; wish we had some angel's food. Rather a strange weddin' breakfast with the bride not present."

"Did—did Mrs. Lyman entirely recover before she was taken home?" Lyman asked.

Miss Annie looked up. "I think it was nearly all put on," she said.

"Why, Annie Milburn Staggs!" her mother exclaimed. "How can you say such a thing! I don't know what's come over you and your father. I'm getting so I'm afraid to hear you speak, you shock me so."

"That's right, Annie," said the old man. "Say exactly what you think. To tell the truth, I'm gettin' sorter tired of bein' trod under by the horse that McElwin rides. And if I was you, Lyman, I'd stand right up to him."

"That's about where you'll find me standing. I am sorry for the young woman, but—"

"Don't worry over her," Miss Annie spoke up. "I believe she's laughing alone right now over the absurdity of it. Why, anybody would, and she's no more than human."

"I suppose she denounced me," said Lyman.

"Yes, in a way. She had to keep time with her mother. But they are madder at Henry Bostic than at anyone else. And really, he's the only one that's guilty. But I don't blame him much. The McElwins have always made fun of him."

"What are you going to do, Lyman?" the old man asked.

"Nothing. I am satisfied."

"Don't say that, Mr. Lyman," the old woman pleaded. "Don't distress a proud family."

"Madam," Lyman replied, "I am ready to kneel and beg the pardon of a heart in distress, but senseless pride doesn't appeal to me. I can compare families with the McElwins when it comes to that, and putting my judgment aside, I can be as proud as they are. They have money, but that is all, and they would be but paupers compared with the really rich. There are no great names in their family, while from my family have sprung orators, novelists and poets."

"Good!" Miss Annie cried. "I like to look at you when you talk like that."

"I'll bet you ain't afraid of nobody," the old man declared. "I never saw an eye like yourn that was afraid, and a face, nuther. Oh, when it comes to looks, you are there all right. Well, sir," he added, "the town's stirred up. Old Ebenezer is all of a titter. Afraid to laugh out loud, but she's tickled all the same." The old man leaned back with a chuckle, and in his merriment he slowly clawed at the rim of gray whiskers that ran around under his chin. "I like to see a town tickled," he said.

"Never mind, Jasper," his wife spoke up, "your pride may be humbled one of these days."

"My pride," he laughed. "Why, bless you, I haven't any pride. Cousin McElwin knocked it all out of me when he said, and right to my face, that anybody could have arrested the man that choked the sheriff. I knowed then that something was going to happen to him. Knowed it as well as I knowed my name."

The old woman's hand shook and her cup rattled in the saucer as she put it down. "I hope the Lord will forgive you for bein' so revengeful," she said.

"Don't let that worry you, Tobitha," he replied, rubbing his rim of gray bristles. "The Lord takes care of his own, and I reckon your prayers have made me one of the elected."

"One of the elect, father," said Miss Annie.

"All the same," the old man replied. "Why, just look," he added, glancing through the window—"Just look at the folks out there gazin' at the house. Oh, we live in the center of this town, at present."

"Annie," said the old woman, "pull down the shade. The impudent things!"

"I don't believe I would," the old man tittered as his daughter arose to obey. "It ain't right to rob folks of a pleasure that don't cost us nothin'."

"There's that vicious Mrs. Potter," said Annie, and with a spiteful jerk she pulled down the shade. "We will shut off her malicious view."

"It is to be expected that a bridegroom should be an object of interest," Lyman remarked. "I awoke last night and thought that I heard sleet rattling at the window, but recalling the time of year I knew that it was rice thrown in showers by my friends."

The old lady looked at Lyman: "I am sorry that you're not more serious," she said.

"Serious," Lyman repeated with a twinkling glance at the old man. "I have done everything I can to prove that I am serious. I have just been married."

"Oh, you got it that time, Tobitha. Got it, and I knowed you would."

"Jasper, for goodness sake, hush. Annie, come away from there, a peepin' through at those good-for-nothin' people. They'd better be at work earnin' a livin' for their families, gracious knows. Are you going?" she asked as Lyman arose.

"Yes, to my office, to work for the Sentinel. I am the editor, now."

"Why, you didn't tell us that," said Annie, turning from the window.

"My mind has been engaged with more important matters," he replied, with his hands on the back of the chair, smiling at her. "It was only yesterday that Warren offered to join his misfortune with mine."

The old woman sighed: "I hope you'll be careful not to say things in the street to stir up strife," she said.

"Strife," the old man repeated with a laugh.

"Yes, strife," she insisted. "There are any number of men that would like to get him into trouble, just to please Cousin McElwin."

"I think I can take care of myself," said Lyman, putting on his hat.

CHAPTER VIII.

[Top]

Suppressing the News.

Lyman found Warren almost in hysterical glee, treading air up and down the office. "Ho!" he cried, as the bridegroom entered the office. "Let me get hold of you. Ho!" he shouted louder as he shook Lyman's hand. "Maybe we haven't got the situation by the forelock. Who ever heard of such a thing! Shake again. I didn't hear about it till awhile ago, and then I took a fit and caught another one from it. Glad I held the paper in line with the Grangers."

"Let me sit down," said Lyman.

"That's exactly what you must do, and write like a horse trotting. I've left two columns open, and I want you to spread yourself."

"Something important?" Lyman asked, sitting down.

"Now, what do you want to talk that way for? It's a world beater."

"What do you mean?"

"The marriage, don't you understand? Make two columns out of it and I'll get fifty subscribers before night. Hurry up, I've got a tramp printer waiting for the copy."

"Nonsense," said Lyman, lighting a cigar. "You wouldn't expect a man to write up his own marriage, any more than you would his own funeral."

"If his funeral was as extraordinary as this marriage I would. Finest piece of news I ever heard of. Never heard of anything to beat it; and we'll make the hair rise up in this community like bristles on a dog. Go ahead with it. The tramp's waiting and I am paying him time."

"Sit down," said Lyman. Warren did so reluctantly. Lyman put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "My dear boy," said he, "don't you know it would be very indelicate, not to say vulgar, for us to print a sensational account of that marriage? For a day it might be a news victory, but afterwards it would be a humiliating defeat. To tell you the truth, I am about ready to confess my regret that it happened." He was silent for a moment, as if to take note of Warren's hard breathing. "And if McElwin had come to me more as a man and less like a mad bull I would have agreed to sign the divorce petition. But I don't like to be driven. I am sorry to disappoint you; it is hard to throw cold water on your warm enthusiasm, but I won't write a word about the marriage."

Tears gathered in Warren's eyes. "This life's not worth living," he said. "Nothing but disappointment all the time. No hope; everything dead."

"But you shouldn't hang a hope on a poisonous weed, my boy."

"No matter where I hang one, it falls to the dust. But say, you are not going to sign that paper, are you?"

"Not at present. I am man enough to be stubborn."

"Good!" Warren cried, his wonted enthusiasm beginning to rise. "Don't sign it at all. You've got him on the hip, and you can throw him where you please. I've been waiting two years to get even with him. He stopped his paper because I printed a communication from a farmer denouncing money sharks. All right," he said, getting up, "we can make the paper go anyway. I'll put that tramp on another job."

He went out with a rush and the high spirits of glorious and thoughtless youth. Lyman went to the window and gazed over at the bank. The place looked cool and dignified, the province of a bank when other places of business have been forced to an early opening. Lyman smiled at the reflection that there was no crape on the door, as if he had half expected to find it there. "He couldn't let me have a hundred dollars when I offered to give him a mortgage on the library," he mused. "Said he couldn't, but he was willing enough to offer the money in exchange for another sort of mortgage. I suppose he thinks it strange that I was not bought upon the instant."

"Well," said Warren, entering the room, "I paid the tramp thirty cents for his time and he has gone away happier than if he had been put to work. What are you doing? Looking at dad's temple? Fine prospect."

"Yes, for dad."

"But don't you let him browbeat you out of your rights."

"I won't. The son-in-law has rights which the father-in-law ought to respect. What sort of a fellow is Zeb Sawyer?"

"Good deal of a bully," Warren answered, standing beside Lyman and looking through the window as if to keep company with the survey of the bank. "He managed by industry and close attention to shoot a man, I understand, and that gave him a kind of pull with society, although the fellow didn't die. He's a hustler and makes money, and of course has a firm grip on McElwin's heart. There are worse fellows, although he didn't renew his subscription when the time ran out."

While they were looking the porter opened the door of the bank.

"They are going to transact business just the same," said Lyman.

"Yes, they've got to pull teeth, no matter what has happened. Do you know that there are lots of fellows around town that would like to come up here and congratulate you, but they are afraid of McElwin."

"I wonder Caruthers hasn't come," said Lyman.

"No you don't. You've got no use for him and have told him so. Helloa, yonder comes McElwin and Sawyer. They are crossing the street. By George, I believe they are coming here."

"All right. Let's step back and stand at ease ready to receive them."

"Say, I believe there's going to be trouble here," said Warren. "And if there is you wouldn't mind writing it up, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't mind. Ordinary trouble is not quite so personally embarrassing as a marriage."

"Shall I keep the columns open?" Warren asked, his eyes dancing.

"No, not on an uncertainty."

"But it is not an uncertainty. They are coming up the stairs."

