DURING the latter part of a certain week a little more than three years after we removed to the town, I was given a holiday, and determined at once to spend it in Fairview, for I had not seen Jo in a great many weeks, nor Agnes in as many months. I remember I earned it by working at night by the light of candles for a long while, and that a certain carpenter’s son read the copy while I set the type, while another boy kept the night bugs away with a fan. It was a part of the contract with my father that for the extra work I was to have the use of his horses in addition to the vacation, both of which I fully earned, and Martin understood the situation so well that he said if I did not get back until Monday he would see that the work was not behind.
I started very early in the morning, and the road led over gentle hills and through light woods for a few miles, when the great prairie began which ended at Erring’s Ford. It was a very pretty country, and though we frequently referred to it in the “Union of States” as the garden spot of the world, I knew it was not necessarily true, for every paper coming in exchange to the office said exactly the same thing of the different localities in which it was published. But it pleased the people who did not see the exchanges, and who no doubt regarded it as a very neat compliment.
It looked unusually attractive that morning, and in riding slowly along I admired it so much that I did not notice the approach of a horseman, who was riding very rapidly, and going in the same direction. When he came so close that the noise of the animal’s hoofs attracted my attention, I turned and saw that it was Lytle Biggs, who had by this time become an old acquaintance, for he frequently wrote letters to the paper in a very bad hand, signed “Pro Bono Publico,” “Tax-Payer,” “Citizen,” or “Farmer,” and which I was usually compelled to put in type. He was a very sociable fellow, and I was pleased with the prospect of his company. I said as much, to which he replied:—
“If you have no objection, I will tie the horse behind, and ride with you, for I detest riding on a horse’s back. It may do for exercise, as you swing dumb-bells on the advice of a physician, but I am surprised I did not have better sense than to attempt it with a serious intention of travelling.”
I replied that I should be delighted, and when he got down I could not help wondering how he ever got on, he was such a little man, and the horse so uncommonly large. As he climbed into the buggy, and took a seat beside me, I noticed he was as faultlessly dressed as ever, and that he seemed to be growing shorter and thinner.
“You are going to Jo Erring’s, of course,” he said, after seeing that the horse led well. “It is a remarkable coincidence—so am I. I suppose you are not old enough to know it, but it only happens once in a lifetime that when you are walking a long road—or riding on a horse’s back, which I think is worse—you overtake an easy-riding buggy going in the same direction, and containing but one person, although you meet a great many vehicles going the other way. It is on the same principle that if you go up stairs to strike a light, and take but one match, it is certain to go out, but if you take half a dozen, the first one answers every purpose.”
His good spirits were rapidly returning by reason of release from the hard-trotting horse’s back, and after finishing this speech he occupied himself for a while in brushing the dust from his clothing with a small wisp he took from his pocket.
“I am on my way to see Jo Erring with reference to the mill,” he began at once. “I have charge of the fund being raised to help him, and I shall be able to report that the amount is subscribed. I am acting for Damon Barker, as you may, or may not, happen to know, and although our friend believes the Fairview farmers are very enthusiastic to help him, they are really very slow, and I have had some difficulty in convincing them that it was to their interest. I shall also recommend that he build the mill as soon as possible. There is no reason why it should drag through another year, and that is the promise I gave in securing these papers.”
He significantly tapped a pocket-book, almost as large as himself, in an outside pocket, and which no doubt contained the obligations to pay certain sums of money at an agreed date. He always carried this book in a conspicuous way, and handled it as though it contained great sums of money, but as he looked through it for something I saw there was nothing in it except the obligations, a great many newspaper scraps, a few old letters, one or two postage stamps, and a piece of court plaster.
“I don’t mind confessing to you,” Mr. Biggs continued, with delightful candor, “that I flattered them into it. In case you do not become disgusted with the ignorance which renders such a thing possible, you can flatter men into anything. When I go into a new neighborhood to organize an Alliance, I get the prompt assistance of every man I meet by telling him that I can’t hope to do any thing without HIS aid, as HE has the popular confidence, and the people will follow wherever HE leads. ‘You are a man of intelligence,’ I say. ‘You can readily understand what I have to offer, and will see its benefit at once. But your neighbors are slower, and I will not attempt an organization here without your assistance.’ That kind of argument never fails, and as I talk to all of them in the same way, there is a great deal of enthusiasm, each one imagining that the others went into it on his recommendation. I worked up the mill subscription in that way.”
I doubt if this statement was true, for the people originated the idea themselves, but to illustrate a great truth Mr. Biggs did not hesitate to tell a great lie.
“I make a great deal of money in organizing Alliances, but sometimes I think of going out of the business because I meet so many silly men that it disgusts me, and I become ashamed of my sex. But I suppose every business has that draw back, for every man I have ever talked with was of the opinion that his business developed more silly men, more contemptible men, and more mean men than any other calling, and I am forced to conclude that these qualities are so common that they are met with everywhere.”
When he spoke of retiring from the business of organizing Alliances, I was about to say that publishing a newspaper collected about all the objectionable men within reach, but from what he said afterwards I judged the observation would not be well received. As if he understood that I was about to say something, which he did not allow, he continued:—
“I was about to say, however, when you interrupted me (I had not spoken at all), that the way to get rich is to go in debt, and work out, therefore I shall recommend that Jo Erring complete his mill at once. No matter if he goes in debt; he has health and can pay it. The people of the country through which we are passing believe it the best to pay as you go. That party over in the field, for instance, is ploughing his corn with a single shovel plough, whereas there are dealers in town who would readily take his note for a cultivator with four shovels and a riding seat. His library no doubt consists of a book warning him against counting his chickens before they are hatched—as pointless a suggestion as I ever heard in my life, by the way (for why do we set eggs if not to bring forth chickens)—but it is regarded as fine logic here. The man will die some of these days with his single shovel plough, his slab house, his cow, his two horses, and his handful of land paid for, worth altogether from three to seven hundred dollars, but if he has a neighbor who sets a good many hens with care, AND counts the number of chickens they can reasonably be expected to hatch, he will attend the funeral in a carriage, and look at his remains through gold-rimmed spectacles.”
I had regarded this pay-as-you-go principle as a very good one, but he convinced me that I was mistaken, as usual, for I could never dispute his philosophy until I had thought over it a day or two, when its sophistry seemed quite clear. I had remarked of Mr. Biggs before that he seemed to understand what was in my mind, and attack it. I was thinking that the man he was talking about—his name was McJohn, and a local curiosity because his voice was uncertain, and jumped from a high falsetto to a guttural bass—had the reputation of being the hardest working man in Fairview, when my companion said:—
“I never knew a man, I believe, who didn’t boast occasionally that he worked harder than his neighbor; I wonder it never occurs to them that it is to their discredit, unless they are more prosperous than any of those around them, for if their neighbors work less, and succeed as well or better, it is an indication that they have more sense. I have no doubt that McJohn, as he spends his time in ploughing a field which could be done in one-fourth the time with common sense and a cultivator, thinks that no other man’s lot is as hard as his, and that he is a martyr to hard work. Before I became a philosopher—when I was a fool, in short—I boasted that no man worked as hard as I did, but now I boast that no man works so little. But simply because a man says he is the hardest-working man in the country, it does not follow that it is true. Every traveller who crosses the ocean says that the captain (who had been at sea continuously for thirty years) came into the cabin during the storm, and said it was the worst he had ever experienced. I have no doubt the captains say so (there is no reason why sea captains should not lie as well as other men), but only to impress the passengers with their remarkable skill in managing the vessel under such critical circumstances. You may have noticed that every winter is the coldest ever known, and every summer the hottest; the people seem to expect picnics in December and skating in July, but the facts are that it is always cold in December and always warm in July.”
