Everybody ought to keep up with what's happenin'. The higher up we
gits on the ladder of human intelligence, the more news we have--we can
see furder."
Having evolved this sage remark, Elmer twisted back to his old position
and raised the paper.
"Now mind this," he said. "Jonas Parker and his wife and four of his
children were----"
"See here," I cried, pounding the floor again. "I don't care for Jonas
Parker and all of his children. Where is Mr. Weston?"
"Oh," said Elmer, "excuse me. I thought you had come to see me. It's
Weston, eh? Well, his room's just there at the head of the stairs."
He pointed to the door which gave an entrance to the rear hall, but as
I wished to be a bit formal in my call on the stranger, I suggested
that Mr. Spiker might oblige me by seeing if the gentleman was at home.
This seemed entirely unnecessary to mine host, and he wanted to argue
the point. But I insisted, and he arose with a sigh, and taking the
lamp in his hand, disappeared, leaving me in utter darkness. The door
banged shut behind him and I heard him at the foot of the stairs
roaring "Ho-ho-there-ho!"
No answer came from the floor above. Again sounded the stentorian
tones.
"Mark says as if you are there, you're to come down; he wants to see
you."
A last "Ho-there-ho"; a long silence; the door opened. There was light
again and Elmer was before me.
"He ain't there, I guess," he said. "Still, if you want me to make
sure, I'll go up."
[Illustration: No answer came from the floor above.]
Inasmuch as mine host's cries must still be echoing in the uttermost
parts of the house, it seemed needless to compel him to take the climb.
Spiker agreed with me. It was not surprising that Weston was out, for
he was an odd one, always spooking around somewhere, investigating
everything, and asking questions. His room was full of books in
various languages, and when he wasn't wandering about the valley, he
would be sitting reading far into the night--sometimes as late as
half-past ten. There was a fellow named Goth, who seemed to be
Weston's favorite writer. This Goth was a Pennsylvania Dutchman, and
as Elmer's own ancestors were from Allentown, he thought he'd like to
take up the language, so he'd borrowed from his guest a book called
"The Sorrows of Werther." Of all the rubbish that was ever wrote, them
"Sorrows" were the poorest. Elmer had only figured out a page and a
half, but that gave him enough insight into their character to convince
him that a man who could set reading them till half-past ten was--here
mine host tapped his forehead and winked. Curious chap, Weston. Elmer
had seen a heap of men in his time and never met the like. There's no
way to get to see men and understand them like keeping a hotel. When
you've "kept" for about forty years, there's hardly a man comes along
that you can't set right down in his particular class before he's even
registered. But Weston had blocked him at every turn. Elmer knew no
more of the man now than on the day he came. In fact, he was getting
more and more tangled up about him all the time. For instance, why
should one who could read Goth and understand the "Sorrows," want to
set around the store and argue with such-like ignoramuses as Ike Bolum
and Hen Holmes? Spiker was willing to bet that right now Weston was
over the way trying to prove to them that two and two was four.
The suggestion seemed a likely one, so I interrupted the flow of
Elmer's troubled thoughts to say good-night, and went out. I paused a
moment on the porch. A lamp was blazing in the store and I could
plainly see everyone gathered along the counter. Henry Holmes was
standing with his back to the stove, one hand wagging up and down at
the solemn line of figures on the bench. But Weston was not there.
And in our valley, when a man is not at home o'night he should be at
the store, else there is a mystery to be solved. To solve this one I
stopped on the tavern steps, leaned against a pillar, and gazed through
the dozing village.
At the head of the street where our house stood a bright light burned.
There Tim was and there I should be also. A hundred times down South
on my post at night, with my back on the rows and rows of white tents,
I had sought to pierce the black gloom before me as if there I could
see that same light--the home light. Often I fancied I saw it, and in
its bright circle Tim was bending over his book. Here it was in truth,
calling me, but I turned from it and looked away over the flats, where
another light was winking on the hillside.
Behind that hill, on the eastward ridge, a great ball is glowing, fiery
red. Higher and higher it rises, into the tree-tops, then over them;
higher and higher, bathing the valley in soft, white light, uncovering
the gray road that climbs the ridge-side; higher and higher, until the
pines on the ridge-top stand out boldly, fringing into the sky; higher
and higher, casting mysterious shadows over the meadows, touching with
light the hillside, new-ploughed and naked; clear and white lies the
road over the flats to the hill there--clear and white and smooth. On
the hillside the light is burning. It is only a short half mile, and
the way is easy. In the old house at the end of the street another
light is blinking solemnly. Beneath it Tim is waiting. He misses me.