"Let us sit down," said Lyman.

McElwin and Sawyer entered the long composing room, looked about and then walked slowly toward the law office.

"Come in," said Lyman, as they approached the open door.

"You are not alone," McElwin remarked, as he stepped in, followed by Sawyer.

"Neither are you," said Lyman. "Sit down."

"We have not come to sit down, sir."

"Then you must pardon my not rising. This languid spring air makes me tired."

"Sir, we wish to see you in your private office."

"And that is where you find me. This was my public law office, but now it is my private editorial room."

"But your privacy is invaded," said the banker, glancing at Warren.

"So I have observed," Lyman replied, looking at Sawyer.

"Ah, but enough of this. Can we see you alone."

"I don't believe I'd waste any more time beating the bush," said Sawyer. "Let's come to the point."

"That's not a bad suggestion," Lyman replied. "We have about thrashed all the leaves off the bush."

The banker cleared his throat: "Mr. Lyman, even after a night of worried reflection, I am even now hardly able to realize the monstrous outrage that has been committed at the instance of a theologic imbecile, helped by a travesty on law enacted by a general assembly of ditch diggers and plowmen."

"That is a very good speech, Mr. McElwin. But I don't know that any outrage has been committed. Let us call it an irregularity."

"We'll call it an infernal shame," Sawyer declared, swelling.

"No," Warren struck in, "call it a great piece of news gone wrong. If I had my way it would be creeping down between column rules right now."

"Infamous!" cried the banker. "Don't you dare to print a word of it."

"Oh, I'd dare all right enough, if Lyman's modesty didn't forbid it."

"Then, sir, I must condemn your impudence, and commend Mr. Lyman's consideration."

"We are still beating the bush," Sawyer broke in.

"And no scared rabbit has run out," said Lyman.

"We might be after a wolf instead of a rabbit," Sawyer replied. The banker gave him a look of warning.

"Yes," said Lyman, "you might hunt a wolf and find a panther."

"I take that as a threat," the banker spoke up.

"Oh, not at all," Lyman replied. "It was merely to help carry out a figure of speech."

"Let's get to business," said Sawyer.

"All right," Lyman agreed. "But you don't expect me to state the object of your visit."

"No, sir. We can do that easy enough," said McElwin. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth a paper. "Mr. Lyman, we have here a petition to the Chancery Court, asking for the setting aside of a ridiculous marriage, the laughing-stock of all matrimonial ceremonies. The entrapped lady's name has been affixed, and we now ask, sir, that you append your signature."

He stepped forward to the table near which Lyman was sitting, and spread out the paper. Lyman smiled and shook his head. "This is so sudden," he remarked, and Warren tittered.

"Sudden, sir?"

"Yes, not unexpected, but sudden. I must have time to think."

"To think? How long, sir?"

"Well, say about six months."

"There's no use wasting words with this fellow," said Sawyer. "We'll make him sign it."

Lyman looked at him. "I understand that you are a buyer and seller of mules," he remarked. "That may account for your impulsiveness. But at present you are not in the mule market, that is, not as a buyer."

"Come," said McElwin, "we don't want any trouble."

"But if we have it," Lyman replied, "let it come on before it is time to go to press. Warren wants news."

McElwin bit his brown lip, and Sawyer fumed.

"Don't put it off too long," said Warren. "I've hired a negro to turn the press."

"This is infamous!" the banker shouted, stamping the floor. "It is beyond belief." Then he strove to calm himself. "Mr. Lyman, I ask you, as a man, to sign this petition."

"The interview has wrought upon my nerves, Mr. McElwin, and if I should sign it now the Court might look upon my signature as obtained under coercion."

"Ridiculous, sir. I never saw a man more quiet."

"That is the mistake of your agitated eye. My nerves are in a tangle."

"Let me fix it," said Sawyer, swelling toward Lyman.

Lyman smiled at him: "You are pretty heavy in the shoulders, Mr. Sawyer, but you slope down too fast. I don't believe your legs are very good. You might say that I don't slope enough, or not at all, but I'm wire, Yale-drawn. You are meaty, vealy, the boys would say, but if you think that you'd feel healthier and more contented toward the world after a closer association with me—"

"Come, none of that," the banker interrupted. And then to Lyman he added: "I appeal to your reason, sir."

"A bad thing to appeal to when it sits against you. It is like appealing to a wind blowing toward you. But before I forget it I should like to ask what this man Sawyer has to do with it?"

"He and my daughter are engaged, sir."

"Well," said Lyman, "that might have been, but they are not now. Let me ask you an impertinent question: Does she love him?"

Sawyer started. The banker shifted his position. "I told you that they were engaged," said McElwin.

"I know you did, and that is the reason I asked you if she loves him. Let me ask another impertinent question: Didn't you appeal to her to marry him?"

"Who suggested that—that impudence, sir?"

"You did. Didn't you tell her that he was the most promising young man in the neighborhood and that she must marry him? Hold on a moment. And didn't your wife take the young woman's part, declaring that she looked higher, and wasn't she finally compelled to yield?"

"I will not answer such shameless questions."

"Well, then, I must bid you good day."

"Without signing this petition?"

"Without so much as reading it. But I will agree to do this. When your daughter comes to me and tells me that she loves Mr. Sawyer, that her happiness depends upon him, then I will sign it. At present I am her protector."

The banker snorted, but calmed himself. "You a protector—a mediator! Sir, you continue to insult me."

"He ought to be kicked out of his own office," Sawyer swore.

"Yes, but it would take a mule, rather than a mule driver. But I don't want anything more to say to you. I know your history; you wouldn't hesitate to shoot a man in the back, but when it comes to a face to face fight, you are a coward. Shut up. Not a word out of you. Mr. McElwin, I sympathize with your wife and your daughter, but I am not at all sorry for you. Good morning."

The angry visitors strode out, with many a gesture of unspeakable anger. "Well," said Warren, "that beats anything I ever saw. How did you learn so much about his family affairs? Who told you?"

"You told me Sawyer's history, and I made a bold guess at the rest."

"And you nailed him. Well, I'll swear if it ain't a jubilee. But there's no news in it for me."

"There may be some day," Lyman replied.

CHAPTER IX.

[Top]

At Church.

On the following Sunday, which in fact was the day after the scene in the office, Lyman went to church. There were several churches in Old Ebenezer, but he chose the one which was the religious affiliation of the banker's family. A number of clean looking young fellows stood outside to gaze at the girls going in, and they nudged one another and giggled as they saw Lyman approaching. He pretended not to notice them, going straightway into the church. Most of the pews were free, and he sat down about the middle of the house and began carefully to look about over the congregation. A strange feeling possessed him, and he looked back with a thrill when he heard the rustle of skirts in the doorway. At last he saw her and he thought that Zeb Sawyer came with her to the door. The banker and his stately wife came in, but Lyman had no eye for them. He sat almost in a trance, gazing at the young woman as she walked slowly down the opposite aisle. She reminded him of a peach tree blooming in the early spring, there was so much pink and the rich color of cream about her. She sat down not far from him and he gazed at the silk-brown hair on the back of her neck. Once she looked around but her eye did not rest on him. She sang with the congregation, and he selected a sweet tone for her voice, and smiled afterward to discover that it was in the voice of a plain woman seated near her. Some one sat down beside him, and he was surprised to find Caruthers.

The lawyer was surprised too, and he made a motion as if to move away.

"Never mind," whispered Lyman, "stay where you are."

"Thank you," Caruthers whispered in turn. "I didn't know but that fog was still between us."

"It is, and that's the reason we didn't recognize each other sooner."

"Then I'd better move."

"It is not necessary. I can stand it if you can."

"All right. Deuce of an affair you've got into."

"Yes, rather out of the ordinary."

"Has the old man offered you money to turn loose?"

"He offered to lend me a small sum."

"Why don't you make him give you a big sum?"

"Because I am not a scoundrel."

"No. Because you are weak. I would."

"Yes," Lyman whispered. "Because you are a scoundrel."

"Don't say that to me."

"Sit over there," said Lyman.

Caruthers moved away, and Lyman sat gazing at the young woman. "I am going to be of service to her," he mused. "And one of these days when she finds herself really in love she will thank me. She is dazzling, but I don't believe I could love her. I don't believe she has very much sense. She looks like a painting. I'd like to see her in an empire gown. I wonder what she thinks of me. Perhaps she doesn't." He smiled at himself, and then became aware that the preacher was in the heated midst of his sermon.

While the congregation was moving out, with greetings in low voices, and with many a smiling nod, the banker caught sight of Lyman, and made a noise as if puffing out a mouthful of smoke. His wife, who was slightly in front, glanced back at him.

"That wretched Lyman," he said, leaning toward her.

"Where?" she asked.

"Over at the right, but don't look at him. Everybody is staring at us."

"Where is Eva?"

"You ought to know," he answered.

"She is coming, just behind us."

They passed out. Lyman saw Zeb Sawyer standing at the door. He bowed to Mr. and Mrs. McElwin and continued to stand there, waiting for the young woman. She came out. She said something, and catching the expression of her face Lyman thought she must have remonstrated with him. But she permitted him to join her, and they walked away slowly. Lyman overtook them.

