"Make yer moind aisy about thot," Pansy assured him. "'Tis known all
over town who ye arre, what's yer name, how manny troonks ye've brought
wid ye, and th' rayson f'r yer comin' here."
"A comforting thought, thank you," he commented: "to awake to find
one's self grown famous over-night!..."
"Now ye know," she returned, emboldened, "what it is to be a big toad
in a small puddle."
"I thank you." He nodded again, with a comprehensive survey of the
reeking floor. "I'm afraid I do." With which he slipped and slid over
to and through the swinging wicker doors of the dining-room.
It was deserted. From the negligee of the tables, littered with the
plates and dishes, dreary survivors of a dozen breakfasts, he divined
that he was the tardiest guest in the household. A slatternly young
woman in a soiled shirt-waist--the waitress--received him with great
calm and waved him toward a table by the window, where an unused cover
was laid. He went meekly, dogged by her formidable presence. She stood
over him and glared down.
"Haman neggs," she said defiantly, "steakan nomlette."
"I'll be a martyr," he told her civilly. "Me for the steak."
She frowned gloomily and tramped away. He folded his hands and, cheered
by an appetising aroma of warm water and yellow soap from the office,
considered the prospect from the window by his side. Three children and
a yellow dog came along and watched him do it, dispassionately
reviewing his points in clear young voices. Tracey Tanner ambled into
view on the other side of the street and beamed at him generously, his
round red face resembling, Duncan thought, more than anything else a
summer sun rising through mist. Josie Lockwood (he was to discover her
name later) passed with her pert little nose ostentatiously pointed
away from him; none the less he detected a gleam in the corner of her
eye.... Others went by, singly or in groups, all more or less openly
interested in him.
He tried to look unconscious, but with ill success. There was nothing
particularly engaging in the view: the broad, dusty street lined with
commonplace structures of "frame" and brick, glowing in the morning
sunshine. There were, to be sure, cool shadows beneath the trees, but
the suggestion was all of summer heat. There was a watering-trough and
hitching-rail directly opposite, a little to one side of Hemmenway's
feed-store, and there a well-fed mare stood, drooping dejectedly
between the shafts of a dilapidated buggy. On the corner was a
two-storey brick building with large plate-glass windows on the ground
floor for the display of intimate articles of feminine apparel. The
black and gold sign above proclaimed it: "The Fair. Dry Goods &
Notions. Leonard & Call." Duncan considered it with grave respect. "The
scene of my future activities," he observed.
By this time his audience had become too large and friendly for his
endurance. He rose and retired to a less public table.
In her own good time the waitress returned with a plate, and a small
oval platter in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She placed
them before him with a manner that told him plainly he could never make
himself the master of her affections. The small oval platter was
discovered to contain a small segment of dark-brown ham and two fried
eggs swimming in grease.
Duncan questioned the woman with mute, appealing eyes.
"Steak's run out," she told him curtly.
"Leaving no address?" he inquired with forced gaiety.
A suppressed smile softened her austerity, and she turned away to hide
it. "To think," he wondered, "that a sense of humour should inhabit
that!" He broke a roll and munched it gloomily, pondering this
revelation. "And such humour !" he added, with justice.
After an interval the woman returned. He had refrained from the staple
dish. She indicated it with a grimy forefinger.
"Please!" he begged plaintively. "I'm never very hungry in the
morning."
"I guess you don't like the table here," she observed icily, clearing
away.
"Do you?"
"I don't have to; I live home."
He stared. Could it be possible...?
"I know a good old one, too," he ventured hopefully. "Now here." He
drew his coffee cup toward him and began to stir with energy. "You say:
'It looks like rain'; and I'll say: 'Yes, but it tastes a little like
coffee.'"
She clattered away indignantly. He rose, depressed, and sighing sought
the outer air.
In the course of a forenoon's stroll Radville discovered itself to him
in all its squalor and its loveliness. It sits in the centre of a broad
valley of rolling meadow-land, studded with infrequent homesteads,
broken into rather extensive farms, threaded by a shallow silver stream
that gives its all in tribute to the Susquehanna far in the south. The
barrier mountains rise about it like the sides of a bowl, with a great
V-shaped piece chipped out of the southern wall. This break we call the
Gap; through it the railroad comes to us, through it the river escapes.
