Sleeny, though a Bread-winner in full standing, was not yet
sufficiently impressed with the wrongs of labor to throw down his
hammer and saw. He continued his work upon Farnham's conservatory,
under the direction of Fergus Ferguson, the gardener, with the same
instinctive fidelity which had always characterized him. He had his
intervals of right feeling and common sense, when he reflected that
Farnham had done him no wrong, and probably intended no wrong to Maud,
and that he was not answerable for the ill luck that met him in his
wooing, for Maud had refused him before she ever saw Farnham. But, once
in a while, and especially when he was in company with Offitt, an
access of jealous fury would come upon him, which found vent in
imprecations which were none the less fervid for being slowly and
haltingly uttered. The dark-skinned, unwholesome-looking Bread-winner
found a singular delight in tormenting the powerful young fellow. He
felt a spontaneous hatred for him, for many reasons. His shapely build,
his curly blond hair and beard, his frank blue eye, first attracted his
envious notice; his steady, contented industry excited in him a desire
to pervert a workman whose daily life was a practical argument against
the doctrines of socialism, by which Offitt made a part of his
precarious living; and after he had met Maud Matchin and had felt, as
such natures will, the force of her beauty, his instinctive hate became
an active, though secret, hostility. She had come one evening with
Sleeny to a spiritualist conference frequented by Offitt, and he had at
once inferred that Sleeny and she were either engaged to be married or
on the straight road toward it. It would be a profanation of the word
to say that he loved her at first sight. But his scoundrel heart was
completely captivated so far as was possible to a man of his sort. He
was filled and fired with a keen cupidity of desire to possess and own
such beauty and grace. He railed against marriage, as he did against
religion and order, as an invention of priests and tyrants to enslave
and degrade mankind; but he would gladly have gone to any altar
whatever in company with Maud Matchin. He could hardly have said
whether he loved or hated her the more. He loved her much as the hunter
loves the fox he is chasing to its death. He wanted to destroy anything
which kept her away from him: her lover, if she had one; her pride, her
modesty, her honor, if she were fancy-free. Aware of Sleeny's good
looks, if not of his own ugliness, he hated them both for the
comeliness that seemed to make them natural mates for each other. But
it was not in his methods to proceed rashly with either. He treated
Maud with distant respect, and increased his intimacy with Sleeny until
he found, to his delight, that he was not the prosperous lover that he
feared. But he still had apprehensions that Sleeny's assiduity might at
last prevail, and lost no opportunity to tighten the relations between
them, to poison and pervert the man who was still a possible rival. By
remaining his most intimate friend, he could best be informed of all
that occurred in the Matchin family.
One evening, as Sam was about leaving his work, Fergus Ferguson said:
"You'll not come here the morn. You're wanted till the house--a bit o'
work in the library. They'll be tellin' you there."
This was faithfully reported by Sam to his confessor that same night.
"Well, you are in luck. I wish I had your chance," said Offitt.
Sam opened his blue eyes in mute wonder.
"Well, what's the chance, and what would you do with it, ef you had
it?"
Offitt hesitated a moment before replying.
"Oh, I was just a jokin'. I meant it was such an honor for common folks
like us to git inside of the palace of a high-toned cuss like Farnham;
and the fact is, Sammy," he continued, more seriously, "I _would_ like
to see the inside of some of these swell places. I am a student of
human nature, you know, in its various forms. I consider the lab'rin'
man as the normal healthy human--that is, if he don't work too hard. I
consider wealth as a kind of disease; wealth and erristocracy is a kind
of dropsy. Now, the true reformer is like a doctor,--he wants to know
all about diseases, by sight and handlin'! I would like to study the
symptoms of erristocracy in Farnham's house--right in the wards of the
hospital."
"Well, that beats me," said Sam. "I've been in a lot of fine houses on
Algonquin Avenue, and I never seen anything yet that favored a
hospital."
This dense stupidity was almost more than Offitt could bear. But a
ready lie came to his aid.
"Looky here!" he continued, "I'll tell you a secret. I'm writin' a
story for the 'Irish Harp,' and I want to describe the residence of
jess such a vampire as this here Farnham. Now, writin', as I do, in the
cause of humanity, I naturally want to git my facts pretty near right.