"Pardon me," he said to her, paying no attention to Sawyer, "but do you realize the scandalous absurdity of your action at his moment?"

"Sir!" Her graceful neck stiffened as she looked at him.

"Don't you know that it is not in good form to receive the attentions of an old lover so soon after marriage?"

She stopped, jabbed the ground with her parasol and laughed. But in a moment she had repented of her merriment. "I wish you would go away," she said. "You have already caused me tears enough."

"What, so soon? The beautific smile, rather than the tear should be the emblem of the honeymoon. But this is not what I approached you to say. I wish to ask when I may expect a visit from you."

"I, visit you!"

"Yes. To ask me to sign the petition to the Court."

"I ask you now, sir."

"There!" said Sawyer, walking close beside the young woman.

"In the name of the love you bear this man?"

She looked at him with a blush. "In the name of my father, my mother and myself," she said.

"Oh," said he, "you are not the simple-minded beauty I expected to find. I suspect that your flatterers have not given you a fair chance. It is difficult to look through the dazzle and estimate the intelligence of a queen."

"Really! You come with a new flattery. My father's money—"

"Miss, or madam, your father is a pauper in comparison with the man who loves nature. He is a slave, living the life of a slave-driver. He is proud of you, not because you are a woman, but because you are, to him, a picture in a gilt frame."

"I just know everybody is looking at us," she said.

"You mean that you are afraid some of them may not be looking."

"Really! You are impudent, Mr.——"

"Have you forgotten your own name? Oh, by the way, your maiden name was McElwin, I believe."

She halted again to laugh. "Oh, this is too funny for anything," she said. "Isn't it, Zeb?"

"It won't be if your father looks around."

"He is too near the bank to look around now," Lyman replied. "He must keep his eyes on the temple."

"Zeb," she said, "why do you let this man talk that way? I thought you had more spirit."

"He has the spirit of anger, but not of courage," Lyman remarked.

"Eva," said Sawyer, "out in the Fox Grove neighborhood this man is known as a desperado."

"That phase of character was forced upon me, madam," Lyman replied, "and I had to accept it. Just as this man has been compelled to accept the name of notorious bully and coward, which was forced upon him. He gained some little prestige by shooting an unarmed man, and has been afraid to meet him since. The people have found this out, and hence his name of coward."

"It's a—" Sawyer hesitated.

"It's a what?" Lyman asked.

"A mistake."

"A soft word," said the young woman.

"A gentleman uses soft words in the presence of ladies," Sawyer replied.

"And a weak man uses a weak word in apology for a weak character," Lyman spoke up.

"Oh, I never heard anything like this before," the young woman declared. "I didn't know that men could be so entertaining."

"The potted plant astonished at the virility of the weed," said Lyman. "But I must leave you here. My office is up there. Mr. Sawyer knows where it is. His name appears on my list of callers. No, thank you, I cannot dine with you today."

"Oh, how impertinent," she laughed. "Nobody asked you, sir."

"No, but I'll ask you. My partner is up there now, with his oil stove lighted and the coffee hot. We have some broken dishes, and some cups that are cracked with age. Won't you come up and dine with us?"

"Why, I thought you boarded with Cousin Jasper Staggs. And ain't he the funniest thing? I like him ever so much."

"I do board with him, but I often dine out. Won't you come up and have a box of sardines?"

"No, I thank you. Wait a moment. When are you going to sign that petition for father?"

"When am I going to sign it for you?"

"Why, as soon as you can."

"No. But as soon as you comply with all the requirements of sentimental rather than of statute law."

CHAPTER X.

[Top]

The Old Fellow Laughed.

"You are a pestiferous son-in-law," said Warren, as Lyman entered the room. "And I have taken possession of your private quarters," he added, pointing to a pile of country newspapers. "I have brought them in here to see if I could gouge some state news out of them. I know you don't like that sort of drudgery."

"That is all right. But why do you call me a pestiferous son-in-law?"

"I saw you through the window."

"With the lady and the mule?" said Lyman sitting down. "I asked them in to dine with me."

"Where? You say Staggs has nothing but a 'snack' on Sunday."

"Up here, to eat crackers and sardines."

"Extravagant pauper. I'm glad they didn't come."

"I knew they wouldn't."

"Did she ask you to sign the populistic petition?"

"Yes, but not in the name of love for the mule."

"In whose name, then?"

"Of her father, her mother, and herself."

"Are you going to sign it?"

"Not until she convinces me that she loves the mule, and I don't believe she can ever do that. She has a contempt for him, and I believe she is glad that her affairs are temporarily tied up. She's charming."

"There you go, falling in love with a strange woman."

"No, I am not in love with her, but I am naturally interested in her. I believe she has sense."

"Rather too pretty for that."

"No, she is handsome, but pretty is not the word. I'll warrant you she can run like a deer."

"You are gone," said Warren.

"No, I am simply an admirer. But admiration may be the crumbling bank overlooking the river. I may fall," he added, with a laugh.

"Don't. She has been taught to despise a real man. Let the other side of the house have the trouble."

"Yes," said Lyman. "It is better to be under the heel of the express company than under the heel of love."

"Don't say that," Warren objected, with a rueful shake of his head. "Some things are too serious to be joked over. It is all right to make light of love, for that is a light thing, but an express company is heavy. You are restless."

Lyman had got up and begun to walk about the room. "Yes, the bright day calls on me to come out."

"Isn't it the memory of a bright face that calls on you?"

"No. Well, I'll leave you."

"Won't you sit down to a sardine?"

"No. I'll stroll over to see old Jasper, and take cold pot-luck with him."

Old Jasper, his wife and daughter were seated at the table when Lyman entered the dining room. "Just in time," the old fellow cried. "We are waiting for you, although we didn't expect you. We didn't know but you'd gone up to McElwin's to dinner. Sit down."

Annie laughed, but the old woman looked distressed. "Jasper, you know you didn't think any such a thing. And if you did, how could you? Mr. Lyman doesn't intrude himself where he's not invited. And you know that McElwin is so particular."

Lyman frowned. It was clear that Mrs. Staggs, in her ignorance and in her awe of the man at the bank, could not feel a respect for intelligence and the refinement of a book-loving nature. "You may think me rude," said Lyman, "but I should not regard dining at his house a great privilege. Leaving out the respect I have for the young woman, it would not be as inspiring a meal as a canned minnow on a baize table."

"Why, Mr. Lyman, how can you say that?" the old woman cried.

"Madam, the fishes were divided among the thousands when the Son of Man fed the multitude, and that was a more inspiring meal than could have been provided by Solomon in all his glory."

The old man let his knife fall with a clatter. "Oh, he got you then!" he cried. "He set a trap for you and you walked right into it. All you've got to do is to set a trap for a woman, and she'll walk into it sooner or later."

"For goodness sake, hush, Jasper. A body would think you were the worst enemy I have on the face of the earth."

"Enemy! Who said anything about enemy? I was talking about a trap. But it's all right. We saw you, Lyman."

"Yes, and we didn't know it was going to happen," said Annie. "Everybody was watching you. And I heard a woman say that she admired your courage. I did, I'm sure."

"I didn't feel that I was exhibiting any degree of courage," Lyman replied. "All I had to fear was the young woman."

"But the man is—"

"A coward," Lyman broke in.

Old Staggs struck the table with his fist. "I always said it!" he shouted. "And he's another one that made light of my arrest of the man that choked the sheriff. Coward! of course he is."

Mrs. Staggs objected. No one whom McElwin had chosen for a son-in-law could be a coward. She admitted that he was not as gentle as one could wish. His life had been led out of doors. But he was a shrewd business man and would make a good husband. It was all well enough in some instances to permit girls to choose for themselves, but a girl was often likely to make a sad mistake, particularly a girl whose home life had been surrounded by every luxury. Love was a very pretty thing, but it couldn't live so long as poverty, the most real thing in the world. The old man winked at Lyman. He said that age might soften a man, but that it nearly always hardened a woman. It was rare to see a woman's temper improve with age, while many a sober minded man became a joker in his later years. Mrs. Staggs retorted that women had enough to make them cross. "They have an excuse for scoldin'," she said.

"Nobody has so good an argument as the scold," the old man replied.

"They have men, and that's argument enough," said his wife.

The old fellow laughed. "She put it on me a little right there," he declared. "Yes, sir, I've got a steel trap clamped on my foot this minute. But what do you think of the situation now, Lyman; I mean your situation?"

"I don't know of any material change."

"But of course you are going to sign the petition," said Mrs. Staggs. "Everybody agrees that you must, before court meets. And that reminds me, I met Henry Bostic's mother today. The old lady doesn't appear to be at all grieved over the part her son took in the affair. It would nearly kill me if a son of mine had made such a blunder."

"It was no blunder on his part, and I don't blame him," said Annie. "No one thought enough of his pretensions to ask him if he had been ordained. And besides, Cousin McElwin had made fun of him."

"And a preacher can stand anything rather than ridicule," Lyman declared. "He may forgive all sorts of abuses, but cry 'Go up, old bald head!' and immediately he calls for the she-bears."

"And gives thanks when he hears the bears breaking the bones of his enemies," said the old man.

"I don't blame him," replied Lyman. "Ridicule is the bite of the spider, and it ought not to be directed against the man who dedicates his life to sacred work."

