ONE HOUR OF BLISS.
By Mrs. Boyle's clock it lacked twenty-two minutes of midnight. It
was the hour for sleep and repose, yet it was an hour of activity.
The hornets were buzzing in their hidden nests, the millers were
flitting about the lamp. The two human occupants of the house were
excited. One had been brutally attacked; and the other had come to
her assistance too late, or, perhaps, providentially late.
"You say he is not my son," said Mrs. Boyle. "You talk as if you
knew, John."
He noticed with pleasure that she called him John. "So I do know," he
replied. "A dull man ought to be able to tell that. When I am
convinced that the loftiest virtue begets the grossest vice, I will
believe that you are his mother."
"No," she said, "he is not my son. None of the neighbors know it, and
he don't know it. I'm sure you won't tell anything I don't want you
to."
"No," said John earnestly, "I never will."
"Then, if you're not sleepy," said Mrs. Boyle, "I will tell you the
whole story. When Mr. Boyle was alive, we stayed several years in
Chicago. We lived just a little ways from Alfred's folks. I guess I
won't tell even you his real name. His father and mother were bad
characters. They both drank and stole. They would quarrel and
sometimes fight. Once in a while he pounded her terribly. Little
Alfred would scream as loud as he could. He wasn't big enough to talk
much. Then, if Mr. Boyle was at home, he would go over to see about
it. The last time he went Alfred's father and mother both told him to
go home and never come there again. They could manage their own
affairs. Finally he pounded her so that he was arrested and sent to
jail. It wasn't long after that she stole some valuable jewelry out
of a store.
"I was in court when they sentenced her. She might I have got off
easier but she was sullen, just like Alfred, and she prejudiced them
against her. She was sent to the penitentiary for a year. It was
hard to see that little fellow hanging to her hand, and to think what
a training he would get. I told her if she would give him to me, I
would take him. She seemed to be glad to get him off her hands, and
she said she hadn't any objections."
Mrs. Boyle gave John an account of her and her protege since Mr.
Boyle's death, of their removal to Michigan, of Alf's growing
depravity, which he manifested even in his early childhood.
"He is naturally bad," said John. "You might as well try to turn a
bramble to a peach tree as to attempt to make a respectable man of
him."
"I know he has got into some awful trouble," said Mrs. Boyle. "I
don't expect him back very soon. But if he comes, you must stay
above, no matter how he acts."
"You want me to be less than a man," replied John. "You think I would
stay up there and let him strike you. If he attempts any such thing
again, I will come sooner than I did before."
"Then he certainly will kill you," said Mrs. Boyle. "You don't know
him. He has a passion for killing things. Whenever he can, he takes
the life of a chipmunk, or a toad, or a fly, or anything, no matter
what it is."
John remembered the millers, the bat and the squirrel; and he knew
that Mrs. Boyle's estimate of the ruffian's character was correct.
"Now, do as I tell you, John," she continued. "You seem almost like
my own boy. You won't get mad if I call you John, will you?"
"No," said John, "I wish I were your son."
He thought long of her words. Until then, motherless, not quite
friendless, he had yearned for that sympathy which, coming only from
the maternal heart, cures wounds of the spirit and body and makes
suffering almost desirable, that the joy of healing may be
experienced. Instinct had told him that he needed it. Other boys had
been petted and caressed while he had been kicked and cursed. Now,
when boyhood was passed, he had found a foster-mother who was kinder
than his natural parent, whose touch was balm for bodily pain, whose
presence banished despondency, whose words were gentle in consolation
and in reproof. He would have laid down his life for her and rejoiced
in the sacrifice. Could he have been her son, even if disgrace had
still clung to him, how much of misery would he have escaped.
The sun was again peeping over the tall trees when two men walked
across the clearing and inquired for Alfred Boyle. After satisfying
themselves by inquiries that he was not in the house, and informing
Mrs. Boyle that he was wanted for robbery at Birch & Bigney's store,
they passed on.
"You can come down, John," said Mrs. Boyle, stopping under the
entrance to the loft. "Alfred won't be back in a good while."
