told me that he had come here simply because he liked the country I
believed him that far, but I suspected some deeper reason to keep a man
of his stamp dawdling in a remote valley. Now it was so simple. The
foundation of Weston's fortunes had been laid in one small saloon; its
bulk had been built on a chain stretching from end to end of the city.
Its founder had been a coarse, uneducated man, but his success in the
liquor trade had been too great to be forgotten, even years after he
had abandoned it and built up the great commercial house that bore his
name. His ambition for his son had been boundless. He had spared
nothing to make him a better man in the world's eye than his father.
He had succeeded. But the world had persisted in remembering the
parental bar. Robert Weston had never seen that bar, for he had
entered on the scene when there was a chain of them, and his father had
brought him up almost in ignorance of their very existence. Even at
the university he had little reason to be ashamed of them. It was
after he had spent years in rounding out his education abroad, and had
returned to take his place in those circles which he believed he was
entitled to enter, that he found that the world persisted in pointing
to the large revenue stamp that seemed to cling to him. A stronger man
would have fought against odds like those and won for himself a place
that would suffer no denial. But Weston was physically a delicate man.
By nature he was retiring, rather than aggressive. If those who were
his equals would have none of him because of his father's faults, then
he would not seek them. Equally distasteful were those who equalled
him in wealth alone, for by a strange contradiction, the very fact that
the rumshop did not jar on their sensibilities, marked them for him as
coarse and uncongenial. Weston had turned to himself. It is the study
of oneself that makes cynics. The study of others makes egotists.
Then a woman had come. Of her Weston did not say much, except that she
had made him turn from himself for a time to study her. He had become
an egotist and so had dared to love her. She had loved him, he
thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife. Things were
growing brighter. But they met an officious friend. They were in
Venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family. The
officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in
horror when he heard of it. Didn't the family know? Oh, yes, Bob was
himself a fine fellow; but he was Whiskey Weston!
"Of course, no good woman wants to be Mrs. Whiskey Weston," said my
friend grimly. "Still, I think she did care a bit for me; but it was
all up. Back I came, and here I am, Mark, just kind of stopping to
stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe. I came on a wheel, for
I had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself
the way it used to be."
Then he smoked.
"Is that the dogs again?" I said, to break the oppressive silence.
Weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the
clump of oaks.
"Do you know sometimes I think that Mary there, with all her bringing
up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons
and gambling places and all that." Weston spoke carelessly, puffing at
his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor. "I think a world of
Mary, Mark. She is beautiful, and good, and honest. Sometimes I
suspect that I've stayed here just for her. Sometimes I think I will
not leave till she goes--" Weston sprang to his feet. "It's the dogs!
Hear them!" he cried.
I was up too. Away down the ridge we heard the bay of the hounds again.
"I want to tell you something," I said, pointing to the house by the
clump of oaks. "I wish for your sake that there were two Marys,
Weston. But there is only one, and she is good and beautiful, and for
some reason--Heaven only knows why--she is going to be my wife."
Weston stepped hack and gazed at me. I did not blame him. He seemed
to study me from head to foot, and I knew that he was trying to find
some reason why the girl should care for me. It was natural. I had
puzzled over the same problem and I had not solved it. Now I did not
care.
"Stare on," I cried, laughing. "You can't think it queerer than I do.
It's hard for me to convince myself that it is true."
"I am glad," he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp. "It isn't
strange at all, Mark, for Mary is a wise woman."
"There are the dogs," said I; "they are getting nearer."
"They are coming our way at last," he returned quietly. "But what's
that to us when you are to be married? I wish you joy and I shall be
at the wedding, and it must be soon, too, and Tim shall be here." He
was speaking very rapidly; his face was pale and his hand trembled in
mine. "I'll send for him. Tim must have a holiday, and perhaps he'll
bring Miss--Miss Smyth." Weston laughed. "Parker," he corrected.
"He'll bring Miss Parker or Mrs. Tim."
Full and strong the bay of the hounds was ringing along the ridges.
Nearer and nearer they were coming. Now I could hear old Captain's
deep tones, and the shorter, sharper tongue of Betsy, Mike, and Major.
The fox was keeping to the ridge-top and in a few moments he would be
sweeping by us. I pointed through the woods to a bit of clearing made
by a charcoal burner. If he kept his course the fox would cross it,
and that meant a clear shot. Weston knew the place, and without a word
he picked up his gun and hurried through the woods.
Nearer and nearer came the hounds. The woods were ringing with their
music, and the sound of the chase swung to and fro, from ridge to
ridge. Now I could hear the crashing of the underbrush.
