The work at the main ditch continued without interruption, thanks to a month almost rainless, until the ditch was completed to the creek at one end and to the swamps at the other. Then the main lines in the swamps themselves were opened, one by one, and the swamps became dry for the first time in their history, though small laterals, some to drain springs, others to guard against the accidents of a rainy season, were still to be cut by private enterprise. But the people of Claybanks and vicinity were delighted to so great an extent that dreams of a golden future would not satisfy them, so they planned a monster celebration and procession, and there seemed no more appropriate route of march than up one side of the main ditch and down the other, with a halt midway for speeches and feasting.
The happiest man in all the town—happiest in his own estimation, at least—was Philip; for within a few days he had learned that the despised mining stock which was his only material inheritance from his father had suddenly become of great value. He had sent it to New York to be sold, and learned that the result was almost ten thousand dollars, which had been deposited to his credit at a bank which he had designated. At last he had something wholly his own, should sickness or possible business reverses ever make him wish to abandon his inheritance from his uncle. Grace shared his feeling, and was correspondingly radiant and exuberant, for ten thousand dollars in cash made Philip a greater capitalist than any other man within fifty miles. He could buy real estate in his own right, to be in readiness for the coming "boom" of Claybanks; he could become a banker, manufacturer, perhaps even a railway president, so potent would ten thousand dollars be in an impecunious land.
"You're an utter Westerner—a wild, woolly-brained Westerner," said Philip, after listening to some of his wife's rose-tinted rhapsodies over the future.
"I suspect I am, and I don't believe you're a bit better," was the reply. "Tis in the air; we can't help it."
On the day of the celebration Grace gave herself up to fun with her camera, for which she had ordered many plates in anticipation of the occasion; for never before had there been such an opportunity to get pictures of all the county's inhabitants in their Sunday clothes. She was hurrying from group to group, during the great feast at the halt, when Pastor Grateway, who was looking westward, said:—
"Mrs. Somerton, I've heard that you're fond of chasing whirlwinds with your camera. There comes one that looks as if it might make a good picture, if you could get near enough to it."
"Isn't it splendid!" Grace exclaimed. "Doctor Taggess, do look at this magnificent whirlwind!"
The Doctor looked; then he frowned, looked about him, and muttered:—
"At last!"
"Why, Doctor, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, I hope. It may go clear of us. Listen—carefully. Come apart from the crowd; my ears are not as keen as they used to be. Do you hear any sound in that direction?"
"Nothing—except buzz-buzz, as if a hive of bees were swarming."
"I'm glad of it; it mayn't be so bad as I feared. I'm not acquainted with the things, except through common report. Where's Mr. Truett? He had field-glasses slung from his shoulder this morning. Here, you boys!" the Doctor shouted to several youngsters who were playing leap-frog near by, "scatter—find Mr. Truett—the man who bossed the big ditch, and ask him to come here—right away!"
"Doctor!" exclaimed Grace. "Do tell me what you fear."
"Tell me first about that noise. Is it any louder?"
"Yes. It sounds now like a distant railway train. What does it mean?"
"It means a cyclone. How bad a one, we can't tell until it has passed. If it keeps its present course, it will pass north of the crowd, but I am afraid it will strike the town."
By this time many of the people had noticed the great cloud in the west, and soon the entire assemblage heard a deep, continuous roar. Then men, women, and children began to run, for the cloud increased in blackness and noise at a terrifying rate, but the Doctor shouted:—
"Stay where you are! Get to the windward of the platform, and wagons and horses! Pass the word around—quick! Ah, Mr. Truett! What do you see?"
"All sorts of things," said Truett, from behind his field-glasses. "Lightning—and tree boughs—and corn-stalks—and boards—and something that looks like a roof. Also, oceans of rain. We're in for a soaking unless we hurry back to town."
"The soaking's the safer," said the Doctor, adjusting the proffered glasses to his own eyes. "Ah, 'tis as I feared: it is tearing its way through the town. There goes the court-house roof—and the church steeple." Abruptly returning the glasses, the Doctor shouted as the great cloud passed rapidly to the northward and rain fell suddenly in torrents:—
"Men—only men—hurry to town, and keep close to me when you get there." Then he found his horse and buggy and led a wild throng of wagons, horsemen, and footmen, behind whom, despite the Doctor's warning, came the remaining components of the procession, and up to heaven went an appalling chorus of screams, prayers, and curses, for the word "cyclone"—the word most dreaded in the West since the Indian outbreaks ended—had passed through the crowd.
The outskirts of the town were more than a mile distant, and before they were reached, the throng saw that several buildings were burning, though the rainfall seemed sufficient to extinguish any ordinary conflagration. Philip, who was riding with several other men in a farm wagon, saw, when the wagon turned into the main street, that one of the burning buildings was his own store. Apparently it had been first unroofed and crushed by the storm, for all that remained of it and its contents seemed to be in a pit that once was the cellar, and from which rose a little flame and a great column of smoke and steam.
"Let's save people first; property afterward!" he replied to the men in the wagon when they offered to remain with him and fight the fire. Afterward he received for his speech great credit which was utterly undeserved, for after an instant of angry surprise at his loss he was conscious of a strange, wild elation. A week earlier, such a blow would have been a serious reverse—perhaps ruin; now, thanks to his long-forgotten mining stock, he was fairly well off and could start anew elsewhere, entirely by himself and unhampered by conditions. He had tried hard to accept Claybanks as his home for life, and thought he had succeeded; but now, through the gloom of the storm, the outer world, especially all parts out of the cyclone belt, seemed delightfully inviting.