I would have made oath, if necessary, that I had heard Mr. Biggs many a time complaining of the excessively hot and cold days, and declaring that there was never before anything like it.
“The people here learn nothing by experience,” he proceeded. “Since I have lived in the West, every spring has been made gloomy by the lamentations of the farmers that crops were ruined, but just before the crops were burned up—as the tooth came just before the doctor killed the boy—the rains come, and the crops do very well. You will find that the men who carry the fate of the country around on their shoulders do not get on so well as the country. I have always found it safe to trust the country to take care of itself, for the country usually does very well.”
We were riding on the high prairie now, with Fairview church in sight, and the little man regarded the big building with a show of the contempt I had seen him exhibit on looking at big men.
“Although the fact is as old as the world itself”—Mr. Biggs waved his hand around majestically to give me to understand that although the world was very large, and very old, he was perfectly familiar with every part of it—“it does not seem to be generally known that the weather is governed by cycles. To illustrate: It was very rainy and wet two years ago; it was rainy and wet last year, but not so rainy and wet as the year before; there has been plenty of rain this summer, but not so much as during the two previous years. Next year will be so dry as to excite comment, but still very fair for crops; the year after that, and the year following, there will probably be a partial drouth, but the seventh year, which completes the cycle, will be a general and complete drouth. The winter following will be very mild or very severe, but in any event the next summer will be extremely wet again, to be followed by the seven years of decreasing rain I have mentioned, and the drouth the seventh year. I don’t know how it is in the East; it is as I have stated in the West. It would seem that everybody ought to be familiar with this fact, but they are not. Hard times and good times run in cycles the same way, and the panic and the drouth are about the same distance apart, though fortunately they never come together, for, strange as it may seem, the panics come in seasons of great crop prosperity, and times are sometimes very good when crops are very bad. It is the easiest thing in the world to get rich after you are familiar with these cycle theories. You have only to invest your money when times are hard; when everybody believes the country is down, and can never get up again. In a year or two, however, the country will get up and shake itself, and you find your investments doubled. It is the simplest thing in the world, and I am surprised there are so many poor men. We might as well all be rich if we would take advantage of the opportunities around us.”
I wondered to myself why Biggs himself was so poor, since he had discovered the secret of riches, and thought some of putting the question to him, but he didn’t give me opportunity, for immediately he went on to explain:—
“When I came to the country I was foolish enough to buy land because everybody else was buying, and paid too much. I warn you against this mistake—never buy anything when there is a brisk demand for it, for the price will inevitably be too high, but buy when no one else is buying, and SELL when there is a disposition on the part of everybody else to buy. I bought when I should have sold, in other words, for I was not then a philosopher. Result: The tract is worth no more to-day than what I paid for it. Since then I have never had money enough at one time to take advantage of my knowledge, and am still poor. Agnes says the principal objection to you is that you are young, but I tell her that you will outgrow it, therefore I hope you will make use of this important suggestion. Avoid the mistakes of others; let your neighbors try the doubtful experiments, and benefit by the result. A great many men are only of use to teach others by their failures, but never repeat their mistakes.”
By this time we had arrived at the Ford, and, as I had hoped, Jo was at work at his mill, aided by a half dozen stout young men of the neighborhood. Since I had visited the place last Jo had completed the dam and the foundation, and the timbers were being raised. Several were already up, and held by long ropes until the others could be put in position and fastened. I noticed that Jo was helping in everything, and directing with the judgment and good sense of a man of twice his years. His father was also assisting, and it seemed important that all the frames be put up before night, for they were very busy. Jo gayly waved his hand to me from the high place to which he had climbed to pin a timber, and after he had come down again he shook hands with me in his old hearty way, and said he hoped I would understand it was not neglect if he kept at his work, for he had determined to push the mill to completion as speedily as possible, as it was necessary to prevent the building of another one further up the stream.
During the forenoon I learned from Gran Erring, from Biggs, and from Jo himself, that my father had given Jo the money promised, two or three hundred dollars; that Barker had loaned him a small amount, and that with the sum he had saved this was deemed sufficient to complete the building ready for the machinery, which was to be purchased with the money raised in the neighborhood, and a mortgage on the completed mill; that Jo had quit at Barker’s, though he was there occasionally, and helped when he could; that he was to be married to Mateel the day before Christmas, and that the mill must be in operation for the fall business; that he had written for the machinery, detailing the terms on which he wanted it, and that it would be shipped at once; that a deed to the little farm had been delivered to him in consideration of certain payments in money, and promises to pay certain amounts annually during the lifetime of his father and mother, and that after the mill was completed they would move to a country below Fairview, a step they had long contemplated, as they had relatives there, leaving the house of hewn logs to be fixed over for the occupancy of Jo and Mateel; that Jo now slept at home, in the middle bed, and that he expected to be so busy the next few months that he had written Mateel a note saying that if she wished to see him during that time to stop at the little shed below the mill on her way to church on Sunday, where she would find him at work, and always glad to see her. All of this pleased me exceedingly, and caused me to watch opportunity to shake the brave fellow’s hand occasionally as he hurried past me, which seemed very agreeable to him, although I doubt if he understood what it meant.
As I watched the men at their work I saw that Jo had a troubled, weary look, and I thought for the first time that his strength might not prove equal to his ambition, for I knew that there were yet several years of hard work ahead of him, but as I saw how eagerly he went at everything, as though the delay was more disagreeable than the work, I was reassured, and felt that he would accomplish all he had set out to do.
I do not remember who told me, but I learned from some source that Mateel often complained of being lonely and of having nothing to do, and I thought that this industrious man must soon overtake and pass her in learning and ability, and that she would regret in her future that she had not improved the opportunities of womanhood as he had improved the opportunities of manhood. While Mateel was a pretty and amiable woman, there was not the depth to her that Jo was acquiring, and I wondered if it ever occurred to her that Jo would finally be a man worthy to be the husband of any woman; a man self-reliant and self-taught, and expecting a return for everything he gave. I wondered if she ever thought Jo had been raised at a hard school, and would tire of simple amiability. If he was anything at all, he was an example of what well-directed effort would do, and I thought the day would come when he could not understand why Mateel was not his equal, although she was older, and had every opportunity, while he had none. I thought that as Jo had been friendless all his life he would hope for a great deal of considerate affection from his wife, and that he would be disappointed if he were compelled to continue his old habit of being thoughtful of every one, but having to regret that no one was thoughtful of him. I wondered if Mateel knew that Jo was no longer the rough, awkward boy she had met during her first week in Fairview, and that he was now a growing, vigorous man, ahead of all his companions in ability and intelligence, and that every year he would throw away old ideas for better ones. Jo had told her in his manly love that she was a perfect woman, and that it would require his efforts for a lifetime to become her equal, and I think she was pleased with this, and believed it. I am certain she never said to Jo that he was a remarkable fellow, and that he deserved more credit than she could give him for his manly love for her—which was no more than the truth—but rather thought herself worthy of the toil he had undergone; not that she was selfish, perhaps, but because Jo had told her so, or maybe she had never thought about it at all except that Jo was very fond of her, and was anxious to please her. I would have given a great deal to know that she frequently gave Jo a word of encouragement, but if she ever did he never told me of it, and for this reason I was convinced that she never did.
