once, "why should you care for so small and natural a mistake? It is all
clear to me now. I gave no account of myself coming over on the stage; I
remember, too, that I spoke of the moonlight whisky-makers myself, and
that I made no effort to find out what Mr. Head was alluding to when he
talked on in his mysterious way. It is my usual unpardonable laziness
which has brought you to this error. Pray forgive it."
Honor cried on, unable to stop, but his voice and words had soothed her;
he stood beside her, hat in hand, and after a few moments she summoned
self-control enough to dry her eyes and put down her handkerchief. But
her eyelashes were still wet, her breath came tremulously, and there was
a crimson spot on each cheek. She looked, at that moment, not more than
fifteen years old, and Wainwright sat down, this time nearer to her,
determined to make her feel easier. He banished the subject of her
mistake at once, and began talking to her about herself. He asked many
questions, and she answered them humbly, as a Lenten penitent might
answer a father confessor. She seemed to feel as though she owed him
everything he chose to take. She let him enter and walk through her life
and mind, through all her hopes and plans; one or two closed doors he
noted, but did not try to open, neither did he let her see that he had
discovered them. He learned how poor they were; he learned her love for
her uncle, her Switzer's attachment to the mountain-peaks about her; he
learned what her daily life was; and he came near enough to her
religious faith, that faith which had first attracted him, to see how
clear and deep it was, like a still pool in a shaded glen. It was years
since Stephen Wainwright had been so close to a young girl's soul, and,
to do him justice, he felt that he was on holy ground.
When at last he left her, he had made up his mind that he would try an
experiment. He would help this child out of the quagmire of poverty, and
give her, in a small way, a chance. The question was, how to do it. He
remained at Ellerby, made acquaintances, and asked questions. He
pretended this, and pretended that. Finally, after some consideration,
he woke up the old library association, reopened the building, and put
in Honor as librarian, at a salary of two hundred dollars a year. To
account for this, he was obliged, of course, to be much interested in
Ellerby; his talk was that the place must eventually become a summer
resort, and that money could be very well invested there. He therefore
invested it. Discovering, among other things, pink marble on wild land
belonging to the Colonel, he bought a whole hillside, and promptly paid
for it. To balance this, he also bought half a mile of sulphur springs
on the other side of the valley (the land comically cheap), and spoke of
erecting a hotel there. The whole of Ellerby awoke, talked, and
rejoiced; no one dreamed that the dark eyes of one young girl had
effected it all.
Honor herself remained entirely unconscious. She was so openly happy
over the library that Wainwright felt himself already repaid. "It might
stand against some of my omissions," he said to himself.
One thing detained him where he was; then another. He could not buy
property without paying some attention to it, and he did not choose to
send for his man of business. He staid on, therefore, all summer. And he
sent books to the library now and then during the winter that
followed--packages which the librarian, of course, was obliged to
acknowledge, answering at the same time the questions of the letters
which accompanied them. Stephen's letters were always formal; they might
have been nailed up on the walls of the library for all comers to read.
He amused himself, however, not a little over the carefully written,
painstaking answers, in which the librarian remained "with great
respect" his "obliged servant, Honor Dooris."
The second summer began, and he was again among the mountains; but he
should leave at the end of the month, he said. In the mean time it had
come about that he was teaching the librarian. She needed instruction,
certainly; and the steps that led up to it had been so gradual that it
seemed natural enough now. But no one knew the hundred little things
which had been done to make it seem so.
What was he trying to do?
His cousin, Adelaide Kellinger, determined to find out that point, was
already domiciled with her maid at the inn. There had been no
concealment about Honor; Wainwright had told Adelaide the whole story.
He also showed to her the librarian's little letters whenever they came,
and she commented upon them naturally, and asked many questions. "Do you
know, I feel really interested in the child myself?" she said to him one
day; and it was entirely true.