"Where'll we find the people to save?" This question, from a man in the wagon, recalled Philip's better self, and he replied quickly:—
"In the path of the storm, and wherever Doctor Taggess is."
It soon became evident that the cyclone path had been quite narrow,—not much wider, indeed, than the business street,—but the whirling funnel had gone diagonally over the town and thus destroyed or injured more than forty houses, the débris of which did much additional injury. Philip and the men passed rapidly from house to house along the new, rude clearing, and searched the ruins for dead and wounded. Fortunately almost all of the inhabitants of the town had taken part in the celebration. Those who remained were numerous enough to provide many fractures and bruises to be treated by Doctor Taggess and his corps of volunteer nurses, but apparently not one in the town had been killed outright. To obtain this gratifying assurance required long hours of searching far into the night, for some missing persons were found far from their homes, and with extraordinary opinions as to how their change of location had been effected.
Philip worked as faithfully as any one until all the missing were accounted for and all the houseless ones fed and sheltered. Grace had given all possible help to many women and children by taking them into her own home. At midnight, when husband and wife met for the first time since the storm, they reminded each other of what might have happened had there been no celebration and they had been in the store and unconscious of the impending disaster. Together they looked at their own ruins, for which Philip had hired a watchman, so that he might be roused if the smouldering fire should gain headway and threaten the house.
"It might have been worse," Grace said. "We have a roof to shelter us."
"Yes, and we may select a new roof elsewhere in the world, if we like. Perhaps the cyclone was, for us, a blessing in disguise—eh?"
Grace did not answer at once, though her husband longed for a reply in keeping with his own feelings. He placed his arm around his wife, drew her slowly toward the house, and said:—
"You deserve a better sphere of life than this, dear girl. You know well that you would never have accepted this if we had not foolishly committed ourselves to it without forethought or knowledge. Your energy and sympathy will keep you fairly contented almost anywhere, but you shouldn't let them make you unjust to yourself. For my own part, I've done no complaining, but my life here has been full of drudgery and anxiety. Now it seems as though deliverance had been doubly provided for both of us—first by the sale of our mining stock, and to-day through the destruction of our principal business interest. We can injure no one by going away; if the property reverts to the charities which were to be the legatees in case I declined, Caleb will be provided for, even if he, too, chooses to leave Claybanks. What shall it be—stay, or go? Dear girl, there are tears in your eyes—they are saying 'Go!' Let me kiss them away, in token of thanks."
"Tears sometimes tell shocking fibs," said Grace, trying to appear cheerful. "I wouldn't trust my eyes, or my tongue, or even my heart to decide anything to-night, after such a day. There's but one place in the whole world I shall ever care to be, after this, and that is in your arms—close to your heart."
"And that is so far away, and so hard to reach!" said Philip, forgetting in an instant the day and all pertaining to it.
SOON after sunrise on the morning after the cyclone, Claybanks began to fill with horror-seekers and rumor-mongers from the outer world; but most of the natives were invisible, for they had worked and talked far into the night. It seemed to the Somertons that they had not slept an hour when they were roused by heavy knocking at the door; then they were amazed to find the sun quite high. The man who had done the knocking handed Philip a telegram, brought from the railway station, an hour distant. It was from New York, and read as follows:—
"Back yesterday. Good as new. English business well started. Cyclone in New York papers this morning. Please don't abuse the Maker of it. Look out for His children. Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. Do you want anything from here? Answer. If not, I start West at once.
"Caleb."
"'Tis evident he hasn't given up his habit of early rising," said Philip, as he gave the despatch to his wife. When she had read it, Grace said:—
"Dear Caleb! His return is absolutely providential, and his despatch is very like him."
"I'm not quite sure of that," Philip replied, shaking his head doubtingly, yet smiling under his mustache. "To be entirely like Caleb, it should have said that the cyclone was a means of grace."
"I think he distinctly intimates as much, where he refers to the Maker of the storm."
"True. Well, he expects an answer, and I will make it exactly as you wish."
Grace rubbed her drowsy eyes and instantly became alert. She looked inquiringly at her husband, and said:—
"Exactly as I wish? May I write it?"
"May you? What a question! Was there ever a time when your wish was not law to me?"
"Never—bless you!—but some laws are hard to bear."
"Not when you make them, sweetheart. Aren't we one? Write the answer."
Grace's eyes became by turns melting, luminous, dancing,—exactly as they had been of old, at the rare times when Philip would come home from the office with a pleasing surprise,—opera-tickets, perhaps, or the promise of an afternoon and night at the seashore, or a moonlight trip on the river. They reminded him of the delightful old times of which they seemed to promise a renewal, and his heart leaped with joy at the hope and belief that the answer Grace would write would break the chains that bound her and him to Claybanks. While Grace wrote, Philip closed his eyes and imagined himself and his wife spending a restful, delightful summer together, far from the heat, dust, shabbiness, and dilapidation of their part of the West. Certainly they would have earned it, and was not the laborer worthy of his hire?
