II.

Well down in the southeastern corner of New Hampshire, some twenty miles

inland from the sea, lies Eden Village. Whether the first settlers added

the word Village to differentiate it from the garden of the same name I

can't say. Perhaps when the place first found a name, over two hundred

years ago, it was Eden, plain and simple. Existence there proving

conclusively the dissimilarity between it and the original Eden, the New

England conscience made itself heard in Town Meeting, and insisted on

the addition of the qualifying word Village, lest they appear to be

practising deception toward the world at large. But this is only a

theory. True it is, however, that while Stepping and Tottingham and

Little Maynard and all the other settlements around are content to exist

without explanatory suffixes, Eden maintains and is everywhere accorded

the right to be known as Eden Village. Even as far away as Redding, a

good eight miles distant, where you leave the Boston train, Eden's

prerogative is known and respected.

Wade Herrick discovered this when, five years after our first glimpse of

him, he stepped from the express at Redding, and, bag in hand, crossed

the station platform and addressed himself to a wise-looking,

freckle-faced youth of fourteen occupying the front seat of a rickety

carryall.

"How far is it to Eden, son?" asked Wade.

"You mean Eden Village?" responded the boy, leisurely.

"I suppose so. Are there two Edens around here?"

"Nope; just Eden Village."

"Well, where is that, how far is it, and how do I get there?"

"About eight miles," answered the boy. "I kin take you there."

Wade viewed the discouraged-looking, flea-bitten gray horse dubiously.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Have you ever driven that horse eight miles

in one day?"

"Well, I guess! There ain't a better horse in town than he is."

"How long will it take?"

"Oh, about an hour; hour an' a half; two hours--"

"Hold on! That's enough. This isn't exactly a sight-seeing expedition,

son. We'll compromise on an hour and a half; what do you say?"

The boy examined the prospective passenger silently. Then he looked at

the horse. Then he cocked an eye at the sun. Finally he nodded his head.

"All right," he said. Wade deposited his satchel in the carriage and

referred to an address written on the back of a letter.

"Now, where does Mr. Rufus Lightener do business?"

"Over there at the bank."

"Good. And where can I get something to eat?"

"Stand up or sit down?"

"Well, preferably 'sit down.'"

"Railroad Hotel. Back there about a block. Dinner, fifty cents."

"I certainly am glad I found you," said Wade. "I don't know what I'd

have done in this great city without your assistance. Now you take me

over to the bank. After that we'll pay a visit to the hotel. You'd

better get something to eat yourself while I'm partaking of that

half-dollar banquet."

An hour later the journey began. Wade, fairly comfortable on the back

seat of the carryall, smoked his after-dinner pipe. The month was June,

there had been recent rains and the winding, dipping country road

presented new beauties to the eyes at every stage. Wade, fresh from the

mountains of Colorado, revelled in the softer and gentler loveliness

about him. The lush, level meadow, the soft contour of the distant

hills, the ever-present murmur and sparkle of running water delighted

him even while they brought homesick memories of his own native

Virginia. It was a relief to get away from the towering mountains, the

eternal blue of unclouded skies, the parched, arid miles of unclothed

mesa, the clang and rattle of ore cars and the incessant grinding of

quartz mills. Yes, it was decidedly pleasant to have a whole summer--if

he wanted it--in which to go where he liked, do what he liked. One might

do much worse, he reflected, than find some such spot as this and idle

to one's heart's content. There would be trout, as like as not, in that

stony brook back there; sunfish, probably, in that lazy stream crossing

the open meadow yonder. It would be jolly to try one's luck on a day

like this; jolly to lie back on the green bank with a rod beside one and

watch the big white clouds sail across the wide blue of the sky. It

would seem almost like being a boy again!

Presently, when, after passing through the sleepy village of Tottingham,

the road crossed a shallow stream, Wade bade the boy drive through it.

"Don't have to," replied unimaginative fourteen. "There's a bridge."