The old woman gave him a nod of approval: "You are right," she said. "But young Henry ought not to have been revengeful."

"No, not as the ordinary man is revengeful," Lyman assented, "but we serve the Lord when we humble a foolish pride. I don't think McElwin could have done a crueler thing than to have crushed the mother's heart with ridicule for the son."

"But about the petition," said Annie. "You will sign it, won't you?"

"I may."

"But why should you refuse. To annoy her?"

"No, to protect her."

"She would be awfully angry if she thought you presumed to pose as her protector. But let us change the subject. The whole town is talking about it, so let us talk of something else. Are you going to church tonight?"

"Yes, with you, if you don't object."

"Oh, I couldn't object, but—but don't you think it might cause remark, after what has happened?"

"There you go, leading back to it. Sawyer walked home with her; did that cause remark?"

"Yes, in a way; and I believe she will wait for the divorce before she goes with him again."

"Then she will be free of his company for some time to come. Well," he added, "I won't go to church. I'll go up stairs and read myself to sleep."

CHAPTER XI.

[Top]

In the Lantern Light.

An account of the marriage, written by an effusive correspondent, was published in a newspaper at the State Capital; and a few days later the same journal contained an editorial bearing upon the subject, taking the populistic party to task for its lamentable want of sense in legislation. The State press took the matter up, and then the "paragrapher" had his season of merry-making. "We have always heard it declared," said one, "that marriage is a plunge in the dark, but a preacher over at Old Ebenezer proves that it is all a joke." And this from another one: "'What do you think of young Parson Bostic?' was asked of Banker McElwin. 'I didn't think he was loaded,' the financier replied." It was said that a great batch of this drivel was cut out, credited and sent to McElwin, and Lyman accused Warren, but he denied it, though not with convincing grace.

One evening a picnic was given on the lawn of a prominent citizen. It had been heralded as a moonlight event, but the moon was sullen and the light was shed from paper lanterns hung in the trees. There was to be no dancing and no forfeit games, for McElwin was still raw, and the master of the gathering on the lawn would not dare to throw sand on the spots where the rich man's prideful skin had been raked off. The entertainment was to consist of talk among the older ones, chatter among the slips of girls and striplings of men, with music for all.

"You will have to go to write it up," Warren said to Lyman.

"It won't be necessary to go," Lyman replied. "We can hold a pleasanter memory of such events if we don't really see them. I can write of it from a distance."

"Yes, but that isn't enterprise, and we want to prove to these people that we are enterprising. They must see you on the ground."

"All right."

"You will go, then?"

"That's what I meant when I said all right."

"And you didn't mean that you'd simply look over the fence and then come away?"

"No, I mean that I'll go and be a fool with the rest of them."

"That's all I ask. Here's an invitation. You'll have to show it at the gate."

"Why don't you go, Warren?"

"It would be absurd."

"Why? Your clothes might be worse."

"There are a good many observations that don't apply to clothes. The entertainment is to be given by the Hon. Mr. S. Boyd. One time, with great reluctance, he lifted a grinding heel off my head. I owe him five dollars."

"And it would be embarrassing to meet him, by invitation, on his own lawn."

"Yes. I'll pay him one of these days, but of course he doesn't know that."

"Probably he doesn't even suspect it," said Lyman.

"No. He's dull, and not inclined to be speculative."

"I should take him to be wildly adventurous."

"Why so?"

"He let you have five dollars."

"Oh, I see. But that's all right. He'll treat you well. Say, he may pass cigars with a gilt band around them. Put a few in your pocket for me."

"I might have a chance to sneak a whole box."

"Come, don't rub the lamp. Rub the ring and get two cigars. I'll sit up and wait for them. If Boyd asks you why I have been dodging him, tell him I'm not well."

The lawn was a spread of blue grass, beneath trees with low, hanging boughs, and through the misty light and moving shadows the house looked like a castle. The air was vibrant with the music of the "string" band, gathered from the livery stable and the barber shop; and mingled with the music as if it were a part of the sound, was the half sad scent of the crushed geranium. At the gate a black man, in a long coat buttoned to the ground, took Lyman's card of invitation. From groups of white came the laugh of youth, and from darker gatherings came the hum of talk. Lyman shook hands with nearly every one whom he met, laughing; and his good humor was an introduction to persons he had never seen before. He felt that he was a part of a joke which everyone was enjoying. The Hon. S. Boyd came forward and shook hands with him.

"I am delighted to welcome you to my grounds," said the great man, speaking as if he had invited Lyman to hunt in a forest of a thousand acres. "And your partner, will he be here?"

"No, he's not very well this evening," Lyman answered, walking slowly, arm-hooked with the great man.

"I am sorry to hear it. A man of wonderful energy, sir. Quite the sort of a man we need in Old Ebenezer. And I am glad to see that his paper is picking up. I was over at the State Capital the other day, and the Governor spoke of something taken from its columns."

"Mr. Warren remembers your kindness, sir," replied Lyman; "not only your words of encouragement, but the money you so generously advanced to him."

"A paltry sum, and really I had forgotten it."

"The sum was not large, but any debt is embarrassing until we pay it, and then we can look back upon it as a pleasure."

"Sound doctrine, Mr. Lyman. But there must be no embarrassment in this matter. So, if you please, you may tell Mr. Warren that I will take enough copies of the next edition to cancel the debt. Not enough to embarrass him, you understand. It would come to about one hundred copies, I believe. But let him make it two hundred, as I wish to send it out pretty largely, and I will send him five dollars in addition. Will you pardon me if I mix business with pleasure, and give you the money now?" He unhooked his arm.

"I shall be delighted to act as your messenger," Lyman replied.

"I thank you, sir; you are very obliging. And now," he added, when he had given Lyman the money, "we'll go over to the grotto and get a lemonade and a cigar."

They went to a hollow pile of stones, where a negro stood ready to serve them. "Help yourself to the lemonade. It was deemed advisable to have nothing strong. A very old ladle, that, sir; it was the property of my grandfather. The cigars, Jacob, the gold band. Now, here's a cigar, sir, that I can recommend. Oh, don't stop at one. Here," he added, grabbing a handful, "put these in your pocket, for I am sure you'll not get any like them down town. Well, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, I'll slip off to look after my other guests."

Lyman walked about, joking and gathering the names of the joyous maidens, the heavy men, the light young fellows, and the dames who had come to enjoy their daughters' conquests and their own dignity. With a feeling of disappointment he wondered why the banker's family was not represented, and more than once he looked about sweepingly, believing that he had heard the loud voice of Zeb Sawyer. He mused that his work was done, that the company had transacted its business with him, and he turned aside to a quiet spot, to a seat behind a clump of shrubs, to smoke a cigar and to picture Warren's surprise and delight. The cigar burned out and he was about to go, when he heard the ripple of skirts on the soft grass. A woman came across the sward, and in the light of a neighboring lantern Lyman recognized Eva. She saw him and halted.

"Won't you please sit down," he said, rising.

"I—I—didn't know you were here," she replied, looking back.

"The fact that you came is proof enough of that," said he, with a quiet laugh.

"How shrewd you are," she replied.

"No, I am only considerate. But now that you are here, won't you please sit down. I am weary of senseless chatter, and I would like to talk to you."

"Oh, I couldn't refuse, after such a compliment as that. And, besides, I am tired."

She sat down; he continued to stand. She did not appear to notice it.

"I looked all over the ground, but could not find you," he said.

"Mamma and I did not come until just now. We live so near that we put off our coming until late."

"Did your father come?"

"No. Only mamma and I. Some of us had to come."

"Just you and your mother, and not Mr. Sawyer?"

"He didn't come with us. I don't know that he is here." For a few moments they were silent. "I am so tired of everything," she said.

"Tired of yourself?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why don't you do something? Did you ever think of that?"

"What would be the use of thinking of it? There's nothing for me to do."

"There is something for everyone to do. Why don't you take up some line of study?"

"I hate study. I can't put my mind on it."

"But you could read good books."

"I do, but I get tired. I must have been petted too much."

"Ah! A girl is beginning to be strong when she feels that way. I suppose you have been flattered all your life."

"Do I show it?"

"Yes. But not so much as you did."

"And do you know the reason?"

"I don't know, unless it is that you have been sobered by a joke."

"That has something to do with it. You have made me think. You don't regard me as a spoiled child; you seem to believe that I have a mind. And that, even if you were a field hand, would cause me to be interested in you. I would like to talk with you seriously, but you joke with me."

"To hear you in a serious mood would be as sweet as an anthem."

"You must not talk that way. I want your friendship."

"You shall have it."

"I need your help."

"You shall have it."

"I don't want to be wicked," she said, looking up at him, "but I beg of you not to sign that petition to the Court, until—"

"Until when?"

"Until Zeb Sawyer is—is—out of the way. People flatter me and praise me, but they don't know what I have suffered. And my father doesn't understand me. When you called Sawyer a coward I wanted to shout in the street."

"Still you consented to marry him."