In the afternoon I rode over to Fairview church, where Agnes was teaching the school, and although I half expected to find the building surrounded by young men on their knees with proposals of marriage, begging her to accept one of the number, and permit the others to drown their grief in the nearest deep water, only the smaller boys and girls were in attendance, the older ones being at home busy with the summer’s work. Agnes was prettier than ever, I thought, and although I knew the style had only reached Twin Mounds the week before, she wore a dress cut in what was then known as the “Princess” pattern. She greeted me with so much genuine pleasure that I was ashamed to acknowledge that I had been in the neighborhood since morning, and felt guilty that I had not driven directly to Fairview; and leading me through the rows of benches, she seated me in a chair in front of her rude desk, which the children had adorned with wild flowers.
I sat there nearly an hour before school was dismissed, very uncomfortable from being looked at so steadily by the scholars. Two or three of The. Meek’s family, who had come on since I left Fairview, were there, and I readily picked them out by their white heads and good humor. I could tell who nearly all of them were by characteristics of one kind and another, though I did not know any of them, but there was one boy—evidently the son of a renter lately arrived, for I could not imagine who he was—who made me particularly uncomfortable by mimicking me when I was not looking. He created a great deal of merriment, I remember, by pasting his hair down on his forehead as mine was (I had visited the barber’s just before starting, and the barbers oiled and combed their customers’ hair then as they do now, for barbers never improve), and I caught him puffing at a pen-holder, intimating that in the community where I lived the cigar habit was evidently common. I wore a very flashy necktie, and he made one out of the back of a blue copy-book to represent it, which he pasted on his chin, then on his neck, and then on his breast. I thought of going out into the yard to get rid of him, but I knew the impudent boy would mimic my walk, and make me ridiculous again, so I stood it in silence until the children were called up in a row for the final spelling class, in which I was invited to participate, and where I triumphed over my enemy by correctly spelling all the words he missed. Then they all read a chapter in chorus from the Bible, and were dismissed. I was afraid the renter’s boy would stay around until I handed Agnes into the buggy, but he walked to the door in a manner which intimated that I was bow-legged, and disappeared with a whoop.
After they had gone Agnes sat down at a desk near the door, where she had bid the last one good-bye, and looked at me curiously.
“Are you glad to see me?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes,” she replied, with her pretty laugh, “but you don’t seem to be the same boy who came to school here a few years ago. You have grown so much that you seem like a stranger instead of an old friend.”
She laughed merrily at my look of astonishment, and pretended to be frightened when I went over and sat beside her.
“Why didn’t you say when you came in,” she asked, “‘This school is dismissed; I am a friend of the teacher’s.’ I expected you to say that, but instead you waited patiently until I should dismiss it myself. When I knew Ned Westlock he was a boy of spirit. But I am as glad to see you as I can be. This is my week at Theodore Meek’s, and you may drive me there as slowly as your horses can walk.”
I am sure I felt like dismissing the school when I came in, but I never thought of it. I never felt more at a loss in my life for something to say, and sat looking at her in a sort of blind astonishment, blushing like a child. I wanted to tell her how much pleasure the contemplation of this visit had afforded me, but I could not; and finally, tiring of being stared at, she got up and went to collecting the books and other articles she intended to take home. I could think of nothing else to do, so I went out and brought the buggy around to the door, and after helping her in as awkwardly as I had stared at her, we drove away.
In my desperation I could only confess that I had been thinking for weeks how polished and agreeable I would be in my manner on meeting her, but that her pretty face and easy way had scared it all out of me; that I came to Fairview expressly to see her, and that I hoped there would never be a misunderstanding between us with reference to our friendship.
“There never will be,” she said, in her innocent and earnest way, putting her arm through mine, and seeming reassured and pleased. “There could be no misunderstanding between you and me, and there never has been. Why should there be?”
She spoke as though I were still a boy, though I was now larger than she was, and nearly sixteen. I felt sure she would always treat me as a boy, no difference how old I became.
As we drove along slowly, I thought that if a stranger should see us he would think we were lovers, but Agnes evidently did not think of it, for she confessed her friendship for me in a hundred different ways, which I am sure she would not have done had she thought of me as her lover. She was in unusual spirits, and though I felt very proud to think that I was the cause of it, I thought that the arrival of a pretty baby of which she had once been fond would have made her as happy. I hinted gravely, once or twice, that we were “growing older,” and that we “could not always be children,” but she would only say that we were friends, and enjoyed the friendship. I think she was content with that, and did not look beyond it.
“I had almost forgotten it,” she said, when we neared The. Meek’s premises; “but your old friend Damon Barker comes to see me every week now, at the school. Sometimes he comes at noon, at other times in the evening, but he never fails to appear at least once a week. The first time he came the children were dismissed for the day; I was alone, and although he is a black-whiskered, fierce-looking man I was not afraid of him, and he walked part way home with me. Since then he comes frequently, and although he pretends that he only stops in while passing, I believe he comes all the way from the mill to see me.”
While Barker was a little old, I was not surprised that he had fallen in love with Agnes; I only wondered that every one did not. But after I thought more of it I became convinced that wise, good, sensible Barker only admired her sweet, pretty face, and was not in love.
“What does he say to you?” I asked.
“Nothing, except to question me about the school and make sensible suggestions with reference to its management. He never tires in listening to me, but says little himself.”
I then told her what I knew about Barker, his curious home, and how much I admired him. I was glad that he had taken an interest in her, for he would see that she was never subjected to wrong nor injustice from any source, and Agnes was greatly pleased when I said that, when opportunity offered, we would visit him at the mill together.
The enthusiasm in The. Meek’s family over my arrival reminded me of the feeling in a mass-meeting when a popular speaker gets up, for they were all at home, and made quite an army. The white-headed boys, who had not grown much, except in good-humor, reminded me of the jack-oaks on the Twin Mounds hills, which perceptibly grew older, but not larger, and The. Meek and his wife welcomed me as though I were an old friend who had gone out into the world and greatly distinguished himself. Before I was fairly in the house it was arranged that I should remain until after supper, and return by moonlight to my grandfather’s, which suited me very well, as I had not yet seen enough of Agnes. I had noticed before that there was always so much to do around The. Meek’s house that members of his family no sooner finished their day’s work than they went to bed, and in the preparation for my entertainment they were busier than ever, so that Agnes and I were alone for an hour, which we both enjoyed, though we were not so easy as we pretended to be, for I caught her looking stealthily at me, and I am quite sure I was often admiring her.