When he told her that he was going to the mountains again, she asked if
he would not take her with him. "It will be a change from the usual
summer places; and, besides, I find I am lonely if long away from you,"
she said frankly. She always put it upon that ground. She had learned
that nothing makes a man purr more satisfactorily than the hearing that
the woman in whose society he finds himself particularly comfortable has
an especial liking for and dependence upon himself; immediately he makes
it all a favor and kindness to _her_, and is happy. So Adelaide came
with Stephen, and did make him more comfortable. His barren room bloomed
with fifty things which came out of her trunks and her ingenuity; she
coaxed and bribed the cook; she won the landlady to a later breakfast.
She arranged a little parlor, and was always there when he came home,
ready to talk to him a little, but not too much; ready to divine his
mood and make the whole atmosphere accord with it at once. They had been
there three weeks, and of course Adelaide had met the librarian.
For those three weeks she remained neutral, and studied the ground; then
she began to act. She sent for John Royce. And she threw continuous
rose-light around Honor.
After the final tableau of a spectacle-play, a second view is sometimes
given with the nymphs and fairies all made doubly beautiful by
rose-light. Mrs. Kellinger now gave this glow. She praised Honor's
beauty.
Stephen had not observed it. How could he be so blind? Why, the girl had
fathomless eyes, exquisite coloring, the form of a Greek statue, and the
loveliest mouth! Then she branched off.
"What a beautiful thing it would be to see such a girl as that fall in
love!--a girl so impulsive, so ignorant of the world. That is exactly
the kind of girl that really could die of a broken heart."
"Could she?" said Stephen.
"Now, Stephen, you know as well as I do what Honor Dooris is," said
Adelaide warmly. "She is not awakened yet, her prince has not made
himself known to her; but, when he does awaken her, she will take him up
to the seventh heaven."
"That is--if she loves him."
"She has seen so few persons; it would not be a difficult matter," said
Adelaide.
A few days later, when she told him that she was thinking of sending for
John Royce, he made no comment, although she looked at him with
undisguised wistfulness, a lingering gaze that seemed to entreat his
questions. But he would not question, and, obedient as always to his
will, she remained silent.
John Royce came. He was another cousin, but a young one, twenty-five
years old, blue-eyed and yellow-haired. He kept his yellow hair
ruthlessly short, however, and he frowned more or less over his blue
eyes, owing to much yachting and squinting ahead across the glaring
water to gain an inch's length on the next boat. He was brown and big,
with a rolling gait; the edge of a boat tilted at one hair's-breadth
from going over entirely, was his idea of a charming seat; under a tree
before a camp-fire, with something more than a suspicion of savage
animals near, his notion of a delightful bed. He did not have much money
of his own; he was going to do something for himself by and by; but
Cousin Adelaide had always petted him, and he had no objection to a hunt
among those Southern mountains. So he came.
He had met Honor almost immediately. Mrs. Kellinger was a welcome
visitor at the Eliot home; she seemed to make the whole ravine more
graceful. The Colonel's wife and all the children clustered around her
with delight every time she came, and the old Colonel himself renewed
his youth in her presence. She brought John to call upon them at once,
and she took him to the library also; she made Honor come and dine with
them at the inn. She arranged a series of excursions in a great
mountain-wagon shaped like a boat, and tilted high up behind, with a
canvas cover over a framework, like a Shaker bonnet, and drawn by six
slow-walking horses. The wagoner being a postilion, they had the wagon
to themselves; they filled the interstices with Eliot children and
baskets, and explored the wilder roads, going on foot up the steep
banks above, drinking from the ice-cold spring, looking out for
rattlesnakes, plucking the superb rhododendrons and the flowers of the
calico-bush, and every now and then catching a new glimpse of the
unparalleled crowd of peaks over toward the Tennessee line. Stephen went
everywhere patiently; Honor went delightedly; John Royce went
carelessly; Mrs. Kellinger went as the velvet string which held them all
together; she was so smooth that they slid easily.
But, in the intervals, Wainwright still taught his librarian.