"I know there is," answered Wade, "but my doctor has forbidden bridges.

Drive through the water. I want to hear it gurgle against the wheels."

He closed his eyes, expectantly content, and so did not see the alarmed

look which the boy shot at him. The horse splashed gingerly into the

stream, the wheels grated musically over the little stones, and the

water lapped and gurgled about the spokes. Wade leaned back with closed

eyes and nodded approvingly. "Just the same," he murmured. "It might be

the ford below Major Dabney's. This is surely God's own country again."

Further on they rattled through the quiet streets of East Tottingham, a

typical New England village built around a square, elm-shaded common. It

was all as Ed had described it; the white church with its tall spire

lost behind the high branches, the Town Hall guarded by an ancient black

cannon, the white houses, the green blinds, the lilac hedges, the

toppling hitching-post before each gate. Tottingham Center succeeded

East Tottingham and they eventually reached Eden Village twenty minutes

behind schedule.

It was difficult to say where country left off and village began, but

after passing the second modest white residence Wade believed he could

safely consider himself within the corporate limits. Before him

stretched a wide road lined with elms. So closely were they planted that

their far-reaching branches formed a veritable roof overhead, through

which at this time of day the sunlight barely trickled. They were sturdy

trees, many of them larger in the trunk than any hogs-head, and

doubtless some of them were almost as old as the village itself. The

cool green-shadowed road circled slightly, so that as they travelled

along it the vista always terminated in a wall of green, flecked at

intervals with a gleam of white where the sun-bathed front of some house

peeked through. Wade viewed the quaint old place with interest, for here

Ed had lived when a boy, and many a story of Eden Village had Wade

listened to.

The houses were set, usually, close to the street, with sometimes a

wooden fence, sometimes a hedge of lilacs before them. But more often

yard and sidewalk fraternized. Flowers were not numerous; undoubtedly

the elms threw too much shade to allow of successful floriculture. But

there were lilacs still in bloom, lavender and white, and their perfume

stirred memories. The houses in Eden Village were not crowded; for the

first quarter of a mile they passed hardly more than a dozen. After

that, although they became more neighborly, each held itself well aloof.

Then came a small church with a disproportionately tall spire, a

watering trough, the Town Hall, and "Prout's Store, Zenas Prout 2nd,

Proprietor." Here the gray sidled up to the ancient hitching-post. The

boy tossed the reins over the dashboard and jumped out. "You don't need

to hold him," he said reassuringly. Presently he was back. "It's further

up the street," he announced. "But he says there ain't anybody livin'

there an' the house is locked up."

"I've got the key," answered Wade. "Go ahead."

They went on along the leafy nave. Now and then a road or grass-grown

lane started off from the main highway and wandered back toward the

meadow-lands. Presently the street straightened out, the elms presented

thinner ranks, houses stood farther apart. Then the street divided to

enclose a narrow strip of common adorned with a flagpole greatly in need

of a new coat of white paint. The elms dwindled away and an occasional

maple dotted the common with shade. The driver guided the patient gray

to the left and, near the centre of the common, drew up in front of a

little white house, which, like the picket fence in front of it, the

flagstaff on the common, and so many other things in Eden Village,

seemed to be patiently awaiting the painter.

Inside the fence, thrusting its branches out between the pickets, ran a

head-high hedge of lilac bushes, so that, unless you stood directly in

front of the gate, all you saw of the first story were the tops of the

front door and the close-shuttered windows. Between house and hedge

there was the remains of a tiny formal garden. Rows of box,

winter-killed in spots, circled and angled about grass-grown spaces

which had once been flower-beds. The dozen feet of path from gate to

steps was paved with crumbling red bricks, moss-stained and

weed-embroidered. The front door had side-lights hidden by narrow, green

blinds and a fan-light above. Wade drew forth the key entrusted to him

by the agent and tried to fit it to the lock. But although he struggled

with it for several moments it refused stubbornly to have anything to do

with the keyhole.