When I started to return to the mill—which I did after a long religious service and a light supper—Agnes proposed to ride a short distance with me, and then I brought her back, and she went part way with me again, so that it was quite late when I finally got away. The country being familiar to me, I drove through the field paths to shorten the distance, and hurried along as rapidly as I could, for I knew they would be waiting for me. As I came out into the main road, and was closing a gate, a horseman dashed by me, riding toward the mill, and I saw with some surprise that it was Clinton Bragg, on the wicked, vicious horse. I followed leisurely, preferring to avoid him, but probably knowing who it was he stopped beside the road, allowing me to pass so closely that I could have touched him with my hand had I wished. Then he would run by, as if to frighten my horses, and this performance he repeated so many times that I would have pulled him off his horse and beaten him had I the strength. When I arrived at the Ford he was there before me, allowing his vicious horse to drink below the dam, and while I stood on the hill looking at him he rode out and galloped off through the dark woods, as though he could see better by night than by day. I could not help thinking that the place where he disappeared would be a favorable one for a murder, and that if Bragg had a desperate enemy it would not be safe for him to ride through such a dark wood at night.
I believe he wanted me to know he had taken the road to the Shepherds, with the hope that I would tell Jo, and annoy him; but for once he went to his trouble for nothing, for when I went into the house Jo was sound asleep in the middle bed, and resting easily and quietly.
ONE Sunday morning, in the fall of the year, after I had got out of bed and dressed myself,—I was still occupying a room in connection with Martin in the building where the business of printing was carried on,—I found a letter on my desk addressed in my father’s writing, and after Martin had gone out I sat down to read it. The first line startled me, for it read as follows:—
My Dear Son,—When this falls into your hands I shall be travelling the broad road I have so often warned others against; an outcast, and disgraced in the sight of God and man; for I am going away, and shall never come back.
I shall not attempt to tell you why I am going away, for I do not know myself, except that I am discontented as I am, which has been my condition since I can remember. I don’t know that I believe the step I am taking will make me more contented, but I know I cannot remain as I am, for the Devil has complete possession of me, and leads me to do that which is most disgraceful and wicked.
Whether you know it or not is not important to the purposes of this letter, but for seven years I have been infatuated with the woman who is my companion in this wicked business, and she has been the temptation against which I have fought and prayed, but in spite of my efforts and prayers it has grown on me, until I am no longer a man. If you still have confidence in my truthfulness I need only say that I fought this infatuation with all my strength, but I am weaker than you know, and, after a life devoted to principle, I am adrift on an unknown sea, for as God is my witness this is my first offence.
In a package in my desk, with your name on the wrapper, will be found the deeds to all I possess, together with notes and accounts, and full instructions as to their management. The money I take with me is so small in amount that it will never be missed. If you manage well, and work well, in a few years you can almost rejoice that I went away as I did, for all the property I leave you is advancing in value, and will in time make you independent, if you attend to it.
Although it may seem odd that I give you advice which I cannot accept myself, I desire that you be industrious and honest. You can be successful in no other way, and you are now the sole support and comfort of your mother, who, I can attest, was very good to you when you were helpless. That she has not been more affectionate with you since you have grown up has been partly my fault, for I do not believe in affection. Whether I was right or wrong does not matter now: as I seem to have been wrong in everything else, perhaps I was in that.
I do not know whether you partake of my discontent or not; your mother was always contented with her home, and with whatever fortune brought her, and I hope you are like her in this; but if you are not it is only a question of time when you will travel the same road I am on, for no one constituted as I am can become a good husband, a good citizen, or a good man. I wonder that I held out as long as I did, and it is the only thing I can think of to my credit that I did not take this step years ago. No one can ever know what a struggle I have had against temptation, or how humiliated I was when I found that I must give up after all, and become the subject of scandal among the small people I despise, and although I know that no man ever deserved pity more than I do now, I am certain that there is not one who will extend to me that small favor.
To tell the truth seems to have been as much a part of my nature as discontent, therefore I assure you with my last words that since I was old enough to remember I have been as unhappy as it was possible for a man to be. There has never been a favorable circumstance connected with my history. I think I never did a thing in my life that it was not distasteful, and that which I am about to do is most distasteful of all, though I cannot help it.
I am not going away with the hope of being more contented than I have been, for I do not expect it. Discontent is my disease, and this is merely a natural stage of it. I have complaint to make against no one but myself; no one has driven me away, and no one has tempted me, but I go because I cannot remain as I am. I cannot explain to you what I mean by such a strange assertion, but it is true—I am running away from myself. My health is good, my business prosperous, my family everything that a reasonable man could desire, but in spite of this I am so nervous, wretched, and unreasonable that the sight of my home, the sight of you, the greetings of people I meet, fill me with desperation and wickedness. I believe that were I compelled to remain here another week, I should murder somebody—I don’t know who; anybody—and for no other reason than that I cannot control myself. I have carefully investigated my own mind, fearing I had lost my reason, but my brain is healthy and active; it is discontent, inexplicable and monstrous, and horrible beyond expression.
When I remember how discontented I have been in the past, though favorably situated, I tremble to think what it must be in the future, when I shall have my disgrace and crime to remember in addition to it, but perhaps it will serve to hasten the end, and relieve me of a life which I never desired, and which I would have rid the world of years ago, but for the reason that I was afraid.
Your father,
John Westlock.
I have a recollection of feeling faint and sick after reading the letter, and when I started up to go home, I remember that I staggered like a drunken man, and reeled along the street in such a manner that those whom I passed surely thought I was returning from a night’s debauch. My first thought was that the best thing I could do was to give the office to Martin, and take my mother, and leave the country, too, before any one knew of the disgrace, but when I remembered the advice in the letter with reference to the business, I knew it was his deliberate judgment that I should stay and live it down; and he must have thought of it a great deal. A thousand disturbing thoughts passed through my mind as I went along, and once when I went into an old and vacant house to avoid meeting a party of people who were coming toward me, the first feeling of faintness returned so strong that I was compelled to lie down on a heap of straw and rubbish.
My greatest dread in it all was to break the news to my unhappy mother, and trying to brace myself with the thought that I was now entrusted with grave responsibilities, and no longer a boy dependent on the advice of another, I passed down the street and into the house.
After considerable search I found my mother seated in a low chair in the kitchen, as I had seen her a hundred times before, but for some reason—I could not explain it then, nor can I now—I felt that she had sat there all night, and that she knew that he had gone. There was a certain timid, frightened look in her eyes when I came in, an inexpressible grief in her manner, and so much sorrow in the tears which came afresh at sight of me, which convinced me that I had nothing to tell her, and I learned afterwards that he had told her what he had written me before leaving, and that he had shaken hands with her on parting, and begged her not to be distressed.
My first action was to pull down all the blinds at the windows and lock all the doors, for I was determined that no one should enter the house that day, and I hurriedly carried in a supply of wood and water, as though we were to live that way a good many days, or that we should live in the house forever, without seeing any one.
As the day wore away, I found my determination increasing to make the best of it, and though I tried to rally my mother, she would say nothing. Finally I gently forced her to leave the low chair, and lie down, where she covered her head, and sobbed the livelong day.