John's leg made rapid progress toward recovery. With Mrs. Boyle's
permission, for he was generally scrupulous in yielding to her
wishes, he walked about the small clearing on his crutches.
The excitement over his adventure had materially subsided, or had
given place tot hat over the recent robbery. It was whispered here
and there that possibly the real thief had not accused, and it was
universally admitted that the mob had acted with more haste than
justice. Still, John did not care to have his whereabouts known. Such
a knowledge would lead to his arrest, when he would be asked to
furnish some explanations which he could not satisfactorily give. And
yet, menaced by those consequences, he took risks. Without the
knowledge of Mrs. Boyle he wandered to the narrow strip of improved
land which lay between the woods and the swamp. He must get where he
could see beyond the small pen in which he was imprisoned by the
forest, and he must not show contempt of her orders. Each day he sat
for an hour at the foot of a large tree, scanning the continuous
strip of timber. The long field was the one which with its great
brittle lumps of sand he had passed a short time previous to his
accidental meeting with the Wallaces. The high oaks on the opposite
side hid the waters of Coon Lake and the village of Break o'Day.
Beyond the high belt of wood was one for a sight of whom he would
have ventured much. That misgiving which he had felt at their
parting, that impulse which in the face of resistance had urged him
to bid a second adieu were not vain follies, but the warnings of,
and, had he heeded them, the preparation for an occurrence the end of
which he could not foretell. He speculated as to the probable
location of Ratke's house. He believed that with the aid of his
mathematics he could determine it with a fair degree of accuracy.
After some deliberation he fixed upon a depression in the upper edge
of the woods, as the place which had been hollowed out by nature that
his gaze might more nearly approach the Gothic house with its shroud
of evergreens and its greater attraction within. His hand impulsively
went to his lips and threw a greeting toward the imaginary gateway.
To verify his mathematical observations he obtained Mrs. Boyle's
compass. What was the reaction when he discovered that he had
mistaken north for northwest and that he had thrown his kiss in the
direction of Julia Wallace! Rectifying his mistake, he decided that
the dry top of a lofty tamarack which stood where the skirt of the
hard-wood timber ended was between him and Manie. His breast heaved,
but it soon harbored that discontent which had been engendered by his
early training. Chances for which some vainly long are given, to
others who have for them not the slightest appreciation. The dry old
tree-top cared not for youth and beauty. Stripped of its foliage to
mitigate the force of the wind and groaning whenever an unusual gust
strained its rheumatic seams, it might look down on Ratke's, might
see a graceful form and composed, dignified face emerging from the
evergreens, yet it ignored its privileges, while they were yearned
for by another.
One night John announced to Mrs. Boyle his intention to take his
departure from her house.
"I hate to have you go," she said, "you step as if your ankle was
nearly well, but you know it is weak yet. You are welcome to stay,
and I'd like to have you. It will be lonesome when you are gone.
Aren't you afraid they'll try to arrest you?
"I shall go to Barton Junction," said John, "and I have no
acquaintances there. So many crimes have been committed in this
section lately that strangers will not be on the lookout to apprehend
me."
"You are not going to-night?" asked Mrs. Boyle, as John took his hat.
"Not to the Junction," said John, as he arose. "But I may not be back
until late."
"Now, John," said Mrs. Boyle, laying her hand on his arm, "be
careful. Don't expose yourself too much. Don't go to Break o' Day, or
any place where there are drunken men. You don't know what they would
do."
"I will do as you say," answered John, as he stepped outside.
He crossed the clearing, on the poorly-cultivated surface of which
fire-weeds had grown rank and thick. As emitted an acrid odor which
suggested the appropriateness of their name. Wrengell took the road
which he had lost in his first approach to the lonely house in the
clearing. The plentiful light streaming from the heavens showed the
nightly magnificence of the wood. A furlong from the edge the
underbrush was scant, so that the large trunks were visible for rods.
Slender plats of fresh green grass were scattered at intervals, their
loveliness more apparent because contrasted with the brown spread of
dry leaves. Their verdancy had been preserved in the cool shade
furnished by the great white oaks, whose strong arms were
outstretched to the shelter them from the heat of midday.
