The two young men walked along together, separated by the ridge of
snow between the tracks. They had never been more than friendly
acquaintances, and they talked now of indifferent topics--of the grim
climatic freak which had turned late November into mid-winter, of
the results of the recent elections, and then of English weather
and politics as contrasted with ours. It was a desultory enough
conversation, for each had been absorbed in his own mind by thoughts
a thousand leagues away from snowfalls and partisan strife, and the
transition back to amiable commonplaces was not easy.
The music of a sleigh-bell, which for some time had been increasing in
volume behind them, swelled suddenly into a shrill-voiced warning
close at their backs, and they stepped aside into the snow to let the
conveyance pass. It was then that the express-man called out his cheery
greeting, and that Reuben lifted his hat.
As the sleigh grew small in the near distance, Reuben turned to his
companion. “I notice that you told him you weren’t quite sure about
staying here for good,” he remarked. “Perhaps I was mistaken--I
understood you to say a few minutes ago that it was all settled.”
Horace was not to be embarrassed by so slight a discrepancy as
this--although for the instant the reappearance of Jessica had sent his
wits tripping--and he was ready with a glib explanation.
“What I meant was that I am quite settled in my desire to stay here.
But of course there is just a chance that there may be no opening, and I
don’t want to prematurely advertise what may turn out a failure. By the
way, wasn’t that that Lawton girl?”
“Yes--Ben Lawton’s oldest daughter.”
Reuben’s tone had a slow preciseness in it which caused Horace to glance
closely at him, and wonder if it were possible that it masked some
ulterior meaning. Then he reflected that Reuben had always taken serious
views of things, and talked in that grave, measured way, and that this
was probably a mere mannerism. So he continued, with a careless voice:
“I haven’t seen her in years--should scarcely have known her. Isn’t it a
little queer, her coming back?”
Reuben Tracy was a big man, with heavy shoulders, a large, impassive
countenance, and an air which to the stranger suggested lethargy. It was
his turn to look at Horace now, and he did so with a deliberate, steady
gaze, to which the wide space between his eyes and the total absence
of lines at the meeting of his brows lent almost the effect of a stare.
When he had finished this inspection of his companion’s face, he asked
simply:
“Why?”
“Well, of course, I have only heard it from others--but there seems to
be no question about it--that she--”
“That she has been a sadly unfortunate and wretched girl,” interposed
Reuben, finishing the sentence over which the other hesitated. “No, you
are right. There _is_ no question about that--no question whatever.”
“Well, that is why I spoke as I did--why I am surprised at seeing her
here again. Weren’t you yourself surprised?”
“No, I knew that she was coming. I have a letter telling me the train
she would arrive by.”
“Oh!”
The two walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Horace said, with
a fine assumption of good feeling and honest regret:
“I spoke thoughtlessly, old fellow; of course I couldn’t know that you
were interested in--in the matter. I truly hope I didn’t say anything to
wound your feelings.”
“Not at all,” replied Reuben. “How should you? What you said is what
everybody will say--must say. Besides, my feelings are of no interest
whatever, so far as this affair is concerned. It is her feelings that I
am thinking of; and the more I think--well, the truth is, I am
completely puzzled. I have never in all my experience been so wholly at
sea.”
Manifestly Horace could do nothing at this juncture but look his
sympathy. To ask any question might have been to learn nothing. But his
curiosity was so great that he almost breathed a sigh of relief when
Reuben spoke again, even though the query he put had its disconcerting
side:
“I daresay you never knew much about her before she left Thessaly?”
“I knew her by sight, of course, just as a village boy knows everybody.
I take it you did know her. I can remember that she was a pretty girl.”
If there was an underlying hint in this conjunction of sentences, it
missed Reuben’s perception utterly. He replied in a grave tone:
“She was in my school, up at the Burfield. And if you had asked me in
those days to name the best-hearted girl, the brightest girl, the one
who in all the classes had the making of the best woman in her, I don’t
doubt that I should have pointed to her. That is what makes the thing so
inexpressibly sad to me now; and, what is more, I can’t in the least see
my way.”
“Your way to what?”
“Why, to helping her, of course. She has undertaken something that
frightens me when I think of it. This is the point: She has made up her
mind to come back here, earn her own living decently, face the past out
and live it down here among those who know that past best.”
“That’s a resolution that will last about three weeks.”
“No, I think she is determined enough. But I fear that she cruelly
underestimates the difficulties of her task. To me it looks hopeless,
and I’ve thought it over pretty steadily the last few days.”
“Pardon my asking you,” said Horace, “but you have confided thus far
in me--what the deuce have you got to do with either her success or her
failure?”
“I’ve told you that I was her teacher,” answered Reuben, still with the
slow, grave voice. “That in itself would give me an interest in her. But
there has been a definite claim made on me in her behalf. You remember
Seth Fairchild, don’t you?”