Though I read the letter over a great many times (having gone to one of the upper rooms for the purpose, where I could see the people passing, and looking wonderingly at the house to see it shut up so tight), I could make nothing out of it further than that the Rev. John Westlock had run away, taking Mrs. B. Tremaine with him, and that he had been infatuated with her for seven years, a circumstance of which I had not the remotest suspicion until that day. I knew now that on his visits to the country he met this woman at some convenient place, but beyond that, and the fear once expressed by Barker that his religion would prove an unfortunate thing for him, I was puzzled to understand it, further than the letter had explained.
I knew now that the trouble which caused him to quit preaching, and to seclude himself from callers at the office, related to the woman, but I had never suspected it before, for I had never tried to explain his thoughtfulness, believing it was simply his way, and that his father had been a thinking man before him. He was a man of such excellent sense that suspicion would not attach to him, particularly suspicion of weakness in religion or morality, and I only thought of it to become more puzzled.
Before night I came to the conclusion, though it gave me a sad heart, that the sooner the community was made aware of the matter, the sooner would its gossiping and conjecturing cease, and when night was setting in, I hailed a boy who was passing, and sent a note to Martin requesting him to come to the house. He came soon after, when I explained everything to him, and read the letter, which he heard with great surprise. I then requested him to go wherever there was a crowd that evening, and tell it, to the end that the people might discuss it through the night, as I preferred that course to a suspense of several weeks, for we could have kept it from them that long on one pretext and another.
Martin approved of this idea, though he was too much surprised to say much else, and when he went out, I saw him stop people on the street, and talk with them, and who at once looked up at the house, and seemed greatly surprised.
No lights were lit in the house that night, and I spent the hours in wandering through the vacant rooms; in wondering what the people were saying about it; how they would feel with reference to my continuing the business, and how they explained it all. Frequently I went into the room where my mother was lying down, and she was still for such a long time that I hoped she was oblivious to her trouble in sleep, but in waiting to assure myself of it before retiring, I heard her sob in such a pitiful manner that I resumed my walk through the lonely rooms, and listened again to the echoes of my own footsteps.
. . . . .
I spent my evenings at home after my father’s disappearance, at first from necessity, because my mother needed me there, and because I had work to do, but I gradually grew to like it, and regretted when I had to be away. My mother was much changed and broken by her desertion, and if I read far into the night—which I often did, for my education was indifferent, and I found a certain amount of knowledge indispensable in my daily work—she sat beside me, employed in knitting or mending.
If I wrote something I thought was very good—I am certain now I never did—I read it to her; if I found a paragraph in a book or newspaper which I thought surprising or strange, I read that; but while she always listened attentively, she had no comments to offer. Indeed, I think there were weeks together when she did not speak to me at all, except to call me in the morning at the hour I told her I should like to get up, or to inquire after my small wants.
At first the neighbors thought it a kindness to keep the house full of callers, believing her to be lonely, but they at last discovered that it would be a greater kindness to leave her alone, which they afterwards did, so it came about that we lived a lonely life. Occasionally Martin came in the evening to sit an hour, and a few times Agnes was a visitor to the gloomy house, but these visits were so far apart that we seemed to see no one at all. Sometimes I took her out for a drive, and on these occasions she would perceptibly revive, and say that this or that place had changed since last she saw it, but of her trouble she never spoke at all. One pleasant Sunday I drove on the road to Fairview, thinking to call on Jo at the mill, but she gently touched the lines, and said “Not to Fairview,” so I turned around, and drove another way.
Before my father went away he dealt a great deal in wild land, taking stock of every kind in payment, and I still kept a pair of strong and fleet horses which had belonged to him, and of which he was very proud, at first because I could not sell them for the price they were worth, and lately because I had grown to like them. They were very rapid in harness, and when we rode out my mother enjoyed more than anything else the excitement of passing other teams, speaking many kind words for “Dan” and “Dave.” She took great interest, also, in seeing that they were well cared for, and though I was afterwards offered a good price for them, I kept them at considerable expense and trouble because she seemed to take an interest in nothing else.
Her condition was so lonely that I became more of a son than I had ever been before, and tried always to be careful of her wants. She reciprocated this with kindness and attention, but I cannot say with affection. When I went to my bed at night, I always left her sitting in her chair, and after I had retired it was her custom to come softly up the stairs to see if I was comfortable. If it was cold, she tucked the covering about me as if I were yet a child, and I remember now—I do not believe I thought of it then—that she talked to me more at these times than at any other, as if the darkness removed a restraint. Perhaps she felt a disgrace in the presence of her son that his parents had treated him so indifferently, and only felt easy when he could not see her face. Some men remember their mothers from their good-night kisses, but I remember mine by the gentle manner in which she smoothed the covering of my bed at night, and I grew so accustomed to it that I could not have gone to sleep without it. After this was done, she lingered about the room as long as she could find excuse, frequently referring to subjects of which I had spoken in the evening, and then went slowly down the stairs.
How she passed the night I never knew, but I never found her in bed. Frequently I thought to go into her room at midnight, to see if she were awake, but in waiting for the hour, I fell asleep. If I came home late at night, whether she expected me or not, I found her up, and often when a slight complaint made me wakeful and restless, I found her by my side, offering me water, or some simple remedy. From the woman who came to the house to work through the day, but who slept at home, I learned that my mother frequently lay down in her room during the day, and probably slept; so I think that generally she did not close her eyes at night nor go to bed.
If I advised with her in reference to my father’s affairs—there was really no need of it, for he left them in excellent shape, with full instructions to me, and she knew nothing about them—she listened attentively, but the details seemed to tire her. Occasionally a man would intimate that my father had not credited a payment on an account or a note, and appealing to her, she would say: “Your father was honorable in business; the man is mistaken,” and so it turned out. If I told her of my own affairs, she was equally attentive, but seemed to be satisfied with my course, and had no suggestions to offer. I hoped to hear her say I was doing well, or that the business did not miss its founder, but if she thought it, she kept it to herself.
I believe that she always thought it possible that her husband would tire of his fancy, and, coming back to her poor and old, they would finish their lives together. Perhaps she never went to bed at night because she was always expecting his knock at the door, and remained up to assure him that he was welcome. She believed that a man of his sturdy, honest principles could not be content wandering aimlessly about, ashamed to own his name and his country, so the vigils through the long nights were kept up. He would not come during the day, when he would meet familiar and accusing faces at every turn, but at night, when the town was quiet, and the people were asleep, therefore there was always a light in his old room, and his deserted but forgiving wife was always waiting to hear his step in the street, and his knock on the door. The people of the town frequently came down the little street which led past the house to look at the light which was always burning, and which cast its rays out into the darkness like a kindly star; they told the story of the light to strangers in pitying whispers, and many of them believed that the patience of the lonely watcher would be rewarded at last by the return of the unhappy wanderer.
The business under my management continued to be profitable, partly because Martin and I gave it a great deal of attention, and partly because it was without opposition. Martin was really a very superior man, and together we did very well, making improvements as the money was earned, and extending the business whenever it was possible.
