That was a stirring afternoon in Eden Village. Wade's advent was like
the dropping of a stone into the centre of a quiet pool. Prout's Store
was the centre of the pool, and it was there that the splash and
upheaval occurred, and from there the waves of commotion circled and
spread to the farthest margins. By supper time it was known from one
length of Main Street to the other that the Craig place was tenanted
again. As to who the tenant was rumor was vague and indefinite. But
before bedtime even that point was definitely settled, Zenas Prout 2nd
having kept the store open a full half-hour later than usual to
accommodate delayed seekers after knowledge.
It was a rather stirring afternoon for Wade, too. First there was a
visit to the store in the carryall for the purchase of supplies. Mr.
Prout, who combined the duties of merchant with those of postmaster and
express agent, was filling out a requisition for postal supplies when
Wade entered. Poking his pen behind his ear, he stepped out from behind
the narrow screen of lock-boxes and greeted the visitor.
"Afternoon, sir. You found the house all right?"
"Yes, thanks." Wade drew forth a pencil and tore off a piece of wrapping
paper.
"Sort of out of repairs, of course, seem' it ain't been lived in for
most ten years, not since Mrs. Craig died. Was you considerin'
purchasin', sir?"
"Er--no." Wade was writing rapidly on the brown paper. "The fact is, Mr.
Prout, I own the Craig house now."
"You don't say?" exclaimed the store-keeper in genuine surprise. "You
ain't--surely you ain't Ed Craig?"
"No, my name's Herrick. Ed was a good friend of mine. We were partners
in a mining enterprise in Colorado. Ed died almost a year ago now;
typhoid."
"I want to know! Well, well! So Ed Craig's gone, has he? I remember him
when he was 'bout so high. Used to come down here an' I'd set him up on
the counter right where you be now, Mr. Herring, and give him a stick of
candy. I recollect he always wanted the kind with the pink stripes on
it. An' he's dead, you say? We often wondered what had become of Ed.
Folks thought it kind of queer he didn't come home the time his mother
died."
"He was away and didn't learn of her illness until it was too late,"
said Wade. "He felt mighty badly about that, Mr. Prout, and I wish you'd
let the people here know how it happened. Not that it matters much to Ed
now, but he was the best friend I ever had, and I don't want folks who
used to know him to think he deliberately stayed away that time."
"That's so, sir. An' I'm glad to hear the truth of it. Ed didn't seem to
me when I knew him the sort of feller to do a thing like that. Folks'll
be glad to know about it, Mr. Herring."
"Herrick, please. Now just look over that list and check off what you
can let me have, will you? I'm going to stay awhile, and so I will have
to get in a few provisions."
Mr. Prout ran his eye down the list dubiously, checking now and then.
When he laid it down and pushed it across the counter his tone was
apologetic.
"Ain't a great deal there I can sell you, Mr. Herrick. I'm kind of out
of some things. I guess I can get most of 'em for you, though, if you
ain't got to have 'em right away."
Wade looked at the slip.
"You put up what you've got," he said, "and I'll send over to Tottingham
Center for the rest."
"Don't believe you'll get 'em all there," commented Mr. Prout. "Things
like bacon in jars an' canned mushrooms there ain't much call for around
here."
But Wade was busy revising his list, and made no comment. Presently he
went out and despatched the boy to the Center. When he returned to the
store Mr. Prout was weighing out sugar.
"So you come into the Craig place, Mr. Herrick. I suppose you bought
it."
"No, Ed left it to me in his will. Wanted me to come on here and have a
look at it and see that it was all right. He was very fond of that
place. So I came. And--well, it's a pleasant place, Mr. Prout, and it's
a pretty country you have around here, and so I reckon I'll stay awhile
and camp out in the cottage."
"Going to do your own cooking?" asked Mr. Prout.
"Have to, I reckon. It won't be the first time, though."