He was aroused from his dreams by a bit of paper thrust into his hand. He opened his eyes and read:—
Apparently Philip read and re-read the despatch, for he kept his eyes upon the paper a long time. When finally he looked from it he saw his wife's countenance very pale and strained. He sprang toward her, and exclaimed:—
"My dear girl, you are sacrificing yourself!"
"Oh, no, I am not," Grace whispered.
"Then why are you trembling so violently?—why do you look like a person in the agony of death?"
"Because—because I fear that I am trying to sacrifice you—dooming you for life. The despatch shan't go, for you don't like it. Yet I wrote only what I thought was right. All that you inherited from your uncle was earned here, from the people who have suffered by the cyclone, or must suffer from the troubles that will follow it. 'Twould be heartless—really dishonest—to leave them, wouldn't it? Besides, many of them like us very much, and have learned to look up to us, after a fashion. Perhaps I wrote too hastily; it may not be practicable, but—"
"Trying, at least, will be practicable," said Philip, after a mighty effort against himself. "'When in Rome, do as the Romans do;' when with an angel, follow the angel's lead. I'll hire some one at once to take the despatch to the wire, and then—why, then I'll wonder where to reopen for business until the store can be rebuilt."
"Why won't the warehouse answer? And why don't you go at once to the city?—'tis only a trip of three or four hours, buy a small assortment of groceries and other things most likely to be called for at once, and order a larger stock, by wire, from Chicago? Caleb's purchases will follow quickly. While you're away I'll manage to get the warehouse into some resemblance to a store ready for goods; some men can surely be hired, and I'll get Mr. Truett to help devise such makeshifts as are necessary. You can be back by to-morrow night, if you start at once."
"Upon my word, dear girl, you talk like a business veteran from a cyclone country. If woman's intuitions can yield such business telegrams and plans as you've disclosed within ten minutes, I think it is time for men to go into retirement."
"Women's intuitions, indeed!" Grace murmured, with an accompaniment of closing eyes, yawning, stretching, and other indications of insufficient slumber. "I've lain awake most of the night, wondering what we ought to do and how to do it."
"And your husband stupidly slept!"
"Not being a woman, he wasn't nervous, and I am very glad of it. As for me, I couldn't sleep, so I had to think of something, and I knew of nothing better to think of. But before you go to the city let's get into the buggy and drive over the course of the storm in our county, and see if any one specially needs help."
"And leave the remains of our store smouldering?"
"We can get Mr. Truett to attend to it. Engineers ought to know something about keeping fires down."
"I wonder where he is. I thoughtlessly asked him to breakfast with us this morning. I hope he's not starving somewhere, in anticipation. I hope, also, that we've enough food material in the house to last a day or two; we've the ice-house and warehouse to fall back upon for meats. By the way, isn't it fortunate that I adopted Uncle Jethro's habit of keeping most of the store cash on my person? Otherwise we'd be penniless until the safe could be got from the ruins, and cooled and opened."
While Grace was preparing breakfast Philip hurried about to learn whether any additional casualties of the storm had been reported, and he soon encountered the young engineer, who looked as cheerful as if cyclones were to be reckoned among blessings.
"I've been out on horseback since daylight," said he, "and everything is lovely."
"There's some ground for difference of opinion," replied Philip, looking at the damaged court-house and church.
"I meant at the ditch and the swamps," the young man explained hastily. "In spite of the great rainfall yesterday, the ditch did not overflow, nor is there any standing water in the swamps. That isn't all; enough trees have been knocked down, within three or four miles of town, to make a block pavement for the main street—perhaps enough to pave the road from here to the railway, so that full wagon-loads could be hauled all winter long. But there's still more: the creek has been accidentally dammed, a mile or two from town, by a bridge that the cyclone took from its place and set up on edge in the stream. A little work there, at once, would prepare a head for the water-power which I'm told the town has been palavering about for years, and if you don't want water-power, 'twould supply plenty of good water to be piped to town, to replace the foul stuff from wells that have been polluted by drainage. Doctor Taggess says some of the wells are to blame for many of the troubles charged to malaria."
"Harold Truett," said Philip, "do have mercy upon us! We'll yet hear of you engineers trying to get the inhabitants of a cemetery interested in some of your enterprises. Block pavements, indeed!—and water-power!—and a reservoir!—and pipe-service!—all this to a man whose principal lot of worldly goods is still burning, and in a town not yet a full day past a cyclone!"
"Oh, the town's all right," said Truett, confidently. "At least, the people are. Already they're making the best of it and trying to make repairs, and wondering to one another, in true Western fashion, if the disaster won't make the town widely talked of, and give it a boom."
"They are, eh? Well, I shan't allow the procession to get ahead of me. Do you wish to superintend the transforming of my warehouse into a temporary store, while I hurry away to buy goods? Mrs. Somerton can tell you what we need. You may also see that the fire which is consuming the remains of the old store is kept down or put out. I think the two jobs will keep you very busy."
"Quite likely, but I wish you'd keep that block pavement and water-power and reservoir in mind, and speak to people about them. A town is like a man: if it must make a new start, it might as well start right, and for all it is worth."
"Bless me! You've been here less than two months, yet you talk like a rabid Westerner! Do you chance to know just when and where you caught the fever?"