I was at first inclined to feel that I could never recover from the disgrace of my father’s action, but after Mr. Biggs assured me that it was ignorant conceit to suppose that the people had nothing else to do than to think of my small affairs; that every family had a private history, and that ours was no worse than hundreds of others; that I now had opportunity to make a reputation for myself, having a gift of a considerable property to start with, and that so far as I was personally concerned, my father’s action was really a benefit, I took a better view of it, and felt that if I conducted the business creditably, and took good care of my mother, the people would be more apt to speak of me favorably than if I moped around.
During the first few weeks a great many of my father’s staunch friends came into the office, and announced that they would not believe the report; that there had been foul play, but to these I read the letter, whereupon they went away very much puzzled, and without saying a word. These men, and there was a great number of them, encouraged me in carrying on the paper in every way they could, and as they were of the class which makes public opinion, they were of great benefit to me.
It was never known where the two met, how they left the country, or what direction they took. I heard through Jo that, before the disappearance of my father, Mrs. Tremaine had been away from home several days, but as this was a common circumstance, no attention was paid to it. We learned by degrees that their names had long been connected with suspicious gossip, but they seemed to have been very discreet, for the matter was always a mystery.
THE Rev. John Westlock went away in the latter part of September, and from that time to the day before Christmas, a period of three months, I did not visit Fairview, as I dreaded the questions of the people, for one thing, and was very busy for another, but Jo was to be married on the 24th of December, and nothing would have kept me away. With the exception that he wrote me a letter saying that he believed Barker was pleased at the disappearance of his sister, I had not even heard directly from him, much less seen his good, honest face, though I knew the mill was steadily progressing, of which fact we made appropriate mention in the columns of the “Union of States.”
We had a sort of understanding that, as we should both be very busy during the summer, we would put off a meeting until his wedding, and besides this I had a great desire to come upon the completed mill in operation. Therefore, when the day came round, I was early on the road, having arranged for an absence of several days, and to call at Theodore Meek’s for Agnes, who was not going home for the holidays until after Jo’s marriage.
As I passed Bragg’s apartments I noticed that the place was close shut up, and presumed he had already left town on the same errand as that on which I was bound; therefore I was not surprised when I came up with him a few miles out, driving his vicious horse to a light buggy. Seeing my approach, he allowed his horse to walk in the road ahead of me, undoubtedly intended as an insult, but after submitting to it a few minutes, I turned out and went by him, though he lashed his horse, and tried to prevent me. His horse was no match for mine, as he very well knew for the team I drove trotted so briskly as to scandalize the church to which my father had belonged, but Bragg never admitted anything without a struggle, as a dog has to be kicked out of your road every day. For several miles I could see him vigorously following, whipping his mean horse, but at last I went down into a low valley where ran a creek and lost sight of him.
During all the time I had known him, we had never spoken, except on the night of my arrival in Twin Mounds, and as I grew stronger I determined to whip him for the many insolences he had practised upon me; I had half a mind to stop where I was until he came up, and try it there, but the uncertainty of the result, and the fact that my appearance would be too much ruffled at best by the encounter to make myself presentable at a wedding, induced me to give it up, and wait for a more favorable opportunity.
When I drove up to The. Meek’s, Agnes was already waiting for me, and coming out directly, we were soon on the way. Although she was always neatly dressed, and had a very decided talent in that direction, her apparel was so gorgeous that day as to cause me new surprise, but when I looked at it attentively, I was certain it was inexpensive, and that it was all the work of her own hands. I remember she was particularly gay, and had I not known differently, I might of thought of her as some favorite child of good fortune, whose paths were always pleasant. There was nothing to mar her happiness, it seemed, except the misfortune of others, which she frequently mentioned, and her sympathy for my mother was so earnest and gentle that I worshipped her more than ever, though I had never admitted to myself before that I did not already love her to the greatest extent possible.
When we arrived at the Shepherds’, Jo met us at the gate, and, after showing Agnes into the house, went with me out to the stables. For some reason I became convinced at once that it would be a dreary day, for Jo was not so glad to see me as I had expected, after the long separation, and he seemed dissatisfied about something, although I do not believe he really was. It was a pleasant day, though in December, and after the horses were put away we walked about, attempting to renew our old confidences and friendship, but we did not get on as we used to do. He was the same Jo in most respects, but he had grown thoughtful and careworn in the last few years, and I mentioned it, to which he replied with some impatience:—
“You say that whenever we meet. You forget that we are both older, and that it has been almost four years since we were constantly together. It was always our ambition, when we were boys, to become men: we are becoming men very rapidly, and while I am satisfied, you seem to complain of it. But we never become so old that we do not have care and responsibility, and I look like a thoughtful man to you only because in the course of years I have grown to be a thoughtful man. Further than my work there is nothing to make me thoughtful but the age I have accumulated naturally, and I look older because I AM older. Let me assure you once for all, my good old friend, that I am stout as a lion; I am prosperous; I am to be married in a few hours to the woman of my choice, and that there is no reason why I should not live to a ripe old age in the greatest peace. There! Are you satisfied?”
“I enjoyed your friendship so much when you were a boy,” I answered, “that perhaps it is only a fear that it will be less candid when we are men. I have had no other confidant than you, and I dread to see you grow old, for fear that a man’s cares will cause you to forget our boyish friendship.”
“No fear of that,” he said, after he had studied awhile, as if turning it all over in his mind. “No fear of that. I shall never grow too old to confide my sorrows (if I have them) and successes to you. However poorly a man is raised, he always has a pleasant recollection of his youth. It may be only the hut in which he was born, but there is always something, and you are the one pleasant recollection of my boyhood. If I had a great trouble, I should come to you with it; not for help, perhaps, but for your honest sympathy, and for the satisfaction of talking it over freely. So long as I confess nothing to you, you may rest assured that I am very happy. I don’t feel right just now, some way, and I can see that you don’t; but I hope we shall get on better later in the day. I am very sorry, but for some reason the occasion does not promise to be what I expected. Probably one reason is that I have done a very mean thing to-day, and when you discover it, as you are sure to do, remember that I have confessed my humiliation, and say nothing about it.”
I had no idea what it was, but as he said I should discover it, I did not press him further.
“It is very curious,” Jo said, in a confidential and perplexed way, “but the nearer my marriage approaches, the less important it seems; I wonder that I am so cool over it. You remember what I said to you once about it—that I would sell myself to the Devil to be married to Mateel; THEN, not to wait a minute. I felt what I said, but the years of waiting have made a great change in me. Not that I am less fond of her, but I do not feel now about it as I did the night we rode to Barker’s the first year of my apprenticeship. It was never intended, perhaps, for anyone to be as happy as I should have been had my marriage to Mateel that night been possible. Somehow we always have to wait until the pleasure of an event is blunted by familiarity. Imperceptibly, as she became a possibility, I made the discovery that she is not an angel—she would be an angel, I have no doubt, were such a thing possible—for angels do not live in the woods, and they do not marry millers.”