He wonders why I am so long. Soon he will be coming. Base deserter,
truly! But for once--this once--for the white road over the flat and
up the hillside leads to the light!
VI
"Why, Mark, but you did give me a start!" cried Luther Warden, laying
down his book and hurrying forward to greet me.
It was not surprising that the good man should be taken back, for in
all the years we had lived together in the valley this was my first
evening visit. So unusual an occurrence required an explanation, so I
said that I just happened to be taking a stroll and dropped in for a
minute. I glanced at Mary to see if she understood my feeble
subterfuge, but I met only a frank smile, as though, like her uncle,
she believed that I was likely to go hobbling about on moonlight nights
this way. Luther never doubted me.
"It's good of you to drop in," he said, after he had fixed me in his
own comfortable chair and drawn up the settee for himself. "When I was
livin' alone up here I often used to wish some of you young folks would
come in of an evenin' and keep me company and join me in readin' the
Good Book. It used to be lonely sometimes, but since I've got Mary it
ain't so bad. But I hope her bein' here won't make no difference, and
now as you've started you'll come just the same as if I was alone."
I assured him that I would come just the same. That made Mary laugh.
She had been sitting in the lamp-lit circle, and now she rocked back
into the shade, so, craning my neck, I could just see the dark outline
of her face. She made some commonplace but kindly speech of welcome,
and I was about to engage her, seeking to draw her from the shadow,
when her uncle suddenly interposed himself between us and took a book
from the table. Drawing the settee closer to the light, he opened the
great volume across his knees and adjusted his spectacles. Throwing
back his head and looking at me benignly from under his glasses, he
said: "It's peculiarly fortunate you come to-night, Mark. When you
knocked I was readin' aloud to Mary. We read together every night now,
her and me, and most instructin' we find it."
I told Luther that it was too much for me to allow him to wear out his
eyes reading to me; much as I should enjoy it, I could not hear of it,
but I would ask him to let me have the volume when he had finished with
it. It did seem that this should bring Mary into the light again, and
that she would support my protests; but calmly and quietly she spoke
from the darkness, like a voice from another world, "Go on, Uncle
Luther; I want Mr. Hope to hear this."
Now had Mary Warden called me by my Christian name she would have
followed the custom of our valley and it would have passed unnoticed;
but when she used that uncalled-for "Mister" her uncle looked around
sharply. First he tried to pierce the shadows and see her, but she
drew farther and farther into the darkness. So he gazed at me. He was
beginning to suspect that after all I had not come to see him. Had
Mark Hope become proud? Was Mary falling again into the ways of the
wicked world from which he was striving so hard to wean her, that she
should thus address one of the humblest of God's creatures, a mere man?
Old Luther rubbed his spectacles very carefully and slowly; blowing on
them and rubbing them again; finally adjusting them, he leaned forward
and tried to study the girl's face, to find there some solution of the
puzzle.
"Read to Mr. Hope," she said clearly, and with just a touch of defiance.
Had she used some endearing term the old man could not have frowned
harder than when he turned on me then, and eyed me through his great
spectacles.
"Yes, read to us, Luther," said I calmly; "Miss Warden and I will
listen."
"God has been very good to me," said the old man solemnly, "and I've
not yet heard Him call me Mister Luther Warden. I s'pose with you and
your kind, when He comes to you, He calls you Mister Mark Hope."
This rather took me back, and I stammered a feeble protest, but he did
not heed me. Turning to Mary, he went on: "And you, Mary Warden, I
s'pose at such times you are 'Miss.' What wanity! What wanity!
Politeness, they calls it. Politeness? Well, in the great eternity,
up above, where they speaks from the heart, you'll be just Mark and
just Mary. But down yander--yander, mind ye--the folks will probably
set more store by titles." The old preacher was pointing solemnly in
the direction of the cellar.
There was a long pause, an interval of heavy silence. Then from Mary
in the darkness came, "Well, Uncle, let us hope that when we reach that
great eternity, Mark and I will be good enough friends to lay aside
such vanities."