"Yes, to live for a little longer in peace. But I know a tall rock over on the creek, and from the top of it is a long way to the cruel boulders below. They call it 'Lover's Leap,' and I have thought after awhile the name might be changed to 'Despair's Leap.' At night I have dreamed of that rock, and sometimes my dream would continue after I opened my eyes. Our engagement was for one year, and often I said to myself that I had but one year longer to live. At church I would pray, and I could hear the words, 'Children, obey your parents.' And then I would go home and pretend to be happy in that obedience."

"But you signed the petition."

"Yes, with a prayer that you would not sign it."

"And I won't."

"Not even if they should come with pistols?"

"Not if they should come with a mob and a rope."

She looked up at him, with her hands clasped in her lap. The light fell upon her face, and in its human loveliness was the divine spirit of sadness. Lyman looked upward at the fleece among the stars, the lace curtain of the night.

"With the strength accidentally dedicated to me by a body of men assembled to break the customs of a class opposed to them, I will hold you a prisoner, free from the grasp of a feelingless clown," he said. "I will protect you. And when you have really fallen in love, and believe that your happiness depends upon a man, I will sign the petition."

With the frankness of a child she sprung from the seat and grasped his hand: "Oh, you stand between me and the tall rock," she said. "Good night—God bless you."

She ran away. Lyman looked after her, with dim vision—her white gown spectral in the misty light.

CHAPTER XII.

[Top]

Wanted to Dream.

Lyman walked slowly down the tree-darkened lane that led to the main street of the village. Beneath a forest oak, where the desolate town cow and the stray sheep had come to seek freedom from the annoyances of the day, he halted and looked back. The few remaining lanterns were like fire-flies in a growth of giant grass. The members of the "string-band" were singing a negro melody. The notes came floating with the mirth-shriek of a maiden, and the hoarse laugh of the boy who aspired to be a man. Far away on a hillside a dog was barking at the mystery of night. Near by a mocking-bird, in a cage, was singing out of the melodious fullness of his heart. The muser felt two distinct senses, one that a sweet voice had touched the quick of his nature, the other that he had been grandiloquent in his talk while looking at the stars. She had threatened to destroy herself. No, she would not do that. She could but shrink from it if the time should come. But to resolve upon it, driven by a father who could not understand her, was so girlishly natural, so complete a bit of romantic despair, that she must have found it a source of great consolation.

Warren was waiting. "I'll bet you didn't bring a cigar," he said, tossing a cob pipe on the table.

"You've lost," Lyman replied, rolling out a handful of cigars upon a pile of newspapers.

Warren reached over, his eyes snapping. "Gold bands," he said. "Oh, I knew you would bring them if they were to be had. You are all right, Samuel," he added, striking a match. "Yes, sir, but I have been sitting up here, almost envious of the good time you were having. However, I was not sorry that I had not faced the Hon. S. Boyd. He frowned at me the last time we met. I can stand to be dunned once in awhile, but I don't like to be frowned at. Did he say anything about the money I owe him?"

"Well," said Lyman, leaning back in his chair, "the subject was mentioned."

"What, the old skinflint! Did he blurt it out before everybody?"

"No. He talked to me privately."

"Well, I am glad he had that much consideration. But why did he want to speak of it at all? I suppose you told him I'd pay it as soon as I could, didn't you?"

"Yes, I told him so."

"Well, then, what more does he want? No man can pay a debt before he can. There are in this town some of the queerest people I ever saw. They expect a man to pay a debt whether he's got the money or not. I'll pay that fellow and tire him to death with meeting him afterward. I'll cross the street a dozen times a day to shake hands with him. Yes, sir, I'll make him wish that I owed him."

"He sent you this," said Lyman, handing over the five dollars.

Warren's eyes flew wide open with astonishment. "Sent it to me?"

"Yes, he wants two hundred copies of our next edition. One hundred to discharge the old debt, and the five dollars is to pay for the other hundred."

"Lyman, you rubbed the lamp. Don't rub it again right away. Let me hold this thing a minute."

"You may hold it until the express company takes it away from you."

"Hush, don't make a noise. You'll wake me up. Let me dream."

"She was there," said Lyman, after a brief silence.

"A dreamer listening to a dream," Warren vacantly replied.

"I had quite a talk with her. She is not a doll. She's a woman with a soul and a mind."

"You are gone," said Warren, wrapping the bank note about his finger.

"No, I'm not gone. I am decidedly here, and I am going to stay here to protect her."

He related the talk that had passed between the young woman and himself. He told even of his gaze at the stars and his theatric declaration to stand as her protector. But he did not tell that she had caught his hand. In that act there was something sacred to him.

"As I said before, you're all right," declared Warren. "No one but a great man could have done what you have done tonight. Why, that old fellow was a jewel, and was not revealed until you brushed the dust off him. Two hundred copies? He shall have them, together with a write-up that will make this town's hair stand on end. And, by the way, don't you think you had better get at it while it's fresh?"

"Don't you fear. It will never fade, my boy. It is in my mind to stay."

"Look here, don't let that joke turn on you," said Warren. "It would be serious if you should fall in love with her."

"Yes, but I won't."

"Were you ever caught by a woman?"

"Not very hard; were you?"

"Rather," Warren answered; "I loved a girl several years ago, while I was running a paper over at Beech Knob. Yes, sir, and I reckon I loved her as hard as a woman was ever loved. I thought about her every day. And I believe she cared for me."

"It's of no use to ask you why you didn't marry her. Money, I suppose."

"That's it, Lyman; money. You see, her old man was rather well fixed, and one day when he was in the office I borrowed ten dollars of him. Then I couldn't go to the house, you see, and before I could pay it back the girl was married. Lost one of the best girls this country ever produced just because I couldn't raise ten dollars to pay her father. I guess Brother McElwin wishes now that he had let you have the hundred. It would have given him a hold on you."

"It would have given him a club," said Lyman. "A man could snatch out a hundred dollar debt and run me off the bluff. 'Lover's Leap,'" he added to himself, smiling. Warren looked up and saw the smile, but he had not caught the words.

"It's too serious a matter to grin over," he remarked, sadly, but with a bright eye turned toward the cigars that lay upon the pile of newspapers. "It's a curse to be poor," he said, with solemnity, though his eye was delighted.

"A crime," Lyman replied. "It gives no opportunity to be generous, sneers at truth and calls virtue a foolish little thing. It is the philosopher, with money out at interest, that smiles upon the contentment and blessedness of the poor man."

"Helloa, you are more of a grumbler than I ever saw you before."

Lyman leaned back with his arms spread out, and laughed. "It would seem that the rich man's coach wheel has raked off a part of my hide, but it hasn't, my boy." He got up and walked about the room; he went to the window. Damp air was stirring and an old map was flapping slowly against the dingy wall. He gazed over the housetops in the direction of the grove where the paper lanterns had hung, but all was dark and rain was fast falling.

"It's raining," he said. "I'm glad it held up until after the picnic."

"Yes," Warren replied, "for we might have been cheated out of the cigars and the five dollars."

"And I might have been robbed of a pleasant few moments."

"You are gone," said Warren, yawning.

"No, not yet, but I am going." He reached for his hat.

"In the rain?" Warren asked. "I'm going to smoke another cigar before I turn in. Stay here tonight; you can have my cot. I'd as soon sleep on the floor."

"No, I won't rob you."

"Rob me? Your work tonight would make a stone slab a soft place for me to rest."

"And my mind might turn a bed, formed of the breast feathers of a goose, into a stone slab. Good night."

The hour was late, but a light was burning in old Jasper's house. As Lyman stepped upon the veranda Henry Bostic came out of the sitting room.

"Ah, Mr. Lyman, but you are dripping wet."

"I hadn't noticed it, but it is raining rather hard. You are not going out in it, are you?"

"I have but a short distance to go. I found Miss Annie so entertaining that I didn't know it was so late. I came to invite her to hear me preach the third Sunday of next month, at Mt. Zion, on the Fox Grove road, five miles from town. I should like you to be present."

"Yes, as I was present at your first—"

"Don't mention that, Mr. Lyman," he said, hoisting his umbrella. "That was not wholly free from a spirit of revenge, and I have prayed for pardon. My mother has called on the McElwins to beseech them to forgive me, and I went to the bank today on the same errand."

"Wait a moment," said Lyman, as the young minister moved toward the steps leading to the dooryard. "Did the banker forgive you?"

The young man stood with his umbrella under the edge of the roof, and the rain rumbled upon it. "No, sir. He said I had done his family a vital injury. I told him I might have been an instrument in the hands of a higher power, and he sneered at me. I hope you forgive me, Mr. Lyman."

"To be frank, I am secretly glad that it happened," Lyman replied.

"But not maliciously or even mischievously glad, I hope," said the preacher.

"No, I am glad for other reasons, but I cannot explain them."

The rain rumbled upon the umbrella and the preacher was silent for a moment. "Mr. McElwin said that if I could induce you to sign the petition he would forgive me. And I told him I would. Will you sign it?"

"I cannot, Mr. Bostic."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I stand as the young woman's protector. She despises Sawyer, and her father was determined that she should be his wife."

"Did she tell you, sir?"

"Yes, and I have promised; but this is confidential."

"Then, sir, the petition must not be signed. The ceremony, after all, was a blessing, and I shall not again crave the banker's forgiveness. Good night."

CHAPTER XIII.

[Top]

In a Magazine.