"Guess you wouldn't have any trouble findin' some one to come in an' do
for you, if you wanted they should," said Mr. Prout. "There's my gal,
now. She's only fifteen, but she's capable an' can cook pretty tolerable
well. Course you know your business best, Mr. Herrick, but--"
"Send her over in the morning," said Wade, promptly. "Is there a mail
out of here to-night?"
"Five o'clock."
"Then let me have a sheet of paper and a stamped envelope, if you
please. I'll write down to Boston and have them send my trunk up."
He met but few persons on his way back to the cottage, but many a
curious gaze followed him from behind curtained windows, and, since the
ripples had not yet widened, he left many excited discussions in his
wake. Back in the cottage he threw off coat and vest, lighted his pipe
and set to work. First of all, up went the parlor windows and shades.
But a dubious examination of that apartment was sufficient. If he should
ever really live here the parlor could be made habitable, but for the
present its demands were too many. He closed the windows again and
abandoned the room to its musty solitude. From the spare room upstairs
he brought bed and bedding and placed it in the sitting room. It
required some ingenuity to convert the latter apartment into a bedroom,
but the difficulty was at last solved by relegating the sewing machine
to the parlor and moving the couch. When the bed was made Wade went out
to the kitchen and looked over the situation there. Closet and
cup-board displayed more dishes and utensils than he would have known
what to do with. He tried the pump and after a moment's vigorous work
was rewarded with a rushing stream of ice-cold water that tasted pure
and fresh. Then he looked for fuel. The lean-to shed, built behind the
kitchen, was locked, and, after a fruitless search for the key, he pried
off the hasp with a screw-driver. The shed held the accumulated rubbish
of many years, but Wade didn't examine it. Fuel was what he wanted and
he found plenty of it. There was a pile of old shingles and several feet
of maple and hickory neatly stowed against the back wall. Near at hand
was a chopping-block, the axe still leaning against it. There was a
saw-horse, too, and a saw hung above it on a nail. But there was no wood
cut in stove size, and so Wade swung the door wide open to let in light,
and set to work with the saw and axe. It felt good to get his muscles
into play again and he was soon whistling merrily. Fifteen minutes later
he was building a fire in the kitchen stove. It was too early for
supper, but the iron kettle looked very lonely without any steam curling
from its impertinent spout. After he had solved the secrets of the
perplexing drafts, and ascertained by the simple expedient of placing a
sooty finger in it that the water was really getting warm, he washed his
hands at the sink and returned to the sitting-room to don vest and coat.
He had done that and was ruminantly filling his pipe when something drew
his gaze to one of the side windows. The pipe fell to the floor and the
tobacco trailed across the carpet.
For a moment, for just the tiny space of time which it took his heart to
charge madly up into his throat, turn over and race back again, the open
casement framed the shoulders and face of a woman. There were greens and
blues in the background, and sunlight everywhere, and a blue shadow fell
athwart the sill. The picture glared with light and color, but for that
brief fragment of time Wade's eyes, half-blinded by the dazzlement,
looked into the woman's. His widened with wonder and dawning
recognition; hers--but the vision passed. The frame was empty again.
Wade passed a hand over his eyes, blinked and asked himself startledly
what it meant. Had he dreamed? He gazed dazedly from the fallen pipe to
the empty window. The sunlight dazzled and hurt, and he closed his eyes
for an instant. And in that instant another vision came.... It was
twilight on Saddle Pass.... Two starlit eyes looked wonderingly down
into his. The mouth beneath was like a crimson bud with parted
petals.... A slim, warm hand was in his and his heart danced on his
lips.... The slender form lessened and softened in the tender darkness
and became only a pale blur far down the track, and he was standing
alone under the cold white stars, with a spray of lilac against his
mouth.
He opened his eyes with a shiver. It was uncanny. All that had been five
years ago, five years filled to the brim with work and struggle and
final attainment, all making for forgetfulness. The thing was utterly
absurd and impossible! His senses had tricked him! The light had
blinded his eyes and imagination had done the rest! And yet--
He strode to the window and looked out. The garden was empty and still.
Only, under the window, at the edge of the path, lay a spray of purple
lilac.