My cheerful, almost sprightly manner, at breakfast on the morning of
Aunt Sophy's wedding-day cost me an effort, for instead of being able to
make Marion a present of Waydean, as I had planned, I was compelled to
conceal the depression I felt at the news from my agent that Peter had
sold the place to the "other party," Roper's client. I noticed, during
breakfast, that Marion and Aunt Sophy were continually exchanging
confidential smiles and glances that were not intended to include me,
for they looked consciously unconscious and avoided my eyes when I
happened to intercept one of the silent messages. Still, I was so
engaged in looking happy and free from care that the idea of Marion
having prepared a surprise for me never entered my mind, although I
wondered, when she handed me my mail which William had brought from the
post-office, why they both stared at me with such an appearance of eager
expectation. At the bottom of the pile my eye was attracted by an
envelope with, "Bates and Roper, Land Agents," printed in one corner. It
was addressed to Marion, and as I held it up inquiringly she clapped her
hands with delight and urged me with impatient vehemence to read it.
With a sickening premonition of what was coming I drew out the enclosure
with trembling fingers and read a formal notification from the firm to
Mrs. Henry Carton that they had, according to instructions, made an
agreement with Peter Waydean for the purchase of his farm for the sum of
five thousand, one hundred dollars. For a moment I forgot Marion and
Paul and Aunt Sophy as I stared at the paper with open mouth and
distended eyes, a ghastly gray-green pallor, so Marion told me
afterwards, spreading over my face. A smothered shriek of alarm and the
first strident prolonged note of Paul's howl brought me to my senses; my
eyes turned slowly with the glassy stare of an owl. I had a jumbled
idea that Marion's money was gone, also mine, also the farm; we had been
bidding against each other and were ruined.
"What is it, Henry?" gasped Aunt Sophy, pressing one hand to her side
and breathing heavily.
"Speak, Henry!" cried Marion.
"We've been sold--buncoed--duped. Old Peter--" I began thickly.
"You goose!" exclaimed Marion, with a laugh of sudden relief. "You
misunderstand the letter. Of course old Peter has sold the place, but to
me!--to _me_--do you understand? And I hereby make you a present of it
to-day, because----"
"Because it's my wedding-day," interjected Aunt Sophy, wiping away tears
of happiness. "I thought I'd like to see how pleased and proud you'd
look before I go."
I awoke to my responsibilities and made a sickly attempt to look
gratified. "What a--joyful surprise!" I stammered. "Awfully obliged--not
so much for--pecuniary value--as a token of--the day that--" My voice
was lost in a peal of laughter.
"Oh, how funny! Just like your Uncle Philip, Marion."
"He always will have his little joke, Auntie. Come now, Henry, do be
serious, and I'll tell you what a narrow escape we had. There was
another man--Mr. Roper called him a 'party'--after the place."
"After the place!" I repeated, with profound incredulity.
"There now--I thought you'd be startled. This man had employed Mr.
Brooks to negotiate with Peter, and he kept bidding higher and higher
till I was awfully afraid he'd get it. Then I got desperate, and I drew
the hundred dollars that I had in the savings bank, for I had an idea
that the 'party' would stop at five thousand--and he did--and just
yesterday Peter signed the agreement, and I have the cheque for five
thousand one hundred dollars all ready to pay over as soon as the legal
documents are signed."
"Well," I commented, drawing a long breath, "it's a good thing he
stopped."
"And wasn't Marion clever to manage so well?" asked Aunt Sophy.
"She was indeed," I responded warmly. "I would have given up at five
thousand."
Then Marion wondered who the man was, speaking as if he had ceased to
exist, and so did Aunt Sophy. I was on the point of wondering also, when
it struck me that I could not truthfully do so, and I merely said that
as I knew Brooks pretty well he would probably mention the man's name to
me, a statement that was unassailable even from Marion's pinnacle of
morality, and one that helped me to keep my secret until after Aunt
Sophy's departure.
It was well that I had completed my arrangements the day before, for I
was so distraught by the ordeal I had passed through that I had
difficulty even in remembering that I must hurry away to the station to
meet Mr. Fairman, who was due to arrive on the ten o'clock train, and
must be entertained by me until the minister appeared to perform the
marriage ceremony at eleven. Not having an equipage of my own, I had
hired the most presentable one to be found in the neighborhood, and the
horse being warranted tractable by his owner, Joe Wrigley, I had no
hesitation in driving to the station and back myself, although as a
usual thing, if I have to be near a horse I prefer to be in a position
where I can look him in the eye.