Mrs. Eliot had become Adelaide's warm friend. The sweet-voiced Southern
wife, with her brood of children, and her calm, contented pride,
confided to the Northern stranger the one grief of her life, namely,
that she was the Colonel's second wife, and that he had dearly loved the
first; anxiety as to the uncertain future of her children weighed far
less upon her mind than this. The old-time South preserved the romance
of conjugal love even to silver hairs; there may have been no more real
love than at the North, but there was more of the manner of it. The
second month came to its end; it was now August. Mrs. Kellinger had sent
many persons to the library; she had roused up a general interest in it;
villagers now went there regularly for books, paying a small
subscription-fee, which was added to Honor's salary. Honor thanked her
for this in a rather awkward way. Mrs. Eliot, who was present, did not
consider the matter of consequence enough for thanks. She had never even
spoken to Wainwright of Honor's office of librarian, or the salary which
came out of his pocket. Money-matters were nothing; between friends they
were less than nothing. Stephen had two hours alone with his librarian
every morning, when there was no excursion; Mrs. Kellinger had arranged
that, by inventing a rule and telling it to everybody in a decided tone:
no one was expected at the library before eleven o'clock.
"Did you do this?" said Stephen, when he discovered it.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because I thought you would like it," replied Adelaide. He looked at
her questioningly; she answered immediately to the look. "You are
interested in a new study of character, Stephen; you are really doing
the child a world of good too; although, as usual, I confess that my
interest in the matter is confined principally to your own
entertainment." She spoke good-humoredly, and almost immediately
afterward left him to himself.
His mind ran back over a long series of little arrangements made for his
pleasure on all sorts of occasions. "She is the best-hearted woman in
the world," he thought. And then he took his note-book and went over to
the library.
Their lessons would have amused a looker-on; but there was no looker-on.
Honor was interested or absent-minded, irritable or deeply respectful,
humble or proud, by turns; she regarded him as her benefactor, and she
really wished to learn; but she was young, and impulsive, and--a girl.
There was little conversation save upon the lessons, with the exception
of one subject. The man of the world had begun his study of this girl's
deep religious faith. "If you can give it to me also, or a portion of
it," he had said, "you will be conferring a priceless gift upon me, Miss
Honor."
Then Honor would throw down her books, clasp her hands, and, with
glowing cheeks, talk to him on sacred subjects. Many a time the tears
would spring to her eyes with her own earnestness; many a time she lost
herself entirely while pleading with her whole soul. He listened to her,
thanked her, and went away. Only once did he show any emotion: it was
when she told him that she prayed for him.
"Do you really pray for me?" he said in a low tone; then he put his hand
over his eyes, and sat silent.
Honor, a little frightened, drew back. It seemed to her a very simple
act, praying for any one: she had prayed for people all her life.
One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Eliot and Honor were sitting in Adelaide's
parlor at the inn, whither she had brought them on their way home from
service. Royce and Stephen had been discovered, upon their entrance, in
two chairs at the windows; the former surrounded by a waste of
newspapers, magazines, and novels, thrown down on the floor, a general
expression of heat and weariness on his face. His companion was reading
a small, compact volume in his usual neat way. Big Royce was sprawled
over three chairs; Stephen did not fill one. Big Royce was drumming on
the window-sill; Stephen was motionless. Yet Royce, springing up and
smiling, his blue eyes gleaming, and frank gladness on his face, was a
picture that women remember; while Stephen, rising without change of
expression, was a silent contradiction to their small power, which is
never agreeable. They all sat talking for an hour, Mrs. Eliot and Mrs.
Kellinger contributing most of the sentences. Royce was in gay spirits;
Honor rather silent. Suddenly there came a sharp, cracking sound; they
all ran to the window. Through the main street of the village a man was
running, followed by another, who, three times in their sight and
hearing, fired at the one in advance. One, two, three times they saw and
heard him fire, and the sickening feeling of seeing a man murdered in
plain sight came over them. Royce rushed down to the street. The victim
had fallen; the other man was himself staggering, and in the hands of a
crowd which had gathered in an instant. After a short delay the two men
were borne away, one to his home, one to the jail. Royce returned hot
and breathless.