"Oh, yes," replied the young man, with a laugh. "I got it in New York, while listening to your man, Caleb Wright. I couldn't help it. I forgot to say that now ought to be the time to coax a practical brick-maker to town, and show what the banks of clay are really good for. Do it before the state newspapers stop sending men down here to write about the cyclone, and you'll get a lot of free advertising. And a railway company ought to be persuaded to push a spur down here; they would do it if you had water-power and any mills to use it."
"Anything else? Are all engineers like you?—contriving to turn nothing into something?"
"They ought to be. That's what they were made for. So were other people, though some of them seem slow to understand it. I wish you'd appoint me a reception committee to talk to all newspaper correspondents that come down to write up the horrors. If you'll tell your fellow-citizens to refer all such chaps to me, I'll engage to have the town's natural resources exploited in fine style."
Philip promised, and an hour later when he and Grace were driving rapidly over one of the county roads, Philip said that if Miss Truett were of like temperament to her brother, it was not strange that she was head of a large department. Still, Philip thought it strange that a young man of so much energy and perceptive power should see anything promising in Claybanks.
"'Tis all because of Caleb," Grace replied confidently. "Mr. Truett says that Caleb was quite voluble about the defects of the country, but his truthfulness was fascinating through its uniqueness."
"H'm! 'Tis evident that Caleb was the cause of Truett coming here, so the town is still more deeply in debt to Caleb, who, poor chap, will return to miss everything that he left behind him in his room, and even the roof that sheltered him."
"And he was so attached to his belongings, too!" Grace said. "Do invite him, by wire, to regard our home as his own; he is not the kind of man to abuse the invitation, and I'm sure he will appreciate it."
Within six hours Philip had seen all of his own customers who had been in the track of the storm, he had asked if there was anything in particular he could bring them from the city, and assured them that if they did not make free use of him, they would have only themselves to blame. Naturally, he did not neglect to say that within a week he would have on sale as large an assortment of goods as usual, and one with no "dead stock" in it. Before nightfall, he was in the nearest small city, and purchasing at a rate that made the dealers glad, and he was also ordering freely by wire from Chicago houses that had sold to Jethro Somerton for years, and who felt assured that no mere cyclone and fire could lessen the Somerton power to pay. Twenty-four hours later he was at home, congratulating his wife and Truett on the transformation of the dingy warehouse into a light, clean-appearing room, thanks to hundreds of yards of sheeting that had been tacked overhead in lieu of ceiling, and also to the walls. Counters had been extemporized, and shelving was going up. Some of the contents of the old store had been saved, and the remainder was being drenched by a bucket brigade, under the direction of Truett, who reported that he had had no trouble in securing workmen, for Mrs. Somerton had asked them as a special favor to her, and they had tumbled over one another in their eagerness to respond. As to himself, he had found time to draw exterior and interior plans for a new store to be erected on the old foundations, and he begged permission to begin work as soon as the ruins were cool; for, said he, "Lumber and labor will never be cheaper here than they are now."
"As I remarked before I left, you're a rabid Westerner," Philip said, in admiration of the young man's enthusiasm.
"Give it any name you like," was the reply, "though I'm suggesting only what any Eastern man would do. Besides, I'd like to see everything well started or arranged before Caleb can reach here."
"You seem to have become remarkably fond of Caleb on very short acquaintance," said Philip.
"I have," was the reply, "and since I've learned that he was sent East principally to regain his health, I'd like, in justice to both you and him, that he should find nothing to give him a setback. That's only fair, isn't it?"
"'Tis more than fair. 'Tis very hearty, and greatly to your credit."
"Oh, well; put it that way, if you like."
Philip's goods began to arrive a day later, in farm wagons, moving almost in procession to and from Claybanks and the railway town, and several men worked at unpacking them, while Philip and Grace arranged them on the shelves and under the counters. When Saturday night ended the fourth day, the merchant and his wife were fit to enjoy a day of rest on Sunday. Sunday morning came, and while Philip and Grace were leisurely preparing their breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Philip opened it, and shouted:—
"Grace!"
Grace hurried from the kitchen, embraced a lady whom she saw, and exclaimed:—
"Mary Truett!"
"Mrs. Wright, if you please," replied the lady.
"I beg a thousand pardons!" Grace gasped. She soon recovered herself and looked very roguish as she continued, "Won't you kindly introduce me to the distinguished-looking stranger beside you?"
Then Caleb pushed his hat to the back of his head, slapped his leg noisily, and exclaimed:—
"Distinguished—looking—stranger! Hooray!"
"NOW, Caleb," said Philip, after the four had been seated at the breakfast table so long that most of the food had disappeared, "tell us all about it. Don't leave out anything."
"All right," said Caleb, after emptying his coffee-cup. "I'll begin at the beginning. I don't s'pose 'tis necessary to tell any of you that New York is a mighty big city, an' London is another, so—"
"New York savors of business, and so does London," said Philip, "and as this is Sunday, I must decline to hear a word about worldly things. I'm amazed that so orthodox a man as you should think of such matters on Sunday."
"Tell him, Caleb," Grace added, "and tell me also, about something heavenly—something angelic, at least—something resembling a special mercy, or a means of grace." As she spoke, she looked so significantly at Mary, that Caleb could no longer pretend to misunderstand.