I had been rather irritated by William's behavior that morning, for he
had disappeared for an hour after breakfast just when I most needed him,
and when he did appear he explained that he had been busy in the
smokehouse rigging up a scarecrow and hadn't heard me calling him. This
excuse seemed plausible at the time, though I remembered afterwards it
was not the season to scare crows, for he had got permission from Marion
the day before to take a discarded sun-bonnet of hers and a pair of
Paul's long rubber boots for the purpose, so I warned him to be at the
gate to open it when I returned, and drove away. It was not until it was
too late to turn back that I found the reins were sticky with grafting
wax where William had held them, and that it had melted with the warmth
of my hands and ruined my new gloves. It was while I was trying to
scrape the wax off with my pocket knife that Peter Waydean stopped me
to ask if I had seen a pig of his that had been missing since the day
before. It was the first time I had seen him since our quarrel, so I
answered briefly in the negative and drove on, but I noticed that he
looked after me with surly suspicion, as if he thought I had it
concealed under the seat.
Now when I returned half an hour later I was engrossed in conversation
with Mr. Fairman, and I had forgotten all about Peter's quest. The horse
was trotting along at a creditable pace; Mr. Fairman sat upright beside
me in starched and immaculate apparel, trying to appear unconcerned
about his approaching fate; I, flicking the animal in the most artfully
casual manner to keep him going, had on my best company manners. Perhaps
this phrase may suggest effort, constraint, artificiality, but I have
been told by Marion that no one could possibly be more charming in
manner than I, when I choose to be agreeable, but that when I--but
there, I like to take the sweet without the bitter, and the rest is
quite irrelevant. I was suave, genial, sympathetic; Mr. Fairman, in
that blissfully exalted mood so natural to the occasion, had just drawn
my attention to the idyllic beauty of Nature's autumn garb, when
suddenly up from the dry ditch at the roadside stumbled Peter Waydean, a
dishevelled, disreputable blot upon the scene. Frantically waving his
arms, he shouted an invitation to me to stop and give him a chance to do
me up. I had an idea that he called me a pig, but we were bowling along
at such a rate that I couldn't be sure of his words, though there could
be no doubt of his general intentions. For various reasons I did not
attempt to stop, and my attention was immediately distracted from him by
the sight of Marion's old sun-bonnet bobbing up and down in the ditch
some distance ahead. If it had been hanging on a tree or lying on the
roadside, I would have been quite surprised, but to see it travel along
with unvarying speed and apparent dogged intention in a straight line
along the inner side of the ditch seemed very like a miracle. That it
could do so without legs was inconceivable; that legs could belong to
it was marvellous, but if so, how many, what size and shape? I whipped
up the horse, with a passing glance at Mr. Fairman. His eyes were
riveted on the bonnet with eager wonderment; he had plainly forgotten
for the moment that he was on his way to his wedding. As we neared the
lower level of the road we were slightly ahead, and I checked the speed
of the horse at the foot of a slope where the ditch ended; just in time,
for like a dissolving view there dashed across the road directly in
front of us the most grotesque object in the way of a quadruped that
could be imagined. Its head was hidden in the sun-bonnet; the short
fore-feet were completely encased in Paul's worn-out rubber boots; the
body, instead of being hairy, was feathered like that of a Plymouth Rock
hen; around the hind legs flapped a tiny pair of blue trousers--only a
curly little tail remained to show it was a pig.
It came; it vanished. At the same instant Joe Wrigley's horse stood up
very straight on his hind legs and then prepared to sit down on our
laps. Without a word, Mr. Fairman leaned sideways and tried to climb
head first over the wheel. I had just time to rescue him by seizing his
coat-tails with one hand while I lashed the horse with the whip. The
effect of that blow was electrical, for with a bound the animal sprang
forward at a pace that first astonished, and then alarmed me. We passed
the Waydean gate at racing speed, and in a fleeting glimpse of William
as he stood there I saw a broad grin merge into open-mouthed horror, and
I had the grim satisfaction of knowing that the enjoyment of his
handiwork was swallowed up in remorse. In vain I tugged at the reins;
the horse had the bit between his teeth, and the only effect was to
slacken the traces and put the strain of drawing the vehicle on my arms.
