and as she recovered herself her heart seemed to come into her face and
eyes.
"Ev'rybody about here is rough, or dirty, or mean, or rich, or proud, or
somethin'," continued the dying man, in a thin yet earnest voice. "It's
all as good as I deserve; but my heart's ached sometimes to look at
somebody that would keep me from b'leevin' that ev'rything was black an'
awful. And I've seen her. Can I just touch my finger to your dress? I've
heard mother read how that somebody in the Old Country was once made all
right by just touchin' the clothes Christ had on."
In his earnestness, the wretched man had raised himself upon one elbow,
and out of his face had departed every expression but one of pitiful
pleading. Still Mabel could not speak; but, bending slightly forward,
she extended one of her slender, dainty hands toward the one which Baggs
had raised in his appeal.
"White--shining--good--all right," he murmured. Then all of Baggs which
fell back upon the floor was clay.
* * * * *
With the prudence of a conqueror, who knows when the full extent of his
powers has been reached, Mabel Fewne married within six months. The
happy man was not a new conquest, but an old victim, who was willfully
pardoned with such skill, that he never doubted that his acceptance to
favor was the result of the renewal of his homage.
[Illustration]
MARKSON'S HOUSE.
Raines is my name--Joseph Raines. I am a house-builder by profession,
and as I do not often see my writings in print, except as prepaid
advertisements, I consider this a good opportunity to say to the public
in general that I can build as good a house for a given sum of money as
any other builder, and that I am a square man to deal with. I am aware
of the fact that both of these assertions have been made by many other
persons about themselves; but to prove their trustworthiness when
uttered by me, the public needs only to give me a trial. (In justice to
other builders, I must admit they can use even this last statement of
mine with perfect safety for the present, and with prospective profit if
they get a contract to build a house.)
I suppose it will be considered very presumptuous in me to attempt to
write a story, for, while some professions seem relatives of literature,
I freely admit that there is no carpenter's tool which prepares one to
handle a pen. To be sure, I have read some stories which, it seemed to
me, could have been improved by the judicious use of a handsaw, had that
extremely radical tool been able to work aesthetically as it does
practically; and while I have read certain other stories, and essays,
and poems, I have been tormented by an intense desire to apply to them a
smoothing-plane, a pair of compasses, or a square, or even to so far
interfere with their arrangement as to cut a window-hole or two, and an
occasional ventilator. Still, admitting that the carpenter should stick
to his bench--or to his office or carriage, if he is a master builder,
as I am--I must yet insist that there are occasions when a man is
absolutely compelled to handle tools to which he is not accustomed.
Doctor Buzzle, my own revered pastor, established this principle firmly
in my mind one day by means of a mild rebuke, administered on the
occasion of my volunteering to repair some old chairs which had come
down to him through several generations. The doctor was at work upon
them himself, and although he seemed to regard the very chips and
sawdust--even such as found a way into his eyes--with a reverent
affection, he was certainly ruining good material in a shocking manner.
But when I proffered my assistance, he replied:
"Thank you, Joseph; but--they wouldn't be the same chairs if any one
else touched them."
I feel similarly about the matter of my story--perhaps you will
understand why as you read it.
When I had finished my apprenticeship, people seemed to like me, and
some of our principal men advised me to stay at Bartley, my native
village--it was so near the city, they said, and would soon fill up with
city people, who would want villas and cottages built. So I staid, and
between small jobs of repairing, and contracts to build fences, stables
and carriage-houses, I managed to keep myself busy, and to save a little
money after I had paid my bills.
One day it was understood that a gentleman from the city had bought a
villa site overlooking the town, and intended to build very soon. I
immediately wrote him a note, saying I would be glad to see his plans
and make an estimate; and in the course of time the plans were sent me,
and I am happy to say that I under-estimated every one, even my own old
employer.
Then the gentleman--Markson his name was--drove out to see me, and he
put me through a severe course of questions, until I wondered if he was
not some distinguished architect. But he wasn't--he was a
shipping-merchant. It's certainly astonishing how smart some of those
city fellows are about everything.