You kin help me in this. I'll call to-morrow to see you while you're
there, and I'll get some p'ints that'll make Rome howl when they come
out."
Sam was hardly educated up to the point his friend imagined. His zeal
for humanity and the "rehabitation" of labor was not so great as to
make him think it a fine thing to be a spy and a sneak in the houses of
his employers. He was embarrassed by the suggestion, and made no reply,
but sat smoking his pipe in silence. He had not the diplomatist's art
of putting a question by with a smile. Offitt had tact enough to
forbear insisting upon a reply.
He was, in fact, possessed of very considerable natural aptitude for
political life. He had a quick smile and a ready tongue; he liked to
talk and shake hands; he never had an opinion he was not willing to
sell; he was always prepared to sacrifice a friend, if required, and to
ask favors from his worst enemies. He called himself Andrew Jackson
Offitt--a name which, in the West, is an unconscious brand. It
generally shows that the person bearing it is the son of illiterate
parents, with no family pride or affections, but filled with a bitter
and savage partisanship which found its expression in a servile worship
of the most injurious personality in American history. But Offitt's
real name was worse than Andrew Jackson--it was Ananias, and it was
bestowed in this way: When he was about six years old, his father, a
small farmer in Indiana, who had been a sodden, swearing, fighting
drunkard, became converted by a combined attack of delirium tremens and
camp-meeting, and resolved to join the church, he and his household.
The morning they were going to the town of Salem for that purpose, he
discovered that his pocket had been picked, and the money it contained
was found on due perquisition in the blue jeans trousers of his son
Andrew Jackson. The boy, on being caught, was so nimble and fertile in
his lies that the father, in a gust of rage, declared that he was not
worthy the name of the great President, but that he should be called
Ananias; and he was accordingly christened Ananias that morning in the
meeting-house at Salem. As long as the old man lived, he called him by
that dreadful name; but when a final attack of the trembling madness
had borne him away from earth, the widow called the boy Andrew again,
whenever she felt careless about her spiritual condition, and the youth
behaved himself, but used the name of Sapphira's husband when the lad
vexed her, or the obligations of the christening came strongly back to
her superstitious mind. The two names became equally familiar to young
Offitt, and always afterward he was liable to lapses of memory when
called on suddenly to give his prenomen; and he frequently caused
hateful merriment among his associates by signing himself Ananias.
When Sam presented himself at Captain Farnham's house the next morning,
he was admitted by Budsey, who took him to the library and showed him
the work he was to do. The heat of the room had shrunk the wood of the
heavy doors of carved oak so that the locks were all out of position.
Farnham was seated by his desk, reading and writing letters. He did not
look up as Sam entered, and paid no attention to the instructions
Budsey was giving him. For the first time in his life, Sleeny found
that this neglect of his presence was vaguely offensive to him. A week
before, he would no more have thought of speaking to Farnham, or being
spoken to by him, than of entering into conversation with one of the
busts on the book-cases. Even now he had no desire to talk with the
proprietor of the house. He had come there to do certain work which he
was capable of doing well, and he preferred to do it and not be
bothered by irrelevant gossip. But, in spite of himself, he felt a
rising of revolt in his heart, as he laid out his tools, against the
quiet gentleman who sat with his back to him, engaged in his own work
and apparently unconscious of Sleeny's presence. A week before, they
had been nothing to each other, but now a woman had come between them,
and there is no such powerful conductor in nature. The quiet in which
Farnham sat seemed full of insolent triumph to the luckless lover, and
scraps of Offitt's sounding nonsense went through his mind: "A man is
more than a money-bag"; "the laborer is the true gentleman"; but they
did not give him much comfort. Not until he became interested in his
work did he recover the even beat of his pulse and the genuine
workmanlike play of his faculties. Then he forgot Farnham's presence in
his turn, and enjoyed himself in a rational way with his files and
chisels and screwdrivers.