Perhaps if I had been alone I would have felt afraid and have resigned
myself to disaster, but I was filled with a fierce resolve to save Mr.
Fairman and see him safely married, as arranged.
He sat bolt upright now, his face pale and drawn as he gripped the seat
with both hands. I had no breath to waste, so I remained silent until
he said, in feeble gasps: "I think--perhaps--I'd better--get out."
It was then that my mind reached an altitude of far-seeing clear-sighted
wisdom that, under the perilous circumstances, was akin to inspiration.
Although ordinary men similarly placed would have reviewed their past
misdeeds, or have looked forward with selfish misgiving to approaching
dissolution, I did not think of my own danger; my mind was fully
occupied with the problem of how to save my companion for his marriage
at eleven o'clock. In case this mental attitude may seem heroic, I wish
to say frankly that it didn't seem so to me; if it should be supposed
that the impulse was a noble one, let me say that I had no intention of
acting nobly; I also bitterly repel Marion's insinuation that it was an
ignoble one. The fact is, it did not occur to me that I should analyze
my motive, but if I had known how I would be catechized later I would
have done so, and thus have avoided trouble.
As he spoke, Mr. Fairman gazed with longing eyes at the ground that
seemed so invitingly near, with only the upper half of a rapidly
revolving wheel to bar his descent. I knew that if I left him to himself
he would take that fatal jump, yet I could not have moved a finger to
stop him, for I dared not relax my hold on the reins. I must overcome
with calm and decisive reasoning the alluring idea that had taken
possession of him.
"Mr. Fairman," I said, with quiet authority, "there is--no cause--for
alarm." He looked beseechingly at me, and I felt encouraged. "If
you--jumped--" I continued jerkily, my words punctuated by the jolting
of the vehicle, "you would either--be killed--" he shuddered--"or
mangled." He stared at me with dumb appeal. "If the buggy were--in
front--of a runaway horse--we'd have to jump, but since--we're
behind--our best plan is to remain--seated--as long as--possible." A
faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. "We're absolutely
safe--" I urged, "on the seat--but danger begins when we--leave it."
Mr. Fairman gulped. "I see," he said; "you've got a head. Don't--let
me--jump."
I needed all the head I had, for while the road had been clear so far, I
descried a load of hay on the narrow bridge that stretched over the
little river in front of us. There was no chance of passing to one side,
and I wondered whether the horse would try to plunge through the load or
jump over the railing of the bridge. He did neither, for I saw just in
time that a track led down to the river, where farmers drove through
when the water was low. Pulling with all my strength on one rein, I
managed to turn the horse off the main road and we headed straight for
the river. A shout of horror arose from my companion, and I had to drop
the reins and clasp him in my arms to keep him from jumping out. There
was a mighty splash, a sudden shock that almost flung us over the
dashboard, and then Joe Wrigley's horse walked,--yes walked, calmly and
sedately to the opposite shore. We were safe and dry-shod, but
alas!--stranded in mid-stream. The horse had the shafts; we had the
buggy. I looked at my watch; time, twenty-five minutes to eleven. We
were a mile beyond Waydean, but it was possible to walk there in twenty
minutes, if we could get to dry land. No one was in sight along the
road, and the load of hay had lumbered on, the driver happily
unconscious of how he had been saved from sudden disaster. Mr. Fairman,
though still pale and agitated, had recovered enough to remember his
appointment, and was dismayed at our situation. I had to give up,
regretfully, for want of time, a fascinating plan of taking off the
buggy-top to float shorewards in; a glance at his gleaming boots and
irreproachable trousers caused me to scout the thought of his wading;
there was but one course open to me. With many apologies I removed my
lower garments; with more apologies I begged Mr. Fairman to do me the
favor of carrying them, and stepped into the water. Then I showed him
how to gather the skirts of his coat under his arms, get on my back and
hold his legs straight out to keep them from touching the water. He
politely protested; I insisted; he yielded. I am almost certain I heard
him chuckle on the journey; I knew he vibrated in a suspicious manner;
but when I set him down on shore he was quite solemn in thanking me, and
his eyes were moist with emotion as he watched me dry myself with the
buggy-duster and get into my clothes.