Weston fired. The report rattled from hill to hill.
My own gun sprang to the shoulder, but it was too late. The fox,
seeing me, veered down the slope, and swept on to safety or to death,
for six more anxious hunters were watching for him somewhere in those
woods.
The dogs swept by, old Captain as ever leading, with Betsy at his
haunches and Mike and Major neck and neck behind.
I watched for little Colonel. A minute passed and he did not come.
Poor puppy! He had learned that to live was to suffer. Somewhere in
these woods he must be lying, resting those ponderous paws and licking
his bloody flanks.
The hollow was alive with the bay of dogs; the ridges were ringing with
the echoes of a gunshot; but above them all I heard a plaintive wail
over there in the charcoal clearing. I called for Weston and I got no
answer, only the cry of the little hound. I called again and I got no
answer. Through the hushes I tore as fast as my crutches would take
me, calling as I ran and hearing only the wail of the puppy, till I
broke from the cover into the open.
On his haunches, his slantwise eyes half closed, his head lifted high
in the bright sunlight, sat little Colonel, wailing. He heard me call.
He saw me. And when I reached him he was licking the white face of
Whiskey Weston.
[Illustration: Sat little Colonel, wailing.]
XIII
Hindsight is better than foresight. A foolish saying. By foresight we
do God's will. By hindsight we would seek to better His handiwork.
Things are right as they are, I say, as I sit quietly of an evening
smoking my pipe on my porch, watching the mountains in the west bathe
in the gold and purple of the descending sun. What might have been,
might also have been all wrong. A foolish saying, says Tim, for if
what might have been should actually be, then we should have the
realization of our fondest dreams. And with that realization might
come a dreadful awakening from our dreams, say I. You might have
become a tea-king, Tim, and measure your fortune in millions. I might
have turned lawyer instead of soldier; I might have made a great name
for myself in Congress by long speeches full of dry facts and figures,
or short ones puffed up with pompous phrases. The fact that Six Stars
existed might have gone beyond our valley because here you and I were
born, and for a time we honored the place with our presence. Suppose
all that had been, and you the tea-king and I the great lawyer sat here
together as we sit now, smoking, could you add one note to the evening
peace; would the night-hawk pay us homage by a single added ring as he
circles among the clouds; would the bull-frogs in the creek sing louder
to our glory; would the bleating of the sheep swing in sweeter to the
music of the valley? And look at God's fireplace, I cry, pointing to
the west, where the sun is heaping the glowing cloud coals among the
mountains. God's fireplace? says Tim, with a queer look in his eyes.
Yes, say I, and the valley is the hearthstone. The mountains are the
andirons. Over them, piled sky high, the cloud-logs are glowing, and
never logs burned like those, all gold and red. Night after night I
can sit here and warm my heart at that fireside. Could you, tea-king,
buy for my eyes a picture more wonderful? The fire is dying. The
cloud coals grow fainter--now purple; and now in ashes they float away
into the chill blue. But they will come again. Could your millions,
tea-king, buy for me a sweeter music than the valley's heart throb as
it rocks itself to sleep?
"No," Tim answers, "but suppose----"
"And could I have better company to watch and listen with?" I exclaim.
"For with you a tea-king, Tim, and I a lawyer, it would be just the
same, would it not?"
"That's just what I was trying to get at," says Tim. "Suppose that day
of the fox-hunt you had not carried Weston----"
I hold up my hand to check him.
"Were it to happen a hundred times over, I would take him to Mary's," I
cry. "Else he would have died."
"You are right, Mark," Tim says.
* * * * * *
I took Weston to Mary's house that day when I found him lying in the
charcoal clearing, with little Colonel standing over him wailing.
Tearing open his coat and shirt, I stanched his wound as best I could.
Then I called the others to me. Tip and Arnold picked him up and
carried him, while Murphy Kallaberger and I broke a path through the
bushes, and Aaron ran on to Warden's to tell them of the accident and
have them prepare for the wounded man. Warden's was the nearest house,
but that was a mile from the clearing, and in the woods our progress
was slow. Once free of the ridges and in the open fields the way was
easy, and Murphy could lend a hand to the others.
"He's monstrous light," Tip said. "He doesn't seem no more than skin
and bones in fancy rags."
It is strange how even our clothes go back on us when we are down.
Weston I had always known as a lanky man, but about his loosely fitting
garments there had been an air of careless distinction. Now that he
was broken, they hung with such an odd perversion as to bring from its
hiding-place every sharp angle in the thin frame. The best nine
tailors living could not have clothed him better for that little
journey, nor lessened a whit the pathos of the thin arms that lay
limply across the shoulders of Tip and Arnold.