The hills rear high and steep, their swelling flanks cloaked in sombre
green and grey, with here and there a bald spot like a splash of ochre
where there's been a landslide, climbing directly from the plain, with
no foothills. A recluse, I have thought, must have chosen this spot for
a town site; sickened of the world, he sought seclusion--and found it
here to his heart's content. Until the coke-ovens come, following the
miners, with their attendant hordes of Slovaks, Poles and Hungarians,
we shall be near to God, for we shall know peace....
The town has been laid out with great rectangularity; the river divides
it unequally. On the western bank is the larger community--locally, the
Old Town, retaining its characteristics of sobriety, quiet and comfort;
here, also, is the business centre--such business as there is. Here
Duncan found homely residences sitting back from the street in ample
grounds--grounds, perhaps, not very carefully groomed, but in spite of
that attractive and pleasant to the eye. With one or two exceptions,
none were strongly suggestive of wealth. He detected a trace of
ostentation, and no taste whatever, in Lockwood's new villa (I'm told
that's the polite designation for the edifice he caused to be erected
what time the plague of riches smote him and the old home on Cherry
Street became too small for the collective family chest), and there was
quiet dignity in the quaintly columned facade of the Bohun mansion, now
occupied solely by old Colonel Bohun, lonely and testy, reputed the
richest as well as the most miserable man in the county. But as to his
wealth, I doubt if rumour runs by more than tradition; Blinky
Lockwood's new-found hundred-thousands are growing rapidly toward the
million mark, unless Blinky's a worse business man than the town takes
him to be.
An old stone arch (whereon lovers linger in the moonlight) spans the
stream and links the Old Town with the new, which we sometimes term the
Flats, but more often simply Over There. It is a sordid huddle of dingy
and down-at-the-heel tenements, housing the poorer working classes and
the frankly worthless and ruffianly riff-raff of the neighbourhood.
There are eight gin-mills Over There as against two sample-rooms in the
Old Town, and of the local constabulary two-thirds lead exciting lives
patrolling the Flats; the remaining third is ordinarily to be found
dozing in the backroom of Schwartz's, and if roused will answer to the
name and title of Pete Willing, Sheriff and Chief of Police.
Duncan reviewed both sides of the municipal face with fine
impartiality--the Flats last; and turned back to the Old Town. "There's
one thing," he communed as he reached the bridge: "If these people ever
find me out they'll run me across the river--sure."
He paused there, looking up and down the valley with contemplative
gaze; and it was there I found him.
As is my custom, I had devoted the earlier morning hours to the
compilation of that work which is to gain for the name of Littlejohn a
trifle more respect than, I fear, it owns in Radville nowadays; and
afterwards, again in accordance with habit, had started out for my
morning constitutional. As I was about to leave the house Miss
Carpenter waylaid me and, in a voice still tremulous from the shock of
yesterday, asked me to hunt up Jake Sawyer in the Flats and tell him to
come and cut the grass.
I was not in the least unwilling, for the walk was not long, and the
morning very pleasant--not too warm, and bright with the smiling spirit
of June. I don't remember feeling more cheerful and at peace with the
world than when I marched off on my mission. The cloud I might, of
course, have anticipated: clouds always come, and a lifetime has taught
me to be sceptical of that tale about the silver lining. And even when
it came it seemed no more depressing, of no more significant moment,
than the cloud shadow that scurries across a wheat-field with no effect
other than to enhance the beauty of the sunshine that pursues it.
Old Colonel Bohun was the cloud-shadow of that morning. I met him
turning into Main Street from Mortimer--at the head of which his
mansion stands. He came down the sidewalk, but with a hint of haste in
his manner: a tall old man, bending beneath the burden of his years,
his fierce old face and iron-grey hair shaded as always by the black
slouch hat with the flapping brim, his rounded shoulders cloaked with
the black Inverness cape he wore summer and winter. In spite of his age
and evident decrepitude, he bodied forth the spirit of what he had
been, and none could pass him without knowledge of his presence; he
drew eyes as a magnet draws filings, and drawing, held them in respect.
I doubted if there were a man in Radville who could meet the old
colonel with anything but a mingling of fear and deference--with one or
two exceptions. For myself I hated him heartily, and he, looking down
at me from the peak of pride whereon his iron soul perched, despised me
with equal intensity. So we got along famously at our infrequent
encounters.
This morning I caught a flash of fire from his red-rimmed old eyes, and
told myself I was sorry for whoever crossed his path before he returned
to his lonely castle. It was his habit at odd intervals to foray down
the village streets with one grievance or another rankling in his
bosom, seeking some unlucky one upon whose head to wreak his
resentment. We had come to recognise the heavy, slow tapping of his
thick cane as a harbinger of trouble, even as you might prognosticate a
thunderstorm from the rumbling beneath the horizon.