"Oh, how is the poor man who was shot?" exclaimed Mrs. Eliot.
"Poor man, indeed! The other one is the man to be pitied," said Royce
angrily. "He is a revenue detective, and was knocked down from behind
with a club by this fellow, who is a liquor-seller here in the village.
The blow was on the skull, and a murderous one. Half blinded and
maddened, he staggered to his feet, drew his revolver, and fired for his
life."
Honor had grown white as ivory. She shook in every limb, her lips
trembled, and her chin had dropped a little. Wainwright watched her.
"But what does it all mean?" asked Adelaide.
"Moonlight whisky, of course. The detective has been hunting for the
stills, and these outlaws will kill the man as they have killed half a
dozen before him."
"What an outrage! Are there no laws?"
"Dead letters."
"Or officers to execute them?"
"Dead men."
Royce was excited and aroused. He was young, and had convictions. The
laws should not be over-ridden and men murdered in broad daylight by
these scoundrels while he was on the scene. He took charge of the
detective, who, with his bruised head, was put in jail, while the
liquor-seller was allowed to have his illness out in his own house, one
of the balls only having taken effect, and that in a safe place in the
shoulder. Royce, all on fire for the side of justice, wrote and
telegraphed for troops, using the detective's signature; he went himself
fifteen miles on horseback to send the dispatch. There were troops at
the State capital; they had been up to the mountains before on the same
business; they were, indeed, quite accustomed to going up; but they
accomplished nothing. The outlaws kept themselves carefully hidden in
their wild retreats, and the village looked on as innocently as a Quaker
settlement. A detective was fair game: two of them had been shot in the
neighborhood within the previous year, and left bleeding in the road.
Would they never learn, then, to keep out of the mountains?
"But is it not an extraordinary state of things that a village so large
as Ellerby should be so apathetic?" asked Adelaide.
"The villagers can do little: once off the road, and you are in a
trackless wilderness," said Stephen. "Custom makes law in these regions:
moonlight whisky has always been made, and the mountaineers think they
have a right to make it. They look upon the revenue-men as spies."
"Yes; and they are government officials and Northerners too," added
Royce hotly--"mind that!"
He had taken the matter in hand vigorously. He wrote and sent off a
dozen letters per day. The Department at Washington had its attention
decisively called to this district and the outlawry rampant there. It
was used to it.
In a week the troops came--part of a company of infantry and a young
lieutenant, a tall stripling fresh from West Point. His name was
Allison; he lisped and wore kid-gloves; he was as dainty as a girl, and
almost as slender. To see the short, red-faced, burly detective, with
his bandaged head and stubbed fingers; Royce, with his eagle eyes and
impatient glance; and this delicate-handed, pink-cheeked boy, conferring
together, was like a scene from a play. The detective, slow and
cautious, studied the maps; Royce, in a hot hurry about everything,
paced up and down; Allison examined his almond-shaped nails and hummed a
tune. The detective had his suspicions concerning Eagle Knob; the troops
could take the river-road, turn off at Butter Glen, and climb the
mountain at that point. In the mean while all was kept quiet; it was
given out that the men were to search South Gap, on the other side of
the valley.
On the very night appointed for the start, an old lady, who had three
granddaughters from the low country spending the summer with her, opened
her house, lit up her candles, and gave a ball, with the village
fiddlers for musicians and her old black cook's plum-cake for
refreshments. Royce was to accompany the troops; Adelaide had not been
able to prevent it. She went to Stephen in distress, and then Stephen
proposed to Royce to send half a dozen stout villagers in his place--he,
Stephen, paying all expenses.
"There are some things, Wainwright, that even your money can not do,"
replied Royce.