“Perfectly. He edits a paper down in Tecumseh, doesn’t he? He did, I
know, when I went abroad.”
“Yes. Well, his wife--who was his cousin, Annie Fairchild, and who took
the Burfield school after I left it to study law--she happens to be an
angel. She is the sort of woman who, when you know her, enables you
to understand all the exalted and sublime things that have ever been
written about her sex. Well, a year or so after she married Seth and
went to live in Tecumseh, she came to hear about poor Jessica Lawton,
and her woman’s heart prompted her to hunt the girl up and give her a
chance for her life. I don’t know much about what followed--this all
happened a good many months ago--but I get a letter now from Seth,
telling me that the girl is resolved to come home, and that his wife
wants me to do all I can to help her.”
“Well, that’s what I call letting a friend in for a particularly nice
thing.”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” said Reuben; “I shall be only too glad if
I can serve the poor girl. But how to do it--that’s what troubles me.”
“Her project is a crazy one, to begin with. I wonder that sane people
like the Fairchilds should have encouraged it.”
“I don’t think they did. My impression is that they regarded it as
unwise and tried to dissuade her from it. Seth doesn’t write as if he
thought she would succeed.”
“No, I shouldn’t say there was much danger of it. She will be back
again in Tecumseh before Christmas.” After a pause Horace added, in a
confidential way: “It’s none of my business, old fellow; but if I were
you I’d be careful how I acted in this matter. You can’t afford to be
mixed up with her in the eyes of the people here. Of course your motives
are admirable, but you know what an overgrown village is for gossip. You
won’t be credited with good intentions or any disinterestedness, believe
me.”
This seemed to be a new view of the situation to Reuben. He made no
immediate answer, but walked along with his gaze bent on the track
before him and his hands behind his back. At last he said, with an air
of speaking to himself:
“But if one does mean well and is perfectly clear about it in his own
mind, how far ought he to allow his course to be altered by the possible
misconceptions of others? That opens up a big question, doesn’t it?”
“But you have said that you were not clear about it--that you were all
at sea.”
“As to means, yes; but not as to motives.”
“Nobody but you will make the distinction. And you have your practice to
consider--the confidence of your clients. Fancy the effect it will have
on them--your turning up as the chief friend and patron of a--of the
Lawton girl! You can’t afford it.” Reuben looked at his companion again
with the same calm, impassive gaze. Then he said slowly: “I can see how
the matter presents itself to you. I had thought first of going to the
dépôt to meet her; but, on consideration, it seemed better to wait and
have a talk with her after she had seen her family. I am going out to
their place now.”
The tone in which this announcement was made served to change the topic
of conversation. The talk became general again, and Horace turned
it upon the subject of the number of lawyers in town, their relative
prosperity and value, and the local condition of legal business. He
found that he was right in guessing that Mr. Clarke enjoyed Thessaly’s
share of the business arising from the Minster ironworks, and that this
share was more important than formerly, when all important affairs were
in the hands of a New York firm. He was interested, too, in what Reuben
Tracy revealed about his own practice.
“Oh, I have nothing to complain of,” Reuben said, in response to a
question. “It is a good thing to be kept steadily at work--good for a
man’s mind as well as for his pocket. Latterly I have had almost too
much to attend to, since the railroad business on this division was put
in my charge; and I grumble to myself sometimes over getting so little
spare time for reading and for other things I should like to attempt.
I suppose a good many of the young lawyers here would call that an
ungrateful frame of mind. Some of them have a pretty hard time of it, I
am afraid. Occasionally I can put some work in their way; but it isn’t
easy, because clients seem to resent having their business handled by
unsuccessful men. That would be an interesting thing to trace, wouldn’t
it?--the law of the human mind which prompts people to boost a man as
soon as he has shown that he can climb without help, and to pull down
those who could climb well enough with a little assistance.”
“So you think there isn’t much chance for still another young lawyer to
enter the field here?” queried Horace, bringing the discussion back to
concrete matters.
“Oh, that’s another thing,” replied Reuben. “There is no earthly reason
why you shouldn’t try. There are too many lawyers here, it is true, but
then I suppose there are too many lawyers everywhere--except heaven. A
certain limited proportion of them always prosper--the rest don’t. It
depends upon yourself which class you will be in. Go ahead, and if I can
help you in any way I shall be very glad.”
“You’re kind, I’m sure. But, you know, it won’t be as if I came a
stranger to the place,” said Horace. “My father’s social connections
will help me a good deal”--Horace thought he noted a certain incredulous
gesture by his companion here, and wondered at it, but went on--“and
then my having studied in Europe ought to count. I have another
advantage, too, in being on very friendly terms with Mrs. and Miss
Minster. I rode up with them from New York to-day, and we had a long
talk. I don’t want anything said about it yet, but it looks mightily as
if I were to get the whole law business of the ironworks and of their
property in general.”