He had been at work for an hour at one door, and had finished it to his
satisfaction, and sat down before another, when he heard the bell ring,
and Budsey immediately afterward ushered a lady through the hall and
into the drawing-room. His heart stood still at the rustle of the
dress,--it sounded so like Maud's; he looked over his shoulder through
the open door of the library and saw, to his great relief, that there
were two female figures taking their seats in the softly lighted room
beyond. One sat with her back to the light, and her features were not
distinctly visible; the other was where he could see three-quarters of
her face clearly relieved against the tapestry portiere. There is a
kind of beauty which makes glad every human heart that gazes on it, if
not utterly corrupt and vile, and it was such a face as this that Sam
Sleeny now looked at with a heart that grew happier as he gazed. It was
a morning face, full of the calm joy of the dawn, of the sweet dreams
of youth untroubled by love, the face of Aurora before she met
Tithonus. From the little curls of gold on the low brow to the smile
that hovered forever, half formed, on the softly curving lips and over
the rounded chin, there was a light of sweetness, and goodness, and
beauty, to be read of all men, and perhaps in God's good time to be
worshipped by one.
Budsey announced "Mrs. Belding and Miss Halice," and Farnham hastened
to greet them.
If Sam Sleeny had few happy hours to enjoy, he could at least boast
himself that one was beginning now. The lovely face bore to his heart
not only the blessing of its own beauty, but also a new and infinitely
consoling thought. He had imagined till this moment, in all
seriousness, that Maud Matchin was the prettiest woman in the world,
and that therefore all men who saw her were his rivals, the chief of
whom was Farnham. But now he reflected, with a joyful surprise, that in
this world of rich people there were others equally beautiful, and that
here, under Farnham's roof, on terms of familiar acquaintance with him,
was a girl as faultless as an angel,--one of his own kind. "Why, of
course," he said to himself, with a candid and happy self-contempt,
"that's _his_ girl--you dunderheaded fool--what are you botherin'
about?"
He took a delight which he could not express in listening to the
conversation of these friends and neighbors. The ladies had come over,
in pursuance of an invitation of Farnham's, to see the additions which
had recently arrived from Europe to his collection of bronzes and
pottery, and some little pictures he had bought at the English
water-color exhibition. As they walked about the rooms, expressing their
admiration of the profusion of pretty things which filled the cabinets
and encumbered the tables, in words equally pretty and profuse, Sleeny
listened to their voices as if it were music played to cheer him at his
work. He knew nothing of the things they were talking about, but their
tones were gentle and playful; the young lady's voice was especially
sweet and friendly. He had never heard such voices before; they are
exceptional everywhere in America, and particularly in our lake
country, where the late springs develop fine high sopranos, but leave
much to be desired in the talking tones of women. Alice Belding had
been taught to use her fine voice as it deserved and Cordelia's
intonations could not have been more "soft, gentle, and low,--an
excellent thing in woman."
After awhile, the voices came nearer, and he heard Farnham say:
"Come in here a moment, please, and see my new netsukes; I got them at
a funny little shop in Ostend. It was on a Sunday afternoon, and the
man of the house was keeping the shop, and I should have got a great
bargain out of him, but his wife came in before we were through, and
scolded him for an imbecile and sent him into the back room to tend the
baby, and made me pay twice what he had asked for my little monsters."
By this time they were all in the library, and the young lady was
laughing, not loudly, but musically, and Mrs. Belding was saying:
"Served you right for shopping on Sunday. But they are adorable little
images, for all that."
"Yes," said Farnham, "so the woman told me, and she added that they
were authentic of the twelfth century. I asked her if she could not
throw off a century or two in consideration of the hard, times, and she
laughed, and said I blagued, and honestly she didn't know how old they
were, but it was _drole, tout de meme, qu'on put adorer un petit bon
Dieu d'une laideur pareille._"
"Really, I don't see how they can do it," said Mrs. Belden, solemnly;
at which both the others laughed, and Miss Alice said, "Why, mamma, you
have just called them adorable yourself."
They went about the room, admiring, and touching, and wondering, with
the dainty grace of ladies accustomed to rare and beautiful things,
until the novelties were exhausted and they turned to go. But Budsey at
that moment announced luncheon, and they yielded to Farnham's eager
importunity, and remained to share his repast.