I saw he recognised me and gave him a civil salute, which he returned
with a brusque nod and a sharper, "Good-morning, Littlejohn," as he
passed. Then he swung into Main Street, paralleling my course on the
opposite sidewalk, and went _thump-thumping_ along, darting quick
glances hither and yon beneath his heavy brows, like some dark
incarnation of perverse pride and passion.
Partly because the sight of him sensibly influenced my mood, and partly
because inevitably he made me think of Sam Graham, I turned off at
Beech Street, leaving him to pursue his way toward the centre of town.
Graham's one-horse drug-store stood on Beech, a block south of Main.
That being the least promising location in town for a business of any
sort, Sam had naturally selected it when he concluded to set up shop.
If Sam had ever in his life displayed any symptoms of business
sagacity, Radville would never have recovered from the shock. I believe
it was Legrand Gunn, our only really certificated village wit, who
coined the epigram: "As useless as to take a prescription to Graham's."
The implication being that Graham didn't carry sufficient stock to
fill any prescription; which was largely true; he couldn't; he hadn't
the money to stock up with. What little he took in from time to time
went in part to the support of Betty and himself, but mainly to pay
interest on his debts and buy raw materials for models of his
thousand-and-one inventions. Most Radvillians firmly believed that Sam
has at some time or other in his busy, worthless career invented
everything under the sun, practicable or impracticable--the former
always a few days after somebody else had taken out patents for the
identical device. But at that time no one believed he would ever make a
cent out of any one of the children of his ingenious brain; nor was I,
in this respect, more credulous than any of my fellow-townsmen.
I lingered a moment outside the shop, thinking of the change that had
come over it since the death of Margaret Graham, Betty's mother. For,
despite its out-of-the-way location, the shop had not always been
unprofitable; while Margaret lived (my heart still ached with the
memory of her name) Sam's business had prospered. She had been one of
those woman who can rise to any emergency in the interest of her loved
ones; the first to realise Sam's improvidence and lack of executive
ability, she had taken hold of the business with a firm hand and made
it pay--while she lived. It has never ceased to be a source of
wondering speculation to me, that she, with her gentle training, so
wholly aloof from every thought of commerce or economy, should have
proven herself so thorough and level-headed a business woman. There's
no accounting for it, indeed, save on the theory that she conceived it
a woman's function to make up for man's deficiencies; Sam needed her,
so she become his wife; he needed a manager, so she had became that
also....
During Margaret's regime, as I say, the shop had thrived. Sam had few
ill-wishers in Radville; the trade came his way. Then Betty was born
and Margaret died....
Most of this I have on hearsay. I left Radville shortly after their
marriage and did not return until some months after Margaret's burial.
By that time the shop had begun to show signs of neglect; its stock was
decimated, its trade likewise. Sam was struggling with his inventions
more fiercely than ever--seeking forgetfulness, I always thought. The
business was allowed to take care of itself. He had always a serene
faith in his tomorrows.
Now the little shop had been far distanced by the competition of
Sothern and Lee. It was twenty years behind the times, as the saying
is. Small, darksome, dreary and dingy, it served chiefly as a
living-room for Sam, his daughter, and his cronies, as well as for his
workshop. He had a bench and a ramshackle lathe in one corner, where
you might be sure to find him futilely pottering at almost any hour. He
owned the little building--or that portion in it which it were a farce
to term the equity above the mortgage--and Betty kept house for him in
three rooms above the store.
I saw nothing of him as I stepped across the street, and was wondering
if he were at home when, through the small, dark panes of glass in his
show windows I discerned his white old head bobbing busily over
something on the rear counter. I pushed the door open and entered. He
looked up with his never-failing smile of welcome and a wave of his
hand.
"Howdy, Homer? Come in. Well, well, I'm glad to see you. Sit down--I
think that chair there by the stove will hold together under you."
"What are you doing, Sam?" I asked.
"Fixin' up the sody fountain. 'Meant to get it working last month,
Homer, but somehow I kind of forgot."
He rubbed away briskly at the single faucet which protruded above the
counter, lathering it briskly with a metal polish that smelt to Heaven.
"Do much sody trade, Sam?"