"Right!" cried Luther, smiling again, and speaking real heartily.
"Right," said I; "and we'll begin eternity to-day, won't we, Mary?"
"We will," said she.
And in my heart I blessed Luther Warden. Guilelessly, the old man, in
a few words, had swept away the barrier Mary and I had raised between
us. He had added years to our friendship. So had he stopped there it
would have been wonderfully well; but he had to go floundering
innocently on. He was laughing softly.
"Do you know, Mark," he said, rubbing his spectacles nervously, "she
made me jealous of you when she talked that way. I thought she'd set
her cap for you, I did. Whenever a man and woman gits polite, whenever
they has to bow and scrape that way, a-misterin' and a-missin' one
another, they're hiding somethin'; they ain't actin' open. So I was
beginnin' to think mebbe she wanted to marry you and----"
"Go on reading--please read to us," pleaded Mary.
"Yes, do read to us," I echoed, for the position was a new one to me,
and at best I am awkward and slow-witted where women are concerned. I
could not adroitly turn the old man's wandering speculation into a
general laugh as Weston would have done. My best was to break in
rudely.
"Well--if I must," Luther said, opening the great book across his knees.
A long silence followed. I heard the solemn ticking of the clock on
the mantel behind me; I heard Mary laughing softly in her retreat
beyond the table; I heard Luther, now bending over his book, mumbling
to himself a few words of the text.
"It is about the faymine in Injy," he said at last, holding his place
on the page with a long, thin forefinger, and looking up at me. "There
are three volumes, and this is the second. The third is yit to come.
I pay a dollar a year and every year I gits a new volume. It's a grand
book, too, Mark. It was wrote by one of our brethren, Brother Matthias
Pennel, who went to Injy in charge of a shipload of grain gathered by
our people for the sufferin' heathen. The first volume tells all about
the gittin' up of the subscription and the sailin' of the wessel.
Brother Matthias is a grand writer, and he tells all about Injy and the
heathen, and how the wessel reached the main place there--what's the
place, Mary?--you're allus good on geography!"
"Calcutta," prompted Mary.
"Yes, I mind now--Calcutty. Well, from there Brother Matthias went up
into the country called--I can't just mind the exact name--oh, here it
is--B-a-l-l-e-r-r-a-d Ballerrad--e-r-a-d--Ballerraderad."
Luther paused and sighed. "Them names--them names!" he exclaimed. "If
there is one thing that convinces me that the story of the Tower of
Babel is true, it is the names of the towns in Injy."
It seemed to me that perhaps from the viewpoint of the East Indian, the
same thing might be said of our "villes" and "burgs," and I was about
to raise my voice in behalf of the maligned heathen, when my host
resumed his discourse.
"When you come in, I was readin' about a poor missionary woman in
Baller--Baller--Ballerraderad--whose Sunday-school had been largely eat
up by taggers. Her name was Flora Martin, Brother Matthias says, and
she was one of the saintliest women he ever seen. He tells how the
month before he come to Baller--Baller--Baller-daddad--an extry large
tagger had been sneakin' around the mission-house, a-watchin' for
scholars, and how one day, when, according to Brother Matthias, this
here Flora Martin, armed only with a rifle and girded about with the
heavenly sperrit--how this here Flora----"
There was a ponderous knock on the door, and then the knob began to
rattle violently. The bolt had been shot, so Luther had to rise in
haste to admit the new-comer, leaving Flora Martin with nothing but the
rifle and the heavenly spirit.
Perry Thomas stepped in.
"I just happened to be passin' and thought I'd drop in for a spell," he
said, with a profound bow to Mary, who arose to greet him.
This apology of Perry's was as absurd as mine had been, for he lived a
mile on the other side of the village; and as the next house was over
the ridge, a good three miles away, it was odd that he should be
wandering aimlessly about thus. Besides, he had on his new Prince
Albert, and there was a suspicion of a formal call in the smoothly
oiled hair and tallowed boots. He carried his fiddle, too. There was
to my mind every evidence that the visit had been preconceived, and to
this point had been carried out with an eye on every detail. Had the
contrary been true, there would have been no cause for Perry to glare
at me as he did. The he-ro in blue was anything but welcome now.
Indeed, it seemed that could Perry's wish have been complied with, I
should be back on the "lead-strewn fields of Cuby."