He tried very hard to be cheerful, but he could not, and when he spoke I thought it was an apology for his troubled face:—
“I am very tired of late, for I have worked almost night and day for four years, and I hope you will excuse me if I do not seem glad to see you, for I am; though just at present, for some unaccountable reason, I am unable to show it. I am sure I shall perceptibly revive by reason of your being here, but the mill undertaking was a big one, though I shall speedily recover, now that I have more ease. I can’t just explain myself how it is, but I hope you will believe I am still Jo Erring, and still regard you as my best friend.”
I made some sort of an answer, and we went into the house soon after, both of us more than ever convinced that something was wrong, though we could not tell what it was. Jo immediately disappeared into another room, leaving me alone until Mr. Shepherd came in, who, although he seemed glad to see me, was in such great excitement that he had not time to express it.
“You will excuse me if I am not myself,” he said, as he walked about, putting his hands to his head as though it pained him, a habit I had noticed before. “While I approve of this marriage, our only child leaves us to-day, and we cannot feel very gay about it. She has hardly been out of our sight since she was born, and so far from feeling gay, we are uncomfortable, although we have no objection to her husband. It distresses her poor mother more than it does me; I fear it will be like a funeral. I hope Jo will not mind if she breaks down entirely. I had been hoping we should be very happy to-day, but I have lost all hope of it.”
As Mr. Shepherd walked rapidly round the room with his head down, he almost ran into a door as it opened to admit his respectable wife, followed by Agnes. Mrs. Shepherd bowed to me stiffly, and, walking across the room, seated herself. I had a vague sort of notion that Mrs. Shepherd, hearing of my arrival, had come in to pay her respects, and such a long and awkward silence followed that I began to upbraid myself that, as a young man of the world, I should say something suitable. While debating between a joke and an observation on the weather, however, the door opened again, and Jo and Mateel stood before me. Jo wore the suit in which he had met me at the gate, with the addition of gloves, and Mateel was arrayed as became a bride. Both looked brave and handsome, and while admiring them, and wondering what I had better do (I was impressed with my importance there, someway, but was not certain how), Mr. Shepherd got up from his chair, and, standing before them, pronounced the simple marriage ceremony common in that day, in a low and faltering voice. Then we all knelt, and the good man earnestly and tenderly invoked the blessing of God on the union. By the time Mr. Shepherd had risen to his feet again, his wife was beside him, and, throwing her arms about Mateel, kissed her over and over again, and asked her not to cry, as she had shown evidences of doing. Somehow I thought they had agreed, as though it were brave, not to humiliate my worthy friend by creating a scene, and I wondered that they consented to the marriage at all if they did not approve of it. I had never been entirely cured of a dislike for Mrs. Shepherd, and it came upon me with renewed force that day, for I thought she had every reason to feel gratified at the marriage, instead of sorrowful, for Jo was much the better one of the two; any unprejudiced person would have said so. She paid not the slightest attention to Jo, and I was glad when Mr. Shepherd came up and shook him by the hand, with appropriate words of congratulation, after which Agnes touched me on the arm, and we went up with our greetings. When I took Mateel by the hand Jo said for me to kiss her (which I did very awkwardly, I am afraid); then Agnes kissed Jo, and we were all very happy together. Some one brought up chairs, and Jo and Mateel sat down, and when I looked around Mr. Shepherd and his wife were gone.
After Jo and his bride had taken a long breath, and were themselves again, we four spent a very uncomfortable half hour together, for each one seemed to feel that the others were not at ease. I had thought Jo’s wedding would be a merry event, but it was not, though I never knew exactly why.
I noticed while we sat there that Mateel did not regain her accustomed color, but remained very pale, from which I imagined her health was failing, for she had always been delicate. The costly finery which she wore, though in good taste, made her look ghastly, and I was compelled to admit that she had never appeared to a worse advantage. Her cheeks were sunken, and her form wasted, and she seemed entirely too old for the fresh young man by her side. I imagined that Jo thought of this, too, and regretted she was not more girlish.
When dinner was ready, I noticed that plates were laid for several guests besides Agnes and myself, as if they expected that more of Jo’s friends would be present, whereupon it occurred to me to apologize that my mother was ill, and had sent her regrets.
“The regrets are accepted,” Jo said, as though others had been sent. “We could not have a more cheerful company than this. So far as I am concerned, the company is satisfactory.”
Mateel expressed some such sentiment, and so did we all.
“But I wonder Clinton Bragg is not here,” I said. “I met him on the road, and I am certain he was dressed for a wedding.”
I immediately regretted saying it, for I thought that both Mateel and Jo colored at the mention of his name, but after some hesitation, Mateel said:
“He was not expected.”
At this moment Mr. Shepherd excused himself to answer a knock at the door, and when he came back he said that it was Clinton Bragg, who had stopped in on a trifling errand, and who had gone away again. I was not surprised that the fellow appeared at the house on that day, for he was always where he was not wanted, but I wondered he had not accepted the invitation to dinner, which Mr. Shepherd said he had given. It would have been a splendid opportunity to make himself disagreeable.
All of them seemed to be in a worse humor after this, and they had not been merry before. Mateel got up from the table soon after, and insisted on helping her mother, which example was followed by Agnes, and finally by Mr. Shepherd, who went to do some sort of carving, leaving Jo and me alone. The dinner was an elaborate one, and the table set for at least twenty, so that we felt lost in the desert of dishes. Some of them tried to be gay at the circumstance of our being alone at the table, and they helped us very liberally, but it was a failure, and the time passed very dismally. I believe that Jo felt guilty that more of his friends were not present,—or rather that he had but two to invite,—and I knew that I felt very awkward in being the groom’s only satellite, since he had lived in the neighborhood all his life; and, though I attempted pleasantries in great number, either they were not heard or not appreciated, so that the dinner was very much of a failure, as Jo whispered to me as we sat at one end of the long table together.
When I went into the other room, dinner being over at last, I found a letter lying on the table addressed in a neat hand to Mr. and Mrs. Goode Shepherd, and, knowing it was public, I opened and read a well-worded note of regret from my grandmother. As she could not write I knew what Jo meant when he said I would that day detect him in a mean action; he had written it himself.
. . . . .
In order to avoid the leave-taking, and because I was uncomfortable at the Shepherds’ house, I drove over to the mill with Agnes in the middle of the afternoon, where we spent several hours in putting the house in order for the coming of Jo and Mateel. I had not been in the house since it was remodelled, and was pleasantly surprised at its arrangement. The old house had but two rooms, but Jo had added two others, and furnished them neatly and comfortably and in good taste. The room in front was transformed into a pretty parlor, and opening off this was a sleeping apartment. The old kitchen remained, but I would not have known it, so great was the change, and adjoining it, and connecting with the parlor, was a dining-room, which completed the number Agnes admired the house as much as I did, and complimented Jo so much that I regretted I had not expended my energies on one like it. I think I resolved to look about when I returned to town for an old house, and fit it up by degrees, but I have no doubt I forgot it entirely within an hour.
The mill had been completed a month before, and had been in successful operation since. I can only remember now that it was a very good one for that day, and that it was an improvement on the one belonging to Damon Barker, for its machinery was of late and improved make. Jo had never told me, but I believed he was greatly in debt, for in addition to the amount due on the machinery he had rebuilt and furnished the house where he was to live, therefore I was not surprised to find the mill in full operation in charge of his assistant, as that was a busy season. Agnes and I went through it after we had finished at the house, from the great wheels in the cellar to the small ones in the roof, and complimented Jo so much that his ears certainly tingled.