In my young days I often wished I could have an opportunity to save a
human life; indeed, I have always held myself in readiness to plunge
into any depth of water up to four feet if occasion should arise, and it
is all the more remarkable that I really didn't think of having saved
Mr. Fairman's life until he mentioned it. But when I looked back I saw
that I had saved him at least four times in a quarter of an hour. First,
by not abandoning my post when the horse tried to sit down in the buggy;
second, by overcoming his impulse to jump out by my cold dispassionate
logic; third, by holding him in the seat when we approached the river;
fourth, by rescuing him from the shipwrecked buggy in perfect condition
for his wedding.
When we met William Wedder hurrying along the road in search of us, his
anxious and crestfallen air showing how much he regretted having been
the cause of the accident, I did not stop to reproach him but sent him
on to bring the horse and buggy to Waydean. Fortunately, Aunt Sophy and
Marion, knowing nothing of our adventure, had been spared much anxiety,
and it was not until after the brief marriage ceremony that Mr. Fairman
related how, but for my heroic conduct, Aunt Sophy would not now be Mrs.
Fairman. I must say he did me a little more than justice, and I did my
best to faintly depreciate my heroism. I found Aunt Sophy's warm-hearted
and impulsive demonstration most embarrassing, but it was a peculiar
expression of scepticism on Marion's face that made me wish I had not
been accused of acting heroically.
It was not until the Fairmans had departed and the flutter of Aunt
Sophy's handkerchief from the car-window was no longer visible that
Marion had a chance to speak to me alone; then she lost no time.
"Now," she said, turning to me with an impatient little tap of her foot,
"I want to know the truth about that horse. Didn't you only pretend he
ran away?"
"Pretend!" I exclaimed, with rightful indignation, the muscles of my
arms still tingling with the strain.
"Yes," she insisted, with the resolute look that I knew only too well; a
look meaning that no matter what the evidence I would be adjudged
guilty; naturally, I flushed under her gaze. "I knew from your manner
that you had done something you were ashamed of. Did you do it for one
of those insane practical jokes, or because you wanted to convince Mr.
Fairman that you are the paragon that Aunt Sophy thinks you?"
My irritation vanished; being innocent, I could forgive my wife's
suspicion. "The fact is, Marion," I explained, with complete candor,
"that brute of Joe Wrigley's had the bit between his teeth and I
couldn't stop him."
She laughed scornfully. "He had the bit between his teeth! Just what you
told poor Mr. Fairman. May I ask where you would have liked his bit to
be? Between his eyes or his ears, perhaps. If you had a bit in your
mouth wouldn't it have to be between your teeth?"
I knew her argument was defective, but I got too flustered to think
where the weakness lay, for I felt the matter was getting serious. It is
one thing to have the satisfaction of showing your wife that she has
made a blunder; it is another to confirm her suspicions by your denial.
In the end she did appear to believe that the horse ran away and that I
really had tried, with some small measure of success, to save Mr.
Fairman's life, but that didn't end the matter. Marion has unusual
psychological insight. Not only can she unearth thoughts and motives
that I am conscious of having, but she can go deeper still, delving into
unexplored regions of sub-consciousness to find the thoughts and motives
that I am not aware of having.
"How strange!" she mused. "You had time to think of so much in those few
minutes. Did I understand you to say that your _one_ idea was to save
Mr. Fairman?"
"Well, that was the dominant one. The other thoughts that flashed
through my mind were all dependent on it, as the tones of a musical
scale are related to the tonic."
Not once in years do I think of so apt an illustration within five
minutes of the time I need it, and I was so wrapped up in conceit of my
remark that I walked, open-eyed but unseeing, into the most transparent
pitfall. Knowing, in my innocence, that I had nothing to conceal, I
forgot for the time that I must be on my guard against Marion's digging
up something that wasn't there.
"And you never considered," she asked, "how dreadful it would be for
Paul and me if anything happened to you?"
"It never entered my mind," I answered confidently, "but I can tell you
I was afraid the old gentleman would be killed or mangled before he was
married--then where would Aunt Sophy have been?"
"Where would Aunt Sophy have _been_?"
"Don't you see," I explained, with a confidential lowering of my voice,
"that if he had been killed before the ceremony she would have been left
out in the cold; whereas, afterwards it wouldn't matter--ah--so much."