"Well," said he, "as I came back double when you expected only to see me single, I s'pose a word or two of explanation would only be fair to all concerned. You see, before I started for London I felt pretty well acquainted with Mary, for I'd been in New York two or three weeks. That mightn't seem a long time, to some, in which to form an acquaintance that will last through life an' eternity, but such things depend a lot on the person who's doin' 'em, an', as you know, my principal business for years has been to study human nature in general, an' particularly whatever specimen of it is nearest at hand. In New York it had come to be as natural as breathin', an' mighty interestin' too, especially when the person's p'ints were first-rate, an' I had reason to believe that I was bein' studied at the same time by somebody who had a knack at the business an' didn't have any reason to mean harm to me."
"Any one—any New Yorker, at least,—would have found Caleb an interesting subject,—don't you think so?" said Mary, with a shy look of inquiry.
"I'm very sure that Philip and I did," Grace replied.
"Well, 'twas all of Mrs. Somerton's doin', for she gave me a letter of introduction to Miss Mary Truett: the Lord reward her accordin' to her works, as the Apostle Paul said about Alexander the Coppersmith. I carried a lot of other letters, you'll remember, and every one to whom they were given was quite polite an' obligin'; but business is business, so as soon as the business was done, they were done with me. But Mary wasn't."
"She wasn't allowed to be," Mary whispered.
"I reckon that's so," Caleb admitted; "for somehow I kept wantin' to hear the sound of her voice just once more—just to see what there was about it that made it so different from other voices, so I kept makin' business excuses that I thought were pretty clever an' reasonable-like, an' she was always good-natured enough to take 'em as they were meant."
"What else could she do?" asked Mary, with an appealing look. "The rules against personal acquaintances dropping into the store to chat were quite strict, and applied to heads of departments as well as to other employees. Caleb's plausible manner deceived no one, but he was so odd, at first, and so entertaining, that every one in authority in the store quickly learned to like him, and were glad to see him come in. They would make excuses to saunter near us, and listen to the conversation, and whenever he went out, some of them remained to tease me. They saw through him before I did, and made so much of what they saw that, in the course of time, I had to work hard to rally myself whenever I saw Caleb approaching."
"She did it splendidly, too," said Caleb. "In a little while I got so that my eye could catch her the minute I found myself inside the store, no matter how many people were between us, yet I'm middlin' short, as you know, an' she isn't tall. She'd be talkin' business, as sober as a judge, with somebody, but by the time I got pretty nigh, her face would look like a lot o' Mrs. Somerton's pet flowers—red roses, an' white roses, an' a couple o' rich pansies between, an' around 'em all a great tangle o' gold thread to keep 'em from gettin' away."
"Caleb!" exclaimed Mary. "Your friends want only facts."
"I'm sure he's giving us nothing else," Grace said, looking admiringly at Mary, while Philip added:—
"He's doing it very nicely, too. Bravo, Caleb! Go on."
"Well, she was kind o' curious about the West, like a good many other New Yorkers who hadn't ever been away from home, and one day she asked me if there was any chance out here for a young man who was a civil engineer and landscape architect. She said so much about the young man's smartness an' willingness, an' pluck, an' good nature, that all of a sudden I found myself kind o' hatin' that young man, an' it didn't take me long to find out why, an' when I saw that the trouble was that I was downright jealous of him, I said to myself, 'Caleb, you're an old fool,' an' I put in some good hard prayin' right then an' there. Suddenly she explained that the young man was her brother, an'—well, I reckon there never was a prayer bitten off shorter an' quicker than that prayer was. She wished he could meet me, an' I said that any brother o' hers could command me at any time an' anywhere, so we fixed it that I should call at their house that very evenin'. Well, I liked his looks an' his p'ints in general, an' he asked no end o' the right kind o' questions, an' she helped him. I told 'em ev'rythin', good an' bad—specially the latter—malaria, scattered population, bad roads, poor farming, poor clothes, scarcity of ready cash, all the houses small an' shabby; for up to that time it seemed to me that everybody in New York lived in a palace an' wore Sunday clothes ev'ry day of the week; afterwards I went about with some city missionaries an' policemen, an' came to the conclusion that the poorest man in this town an' county is rich, compared with more than half of the people in New York. But that's gettin' over the fence an' into another field. Her brother was so interested that nothin' would do but that I should go back an' take supper with 'em next evenin' an' continue the talk. Well, 'Barkis was willin',' as a chap in one of your circulatin' library books said. Pity that library's burned; I'll put up half the expense of a new one, for if ever there was a means of grace—"
"It shall be replaced," said Philip, "but—one means of grace at a time. Do go back to the original story."
"Oh! Well, the next day happened to be the one in which I met my old army chum, Jim, who reconstructed me in the way I wrote you about. One consequence of Jim's over-haulin' was that when I got to their house an' walked into their parlor, they didn't know me from Adam; both of 'em stood there, like a couple o' stuck pigs."
"What an elegant expression!" exclaimed Mary.
"You don't say that as if you b'lieved it over an' above hard, my dear, but I do assure you that the expression means a lot to Western people. Pretty soon her brother came to himself an' asked what had happened, an' I said, 'Oh, nothin', except that when I'm in Turkey, an' likely to stay awhile, I try to do as the turkeys do.' Well, things kept goin' on, about that way, for some days, an' between thinkin' 'twas time for that corn-meal to come, an' wishin' that it wasn't, an' wishin' a lot of other things, I was in quite a state o' mind for a while, an' self-examination didn't help me much.