He paused, passing his worn old fingers reflectively across a chin
snowy with a stubble of neglected beard. "No," he allowed thoughtfully,
"not so much as we used to, now that Sothern and Lee've got this
new-fangled notion of puttin' ice cream in a nickel glass of sody. Most
of the young folks go there, now, but still I get a call flow and
then--and every little bit helps." He rubbed on ferociously for a
moment. "'Course, I'd do more, likely, if I carried a bigger line of
flavours."
"How many do you carry?"
"One," he admitted with a sigh, "vanilly."
While I filled my pipe he continued to rub very industriously.
"Why don't you get more?"
He flashed me one of his pale, genial smiles. "I'm thinkin' of it,
Homer, soon's I get some money in. Next week, mebbe. There's a man in
N'York that mebbe can be int'rested in one of my inventions, Roland
Barnette says. Mebbe he'd be willin' to put a little money in it,
Roland says, and of course if he does, I'll be able to stock up
considerable."
I sighed covertly for him. He rubbed, humming a tuneless rhythm to
himself.
"Roland's goin' to write to him about it."
"What invention?" I asked, incredulous.
Sam put down his bottle of polish and came round the counter, beaming;
nothing pleases him better than an opportunity to exhibit some one of
his innumerable models. "I'll show you, Homer," he volunteered
cheerfully, shuffling over to his work-bench. He rasped a match over
its surface and applied the flame to a small gas-bracket fixed to the
wall. A strong rush of gas extinguished the match, and he turned the
flow half off before trying again. This time the vapour caught and
settled to a steady, brilliant flame as white as and much softer than
acetylene.
"There!" he said in triumph. "What d'ye think of that, Homer?"
"Why," I said, "I didn't know you had an acetylene plant."
"No more have I, Homer."
"But what is that, then?" I demanded.
"It's my invention," he returned proudly.
"I've been workin' on it two years, Homer, and only got it goin'
yestiddy. It's going to be a great thing, I tell you."
"But what _is_ it, Sam?"
"It's gas from crude petroleum, Homer. See ..." he continued,
indicating a tank beneath the bench which seemed to be connected with
the bracket by a very simple system of piping, broken by a smaller,
cylindrical tank. "Ye put the oil in there--just crude, as it comes out
of the wells, Homer; it don't need refinin'--and it runs through this
and down here to this, where it's vaporised--much the same's they
vaporise gasoline for autymobile engines, ye know--and then it just
naturally flows up to the bracket--and there ye are."
"It's wonderful, Sam," said I, wondering if it really were.
"And the best part of it is the economy, Homer. A gallon will run one
jet six weeks, day in and out. And simple to install. I tell ye--"
"Have you got it patented yet?"
"Yes, siree! took out patents just as soon as it struck me how simple
it 'ud be--more than two years ago. Only, of course, it took time to
work it out just right, 'specially when I had to stop now and then
'cause I needed money for materials. But it's all right now, Homer,
it's all right now."
"And you say Roland Barnette's writing to some one in New York about
it?"
"Yes; he promised he would. I explained it to Roland and he seemed real
int'rested. He's kind, very kind."
I was inclined to doubt this, and would probably have said something to
that effect had not a shadow crossing the window brought me to my feet
in consternation. But before I could do more than rise, Colonel Bohun
had flung open the door and stamped in. He stopped short at sight of
me, misguided by his near-sighted eyes, and singled me out with a
threatening wave of his heavy stick.
"Well, sir!" he snarled. "I've come for my answer. Have you sense
enough in your addled pate to understand that, man? I've come for my
answer!"
"And may have it, whatever it may be, for all of me," I told him.
His face flushed a deeper red. "Oh, it's only you, is it, Littlejohn? I
took you for that fool Graham, in this damned dark hole. Where is he?"
I looked to Graham and he followed the direction of my gaze to the
work-bench, where Sam stood with his back to it, his worn hands folded
quietly before him. He seemed a little whiter than usual, I thought;
and perhaps it was only my fancy that made him appear to tremble ever
so slightly. For he was quite calm and self-possessed--so much so that
I realised for the first time there was another man in Radville besides
myself who did not fear old Colonel Bohun.
"I'm here, colonel," he said quietly. "What is it you wish?"
The colonel swung on him, shaking with passion. But he held his tongue
until he had mastered himself somewhat: a feat of self-restraint on his
part over which I marvel to this day.
"You know well, Graham," he said presently. "You got my letter--the
letter I wrote you a week ago?"
"Yes," said Sam, with a start of comprehension. "Yes, I got it."
"Then why the devil, man, don't you answer it?"
Sam's apologetic smile sweetened his face.