They went to the dining-room, leaving Sleeny more than content. He
still heard their voices, too distant to distinguish words; but he
pleased himself by believing that there was a tender understanding in
the tones of Farnham and Miss Belding when they addressed each other,
and that it was altogether a family party. He had no longer any feeling
of slight or neglect because none of them seemed aware of his presence
while they were in the room with him. There was, on the contrary, a
sort of comfort in the thought that he belonged to a different world
from them; that he and Maud were shut out--shut out together--from the
society and the interests which claimed the Beldings and the Farnhams.
"You was a dunderheaded fool," he said, cheerfully apostrophizing
himself again, "to think everybody was crazy after your girl."
He was brought down to a lower level by hearing the door open, and the
voice of Offitt asking if Mr. Sleeny was in.
"No one of that name here," said Budsey.
"I was told at Matchin's he was here."
"Oh! the yonng man from Matchin's. He is in the library," and Offitt
came in, looking more disreputable than usual, as he had greased his
hair inordinately for the occasion. Budsey evidently regarded him with
no favorable eye; he said to Sleeny, "This person says he comes from
Matchin's; do you know him?"
"Yes, it's all right," said Sam, who could say nothing less; but when
Budsey had left them, he turned to Offitt with anything but welcome in
his eye.
"Well, you've come, after all."
"Yes," Offitt answered, with an uneasy laugh. "Curiosity gets us all,
from Eve down. What a lay-out this is, anyhow," and his small eyes
darted rapidly around the room. "Say, Sam, you know Christy Fore, that
hauls for the Safe Company? He was telling me about the safe he put
into this room--said nobody'd ever guess it _was_ a safe. Where the
devil is it?"
"I don't know. It's none of my business, nor yours either."
"I guess you got up wrong foot foremost, Sam, you're so cranky. Where
can the ---- thing be? Three doors and two winders and a fire-place,
and all the rest book-cases. By Jinx! there it is, I'll swear." He
stepped over to one of the cases where a pair of oaken doors, rich with
arabesque carving, veiled a sort of cabinet. He was fingering at them
when Sam seized him by the shoulder, and said:
"Look here, Andy, what _is_ your game, anyhow? I'm here on business,
and I ain't no fence, and I'll just trouble you to leave."
Offitt's face turned livid. He growled:
"Of all Andylusian jacks, you're the beat. I ain't agoin' to hurt you
nor your friend Farnham. I've got all the p'ints I want for my story,
and devilish little thanks to you, neither. And say, tell me, ain't
there a back way out? I don't want to go by the dinin'-room door.
There's ladies there, and I ain't dressed to see company. Why, yes,
this fits me like my sins," and he opened the French window, and
stepped lightly to the gravel walk below, and was gone.
Sleeny resumed his work, ill content with himself and his friend. "Andy
is a smart fellow," he thought; "but he had no right to come snoopin'
around where I was at work, jist to get points to worry Mr. Farnham
with."
The little party in the drawing-room was breaking up. He heard their
pleasant last words, as the ladies resumed their wraps and Farnham
accompanied them to the door. Mrs. Belding asked him to dinner, "with
nobody but ourselves," and he accepted with a pleased eagerness. Sleeny
got one more glimpse of the beautiful face under the gray hat and
feather, and blessed it as it vanished out of the door. As Farnham came
back to the library, he stood for a moment by Sam, and examined what he
had done.
"That's a good job. I like your work on the green-house, too. I know
good work when I see it. I worked one winter as a boss carpenter
myself."
It seemed to Sleeny like the voice of a brother speaking to him. He
thought the presence of the young lady had made everything in the house
soft and gentle.
"Where was you ever in that business?" he asked.
"In the Black Hills. I sawed a million feet of lumber and built houses
for two hundred soldiers. I had no carpenters; so I had to make some. I
knew more about it when I got through than when I began."
Sleeny laughed--a cordial laugh that wagged his golden beard and made
his white teeth glisten.
"I'll bet you did!" he replied.
The two men talked a few minutes like old acquaintances; then Sleeny
gathered up his tools and slung them over his shoulder, and as he
turned to go both put out their hands at the same instant, with an
impulse that surprised each of them, and said "Good-morning."