"All the time there kep' runnin' in my mind an old sayin' that your Uncle Jethro was mighty fond of—'There's only one hoss in the world,' an' the most I could do to keep from bein' a plumb fool was to remind myself that that sort of a hoss had some rights of its own that ought to be respected. I showed off my own good p'ints as well as I could, an' I coaxed Mary to go about with me considerable, because Mrs. Somerton had told me that her judgment and taste were remarkably good,—that's the excuse I made,—an' we talked about a lot o' things, an' found we didn't disagree about much. I accidentally let out what I was goin' to England for, an' she got powerful interested in it, for she'd read an' heard lots about the way the poorest English live in big cities, so she thought I was really goin' on missionary work, an' she said she would almost be willing to be a man if she could have such a job.
"She looked so splendid when she said it that I felt plumb electrified—felt just as if a new nerve had suddenly been put into me some way, so I made bold to say that she'd do that sort o' work far better as a woman, an' that there was a way for her to do it, too, if she was willin', an' if her minister would say a few words appropriate to that kind of arrangement."
"That is exactly the way he spoke," said Mary, "and as coolly as if he wasn't saying anything of special importance."
"Caleb's mind is sometimes in the clouds," Grace said, "where everything for the time being appears just as it should be."
"That must be so, I reckon, Mrs. Somerton," said Caleb, "seein' that you say it; but I want to remark that if I was in the clouds that day, I got out of 'em mighty quick, an' down to earth, an' mebbe a mighty sight lower; for Mary suddenly turned very white, an' right away I felt as if Judgment Day had come, an' I'd been roped off among the goats. But all of a sudden she turned rosy, an' said, very gentle-like an' sweet, ''Tis a long way to London, an' you might change your mind on the way.' Said I, ''Tis longer to eternity, but I'll be of the same mind till then, an' after, too.' She was kind o' skittish for a while after that, but she didn't do any kickin', which I took for a good sign."
"Kicking, indeed!" said Mary, studying the decoration of her coffee-cup. "Breathing was all the poor thing dared hope to do."
"Well, at last she said she thought it might be better for me to go alone, so both of us could have a fair chance to think it over, an' I said that I wouldn't presume to doubt the good sense of whatever she thought, an' that her will was law to me, an' would go on bein' so as long as she would let it. Just then the corn-meal came, an' I went. After I got fairly started on the trip, I found myself feelin' kind o' glad she wasn't with me. As we've just been eatin' breakfast, I won't go into particulars; but after I got over bein' seasick, I felt as well an' strong as a giant, an' I ran a private prayer an' praise meetin' all the way across. At first I was sorry that I hadn't asked her for her picture to take along, but I soon found that I had one—had it in both eyes, day an' night, an' all the time I was in London, too, an' the more I looked at it, the more I wanted to see the original again.
"This bein' Sunday, I won't say anythin' more about the business than that I got it started well, didn't slight it, an' left it in good hands. Gettin' back to the United States appeared to take a year; I used to look at as much as a passenger could see of the engine, an' wish I could put my heart into it to make it work faster. One day we reached New York about sundown, an' I s'pose I needn't say whose house I made for at once, with my heart in my mouth. 'Twasn't hard to make out that she wasn't a bit sorry to see me, so my heart got out of my mouth at once, an' gave my tongue a change. She asked about my trip, an' told me about her letter to you about her brother, an' about your kind invitation to him, an' how busy he already was in Claybanks, an' she was able to tell me a lot about both of you, all of which I was mighty glad to hear, but after a while there came a kind o' silent spell, so I said:—
"Speakin' about thinkin' it over, I've been doin' nothin' else, an' I haven't changed my mind. How is it with you?' She didn't say anythin', for about a million hours, it seemed to me, but at last she put out both of her hands, kind o' slow-like, but put 'em out all the same, bless her; so I—"
"Caleb," exclaimed Mrs. Wright, severely.
"We understand," said Philip, "having had a similar experience a few years ago;" and Grace said:—
"Blushes are very becoming to you, Caleb."
"Thank you—very much. But how do you s'pose I felt next mornin' after wakin' up with the feelin' that this world was Paradise, an' that it couldn't be true that there were such things as sin an' sorrow an' trouble, an' then seein' the whole front of my mornin' paper covered with the Claybanks cyclone, an' nothin' to tell who was killed an' who was spared! 'Twas nigh on to seven o'clock when I saw the news, an' for a few minutes I did the hardest, fastest thinkin' I ever did in my life. I sent you a despatch, hopin' that you were among the saved, an' by eight o'clock I was at Mary's house. She'd seen the paper, so she wasn't surprised to see me. She was just startin' for the store, so I walked along with her, an' I said:—
"It couldn't have come at a more awful time, so far as my feelin's are concerned, but the Claybanks people are my own people, after a fashion, an' some of 'em need me—that is, they'll get along better if they have me to talk to for a while. Will you forgive me if I hurry out to them? You won't think me neglectful, or less loving than I've promised to be, will you?' Then what did that blessed woman do but quote Scripture at me—'Whither thou goest I will go, an' where thou lodgest I will lodge, and thy people shall be my people.' 'Twas a moment or two before I took it all in; then I said, to make sure that I wasn't dreamin', 'Do you mean that you'll marry me—to-day—an' go out to Claybanks with me by this evenin's train?' An' she said, 'Could I have said it plainer?' By that time we were in a hoss-car, so I couldn't—"
"Caleb!" again exclaimed Mrs. Wright, warningly.