McDuff's heavy gate with the stone balance swung open as easily as it
had done two weeks before. Not wishing to follow the road, John
crossed it and clambered over the opposite fence. He deemed it
advisable to proceed along the edge of the swamp, where, should he be
observed, he could find a refuge at once. A bright fire, evidently
from a high brush heap, was burning at the border of the woods beyond
the wide stretch of fields. That he was nearing familiar territory he
was apprised by a sound which he had once detested, but which was now
far from unwelcome, the yelping of Takum's dogs. He crossed a second
road and was shortly in the major's field, for the leveling of which
the hands had worked so long in the spring.
He stood a minute by the front gate. The loud talking of the men had
ceased in the club-house. It was past the hour when the major's
family was in the habit of retiring, yet a light was burning in the
parlor. John stole to a window and looked inside. Not a person was in
sight. This was inexplicable to him, as it was Ratke's custom to put
out the lights before going to bed. He was astonished when, taking a
closer view, he saw Archer yawning over a thick octavo volume, the
pages of which he occasionally turned. His fellow hired man had not
been famed for his love of books, and he wondered that he should
suddenly become so devoted a student as to read until midnight. He
could account for his presence there at that hour, only on the
supposition that one of the household was sick and that he was
serving as watcher. While he was endeavoring to solve the riddle,
Mrs. Grippin appeared, blew out the light, gave some injunctions
which he could not distinguish, and retired. Making a reconnoissance
of the house, John discovered that lights were burning in two of the
back bedrooms, which were separated by a distance of a few feet.
Curtains were before the windows, and on one of them was impressed
the shadow of a human form. For some minutes he watched it, undecided
whether it were made by Nora or by Manie. At last the figure quickly
jerked its head, disappeared for an instant and returned. It did not
belong to Manie, it was that of her impulsive cousin.
With a throbbing heart he went cautiously to another window. Drawing
a long breath, he raised his finger hesitatingly. It trembled an
instant in the air and fell several times faintly on the pane. There
was a rustling of paper within, a sound as of some one closing a book
and moving about in a chair. He was tempted to draw back from his
adventure. Admitting that he had rightly guessed the location Manie's
room, how was he assured that she would welcome a communication at
midnight, or that she might not be affrighted and raise an alarm. She
had quitted the chair. She was about to take some action, either to
respond to his signal, or to tell the household that some one was
prowling near the room. If he would prevent her from raising an
outcry, he must speak without delay. He must see her. He must say the
farewell which he had once repressed. He placed his lips almost to
the glass and whispered, "Manie. Manie. Miss Ratke," he corrected,
alarmed at his familiarity. The curtains parted, and the face of
Manie appeared, not affrighted, but lacking its usual serenity. She
started as she saw a man close enough to touch her had he broken that
barrier of glass.
"Do not be alarmed," said John. "It is I, John, John Wrengell."
"Is it you?" asked Manie. John thought that there was something of
joy in her manner. "We were afraid you were dead," she continued. "We
had not heard from you in so long."
"Can you not get on your bonnet and come out?" said John. "I am
afraid we shall be overheard."
"Come to-morrow," said Manie, "and we will all be glad to see you."
"I cannot," responded John sadly. "I am afraid I never can come
again. I am going away to-morrow morning, and I would like to talk
with you a few minutes."
His hope of having his request granted was so slight that he was
surprised when she put on a straw hat and began to raise the window.
He assisted her to the ground, and they stood together outside.
"Let us go to the orchard," he said.
It was there that she had accepted the first offer of his company. He
wished, but he doubted, that his words would be as well received as
they were on that Sabbath morning when the blossoms were fluttering
from the agitated boughs. At the foot of a harvest tree Manie stooped
to pick up an apple. She was not hungry, and she had no definite
purpose in so doing; but John, supposing that she wished to satisfy
her appetite, sprang up the tree in search of its best products. Like
a red squirrel he raced from limb to limb and soon descended,
bringing a pocketful of mellow apples, which he insisted that she
should take.