Young Mr. Boyce did not wince or change color under the meditative gaze
with which Reuben regarded him upon hearing this; but he was conscious
of discomfort, and he said to himself that his companion’s way of
staring like an introspective ox at people was unpleasant.
“That would be a tremendous start for you,” remarked Reuben at last. “I
hope you won’t be disappointed in it.”
“It seems a tolerably safe prospect,” answered Horace, lightly. “You say
that you’re overworked.”
“Not quite that, but I don’t get as much time as I should like for
outside matters. I want to go on the school board here, for example--I
see ever so many features of the system which seem to me to be flaws,
and which I should like to help remedy--but I can’t spare the time. And
then there is the condition of the poor people in the quarter grown up
around the iron-works and the factories, and the lack of a good library,
and the saloon question, and the way in which the young men and boys of
the village spend their evenings, and so on. These are the things I
am really interested in; and instead of them I have to devote all my
energies to deeds and mortgages and specifications for trestle-works.
That’s what I meant.”
“Why don’t you take in a partner? That would relieve you of a good deal
of the routine.”
“Do you know, I’ve thought of that more than once lately. I daresay that
if the right sort of a young man had been at hand, the idea would have
attracted me long ago. But, to tell the truth, there isn’t anybody in
Thessaly who meets precisely my idea of a partner--whom I quite feel
like taking into my office family, so to speak.”
“Perhaps I may want to talk with you again on this point,” said Horace.
To this Reuben made no reply, and the two walked on for a few moments in
silence.
They were approaching a big, ungainly, shabby-looking structure, which
presented a receding roof, a row of windows with small, old-fashioned
panes of glass, and a broad, rickety veranda sprawling the whole width
of its front, to the highway on their left. This had once been a rural
wayside tavern, but now, by the encircling growth of the village, it had
taken on a hybrid character, and managed to combine in a very complete
way the coarse demerits of a town saloon with the evil license of a
suburban dive. Its location rendered it independent of most of the
restrictions which the village authorities were able to enforce
in Thessaly itself, and this freedom from restraint attracted the
dissipated imagination of town and country alike. It was Dave Rantell’s
place, and being known far and wide as the most objectionable resort in
Dearborn County, was in reality much worse than its reputation.
The open sheds at the side of the tavern were filled with horses and
sleighs, and others were ranged along at the several posts by the
roadside in front--these latter including some smart city cutters, and
even a landau on runners. From the farther side of the house came, at
brief intervals, the sharp report of rifle-shots, rising loud above the
indistinct murmuring of a crowd’s conversation.
“It must be a turkey-shoot,” said Reuben. “This man Rantell has them
every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas,” he added, as they came in
view of the scene beyond the tavern. “There! Have you seen anything
in Europe like that?” Let it be stated without delay that there was no
trace of patriotic pride in his tone.
The wide gate of the tavern yard was open, and the path through it
had been trampled smooth by many feet. In the yard just beyond were
clustered some forty or fifty men, standing about in the snow, and with
their backs to the road. Away in the distance, and to the right, were
visible two or three slouching figures of men. Traversing laterally and
leftward the broad, unbroken field of snow, the eye caught a small,
dark object on the great white sheet; if the vision was clear and
far-sighted, a closer study would reveal this to be a bird standing
alone in the waste of whiteness, tied by the leg to a stake near by,
and waiting to be shot at. The attention of every man in the throng was
riveted on this remote and solitary fowl. There was a deep hush for a
fraction of a second after each shot. Then the turkey either hopped to
one side, which meant that the bullet had gone whistling past, or sank
to the ground after a brief wild fluttering of wings. In the former
case, another loaded rifle was handed out, and suspense began again; in
the latter event, there ensued a short intermission devoted to beverages
and badinage, the while a boy started across the fields toward the
throng with the dead turkey, and the distant slouching figures busied
themselves in tying up a new feathered target.
“No, it isn’t what you would call elevating, is it?” said Horace, as
the two stood looking over the fence upon the crowd. “Still, it has its
interest as a national product. I’ve seen dog-fights and cock-mains in
England attended by whole thousands of men, that were ever so much worse
than this. If you think of it, this isn’t particularly brutal, as such
sports go.”
“But what puzzles me is that men should like such sports at all,” said
Reuben.
“At any rate,” replied Horace, “we’re better off in that respect than
the English are. The massacre of rats in a pit is a thing that you can
get an assemblage of nobility, and even royalty, for, over there.
Now, that isn’t even relatively true here. Take this turkey-shoot of
Rantell’s, for example. You won’t find any gentlemen here; that is,
anybody who sets up to be a gentleman in either the English or the
American sense of the word.”
As if in ironical answer, a sharp, strident voice rose above the vague
babble of the throng inside the yard, and its accents reached the two
young men with painful distinctness:
“I’ll bet five dollars that General Boyce kills his six birds in ten
shots--bad cartridges barred!”