"Wouldn't _matter_--so----"
"In a pecuniary sense," I interjected nervously. "I know she'd be
heartbroken and all that, but as a widow--I mean, as his widow--she'd be
wealthy, and--and--she'd get over----"
By Marion's stony glare I knew I had struck quicksand; I felt myself
sinking and made one despairing effort to recover my footing. "Of
course, I made up my mind that if I didn't pull him through safely, I'd
give back my five thousand to Aunt Sophy, but--Good Heavens!
Marion--what's the matter?"
It has been my lot to arouse anger, sorrow, despair, scorn, and various
other sentiments consecutively, but never before had I seen them
expressed in one composite glance.
"So _that_ was your motive," she said, with stinging, withering
emphasis. "You clutched Mr. Fairman as a miser might clutch his hoard if
his house took fire. It wasn't to save his life; it wasn't for Aunt
Sophy's sake; he was merely a money sack. Henry, if you hadn't confessed
it yourself I wouldn't have believed you were such a mercenary wretch.
No wonder you looked ashamed."
We had just reached the house, and I had no chance to clear my character
before Marion ran upstairs and locked herself in her room, so I thought
it politic to leave her in silence for a while. I was bristling with
indignation, for while I hadn't pretended that my conduct was
praiseworthy, I knew that I had not been cold-blooded and calculating
enough to try to save Mr. Fairman from the motive she had suggested.
Indeed, I saw that the explanation that I had formulated in response to
Marion's insistent questions had no foundation in fact, except possibly
a fragmentary impression that may have flashed across my mind for an
instant during our imminent peril, yet I had been thick-headed enough to
make it appear that I had been influenced by these considerations
instead of confessing that I had invented them as an afterthought. I
knew I should be able to make Marion see the matter in this light when
she had been sufficiently long in seclusion; in the meantime, I went
around to the rear of the house to find William Wedder and to settle my
score with him.
I met him looking for me, dressed up in his best clothes and carrying
his red bundle and stick.
"William," I said, in my most austere manner, "I haven't had a chance to
tell you what I think of your con----"
"No, sir," he broke in, "and I'm not calculatin' to give you a chance.
I'm off."
"You're--off!" I ejaculated, my anger suddenly displaced by dismay.
"What--what's the matter?"
"Well, sir," answered William, his face broadening to a grin, "there's
several reasons why I'd better be off. One is, I'd rather go than be
sacked; then, old Waydean, he's took the notion that I dressed up his
pig, and Joe Wrigley says he's gone to swear out a summons."
His manner was so coy, so engaging, so innocently virtuous and
forbearing, that I could not refrain from an encouraging smile; somehow
I seemed to know exactly how he felt--perhaps I, too, in some previous
state of existence, had found it expedient to appear to know less than I
did know.
"What became of the pig, William?" I asked, in a tone that conveyed, I
fear, more sympathy than reproof.
"After you drove off so fast," he replied, "it turned onto the Stone
Road, with old Waydean close behind, and that was the last I seen of
them, but Joe Wrigley says they met a funeral near the Stone Road
Cemetery, and there was a regular circus; after it was over I seen
people drivin' past here lookin' as if they'd been at a Punch and Judy
show."
I smiled appreciatively, feeling a softening toward William in view of
the entertainment he had provided, but I saw it would be wiser for him
to leave than to wait for Peter's revenge. There was one more point that
puzzled me.
"How did you fasten those boots on the pig?" I asked.
There was a momentary triumphant gleam in his eyes, then they opened
wide with innocent frankness as he spoke. "Joe Wrigley says there was a
wad of graftin' wax in each one, and the longer they were on the tighter
they'd stick. Joe says----"
"William," I interrupted, "why do you keep saying that Joe Wrigley says
this and Joe Wrigley says that, when you----"
One eyelid slowly curtained an eye. "You see, Mr. Carton," he said, in a
half-whisper, "if you don't know nothin' but what Joe says, you don't
know enough for evidence, nor too much for your own good, and if that
old sinner makes law trouble you can't swear to anythin' but hearsay.
Joe says it's like a sort of judgment on him, for it'll take as long to
get the feathers and wax off that pig as it'll take new feathers to grow
on them chickens. He says there ain't but three ways of gettin' that
kind of wax off: bilin' in kerosene, freezin' in a ice-cream freezer, or
leavin' it to nature and the habits of pigs."