"There's a side door around there," advised the boy from the carryall.

"Maybe it's the key to it."

"Maybe it is the key to it," responded Wade, wiping the perspiration

from his forehead. He pushed his way past the drooping branches of an

overgrown syringa, tripped over a box-bush, and passed around the left

of the house, following the remains of a path which led him to a door in

an ell. Back here there were gnarled apple and pear and cherry trees, a

tropical clump of rhubarb, and traces of what had evidently been at one

time a kitchen garden. Old-fashioned perennials blossomed here and

there; lupins and Sweet Williams and other sturdy things which had

resisted the encroachment of the grass. The key fitted readily, scraped

back, and the narrow door swung inward.

Gloom and mustiness were his first reward, but as his eyes became

accustomed to the darkness he saw that he was in the kitchen. There was

the sink with a hand-pump on one side and a drain-board on the other.

Here a table, spread with figured yellow oil-cloth; a range, chairs,

corner-cupboard, a silent, staring clock. His steps beat lonesomely on

the floor. A door, reached by a single step, led to the front of the

house. He pushed it open and groped his way up and in, across to the

nearest window. When the blinds were thrust aside he found himself

confronted by a long mahogany sideboard whose top still held an array of

Sheffield platters, covered dishes, candlesticks. Save for the dust

which lay heavily on every surface and eddied across the sunlight, there

was nothing to suggest desertion. Wade could fancy that the owner had

stepped out of doors for the moment or had gone upstairs. He found

himself listening for the sound of footsteps overhead or on the

staircase or in the darkened hall. But the only sounds were faint sighs

and crepitations doubtless attributable to the air from the open windows

stirring through the long-closed house, but which Wade, letting his

fancy stray, chose to believe came from the Ghosts of Things Past. He

pictured them out there in the hall, peering through the crevice of the

half-open door at the intruder with little, sad, troubled faces. He

could almost hear them whispering amongst themselves. He felt a little

shiver go over him, and threw back his shoulders and laughed softly at

his foolishness.

But the feeling that he was an intruder, a trespasser, remained with him

as he passed from room to room, throwing open windows and blinds, and

now and then sneezing as the impalpable dust tickled his nostrils. In

the sitting-room, as in every other apartment, everything looked as

though the occupant had passed out of the room but a moment before.

Wade's face grew grave and tender as he looked about him. On the sewing

machine a shallow basket held sewing materials and a few pairs of coarse

woollen stockings, neatly rolled. The poker was laid straight along the

ledge of the big "base-burner" in the corner. A table with a green cloth

stood in front of a window and bore a few magazines dated almost ten

years before. A set of walnut book-shelves held a few sober-clad

volumes, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable," "Webster's Dictionary," Parker's

"Aids to English Composition," Horace's "Odes" in Latin, "The Singer's

Own Book," "Henry Esmond" and "Vanity Fair," "A Chance Acquaintance,"

two cook-books, a number of yellow-covered "Farmer's Almanacs," and "A

Guide to the City of Boston." A sewing-stand supported a huge family

Bible. The walls were papered in brown and a brown ingrain carpet

covered the floor. There was a couch under the side window and a few

upholstered chairs were scattered about. Now that the windows were open

and the warm sunlight was streaming in, it was a cosy, shabby, homey

little room.

Wade opened the door into the hall. Perhaps the Ghosts of Things Past

scampered up the winding stairway; at least, they were not to be seen.

He found the front-door key in the lock and turned the bolt. When the

door swung inward a little thrill touched him. For the first time in his

life he was standing on his own doorsill, looking down his own front

path and through his own front gate!