There came a day, and it followed the picnic, with not a week between, when Lyman's midnight scratching, done at the house of old Uncle Buckley, came out into the dazzling light. A story written by him appeared in one of the leading magazines of the East. It was a simple recital, a picture of the country and its people, and so close down upon the earth did it lie that a patter of rain that fell somewhere among the words brought a sweet scent from the blackberry briars, and a smell of dust from the rain. There were intelligent reading persons, in Old Ebenezer, and with the big eye of astonishment they viewed the story, but they were afraid to form an opinion until the critic of the "State Gazette," following a bold lead struck by an eastern reviewer, declared it to be a piece of masterly work. And then the town of Old Ebenezer was glad to assert its admiration. The leading hardware man said that he had noticed from the first that there was something strange about the fellow.

"And," said he, "you can never tell what a strange sort of a fellow may pop up and do. Now, there was old Kincade's son Phil. Everybody knew he was curious; everybody could see that, but they didn't know how to place him. I told them not to place him. I told them there was no telling where he might break out. His daddy said he was a fool. I said 'wait.' Well, they waited, and what came? The boy discovered a process for tanning coon hides without bark, and now look at him. Worth ten thousand dollars if he's worth a cent."

A saddler gave his opinion: "I knew he had it in him. I haven't read his article, but I'll bet it's good. Why, he's said things in my shop that it would be worth anybody's while to remember. Just stepped in and said them and went out like it wasn't no trouble at all. And look what he's done for the paper here! Every time he touches her he makes her flinch like a hoss-fly lightin' on a hoss. And when everybody was making such a mouth about that fool marriage, I—well, I just kept my mouth shut and didn't say a word."

Warren was the proudest man in town. He was so elated and so busy talking about the story that he never found time to read it, except to dip into it here and there, to find something to start him off on a gallop of praise.

"Why didn't you tell me, so that I might have known what to expect? Why did you nurse it so long?" Warren asked, as he and Lyman sat in the office.

"Oh, I hadn't anything to tell, except of a probable prospect. And nothing is more tiresome than to listen to a man's hopes."

"But you must have known that the story would be a success."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, maybe not. It was fortunate to drive center the first shot."

Lyman laughed sadly. "Warren," said he, nodding toward the magazine, which lay upon the table, "I began to scatter seeds so long ago that I hardly know when; and one has sprouted. I have been writing stories for the magazines ever since I was a boy, and they were returned with a printed 'thank you for—' and so forth. I had thought, as many young writers think, that I must be deep and learned. I didn't know that one half-hidden mood of nature, one odd trait of man, one little reminder to the reader of something that had often flitted across his mind, was of more value than the essence of a thousand books. I strove to climb a hill where so many are constantly falling and rolling to the bottom. At last I opened my eyes and shut my memory, and then I began to progress. But not without the most diligent work. This story, (again nodding toward the magazine) was written six times at least."

"Why, you have made it look as easy as falling off a log," said Warren.

"Yes; it was work that made it look easy. There are two sorts of successful stories; one that makes the reader marvel at its art; the other one that makes the reader believe that almost anybody could have written it. The first appeals to the stylist and may soon die. The other may live to be a classic."

"Go ahead. That sort of talk catches me. It seems now that I have thought it many times, but just didn't happen to say it. Have you got anything in hand now?"

"Yes; I might as well let it all out now. I have a book accepted by a first-class house, and I have a long story which I may submit to a magazine to be published as a serial in the event of the success of the book."

"You are all right. I have often told you that. Why, some of the things you have written for this paper would do to go into the school readers along with the dialogue between some fellow—forget his name now—and Humphrey Dobbins; and that barber who lived in the City of Bath. Recollect? Let's see, 'Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded.' Don't you know now? 'And say,' the stranger says to him, 'I have glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead,' and so on. But it used to tickle me to think the fellow could find any glory in the news of his uncle's death, but I guess he did."

"Yes, I remember. He was the barber that wouldn't shave on Sunday. And as a reward his uncle died and left him a lot of money. And you'd hit it off pretty well now by marking out virtue in 'Virtue Is Its Own Reward,' and substituting 'money.'"

"But I don't think we've got very much cause to complain," said Warren. "We gathered in five subscribers yesterday, and three today, besides an electric belt ad, to run for six months. Oh, we're all right, and the first thing you know, we'll have some new clothes. We don't want any hand-me-downs. About two weeks ago I went into the tailor's shop across the square, and picked out a piece of cloth. But when I passed there yesterday I noticed that some scoundrel had bought it. Why, helloa; come in."

Uncle Buckley Lightfoot stood in the door. His approach had been so soft that they did not hear him. His tread was always noiseless when he walked in strange places. He appeared to be afraid of breaking something.

"Come in!" Lyman shouted, springing to meet him.

"Howdy do; howdy do." He seized Lyman and then shook hands with Warren. "I jest thought I'd look in and see how Sammy was gettin' along. And I promised mother that if he was busy I'd jest peep in and then slip away. Sammy, you look as peart as a red bird."

"Sit down, Uncle Buckley," said Lyman. "Let me take off your leggings."

"Jest let them alone where they are, Sammy," the old man replied. "I haven't got long to stay, for I don't want to keep you from your work. Jest put those saddle-bags over there on the table. No, wait a minute. I've got something in 'em for you. Look here," he added, taking out a package; "mother sent you some pickles."

"Oh, I'm a thousand times obliged to her," said Lyman, putting the package and the saddle-bags on the table. "Tell her so, please."

"I'll do that. Lawd bless you, Sammy; I do reckon she knows what a man needs. And she says to me, 'Pap, you shan't go one step toward that fetch-taked town unless you agree to take Sammy some pickles made outen the finest cucumbers that ever growd.' And I jest said, 'You do up your pickles and don't you be askeered of me.' And she begins then to fix 'em up, a-talkin' all the time fitten to kill herself. 'The idea of a man bein' shet up there in that musty place, without any pickles,' she says; 'it's enough to kill him, the Lord knows.' And I wanted to sorter relieve her distress, and I 'lowed that mebby there was pickles in town; and she turned about, lookin' like she wanted to fling somethin' at me. 'Pap,' she says, and I begin to dodge back, 'for as smart a man as you are, I do think you can say the foolishest things of anybody I ever seen. Pickles fitten to eat in a town where if a person ain't dressed up he can't get into the churches on the Lord's day; and where, if they do get in, the minister won't even so much as cast his eye on 'em while he's a preachin' of his sermon! Pickles indeed,' she says, and I kep' on a dodgin'. How are you gettin' along, Sammy?"

"First rate."

"But what's this joke they've got on you about bein' married?"

"That's what it is, Uncle Buckley, a joke."

"I told Jimmy and Lige that it was only a prank. I knowed you weren't goin' to throw yourself away on no one here, when the woods are full of 'em out our way that would like to have you. Don't dodge, Sammy. Stand right up to your fodder, for you know it's a fact. It made mother powerful mad. She took it that you wanted the gal, and the old man thought you wa'n't good enough. And she boiled. 'Why, he can start a church tune better than any person we ever had in the neighborhood,' she 'lowed. 'Not good enough, indeed!' And I dodged on off, sorter laughin' as I ducked behind the hen-house. And that reminds me, Sammy, that a varmint come the other night and toated off the likeliest rooster I had on the place. Mother woke me at night, and asked if that wa'n't a chicken squallin.' I told her that I had the plan of a new barn in my head, and that I couldn't let the squallin' of no sich thing as a chicken drive it out, and I went to sleep. But you ought to have seen the look she gave me the next mornin' when we found feathers scattered all over the yard. By the way, Sammy, where is the other man; the great lawyer that was your partner? Is he out at present?"

"Yes, Uncle Buckley, he's out at present, and for good. We have dissolved partnership."

"No!" said the old man, dropping his jaw. "Why, I thought you and him was together for keeps. And you don't really mean to tell me that you ain't, Sammy?"

"He has an office on the other side of the square, and I'm not in the law business," Lyman replied. "Warren and I are running this paper."

"When did you quit each other?" the old man asked, leaning forward and picking at his blanket leggings.

"Why, the day you were in here. You remember I left you here with him. When I came back he had decided to set aside the partnership."

The old man looked up at the ceiling. "I reckon it's all right, but I don't exactly get the hang of it," he said, getting up and taking his hat off the table.

"Understand what, Uncle Buckley?" Lyman asked.

"Oh, nothin'. It's all right, I reckon. Young feller, jest keep on a shootin' your paper at me. We find some mighty interestin' readin' in it; and sometimes Lige he breaks out in a loud laugh over a piece, and he 'lows, 'if that ain't old Sammy, up and up, I don't want a cent.' Well, boys, I've some knockin' around to do and I'll have to bid you good day."

CHAPTER XIV.

[Top]

Nothing Remarkable in It.

Mr. McElwin put aside his newspaper and paced slowly up and down the room, his slippered feet falling with an emphatic pat on the carpet. His wife sat near the window, watching the swallows cutting black circles in the dusky air. Eva was seated at the piano, half turned from it, while with one hand she felt about to touch the nerve of some half-forgotten tune. McElwin dropped down in an arm chair.