"Well, William," I said regretfully, "I suppose you had better go, but
I'll have to get another man to do the work, for I'll have the farm on
my hands in a few days. Peter has signed the agreement to sell."
"Jee--rus'lem!" he exclaimed. "It'll be a bigger circus than I counted
on when----"
"When what?" I asked, as he suddenly checked himself.
"I was thinkin' about the new well up at the barn," he replied, with
sudden gravity. "I haven't got down to water yet, but it ain't far off,
and Joe Wrigley says he'll come over to-morrow and finish it for you.
Well, I must be goin'--good-by for the present. Mebbe I'll come back
when this blows over."
"Where are you going to?" I called after him, as he hurried off.
His legs moved faster, as if he feared pursuit, but there was no
response until he reached the gate, then he turned and shouted: "To
see--Uncle--Benny!"
It is painfully humiliating to stand before a locked door and try to
convince a silent person inside that you have high ideals, noble
impulses, virtuous aspirations and an unvarying regard for the truth;
it is yet more painful if you are the victim of a train of
circumstantial evidence that has biassed the mind of the listener; you
are at a further disadvantage if that person is the one who knows your
failings better than you do yourself, but there is yet hope if, with all
your faults, she loves you still.
I pleaded and reasoned with Marion in a high, unnatural and despairingly
mellifluous voice; without avail. Then it occurred to me that I was on
the wrong tack, and in a tone of hoarse despair I said I was a brute.
This had been effective before, and I listened breathlessly; there was a
faint monosyllabic response, but whether of assent or dissent I could
not determine. With added anguish I declared that I was and that she
needn't say I wasn't; that it would be better for her if I were dead.
There was a whole sentence in reply, the gist of it being that she
hadn't said I wasn't. This was encouraging, so I sought to create a
diversion by telling her that William had gone; this item was coldly
received. Then, like an inspiration, came the thought that I had still
to tell her how we had been bidding against each other.
"Marion," I called out excitedly, "I know the man who tried to buy the
place."
"Who is he?"
"Open the door, and I'll tell you."
"No; I can hear."
"He's a perfect brute." I moved away with a heavy tread. It was an
excellent move; the door opened and Marion ran after me.
"What's his name?" she demanded.
"He's a man," I replied, with unreproving, sad forgiveness, "who thought
he would try to please his wife by making her a present of the place."
"Good gracious! Was it that wretched Griggs?"
"No,--his name is--Henry Carton."
Now I had expected the announcement to create a sensation, but I was
totally unprepared for the effect it produced. Instead of being appalled
to learn that she had thrown away sixteen hundred dollars unnecessarily,
she forgave me with every appearance of being delighted to hear the
news. An interval followed, during which I didn't care particularly how
this blissful state of affairs had come to pass, but I gathered by
degrees that it was because I had quite innocently proved that I was not
a mercenary wretch and that I could by no possibility have saved Mr.
Fairman's life from any sordid motive. There are probably few men more
deserving of praise, but I shall not repeat Marion's expressions of
affection and respect, in case they should appear extravagant. I bore
her appreciation with my usual modesty, and when she wondered how she
could have behaved so, I said it wasn't any wonder at all, and that I
was almost sure I wasn't as good as she said. She declared indignantly
that I was far better, and when I tried to add that I had acted like a
brute she put her hand over my mouth and threatened to get angry again
if I used that word about myself, saying that I had acted like an angel,
and how could I ever forgive her? I assured her that there was nothing
to forgive, but if there was I forgave her freely, and I did so with
such fervor and unselfishness that she almost melted into tears again.
Then with the greatest delicacy I suggested that I was grieved that she
had been obliged to pay so much more for the farm than if I hadn't been
so stupid, but she only said indifferently, "Bother the money--I've got
you!"
Still, I grudged that sixteen hundred dollars, and I thought she ought
to show more concern, but I dreaded a return of her suspicion that I was
mercenary, so I bothered the money also and remarked that I had her.
Then we both made the happy discovery that we had Paul, and Marion
reminded me that I had the farm and enough money to stock it, yet in
spite of all these blessings it rankled in my mind that when the papers
were signed Peter Waydean would have that sixteen hundred dollars above
the worth of the farm.