"He's a livin' skelington," old Arker whispered, as I plodded along at
his side. "Poor devil!"
"Poor devil!" said I. For looking at the almost lifeless man I thought
of my own good fortune. This morning I had envied him. Now he had
nothing but his wealth, and his hold on that was weakening fast. I had
everything--life and health, home and friends--I had Mary. As we
parted a few minutes before, up there in the woods, I had pitied him.
He had seemed so lonely, so bitter in his loneliness, and yet at heart
so good. Now his eyes half opened as they carried him on, his glance
met mine in recognition, and it seemed to me that he smiled faintly.
But it was the same bitter smile. "Poor devil!" I said to myself.
And we carried him into Mary's house.
She was waiting for us, and without a word led us upstairs to a room
where we laid him on a bed.
"I stumbled, Mark, I stumbled," he whispered, as I leaned over him.
"The fox came and I ran for it--then I fell--and then the little hound
came, and then----"
Mary was bathing his forehead, and for the first time he saw her.
"I stumbled, Mary," he whispered. "I swear it."
* * * * * *
It was nearly ten o'clock when I left Weston's room. The doctor was
with him and was preparing to bivouac at the patient's side. He was a
young man from the big valley. Luther Warden had driven to the county
town and brought him back to us. The first misgivings I had when I
caught sight of his youthful, beardless face were dispelled by the
business-like way in which he went about his work. He had been in a
volunteer regiment, he told me, as an assistant surgeon, but had never
gone past the fever camps, as this was his first case of a gunshot
wound. He had made a study of gunshot wounds, and deemed himself
fortunate to be in when Mr. Warden called. Truly, said I to myself,
one man's death is another man's practice. But it was best that he was
so confident, and I found my faith in him growing as he worked. The
wound was a bad one, he said, and the ball had narrowly missed the
heart, but with care the man would come around all right. The main
thing was proper nursing. The young doctor smiled as he spoke, for
standing before him in a solemn row were half the women of Six Stars.
Mrs. Bolum was there with a tumbler of jelly; Mrs. Tip Pulsifer had
brought her "paytent gradeated medicent glass," hoping it would be
useful; Mrs. Henry Holmes had no idea what was needed, but just grabbed
a hot-water bottle as she ran. Elmer Spiker's better half was there to
demand her injured boarder at once; he paid for his room at the tavern;
it was but right that he should occupy it and that she should care for
him. When she found that she could not have him entirely, she
compromised on the promise that she would be allowed to watch over him
the whole of the next day. In spite of the jar of jelly, the doctor
chose Mrs. Bolum to help him that night, and when I left them the old
woman was sitting in a rocker at the bedside, her eyes watching every
movement of the sleeping patient's drawn face.
[Illustration: The main thing was proper nursing.]
Outside, the wind was whistling. The steady heating of an oak branch
on the porch roof told me it was blowing hard. It sounded cold. Mary
stood tiptoe to reach my collar and turn it up. Then she buttoned me
snug around the neck. It was the first time a woman had ever done that
for me. How good it was! I absently turned the collar down again and
tore my coat open. Then I smiled.
Again she raised herself tiptoe before me, and with a hand on each
shoulder, she stood looking from her eyes into mine.
"You fraud!" she cried.
Then I laughed. Lord, how I laughed! Twenty-four years I had lived,
and until now I had never known a real joke, one that made the heart
beat quicker, and sent the blood singing through the veins; that made
the fingers tingle, the ears burn, and brought tears to the eyes. I
don't suppose that other people would have thought this one so amusing.
The young doctor upstairs might not have feigned a smile, for instance.
That was what made it all the better for me, for it was my own joke and
Mary's, and in all the world I was the only man who could see the fun
of it.
"When you turn that collar up again I am going," said I.
So she sprang away from me, laughing, and quick as I reached out to
seize her, she avoided me.
"You know I can't catch you," I cried, taunting her, "so I must wait."
As she stood there before me quietly, her hands clasped, her eyes
looking up into mine, I saw how fair she was, and I wondered. The
picture of Weston in the woods, standing off there gazing at me, came
back then, and with it a vague feeling of fear and distrust. I saw
myself as Weston saw me, and I marvelled.
"Mary," I said, "this morning up there in the woods I told Robert
Weston everything, and he stood off just as you are standing now. It
seemed to me he wondered how it could be true, and now I wonder too.