Mary was most cordial. She seized his fiddle and his hat and stowed
them carefully away together, while Luther, pushing the latest visitor
to a place at his side on the settee, told him how fortunate he was to
drop in just at that time, as he would hear a few interesting things
about the famine in India.
Perry was positively ungrateful. He declared that he could only stay a
minute at the most, and that it was really not worth Luther's while to
begin reading. Mary said that she would not hear of him leaving. She
had hidden his hat and would insist on his playing; that was, if I did
not mind and her uncle gave his permission. Perry smiled. There was
less fire in his eyes when I vowed that not till I had listened again
to the song of his beloved violin would I stir from my chair. So he
settled back to pay the price and hear the story of Flora Martin and
the tiger.
Luther repeated his account of the book and the story of Brother
Matthias Pennel. He told Perry of Sister Flora and her saintly
character, and of the devastation by the fierce king of the Bengal
jungle. He brought us again to where the frail little woman determined
to fight death with death. And here, in low, rumbling tones, letter by
letter, word by word, we took up the narrative of the adventurous
Dunker brother.
"Thus armed with only a heavy elephant rifle, the property of the
foreign missionary society, and clad only in grace, Flora Martin began
her lonely vigil on the roof of the mission-house, which is used both
as a dwelling and Sunday-school by those who are carrying light to the
heathen in Ballerraderad, which, we must remember, is one of the most
populous provinces in all Injy. This combined dwelling and church
edifice stands at the far end of the little village, and as the lonely
Indian moon was just rising above the horizon, Sister Flora heard a
series of catlike footsteps along the veranda beneath her--for we must
remember that in this part of our globe the nights are strangely still
and the sounds therefore carry for a great distance. Breathlessly
Flora Martin, mindful of the slumbering innocent charges sleeping below
her, and over whom she was watching, leaned out over the roof, rifle in
hand. The footsteps came nearer and nearer and----"
There was a gentle rat-tat-tat on the door. It was so gentle that
Luther thought his ears were deceiving him, for while he stopped
reading, he made no motion to rise, but sat listening. Again they
came, three polite taps, seeming to say, "I should like to get in, but
pray don't disturb yourself."
"Come in," shouted the old preacher, not even looking around, for he
still seemed to doubt his sense of hearing.
The door opened quietly and Mr. Robert Weston appeared before us. Mary
had slipped from her place to meet him, and in Weston's greeting to her
I had my first lesson in what the world calls manner. How clumsy
seemed my own excuses for coming at all, compared to his pleasure at
finding her at home! He had been looking forward all afternoon to
seeing her again. As he shook hands with Luther, he was so hearty that
the old man took his guest by the shoulders and declared fervidly that
he was rejoiced that he had come. Weston did not glare at Perry
Thomas, nor at me either. We but added to his pleasure. Truly his cup
of joy was overflowing! And the famine in India--indeed--indeed! The
subject was one which interested him deeply, and if Mr. Warden cared
for it, he would send him several books on the far East which he had in
his library at home. He hoped that in return he might some time have
the pleasure of reading carefully, cover to cover, the fat volume that
Luther had spread across his knees. Meantime, he would insist on not
interrupting. But Mary must be comfortably seated before he could take
the place on the settee that Luther had arranged for him, and he must
hear all over again the story of the book, of Brother Matthias Pennel
and Sister Flora Martin. How I envied him! What must Perry and I seem
beside this lanky man with his kindly, easy ways! Perry, of course,
did not see it. He was smiling, for Weston was telling him that he had
stood at the Thomas gate for a half hour the very evening before,
listening to the strains of a violin. He hoped to hear that melody
again, when Mr. Warden had finished the story of the brave missionary
of Ballerraderad.
The Dunker preacher was beaming. He forgot the great doctrine of
humility, and declared that "Mister" Weston should have the volume that
very night. There was nothing better to give a clear view of the
character of the work than Brother Matthias Pennel's account of the
heroism of Sister Flora. So we composed ourselves again to hear of the
battle to the death between the noble missionary woman and the mighty
Bengal.