In every man's nature there is the desire for home-owning. It may lie

dormant for many years, but sooner or later it will stir and call. Wade

heard its voice now, and his heart warmed to it. Fortune had brought him

the power to choose his home where he would, and build an abode far

finer than this little cottage. And yet this place, which had come to

him unexpectedly and through sorrow, seemed suddenly to lay a claim upon

him. It was such a pathetic, down-at-heels, likable little house! It

seemed to Wade as though it were saying to him: "I'm yours now. Don't

turn your back on me. I've been so very, very lonesome for so many

years! But now you've come, and you've opened my doors and windows and

given me the beautiful sunlight again, and I shall be very happy. Stay

with me and love me."

In the carryall the boy was leaning back with his feet on the dasher and

whistling softly through his teeth. The gray was nibbling sleepily at

the decrepit hitching-post. Wade glanced at his watch, and looked again

in surprise. It was later than he had thought. If he meant to get out of

Redding that night it was time he thought of starting back. But after a

moment of hesitation he turned from the door and went on with his

explorations. In the parlor there was light enough from the front door

to show him the long formal room with its white marble centre-table

adorned with a few gilt-topped books and a spindly lamp, the square

piano, the stiff-looking chairs and rockers, the few pictures against

the faded gold paper, the white mantel, set with shells and vases and a

few photographs, the quaint curving-backed sofa between the side

windows. He closed the door again and turned down the hall.

The stairway was narrow and winding, with a mahogany rail set upon white

spindles. It was uncarpeted and his feet sounded eerily on the steps. On

the floor above doors opened to left and right. The first led into what

had evidently been used as a spare bedroom. It was uncarpeted and but

scantily furnished. The door of the opposite room was closed. Wade

opened it reverently and unconsciously tiptoed to the window. When the

sunlight was streaming in he turned and surveyed the apartment with a

catch of his breath. It had been Her room. He had never seen her, yet he

had heard Ed speak of her so much that it seemed that he must have known

her. He tried not to think of the days when, lying there on the old

four-post bed with the knowledge of approaching death for company, she

had waited and waited for her son to come back to her. Ed had never

forgiven himself that, reflected Wade. He had been off in Wyoming at

the time, and when he had returned the two telegrams lay one upon the

other with a month's dust over them, the one apprising him of his

mother's illness and asking him to hurry home, the other tersely

announcing her death. Well, she knew all about it now, reflected Wade.

Ed had told her long before this.

It was a pleasant little room with its sloping ceilings and cheerful

pink paper. The bed was neatly spread with a patchwork quilt, and the

blankets and counterpane were folded and piled upon the foot. The old

mahogany bureau was just as she had left it, doubtless. The little,

knick-knacks still stood upon the brackets, and in the worsted-worked

pincushion a gold brooch was sticking.

He closed the window and returned to the floor below. A door under the

stairway led from the hall to the kitchen. He crossed the latter and

passed out into the yard. Back of the house the ground sloped slightly

to a distant stone wall, which apparently marked the limit there of

Wade's domain. At one time there had been a fence between the orchard

and the meadow beyond, but now only an occasional crumbling post

remained. Trees had grown up here and there in the meadow, a few young

maples, a patch of locusts, and some straggling sumacs. Birds sang in

the trees, and once, when he listened, Wade thought he could hear the

tinkling of a brook.

Toward the centre of the village his ground ran only to a matter of ten

or twelve yards from the kitchen door. There was just room for the

little garden between house and fence. On that side his nearest neighbor

was distant the width of several untenanted lots. On the other side,

however, there was more space. There were some shade-trees here, and

around one of them, an ancient elm, ran a wooden seat, much carved and

lettered. The boundary here was a continuation of the lilac hedge which

fronted the street, and in it was an arched gate leading to the next

yard. But from the gate all Wade could discern was the end of a white

house and a corner of a brick chimney some forty yards distant; trees

and shrubbery hid more of his neighbor's estate.

Wade returned to the front of the house, hands in his pockets, a tune on

his lips. He had taken his valise from the back of the carryall before

the driver, who was half asleep, discovered his presence. He blinked and

dropped his feet from the dashboard.

"You all ready?" he asked.

Wade shook his head.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "I'm going to stay awhile."