Maybe it's all a mistake."
"It's not a mistake, Mark," the girl said, and she came to me again and
put a hand on each shoulder and looked up. "If I did not care for you
I'd never have given you the promise I did last night. But I do care
for you, Mark, more than for anyone else in the world. You are big and
strong and good--that's why--it's all any woman can ask. You are true,
Mark--and that's more than most men----"
"But, Mary, there's Tim," I protested, for I did not care to usurp to
myself the sum of all the virtues allotted to my sex.
"Tim?" said she lightly, as though she had never heard of him.
"Yes, Tim," I said shortly. "Why did you choose me instead of a lad
like Tim?"
"Mark, I care for you more than anyone else in the world," said Mary.
"But do you love me?" I asked quickly.
"I think I do," she said. But reaching up, she turned my collar again
and buttoned my coat against the storm.
XIV
Tim was home in three days. His few months of town life had wrought
many changes in him, and they were for the better. I was forced to
admit that, but I could not help being just a little in awe of him. He
was not as heavy as of old, but there was more firmness in his face and
figure. Perhaps it was his clothes that had given him a strange new
grace, for in the old days he was a ponderous, slow-moving fellow. Now
there was a lightness in his step and quickness in his every motion.
Had I not known him, I should have seen in the scrupulous part in his
hair a suggestion of the foppish. But I knew him, and while I liked
him best with his old tousled head, and tanned face, and homely hickory
shirt, I felt a certain pride that he had taken so well with the world
and was learning the ways of the town as well as those of the field and
wood. His gloves did seem foolish, for it was a bitter December day
when the blood had best had full swing in the veins, but he held out to
me a hand pinched in a few square inches of yellow kid. The grasp was
just as warm though, and I forgave that. When he threw aside his silly
little overcoat and stood before me, so tall and strong, so clean-cut
and faultless, from the part in his hair to the shine on his boot-tips,
I cried, "Heigh-ho, my fine gentleman!"
Then he blushed. I suspected that it pleased him vastly.
"Do you think it an improvement?" he faltered, standing with his back
to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height.
Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a
knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in. When she saw him, she stopped and
stared.
"Well, ain't he tasty!" she cried.
[Illustration: Well, ain't he tasty.]
Then she courtesied most formally. "How do you do, Mr. Hope?" she said.
"And how is Mrs. Bolum?" returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her
with his hand outstretched.
The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually
accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. Tim seized it, but he
brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in
one mighty embrace.
"You'll spoil your Sunday clothes," panted Mrs. Bolum, when she reached
the floor again. Stepping back, she eyed him critically. "You look
handsomer than a drummer," she cried admiringly.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Tim very meekly.
"I'm so sorry I left my spectacles at home," she went on. "My eyes
ain't as good as they used to be and I can't see you plain as I'd like.
Mebbe it's my sight as is the trouble, but it seems to me, as I see you
now without my glasses, you're just about the prettiest man that ever
come to Six Stars."
"Lord, ma'am," protested Tim. "And how is Mr. Bolum?"
"And such a lovely suit," continued the old woman, cautiously
approaching and moving her hand across my brother's chest. "Why, Tim,
you must have on complete store clothes--dear, oh, dear--to think of
Tim Hope gittin' so fine and dressy! Now had it 'a' been Mark I
wouldn't 'a' been so took back, for he allus was uppy and big feelin'.
But Tim!"
Mrs. Bolum shook her head and held her hands up in astonishment.
"And how is Mr. Bolum?" shouted Tim.
"Never was better, 'ceptin' for his rheumatism and asphmy," was the
answer, but the good woman was not to be turned aside that way. "And a
cady," she cried, for her eyes had caught Tim's hat and the silly
yellow overcoat on the chair where I had thrown them. "A cady, too!
Now just put it on and let me see how you look."
Tim obeyed. Mrs. Bolum stepped hack to get a better effect.
"It ain't as pretty as your coon-skin," she said critically; "you'd
look lovely in that suit with your coon-skin cap--but hold on--don't
take it off--I want Bolum to see you."
She ran from the room and we heard her calling from the porch:
"Bo-lum--Bo-lum--Isaac Bo-oh-lum."
Isaac was at the store. It seemed to me that his wife should have
known that without much research. The little pile of sticks by the
kitchen-door showed that his day's work was done, for when he had split
the wood for the morrow it was the old man's custom to put aside all
worldly care and start on a tour of the village, which generally ended
on the bench at Henry Holmes's side.