"Why," he said haltingly--"I'm sure I meant no offence, but--you see,
I'm a very busy man--I forgot it."
"The hell you forgot it. D'ye expect me to believe that, man?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to."
Bohun was speechless for a moment, stricken dumb by a second seizure of
fury. But again he calmed himself.
"Very well. I'll swallow that insolence for the present--"
"It wasn't meant as such, I assure--"
"Don't interrupt me! D'you hear? ... I've come for my answer. Yes, I've
come down to that, Graham. If you can't accord me the common courtesy
of a written reply--I've come to hear it from your mouth."
Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Mebbe," he said, "you forgot you have failed
to accord me the common courtesy of any sort of a communication
whatever for twenty years, Colonel Bohun. Even when my wife, your
daughter, died, you ignored my message asking you to her funeral...."
"Be silent!" screamed the colonel. "Do you think I'm here to bandy
words with you, fool? I demand my answer."
"And as for that," continued Sam as evenly as if he had not been
interrupted, "your proposition was so preposterous that it could have
come only from you, and deserved no answer. But since you want it
formally, sir, it's no."
For a moment I feared Bohun would have a stroke. The back of the chair
I had just vacated and his stick alone supported him through that dumb,
terrible transport. He shook so violently that I looked momentarily to
see the chair break beneath him. There was insanity in his eyes. When
finally he was able to articulate it was in broken gasps.
"I don't believe it," he stammered. "It's a lie. I don't believe it.
It's madness--the girl wouldn't be so mad. ..."
"What is it, father?"
I don't know which of us three was the more startled by that simple
question in Betty Graham's voice; Sam, at all events, showed the least
surprise; the old colonel wheeled toward the back of the store, his jaw
dropping and his eyes protruding as though he were confronted with a
ghost. As, in a way, he was: even I had been struck by that strange,
heartrending similarity to her mother's tone; and even I trembled a
little to hear that voice, as it seemed, from beyond the grave.
Betty stood at the foot of the staircase; alarmed by the noise of the
colonel's raging, she had stolen down, unheard by any of us. And in
that moment I realised as never before that the girl had more of her
mother in her than lay in that marvellous reproduction of Margaret
Graham's voice. As she waited there one detected in her pose something
of her mother's quiet dignity, in her eyes more than a little of
Margaret's tragedy. Of Margaret's beauty I saw scant trace, I own; but
in those days my eyes were blinded by the signs of overwork and
insufficient nourishment that marred her young features, by the
hopeless dowdiness of her garments.
Abruptly she moved swiftly to her father's side and slipped her hand
into his. "What is it, father?" she repeated, eyeing Colonel Bohun
coldly.
I thought Sam's eyes filled. His lips trembled and he had to struggle
to master his voice. He smiled through it all, tenderly at his girl,
but there was in that smile the weakness of the child grown old, the
dependence of the man whose womanfolk must ever mother him.
"Why, Betty," he said, tremulous--"why, Betty, your grandfather here
has been kind enough to offer to take you and educate you and make a
lady of you, and--and we were just talking it over, dear, just talking
it over."
"Do you mean that?" she flung at Bohun.
He straightened up and held himself well in hand. "Is it the first you
have heard of it?"
"Yes." She looked inquiringly at her father.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Bohun persisted harshly. "Were you afraid?"
"No." Sam shook his head slowly. "I wasn't
afraid. But it was unnecessary.... You see, Betty, Colonel Bohun is
willing to do all this for you on several conditions. You must leave me
and never see me again; you mustn't even recognise me should we meet
upon the street; you must change your name to Bohun and never permit
yourself to be known as Betty Graham. Then you must--"
"Never mind, daddy dear," said the girl. "That is enough. I know now--I
understand why you never told me. It's impossible. Colonel Bohun knew
that when he made the offer, of course; he made it simply to harass
you, daddy. It's his revenge...."
She looked Bohun up and down with a glance of contempt that would have
withered another man, poor, wan, haggard little maid of all work that
she was.
"And that's your answer, miss?" he snapped, livid with wrath.
"I would not," she told him slowly, "accept a favour from you, sir, if
I were starving...."
Bohun drew himself up. "Then starve," he told her; and walked out of
the shop.
I gaped after his retreating figure. It seemed impossible, incredible,
that he should have taken such an answer without yielding to a fit of
insensate passion. And I was still marvelling when I heard Graham
saying in a broken voice: "Betty! Betty, my little girl!"
Then I, too, went away, with a mist before my eyes to dim the golden
grace of June.