"Nearer and nearer came the footsteps," read Luther, pausing at each
word to make sure of it. "Furder and furder out over the top of the
mission-house leaned Sister Flora, and as she leaned she thought how
much depended on her that night; for she must remember that there were
sleeping within the walls of the mission-house forty-seven children,
thirty of which were females under the age of eleven years, and
seventeen males, of whom not one-half had reached the age of nine
years. Next she saw a dark object crouching below her. She saw two
fiery eyes; she saw the tiger gather himself preparatory to springing.
She----"
Perry Thomas's knock had been ponderous, thunderous, and clumsy.
Weston's had been self-assured, but polite. Now came a series of raps,
now loud, now low, now quick, now slow, keeping time to a martial air.
Evidently there was a rollicking fellow outside. No one moved. We sat
there, all five of us, eyes wide open in surprise, trying to guess, who
this could be playing tunes on the door, and never seeking to solve the
simple problem by turning the knob.
It was Tim. There was a sudden oppressive silence. Then he entered,
gravely bowing.
"Good evening, Mr. Warden," he said mockingly. "You have a delightful
way here of greeting the stranger at your gate, closing your ears to
his appeals and letting him break in. And Miss Warden too--why, this
is a surprise. I had supposed you'd be at a ball. And Mr.
Weston--delighted--I'm sure----"
"What, Mark?" There was genuine surprise in Tim's voice as he saw me
sitting quietly in the shadow. His mock elegance disappeared, and he
stood gaping at me. "I thought you'd gone to see Mr. Weston," he
blurted out.
"He came to see me instead," said Mary laughing. "And so did Mr.
Weston and Mr. Thomas, and so I hope you did. And if you sit down
there by Uncle Luther and be quiet, you shall hear about the famine in
India."
Tim just filled the settee. In my dark corner, in my comfortable
chair, I could smile to myself as I watched his plight and that of his
companions. I could not see Mary well, for the lamp and the long table
separated us, but I fancied that in her retreat she, too, was laughing.
Poor Tim had the end of the bench. He sat very erect, with his head
up, his eyes on the wall before him, his folded hands resting on his
knees, after the company manner of Black Log. Mr. Perry Thomas, at the
other end, was his counterpart, only the orator drew his chin into his
collar, furrowed his brow, and gazed wisely at the floor. He was where
Mary could see him!
Weston had none of our stiff, formal ways, but was making himself as
much at home as possible in such trying circumstances. He spread out
all over the narrow space allotted him between Luther and my brother.
But curiously enough, he really seemed interested. It was he who told,
in greatest detail, to Tim the story of Brother Matthias Pennel and of
the trials of the saintly Flora Martin. When he had recounted her
adventures to the very instant she caught the gleam of the tiger's
eyes, he calmly swung one lank leg over the knee of the other, slid
down in his seat so he could hook his head on the hard back, and said,
cheerily, "Now, Mr. Warden, go on reading and let no one interrupt."
Perry was coughing feebly, as he always does when he is plotting to
speak.
"No, no," cried Weston in protest; "I insist, Mr. Thomas, that you stay
and play the violin to us when we have heard the end of this
interesting story."
It was with mingled feelings that I regarded Brother Matthias Pennel.
As I had stood on the tavern porch that night, looking up the white
road that led to Mary's home, I had dared to picture to myself a
different scene from the one before me. From that scene Luther Warden
had been removed entirely. Of Robert Weston, of Perry Thomas, of Tim,
I had taken no account. They had not even been dreamed of, for Mary
and I were to sit alone in the quiet of the evening. The flash of her
eyes was to be for me--for me their softer glowing. At my calling the
rich flames would blaze on her cheeks. I was to light those flames. I
was to fan them this way and that way. I was to smother them, kindle
them, quench them. Playing with the fire of a woman's face! Dangerous
work, that! And up the white road I had hobbled to the fire, as a
simple child crawls to it. But Luther Warden was there to guard me
with Brother Matthias Pennel, and in my inmost heart I hated them both
for it. Then Perry Thomas blundered in, and compared to him, old
Luther and his learned brother were endurable. As to Robert Weston, I
knew that beside him Matthias Pennel was my dearest friend. Then Tim
came! and as I looked at the long settee where Luther was droning on
and on through the story of Sister Flora, where Perry Thomas seemed to
sit beneath the judgment seat, where Weston shifted wearily to and fro,
where Tim was suffering the tortures of the thumb-screw, I cried to my
inmost self, "Verily, Brother Matthias, thou art a mighty joker!"