It was almost dusk. Tim had come on a mission to Robert Weston. I had
sent word to him of the accident, that Weston's friends might know, and
the first thought of the injured man's partner was to hurry to Six
Stars, but my second despatch, announcing that our friend was well on
the road to recovery, led to the change in plans that brought Tim to
us. Mrs. Bolum did not succeed in alarming the village before he and I
were well up the road, past the school-house and climbing the hill to
Warden's.
Tim had a great deal to tell me in that short walk. I had much to tell
him, but I was silent and let him chatter on, giving but little
attention to what he said, for I was planning a great surprise. The
simplest thing would have been to tell him my secret then, but I had
pictured something more dramatic. I wanted Mary to witness his
dumfounding when he heard the news. I wanted her to be there when its
full import broke upon him; then the three of us, Mary and Tim and I,
would do a wild jig. What boon companions we should be--we three--to
go through life together! And Edith? Four of us--so much the better!
I had never seen this Edith, but Tim is a wonderful judge of women.
So I let him talk, on and on about the city and his life there, until
we reached the house. We found that Mrs. Spiker had secured her
rights, and was on duty that day as nurse. The young doctor was there,
too, as were Mrs. Tip Pulsifer and a half dozen others, a goodly
company to greet us.
"Hello, Mary!" Tim cried, breaking through the others, when he caught
sight of her, standing at the foot of the stairs with a lighted candle
in her hand.
"Hello, Tim!" cried Mary. "And where is Edith?"
"Edith?" Tim exclaimed, stopping as if to collect the thoughts her
sudden taunting question had scattered. "I left her behind this time,
but when I come again you shall see her." Tim, with arms akimbo, stood
there laughing.
"We country girls, I understand, cannot compare with her," said Mary,
tilting her chin.
She had started up the stairs, and now paused, looking down on us. And
I looked up at her face showing out of the darkness in the half light,
and I laughed, wondering what Tim thought, wondering if he was blind,
or was this Edith really bewildering.
"Did I say that?" cried Tim. "Then I must have meant it when I said
it. To-night I have learned better, Mary, but you know I never saw you
standing that way before--on the stairs above me--kind of like an angel
with a halo----"
"Indeed!" retorted Mary; "but we women of Black Log deck ourselves out
in gaudy finery, Mr. Tim, I believe. We women of Black Log do not
inspire a man, like your Edith."
"Confound my Edith!" Tim exclaimed hotly. "Why, Mary, can't you see I
was joking? The idea of comparing Edith with you--why, Mary----"
Tim in his protest started to mount the stairs, and there was an
earnestness in his tone that made me think it high time he knew our
secret, for his own sake and for Edith's. It seemed to me unfair of
him to desert her so basely in the presence of an enemy. He should
have stood by her to the very end, and had he boldly declared that as
compared to her Mary was a mummy I should have admired him the more; I
should have understood; I should have known he was mistaken, but
endured it. Now I seized him by the coat and pulled him back.
"Tim," I said solemnly, "I have something to tell you."
My brother turned and gave me a startled look.
"Mary and I have something to tell you," I went on.
That should have given him a clew. I had expected that at this point
he would embrace me. But he didn't.
"I suppose you think I've been a fool about Edith?" he muttered
ruefully.
"No, it isn't that," I laughed. "Mary, will you tell him?"
But we were in darkness! She had dropped the candle, and down the
stairs the stick came clattering. It landed on the floor and went
rolling across the room. Tim made a dive for it. He groped his way to
the corner where its career had ended. Then he lighted it again.
Behind us stood the doctor, and Mrs. Tip Pulsifer, and Elmer Spiker's
much better half. Mary was at the head of the stairs.
"Come, Tim," she called. "Mr. Weston wants to see you."
"Weston does want to see you very much, Tim," the wounded man said
smiling, lifting a thin hand from the bed for my brother; "I heard you
chattering downstairs, and I thought you were never coming."
"It was Mary's fault," Tim said. "I came back as soon as I could, sir.
Mr. Mills sent me up on the night train--out this afternoon in a livery
rig--here afoot just as fast as Mark would let me--then Mary blocked
the way. Mark was going to tell me something when she dropped the
candle."
"Why, don't you know--" began Weston.
But over my brother's shoulders I shook my head sternly at him and he
stopped and broke into a laugh.
Mrs. Elmer Spiker was standing by him; the young doctor was moving
about the room, apparently very busy; Mrs. Tip Pulsifer was peeping in
at the door.
"Didn't you know," said Weston, "how I'd shot myself all to pieces, and
how there's a live fox in the hollows across the ridge?"