Now that he was in her presence, he was at a loss what to do or what
to say. He could not bear to go away without taking her hand and
bidding her an informal farewell which, if they were destined to meet
no more, would ever be a delightful memory. He dreaded to follow his
inclinations, lest he should be repulsed and their parting be an
event which would bring the most miserable recollections. He began to
feel that their meeting was a disappointment, that in social position
and in mutual regard they were and must of necessity be far apart.
"I must go in," said Manie.
"Oh, not yet! Please do not go yet!" John remonstrated. "We have just
begun to talk.''
"I have stayed a great while now," said Manie. "If people knew it,
what would they say of my climbing from a window to meet you at
night?"
"They will not know it," said John, "and there is no hurt in it, I am
sure. I own it does not reflect credit on you to be seen with me. I
am poor and disgraced. I do not wish to drag you down to my level.
To-morrow morning I go away, and I shall not come back. Keep from me
in the future, but to-night bid me good-bye as you would an equal."
"And where will you go?" asked Manie.
"Of that I am uncertain," said John. "I mean to escape from my evil
destiny. It has followed me like a hound all my life. But I will
struggle with it to the end. If I am overcome, it will be when I have
strength to fight no longer. I mean yet to make a man whom the world
will and must respect. I will take no rest, I will work in season and
out of season; and if I fail, it will not be my fault."
"I believe you will succeed," said Manie. "You certainly deserve to."
"Do you think so?" said John, excited so much that his articulation
was indistinct. "By God's help I will succeed! Manie, Miss Ratke, I
will go and try. If I fail, I will stay away as long as I live. But
if I succeed, if the world by its recognition acknowledges the wrong
it has done me, may I come back, come back with hope in my heart, and
ask you to be my wife?"
"I can consent to no such proposal," said Manie.
"I do not blame you," said John dejectedly. "I make an unreasonable
request."
"You wrong me," said Manie.
"Yes," assented John, "I was foolish to speak as I did. You have a
right to resent such an offer from one in my position."
"I care nothing for your position," said Manie, "But your offer
implies that I am selfish. It accuses me of wishing to share your
fortune, but escape your misfortune. If I would have you at all, I
would have you whether you were rich or poor, successful or
unsuccessful, esteemed or despised."
Again John felt the buoyancy of hope. She was near him, she, who,
when he was menaced by danger and tortured with pain, had with hardly
an interruption occupied his thoughts for a fortnight. His arm stole
about her.
"Do not drive me away just yet," he pleaded. "Repulse me if you will,
but after I have done speaking. Manie, I must call you that name
once, I did wrong you. But now I ask you, shall we not go together in
joy and in sorrow, in prosperity and in adversity, in riches and in
poverty, in fame and in disgrace, as long as we live? It is a great
sacrifice which I ask of you. Do not answer me yet. Let me be in
suspense. Let me think for a moment that I have won you, that we need
not again be separated."
She did not reply, and his grasp involuntarily tightened. There was
inspiration to John in every sight and sound, in every message
communicated by the senses. The wind gently touched his brow.
Every orb in the sky was sending down its quota of light. The house
showed its roof and eaves above the trees, as if it had been dropped
and had sunk in its soft cushion of green. The branches of the apple
tree, swaying slightly, cast at their feet silver bars and meshes of
bright net-work. The steady signing of the cricket, blending with the
sharp jerking chirrup of the katydid, closed his eyes and plunged him
into a reverie, which was brief, delightful, and ever after
unforgotten.
"I am ready for your answer," said John. "Sentence me as you will."
"Yes," said Manie.
Her reply destroyed the last vestige of his composure. He threw his
other arm frantically about her and kissed her again and again.
"Stop, stop!" said Manie. "One arm in that posture is enough. I shall
have to go in now."
They said nothing as they walked to the house. John opened the window
and lifted her carefully through.
"Give me a good-night kiss," he said. "I do not like to take leave of
you as formally as I did the last time I was in the house."
"I hope you are satisfied now," she said, after his demand had been
granted.
He was about to take another salute without permission, when Manie,
anticipating his design, quickly withdrew her head and closed the
window.