"All right, my dear; I won't say it. I didn't know, until afterward, that Mrs. Somerton had been fillin' Mary up with letters about me an' my supposed doin's for some of the folks out here. I don't doubt that those stories were powerful influential in bringin' things to a head. Well, while she went to the store to give notice to quit, an' to have a fuss, perhaps, all on my account, I went to a newspaper office to find out if any more news had come since daylight began. I wanted to know the worst, whatever it was, an' when they told me that nobody was dead, so far as could be learned, I wanted to wipe up part of the floor of that newspaper office with my knees, an' I didn't care a continental who might see me do it, either.
"Then I went down to her store, an' got a word with her, though she was rattlin' busy. Queer, though, how sharp-eyed some of those New Yorkers are. Mary hadn't had a bit of trouble. The firm wasn't surprised when she began to make her little statement—they said they'd seen, a month or two before, how matters were likely to go, so they'd selected her successor, sorry though they were at the idea of losing her. They hadn't supposed the notice to quit would be so sudden, but after they compared notes about the front page of a mornin' paper they agreed that they'd be likely to lose Mary as soon as I struck New York. I s'posed men as busy as the owners of such a business would have forgotten the name of Claybanks, if they'd ever heard it, an' I wouldn't have supposed that they'd ever have heard anythin' about me; but bless you, they knew it all, an' they took Mary's words out of her mouth, as soon as she explained that a dear friend who had just arrived from Europe needed her companionship and assistance in a trip to the West. 'We hope Mr. Wright isn't ill,' said one of the partners, an' the other said, 'We greatly hope so, for we learn from the Commercial Agency that he is really as prominent and useful a man as there is in his county.' Think o' that,—not that the Agency, whatever it is, was right, but think of me bein' on record in any way in New York, an' of those old chaps havin' known all about Mary an' me! It's plain enough that New York folks are as keen-eyed as the best, an' that they've got one thing that we Westerners don't know a single thing about, an' that's system.
"But I'm strayin' again. At the store I arranged with her that we should be married at her church at four o'clock that afternoon. Soon after leavin' the store I got your despatch, which I didn't doubt had already been read up in heaven—bless you both! It didn't take more than two hours to duplicate the orders of a few weeks before; then I went to her house, for the last time, an' she was already dressed for the weddin'—dressed just as she is now. There were a couple of hours to spare, an' as I'd ordered our railroad tickets, I improved the time by tryin' to persuade her relatives, who had been called in on short notice, that she was goin' to be in safe hands. But there wasn't a chance to talk more'n two minutes at a time, for the door-bell kept ringin', an' messengers kept comin' in with flowers an' presents, most of 'em from people at the store. There's two trunks full of 'em, comin' along by express. Of course we were goin' to have a quiet weddin'—nobody invited to the church but her fam'ly an' two or three of her relatives, an' my old army chum Jim; but when we got there, a whole lot of folks were inside the church, an' when we started out after the ceremony they crowded to the aisle, an' some threw flowers in it, an' then for the first time the dear little woman learned that the store people had turned out in force, the proprietors among 'em, an' all the women kissed the bride, an' a lot of 'em cried, an'—oh, nobody ever saw such goin's on at any weddin' in the Claybanks church. An'—to wind up the story—here we are, ready for business, when Monday comes. I telegraphed Black Sam to find an empty house for us somewhere, knowin' that my old room was gone, an'—"
"You're to live with us," said Philip. "You know we've room to spare, and I know that my wife will be delighted to have your wife with her."
"Thank you, Philip. Mrs. Somerton's taste in women is as correct as in everythin' else."
"But doesn't your brother know?" asked Grace of Mary.
"No," was the reply. "Some things are easier told than written. Besides, he's the dearest brother in the world, and thinks whatever I do is right. How I long to see him!"
"I'll find him at once," said Philip, rising. "'Twas very thoughtless of me to have neglected him so long, but between astonishment and delight I—"
"You won't have far to look," said Caleb, who had moved toward the window. "Mary, come here, please—stand right beside me—close—to protect me in case he offers to knock me down."
Philip opened the door, and Truett said:—
"I've just heard that Caleb came over from the railway station this morning. Has he—oh, Mary! Just as I might have expected, if I hadn't been too busy to think."
"You don't act as if you had any ill feelin' toward me," said Caleb, as Truett, after much affectionate demonstration toward his sister, greeted his brother-in-law warmly.
"Ill feeling? I'm delighted—quite as much delighted as surprised. I saw how 'twould be before you sailed, for my sister has always been transparent to me. As to you, any one who saw you in Mary's presence could see what was on your mind. That was why I came out here. There were other places I might have selected for my own purposes, but when I saw how matters were going, I was determined that the town in which my sister was to live, in the course of time, shouldn't be malarious and shabby and slow if I could do anything to better it."