"Very well," said Stephen.
Royce now announced that they must all go to the ball to divert
suspicion; Allison too. But Allison had no invitation. Royce went to
Mrs. Eliot, and begged her influence; Mrs. Eliot sent Honor to the old
lady, and the invitation came.
"If he could avoid wearing his uniform--" suggested Mrs. Eliot to
Adelaide, a little nervously.
"But he has nothing else with him, I fear," answered Adelaide.
It turned out, however, that the lieutenant had a full evening-suit in
his valise, with white tie and white gloves also. Royce surveyed these
habiliments and their owner with wonder. He himself, coming from New
York, with all the baggage he wanted, had only a black coat. His costume
must be necessarily of the composite order; but the composite order was
well known at Ellerby.
Allison was the belle of the ball. He danced charmingly, and murmured
the most delightful things to all his partners in rapid succession. He
was the only man in full evening-dress present, and the pink flush on
his cheeks, and his tall, slender figure swaying around in the waltz,
were long remembered in Ellerby. Honor was there in a white muslin which
had been several times washed and repaired; there was no flow to her
drapery, and she looked awkward. She was pale and silent. Mrs.
Kellinger, clothed to the chin and wrists, with no pronounced color
about her, was the one noticeable woman present. Royce did not dance. He
found the rooms hot and the people tiresome; he was in a fever to be
off. Stephen sat on the piazza, and looked in through the window. At one
o'clock it was over. Allison had danced every dance. He went back to the
inn with his pockets stuffed with gloves, withered rose-buds, knots of
ribbon, and even, it was whispered, a lock of golden hair. The next
hour, in the deep darkness, the troops started.
At five minutes before eleven the next morning, Stephen was bringing his
algebra-lesson to a close, when a distant clatter in the gorge was
heard, a tramping sound; men were running out of the mill opposite and
gazing curiously up the road. Honor was at the window in a flash,
Stephen beside her. The troops were returning. They had laid hands upon
a mountain-wagon and marched upon each side of it like a guard of honor.
Royce sat in the wagon, his face hidden in his hands.
"Where is Mr. Allison?" said Honor, and her voice was but a whisper. She
stood back of the curtain, trembling violently.
Royce did not look up as the procession passed the library; without a
word Wainwright and Honor went out, locked the door behind them, and
followed the wagon toward the village. Everybody did the same; the
houses were emptied of their dwellers. The whole village came together
to see the body of the boy-officer lifted out and carried into the inn.
Allison was dead.
The buttons on his uniform gleamed as they bore him in, and his white
hands hung lifelessly down. He had fought like a tiger, they said, and
had led his men on with the most intrepid, daring courage to the very
last. It seemed that they had fallen into an ambuscade, and had
accomplished nothing. Singularly enough, the young lieutenant was the
only one killed; Royce was sure that he had seen one of the outlaws
deliberately single him out and fire--a dark, haggard-looking fellow.
Stephen took Honor up to Adelaide's parlor. Adelaide was there wringing
her hands. She had fastened the boy's collar for him at two o'clock the
night before, when he had rather absurdly pretended that he could not
make it stay buttoned; and she had tapped him on the cheek reprovingly
for his sentimental looks. "This ball has spoiled you, foolish boy," she
had said; "march off into the mountains and get rid of this nonsense."
Ah, well, he was well rid of it now!
Honor stood as if transfixed, listening. Presently the door opened, and
Royce came in. "Let me get somewhere where I am not ashamed to cry," he
said; and, sinking down, he laid his head upon his arms on the table
and cried like a child. Honor went out of the room hastily; she hardly
noticed that Stephen was with her. When she reached the ravine, she,
too, sank down on the grass, out of sight of the house, and sobbed as
though her heart would break. Stephen looked at her irresolutely, then
moved away some paces, and, sitting down on a stump, waited. Honor had
danced with Allison: could it be--but no; it was only the sudden horror
of the thing.