"I wonder if this newspaper will ever stop talking about that fellow's story," said he. "I read it over and I didn't see anything remarkable in it. Of course it's all right to feel a local pride in a thing, but gracious alive, we don't want to go into fits over it. Now, here's nearly half a column about it."

"Let me see it," said Eva. He picked up the paper and held it out to her. She got off the piano stool, took the paper and stood near her father, under the hanging lamp.

"Can't you find it? On the editorial page."

"Yes, I have found it. But it is not written by the pen of local pride."

"It is in the state paper."

"Yes, but if you had read to the bottom you would have seen that it was from a New York paper."

"Ah, well, it doesn't interest me, no matter what paper it is from."

"What is it?" Mrs. McElwin asked, turning from the window.

"Something more about Mr. Lyman's story," the daughter answered.

"It appears to have stirred up quite a sensation," said Mrs. McElwin. "One of those happy accidents."

"It was not an accident," the girl replied. "It was genius."

"Come, don't be absurd," said her father. "There is such a thing as a man finding a gold watch in the road. I call it an accident. I had quite a talk with him in my private office before our relations became strained, and I found him to be rather below the average. He surely has but a vague and confused idea regarding even the simplest forms of business. But I admit that his story is all well enough, and so are many little pieces of fancy work, but they don't amount to anything. Educated man? Yes, that's all right, too, but the highways are full of educated men, looking for something to do. Sawyer is worth a dozen of him."

Mrs. McElwin glanced at her daughter, as if she had heard a footstep on dangerous ground. She was not far wrong.

"Sawyer is a man, ready—"

"He has not shown it," the girl was bold enough to declare. She stood under the lamp and the newspaper rattled as she held it now grasped tightly.

"Eva," said her mother, in gentle reproof, "don't say that."

"But I want her to say it if she thinks it," the banker spoke up, almost angrily. "I want her to say it and prove it."

"He proved it to me, but I may not be able to prove it to you. Mr. Lyman called him a coward and he did not resent it."

"Lyman did? How do you know?"

"I heard him."

The banker blinked at her. "You heard him? When? And how came you to be near him?"

"It was on the Sunday after the mar—the foolish ceremony. As Mr. Sawyer walked off with me from the church door Mr. Lyman joined us."

"Joined you! The impudent scoundrel! What right had he to join you, and why did you permit it?"

"He took the right and we couldn't help ourselves. At least I couldn't and Mr. Sawyer didn't try to."

"I wish I had been there."

"You were just in front, but you didn't look around."

"Well, and then what happened?"

"Why, during the talk that followed, Mr. Lyman called him a coward."

"Mr. Sawyer is a gentleman and he couldn't resent it at the time in the presence of a lady."

"He has had time enough since," she said with scorn.

Mrs. McElwin came from the window and sat down near her husband. The banker looked hard at his daughter, and a sudden tangling of the lines on his face showed that the first words that flew to the verge of utterance had been suppressed, and that he was determined to be calm.

"He has had time, but he has also had consideration," said McElwin. "To resent an insult is sometimes more of a scandal than to let it pass. He hesitated to involve your name."

He was now so quiet, so plausible in his gentleness that the young woman felt ashamed of the quick spirit she had shown.

"Sit down," he said, and she obeyed, with her hands lying listlessly together in her lap.

"Your mother and I know what is best for you," he said. A slight shudder seemed to pass through the wife's dignified shoulders. "You have always been the object of our most tender solicitude," he went on. "And if I have been determined, it has been for your own ultimate good. I admit that there is not much romance about Mr. Sawyer. He is a keen, open-eyed, practical business man, with money out at interest, and with money lying in my bank. His family is excellent. His father was, for many years, the Clerk of the Court of Appeals, and his grandfather was a judge. And I believe as firmly as I ever believed anything, that he will be a very rich man. He is constantly widening out and will not confine himself to the buying and selling of mules. His judgment of the markets is fine, and I repeat that he will be a very rich man. In looking over the field I don't know another man I would rather have associated with me."

His wife, long since convinced by his practical logic, looked up with a quiet smile of approval. The girl sat weaving her fingers together. She met her father's questioning eye and did not waver.

"I don't presume to question what you say," she said. "But I am no longer a spoiled child to be petted and persuaded. I am a woman and have begun to think. This marriage, though brought about in so ridiculous a way, has had a wonderful effect upon me. I have heard that marriage merges a woman's identity with that of her husband, but this marriage has made an individual of me. It has freed me from frivolous company; it has given me something that I once thought I could not endure—solitude—and I have found it delightful. The hard and stubborn things that were beat into my head at school, and which I despised at the time, are useful pieces of knowledge now, and, viewing them, I wonder that I could ever have been so silly as to find my greatest pleasure in flattery."

Never before had she spoken at such length, nor with an air so serious. Her mother looked at her with a half wondering admiration, and the banker's countenance showed a new-born pride in her—in himself, indeed—for nothing in his household was important unless it showed a light reflected from him; and now, in his daughter, he discovered a part of himself, a disposition to think. This thought was seditious, and there is virtue in even a rebellious strength, and it convinced him that henceforth he must address her reason rather than a feminine whim. He was proud of her, admitted it to himself and conveyed it in a look which he gave his wife; but he was not the less determined to carry his point. Sawyer was a man of affairs. His judgment was sure, his spirit adventurous. Figures were his playthings, and who could say that he was not to become one of the country's great financiers? Once he had made a bid against many competitors acquainted with the work, to build a bridge for the county. Sawyer's bid was the lowest. His friends said that the undertaking would ruin him; McElwin deplored the young man's rashness. But he built the bridge, made money on the speculation; and the first traffic across the new structure was a drove of Sawyer's mules, en route to a profitable market.

"I am glad you have begun to think," he said, smiling at her. "I knew the time would come, and, as it has come, let me ask you a question. Did you request this Mr. Lyman to sign the petition?"

"I mentioned it to him."

"You did. That ought to have been sufficient. What did he say?"

"He said that he would—under certain conditions." McElwin winced in memory of his and Sawyer's visit to Lyman.

"Conditions? How does he dare enforce conditions? What were they?"

"That I must avow my love for Zeb—Mr. Sawyer."

"Well, is that all?"

"All! Isn't it enough?"

"You can do that, my daughter," Mrs. McElwin said meekly.

"Yes, I could, if the time should ever come."

"What time?" the banker asked.

"The time when I can say that I love him."

McElwin crossed his legs with a sudden flounce. "You put too serious an estimate upon love," he said. "You expect it to be the grand, over-mastering passion we read about. That was all well enough for the age of poetry, but this is the age of prose. You can go to that man and tell him that—"

"That I have a Nineteenth century love for Mr. Sawyer," she interrupted.

"Well, yes."

"And he would laugh at me."

"Laugh at you," he frowned. "No gentleman can laugh at a lady's distress."

"But he might not regard it as distress. It might seem ridiculous to him."

"Hump," he grunted. "Well, it's undignified, it is almost outrageous to be forced to do such a thing, but you must go to him. Your mother will go with you."

"No, James," his wife gently protested, looking at him in mild appeal. "I don't really think I can muster the courage for so awkward an undertaking. Please leave me out."

"Leave you out of so important an arrangement, an arrangement that involves the future of your daughter!"

"Then, why should not all three of us go?" she asked.

"I have trampled my own pride under my feet by going once," he replied. "Yes, and he treated me with cool impudence. And if I should go again something might happen. That man has humiliated me more than any man I ever met, and once is enough; I couldn't bear an insult in the presence of my wife and daughter. Eva, do you know what that man tried to do? He gained admission to my private office, and actually strove to bunco me out of a hundred dollars."

"He may have tried to borrow it, father, but I don't think he tried to get it dishonestly."

"Didn't I tell you that he tried to beat me out of the money? Why do you set up a mere opinion against my experience? And why are you so much inclined to take his part? Tell me that. You can't be interested in him?"

"I don't want injustice done him."

"Oh, no; but you would submit to the injustice he does you. He has robbed you of the society of your younger acquaintances—he compels you to sit almost excluded in a town where you are an acknowledged belle. Young gentlemen are afraid to call on you."

"Well, I don't know that it would be exactly proper," she replied.

"And," he went on, lifting his voice, "the strangest part of it is that you quietly submit to this treatment when there is a way to free yourself. And I request you to make use of it."

He got up, went to the mantel-piece, took up a sea-shell, put it down, turned his back to the fire place, stood there a moment and strode out.

"You must do as he commands," said the mother.

"I can't."

"Don't say that. You must. I have thought it over, and I know it's for the best."

"You have permitted him to think it over, and you hope it is for the best," the daughter replied.

CHAPTER XV.

[Top]

Must Leave the Town.

At eleven o'clock the next day, Zeb Sawyer was to meet McElwin at the bank. The hour was tolled off by a grim old clock standing high in a corner, a rare old time piece with a history, or at least a past, of interest to McElwin, for it had been bought at the forced sale of fixtures belonging to a defunct bank. It struck with solemn self-importance, as if proclaiming the hour to foreclose a mortgage; and though not given to this sort of reflective speculation, McElwin must have been vaguely influenced by its knell-like stroke, for he nearly always glanced up as if a tribute were due to its promptness. A few minutes later Zeb Sawyer was shown into the room. The banker had been sitting in deep thought, with his legs stretched forth, and with his hands in his pockets, but he turned about when the clock struck, and as Sawyer entered the office he was busy with papers on a table in front of him.