"Aha!" said Philip, with the manner of a man upon whom a new light had suddenly shone. "Now I understand your rage for local improvements, and your Western fever in all its phases."
"Could I have had better cause?"
Philip looked admiringly at Mary, and answered:—
"No."
The table was cleared by so many hands that they were in the way of one another; then the quintet adjourned to the windward side of the house, under the vine-clad arbor, and began to exchange questions. Suddenly Grace said:—
"There's something new and strange about Caleb—something besides his change of appearance and his happiness, and I can't discover what it is."
"Perhaps," said Mary, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "'tis his grammar."
Caleb's eyes expressed solicitude as they turned toward Grace, and they indicated great sense of relief when Grace clapped her hands and exclaimed:—
"That is it!"
"Well," said Caleb, "it does me good to know that the change is big enough to see, for it's taken a powerful lot o' work. I used to be at the head of the grammar class when I was a boy at school, but 'Evil communications corrupt good manners,' as the Bible says, an' I've been hearin' the language twisted ev'ry which way ever since I left school. I never noticed that anythin' was wrong till I got into some long talks with Mary, an' even then I didn't suppose that 'twas my manner o' speech that once in a while made her twitch as if a skeeter had suddenly made himself too familiar. One evenin'—I didn't know till afterwards that she'd had an extra hard day at the store, an' had brought a nervous headache home with her—she gave an awful twitch while I was talkin', an' then she whispered 'Them!' to herself, an' looked as disapprovin' as a minister at a street-fight. Then all of a sudden my bad grammar came before my eyes, as awful as conviction to a sinner. But I was tryin' to set my best foot forward, so I went on:—
"'I said "them" for "those" just now, perhaps you noticed?'
"'I believe I did,' said she.
"'Well,' said I, 'that word was pounded into me so hard at school one day that I've never been able to get rid of it. You see, I was the teacher's favorite, after a fashion, because it was known that I was expectin' to study for the ministry, so the teacher kept remindin' me that grammar was made to practise as well as recite, an' 'twasn't of any use to use the language correctly in the class if I was goin' to smash it an' trample on the pieces on the playground. I took the warnin' an' one day, when four of us boys were havin' a game of long-taw at recess I said somethin' about "those" marbles. One of the boys jumped as if he had been shot, and when he came down he rolled back his lips an' said "Those!" kind o' contemptuous-like, an' another snickered "Those!" an' the other growled "Those!" an' then the first one said, "Fellers, Preachy's puttin' on airs; let's knock 'em out of him," an' then all of 'em jumped on me an' pounded me until the bell rang us in from recess, an' from that time to this I've stuck to "them" like a penitent to the precious promises.'
"Well, she had a laugh over that; she said afterward that it cured her headache, but after quietin' down she said, lookin' out o' the side o' her face kind o' teasin'-like, an' also mighty bewitchin':—
"'What did the boys do to make you say "ain't" for "haven't"?'
"Then I was stuck, an' laughed at myself as the best way of turnin' it off, but for the rest of the evenin' I was chasin' the old grammar back through about twenty years of army talk an' store talk, an' 'twas harder than a dog nosin' a rabbit through a lot full o' blackberry patches, an' I reckon I lost the scent a good many times. I stayed in the city that night, so as to get into a bookstore an' a grammar book early next mornin', an' I dived into that book ev'ry chance I got, in the hoss-cars an' ev'rywhere else, an' when I was on the ocean an' not sayin' my prayers, nor readin' the Bible, I was doin' only three things, an' generally doin' all of 'em at once,—thinkin' of Mary, keepin' my head an' shoulders up as my old soldier-chum Jim had made me promise to do, an' puttin' Claybanks English into decent grammatical shape. I tried to stop droppin' my 'g's' too, for she seemed to think they deserved a fightin' chance o' life, even if they did come in only on the tail-ends of words; I'd have got along fairly well at it, if it hadn't been for the English people, but some of them seem to hate a 'g' at the end of a word as bad as if it was an 'h' at the beginnin', which is sayin' a good deal. But see here, isn't it most church time? I s'pose the sooner I take up my cross, the less I'll dread it."
"Caleb," exclaimed Grace, in genuine surprise, "it can't be possible that you've been backsliding, and learning to dislike religious services?"
"Oh, no," Caleb replied, looking quizzically at his wife; "but you're the only old acquaintances I've met since I was married, an' at church I'll meet two or three hundred, an' Claybanks people don't often have any one new to look at an' talk about, an' any surprise of that kind is likely to hit most of 'em powerful hard."
"Go very early," Grace suggested, "and sit as far front as possible. Philip and I will break the news to the minister before he reaches the church, and we'll stand outside and tell the people as they arrive, so that they can collect their wits and manners by the time the service ends."
"That'll be a great help," said Caleb. Then he drew Grace aside and whispered with a look that was pathetic in its appeal: "Try to make her understand, won't you, that our folks are a good deal nicer than they look? You went through it alone, a few months ago. I saw your face, an' my heart ached for you, but to-day I'm tremblin' for Mary. What do you s'pose she'll think after she's looked around?"
"About what I myself did," Grace replied. "I thought, 'I've my husband,' and from that moment Philip was far dearer to me than he had been."
"Is that so? Glory! Mary, put on your bonnet. Let's be off for church."