Jo and Mateel did not arrive until after dark, and we had the lights and fires burning when they came in. After laying off her wraps Mateel looked around the pleasant room, but did not say anything, seeming sick and distressed, and when she went with us through the rooms, Agnes carrying the light, she only said “Yes” when some one remarked that this or that was pretty, or “No” when it was said that something else could not be nicer. I thought that Jo was very much hurt at this, for she seemed to take everything as a matter of course, and the only words she spoke were as to what should have been done rather than as referring to what had been done already, which was a great deal, for the house was better furnished and more complete in every way than the one in which she had lived. I thought at first that she was thinking the arrangements for her comfort were no more than she deserved, if as much, but I concluded later in the evening that she was not herself, and that the parting with her mother had been a great trial, although I could not understand why, for they were separated only by a few miles, and could see each other every day.
We had been sitting about the fire for an hour or more, where we seemed to get along better than at any other time during the day, when a rap came at the door, and, on its being opened by Jo, Damon Barker walked in. We were all very much delighted and surprised to see him, and after saluting Jo and his wife with a polite word of congratulation, he took the chair Agnes brought up, and sat down in the circle.
“I could not come over very well to-day,” he said, speaking to Mateel, “so I came to-night. I thought I knew who would be here beside yourselves,” looking at Agnes, and then at me, “and I find the company I had expected. I wish you all a merry Christmas.”
We had not thought of it before, having been occupied with the events of the day, but Barker suggested it by taking a number of packages from his pockets, which he leaned against the legs of his chair. After we had returned his compliment, he said:—
“I am not fond of ceremonies of any kind, but I am fond of a fire like this on Christmas Eve, and a company like this, so I came unannounced. I hope you are glad to see me.”
We all announced in a chorus that we were.
“It is very polite in you to say so,” Barker replied. “I lead a lonely life over there,” pointing in the direction of his mill with the hand in which he held another package from his pocket, looking very much like a long bottle wrapped in brown paper, “though probably no lonelier than I desire. Jo and I became very good friends when we were in solitude together, and I think I could not have rested to-night had I not walked over to congratulate him and his pretty bride.”
He settled down in his chair and looked around the room as if admiring it.
“It has been a long time since I felt so much at home as I do at this moment.” Having put down the package which looked like a bottle, he picked up another one and commenced unwrapping it, but soon stopped, and continued talking, leaving us to wonder what it contained. “I hope my presence will not interfere with your enjoyment. Let me sit here in the corner and look at you, without being in the way.” He began unwrapping the package again, but forgot it as he became more interested. “I enjoy looking at fresh young faces, and it is not often I have the opportunity. I beg that you go on with the conversation—I warrant it was a merry one—in progress when I disturbed you by rapping. Don’t mind me at all, but if you should address me occasionally, and intimate that I had added something to the occasion, I should enjoy myself very much indeed.”
By this tune the package was unwrapped, and it turned out to be a handsome jewel case, with a set of expensive jewelry on the inside. This he handed to Mateel with a bow, and, picking up another package, went on with his talking and unwrapping:—
“For twelve years I have been almost a hermit here in the woods, and during all that time I have not met so pleasant a company as this. I never felt more welcome in my life, whether I am or not, and I have an idea that I feel very much as the rest of you do—comfortable and happy.”
By this time the other package came out, and it was so much like the first one that we could not tell them apart. This he gave to Agnes, who was greatly surprised, and she hesitated in taking it, but he did not notice her, and, diving down beside his chair, handed the bottle-looking package to me, and its mate to Jo, retaining another one of the same pattern for himself.
“These three contain liquor so old that I feel quite young in their company,” he said, without noticing the surprise which his presents to Mateel and Agnes had created, for they were very valuable, “and combined and stirred with a little hot water, a little sugar, a few slices of lemon, and nutmeg, they make a punch very fit and appropriate for a party of five. If you have a bowl handy, I will stir them together.”
As he said this, he got up from his chair, and began preparations for the punch by taking from the pockets of the coat he had laid off a bag of lemons and a corkscrew. Jo and I went out and lighted the fire for the hot water, and while we were waiting for it we heard Barker asking as a favor that nothing more be said about the presents.
Conscious that the wedding was ending better than it had commenced, Jo and I shook hands over the circumstance, and we soon had the kitchen fire roaring, and the water hot, and taking it into the front room, Barker had the bottles opened, and the lemons sliced, and, the sugar and nutmeg being brought, the punch was soon ready, which I think was composed of champagne, and a mixed liquor made for that purpose. It was certainly very good, and Jo and I drank of it very liberally.
I had never seen Barker in good spirits before, and it was not long before all of us caught the infection. We not only drank of the punch, but we went into the kitchen and brought out something to eat, and after this the good humor of every one increased so much that it was agreed that if Barker would give a selection from a play with which he was familiar (and which he did remarkably well), Jo and I would sing camp-meeting songs, to be followed by a duet by Mateel and Agnes.
While these arrangements were in progress, I went to the door to see how the weather was, as I had a long drive before me, and as I stood there I saw a horseman pass in the road, who I was certain was Clinton Bragg. Those on the inside were merrily laughing, and I purposely opened the door that he might hear it, and know that Mateel and Jo were happy, and surrounded by friends. I thought that he might come in with some kind of a message for Mateel, but I resolved that if he attempted it I would knock him down and beat him at the gate, for I felt the punch, and was in a humor for that kind of business. But he rode slowly past, and I am certain that he heard the gay laughter, and that no one knew of his presence except myself.
Although Barker drank as freely as Jo and I, he was evidently more accustomed to it, and did not mind it, though it had no other effect on us than to increase our good spirits. Agnes and Mateel partook but sparingly, but they were both in better humor than I had ever seen them, and applauded whatever we did. Barker gave his selection from the play (it was a tragedy, and he limped in from the kitchen saying something about that being the winter of our discontent), after which Jo and I started a camp-meeting, imitating the singing, preaching, and shouting of the Fairview people, which performance was received with rounds of applause. Mateel and Agnes then sang their duet, in appreciation of which we clapped our hands until they sang another one; and thus the time passed until after midnight.
During the evening Jo found opportunity to express his pleasure that everything had turned out so well, and whenever we were alone I think both of us had a good deal to say about an “Old Boy,” and the “Best friend in the world,” for we lost all of the restraint which made us so uncomfortable in the morning, and fully renewed our old friendship.
When we broke up, and had said our adieus over and over, I found my team at the door, through the kindness of the assistant at the mill, and after we had closed the door for positively the last time, we opened it again for another kind word, and were very merry and gay.
There was a light fall of snow on the ground, and the night and the roads being fine, I insisted on taking Barker in the buggy and driving him home, knowing the horses would enjoy the dash along the level roads in the woods. He at first objected, but Agnes adding her entreaty, he finally consented, and after calling to Jo until he opened the door again, we waved our hands once more, crossed the creek below the mill, and dashed away.