"Good morning, Zeb; sit down."

"Hard at it, I see," said the young man, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table.

"Yes, day and night. No rest for the wicked, you know."

"I don't know as to that," Sawyer replied, "but I do know that there is mighty little rest for the man that wants to do anything in the world."

"You are right. The gospel of content builds poor houses. I never knew a happy man who wasn't lazy."

"You ought to go to Congress, McElwin; they need such talk there."

"They need a good many qualities that they are not likely to get." He put his papers aside, and leaning with his arms on the table looked into the eyes of his visitor. "My daughter has developed into a thinking woman, Zeb."

The over-confident young money-maker's face brightened, as if the banker had given him a piece of encouraging news.

"Yes, sir," McElwin went on, "and no cause is lost so long as thinking is going on. Why, sir, it took my wife years and years to learn how to think. It was not expected that a young woman in this part of the country should think. Men were the necessities and women the adornments of society when I was a young fellow."

"But you said your daughter had become a thinking woman," Sawyer hastened to remark, to bring him back from his wanderings.

"Yes. And it will require all my strength and influence as a father, to get her to think as I want her to. Still, in our dealings with a woman there is always hope—if she thinks. I had quite a talk with her last night, but I did not convince her that she ought to go to that fellow and ask him to sign—sign that infamous petition." McElwin took his arms off the table and leaned back in his chair. "And, sir, I don't believe she'll do it."

"It can't be that she can care anything for him," said Sawyer.

"Nonsense," the banker replied. "Such a thing has never entered her head. I think she enjoys the oddity of her position, married and yet not married. I think it tickles her sense of romance. But there is a way of getting at everything, and there must be some way of approaching this outrageous affair. I have looked into the law, and I find that in case the fellow should go and remain away one year, his signature would not be necessary. However, being a sort of a lawyer, he knows this as well as I do. We can't bring the charge of non-support, for we have not let him try. Zeb, she has intimated that you are afraid of him."

The banker looked straight at him, but the mule-trader did not change countenance. "No, I am not afraid of him," he said, "but unless I'm shoved pretty far, I don't care to mix up with him, I tell you that. My life is too valuable to throw away, and they tell me that Lyman is nothing short of a desperado when he is stirred up, though you wouldn't think it to look at him. But you can never tell a man by looking at him, not half as much as you can a mule. Oh, if the worst comes, I'd kill him, but—"

"That would never do," the banker broke in. "Don't think of such a thing. I wonder if we couldn't buy him off," he added, after a moment's musing. "I should think that he might be induced to go away. There is one thing in support of this; he has had a taste of success, or rather a nibble at ambition, and he may, even now, be thinking of going to a city. Suppose you go over and see him—offer him five hundred dollars."

Sawyer studied awhile. "He couldn't take offense at that," he said. "At least no sensible man ought to. Suppose you write me a check payable to him."

McElwin, without replying, made out a check, blotted it and handed it to Sawyer. "Come back and tell me," he said.

Lyman was writing when Sawyer tapped at the open door. "Come in," said the writer. His manner was pleasant and his countenance was genial, and Sawyer, standing at the threshold, felt an encouragement coming to meet him. He stepped forward and Lyman invited him to sit down.

"A little warm," said Lyman.

"Yes, think we'll have rain, soon; the air's so heavy."

"Shouldn't be surprised. It would help farmers when setting out their tobacco plants."

"I reckon you are right. But the farmers would complain anyway, wet or dry. The weather wouldn't suit them, even if they had the ordering of it."

"Well, in that they are not different from the rest of us," said Lyman. "We all grumble."

A short silence followed. Lyman moved some papers. Sawyer coughed slightly. They heard the grinding of the press.

"Printing the paper in there?" said Sawyer, nodding toward the door. He began to turn about as if nervous at the thought of his errand. "How many do you print a week?"

"I don't know, but we have a pretty fair circulation."

"I see it a good deal out in the state."

"Yes, it spreads out fairly well. We try to make it interesting to the farmers."

"By telling them something they don't know," said the visitor.

Lyman shook his head slowly: "By reminding them of many things they do know," he replied. "Tell a man a truth he doesn't know and he may dispute it; call to his mind a truth which he has known and forgotten, and he regards it as a piece of wisdom. The farmer is the weather-cock of human nature."

"I guess you have about hit it. By the way, Mr. Lyman, I have called on a little matter of business, and I hope you'll not fly off before you consider it. The only way we can get at the merits of a case is by being cool and deliberate. The last time we had a talk, you—"

"Yes," Lyman interrupted, "I must have gone too far when I called you a coward."

"I think so, sir, but be that as it may, let us be cool and deliberate now. I have just had a talk with Mr. McElwin and he is still greatly distressed over—over that affair, and he thinks by putting our reasons to work we can get at a settlement. The fact is, he wonders that you would want to stay in such a small and unimportant place as this is, after your editorial that everybody is talking about."

"Did he call it an editorial?" Lyman asked, smiling at his visitor.

"Well, I don't know as he called it that, but whatever it is, he was a good deal struck by it, and he wondered that you didn't go to some big city and set up there. And I wondered so too, from all that I heard. Somebody, I have forgotten who, hinted that maybe you didn't have money enough and—"

"Money," said Lyman; "why, I've got money enough to burn a wet elephant."

Sawyer blinked in the glare of this dazzling statement, but he managed to smile and then to proceed: "I spoke to Mr. McElwin about what had been hinted, and inasmuch as you had applied to him for a loan, he didn't know but it was the truth."

"A very natural conclusion on his part," said Lyman, leaning back and crossing his feet on a corner of the table.

"Yes, he thought so, and I did, too. He ain't so hard a man to get along with as you might think."

"He is not a hard man to get away from. It doesn't seem to put him to any trouble to let a man know when he's got enough of him."

"I'm afraid you didn't see him under the best conditions."

"No, I don't believe I did. He made me feel as if I looked like the man standing at the threshold of the almanac, badly cut up, with crabs and horns and other things put about him."

"I think you would find him much more agreeable now."

"Oh, he was agreeable enough then, only he didn't agree. And I am thankful that he didn't."

"Well, he regrets that he didn't let you have the money, although you came in an unbusiness-like way."

"Yes, I did. And pretending to be a lawyer, I ought to have known better. I don't blame him for that."

"What do you blame him for, then?"

"For wanting his daughter to be your wife."

Sawyer jerked his hand as if something had bitten him. "But what right have you to blame him for that? It was arranged long before you ever saw me, and besides what right have you, a stranger, to interfere in his affairs?"

"That's very well put, Mr. Sawyer, but there are some affairs that rise above family and appeal to humanity. You requested me to be cool and deliberate, and you will pardon me, I hope, if I am cooler than you expected, and more considerate than you desire. It would be a crime to attempt to merge that young woman's life into yours."

"I know you have a pretty low estimate of me, but I won't resent it. We are to be cool."

"And considerate," said Lyman, with a slight bow.

"Yes, sir; and considerate. But I don't see where the crime would come in. My family is as good as hers."

"That may be. I am not looking at her family, but at her. She was spoiled, it is true, but she is developing into the highest type of American womanhood."

"Yes, but I haven't come to discuss her. We were talking just now about the prospect of your going away, and the probability that you might not have money enough to settle in a city. Mr. McElwin is willing to help you toward that end, and has signed a check for five hundred dollars, made out in your name. Here it is." He handed the check to Lyman, who took it, looked at it and said: "He writes a firm hand. Money gives a man confidence in himself, doesn't it?" He held out the check toward Sawyer. The latter did not take it, and it fluttered in the air and fell to the floor. Sawyer took it up and put it on the table, with an ink stand on it to hold it down.

"It is yours, Mr. Lyman; it is made out to you."

"Upon the condition that I leave here and remain away as long as one year. Is that it?"

"Well, yes."

"I told you that I have enough money to burn a wet elephant. I haven't—I haven't enough to scorch a dry cricket."

"Then you will accept the check," said Sawyer, brightening.

Lyman had struck a match, as if to light his pipe. He took up the check and held it to the blaze. "Look out," he said, as Sawyer sprung to interfere. "Sit down." He took the cinders and wrapped them in a piece of paper, folding it neatly. "Give this to Mr. McElwin and tell him that I have cremated the little finger of his god, and send him the ashes," he said.

Sawyer stood gazing at him in astonishment.

"I told you to sit down. You won't sit down. And you won't take the god-ashes to the devotee. Come, that's unkind."

"Sir, you have insulted me."

"What, again?"

"And you shall regret it. And you shall leave this town," he added, turning to go. "You have not only insulted me, but you—you have put an indignity upon Mr. McElwin." Indignity was rather a big word, coming from him unexpectedly out of his vague recollection, and he halted to stiffen with a better opinion of himself. "I say you shall leave this town."

"I heard what you said. But I thought we were to be cool. Oh, pardon me, it was the fire that gave offense."

"I say you are going to leave this town."

"Good-bye, then."

"I will make one more attempt," said Sawyer, standing in the door.

"Don't exert yourself."

"I will offer you a thousand dollars to go away."

"My stock is rising."

"Will you take it?"