The upshot was, he gave me the contract, and a very pretty one it was:
ten thousand three hundred and forty dollars. To be sure, he made me
alter the specifications so that the sills should be of stuff ten inches
square, instead of the thin stuff we usually use for the sills of
balloon-frame houses, such as his was to be; and though the alteration
would add quite a few dollars to the cost of materials, I did not dare
to add a cent to my estimate, for fear of losing the contract.
Besides--though, of course, I did not intend to do so dishonorable a
thing--I knew that I could easily make up the difference by using cheap
paint instead of good English lead for priming, or in either one of a
dozen other ways; builders have such tricks, just as ministers and
manufacturers and railroadmen do.
I felt considerably stuck up at getting Markson's house to build, and my
friends said I had a perfect right to feel so, for no house so costly
had been built at Bartley for several years.
So anxious were my friends that I should make a first-class job of it,
that they all dropped in to discuss the plan with me, and to give me
some advice, until--thanks to their thoughtful kindness--my head would
have been in a muddle had the contemplated structure been a cheap barn
instead of a costly villa.
But, by a careful review of the original plan every night after my
friends departed, and a thoughtful study of it each morning before going
to work, I succeeded in completing it according to the ideas of the only
two persons really concerned--I refer to Mr. Markson and myself.
Admitting in advance that there is in the house-building business very
little that teaches a man to be a literary critic, I must nevertheless
say that many poets of ancient and modern times might have found the
building of a house a far more inspiring theme than some upon which they
have written, and even a more respectable one than certain others which
some distinguished rhymers have unfortunately selected.
I have always wondered why, after Mr. Longfellow wrote "The Building of
a Ship," some one did not exercise his muse upon a house. I never
attempted poetry myself, except upon my first baby, and even _those_
verses I transcribed with my left hand, so they might not betray me to
the editor of the Bartley _Conservator_, to whom I sent them, and by
whom they were published.
I say I never attempted poetry-writing save once; but sometimes when I
am working on a house, and think of all that must transpire within
it--of the precious ones who will escape, no matter how strongly I build
the walls; of the destroyer who will get in, in spite of the improved
locks I put on all my houses; of the darkness which cannot at times be
dispelled, no matter how large the windows, nor how perfect the glass
may be (I am very particular about the glass I put in); of the
occasional joys which seem meet for heavenly mansions not built by
contract; of the unseen heroisms greater than any that men have ever
cheered, and the conquests in comparison with which the achievements of
mighty kings are only as splintery hemlock to Georgia pine--when I think
of all this, I am so lifted above all that is prosaic and
matter-of-fact, that I am likely even to forget that I am working by
contract instead of by the day.
Besides, Markson's house was my first job on a residence, and it was a
large one, and I was young, and full of what I fancied were original
ideas of taste and effect; and as I was unmarried, and without any
special lady friend, I was completely absorbed in Markson's house.
How it would look when it was finished; what views it would command;
whether its architectural style was not rather subdued, considering the
picturesque old hemlocks which stood near by; what particular shade of
color would be effective alike to the distant observer and to those who
stood close by when the light reached it only through the green of the
hemlock; just what color and blending of slate to select, so the
steep-pitched roof should not impart a sombre effect to the whole house;
how much money I would make on it (for this is a matter of utter
uncertainty until your work is done, and you know what you've paid out
and what you get); whether Markson could influence his friends in my
favor; what sort of a family he had, and whether they were worthy of the
extra pains I was taking on their house--these and a thousand other
wonderings and reveries kept possession of my mind; while the natural
pride and hope and confidence of a young man turned to sweet music the
sound of saw and hammer and trowel, and even translated the rustling of
pine shavings with hopeful whispers.
The foundations had been laid, and the sills placed in position, and I
was expecting to go on with the work as soon as Markson himself had
inspected the sills--this, he said, he wished to do before anything
further was done; and, so that he might not have any fault to find with
them, I had them sawn to order, and made half an inch larger each way,
so they couldn't possibly shrink before he could measure them.
The night before he was to come up and examine them, I was struck at the
supper-table by the idea that perhaps, from one of the western
chamber-windows, there might be seen the river which lay, between the
hills, a couple of miles beyond. As the moon was up and full, I could
not rest until I had ascertained whether I was right or wrong; so I put
a twenty-foot tapeline in my pocket, and hurried off to the hill where
the house was to stand.
Foundation three feet, height of parlor ceilings twelve feet, allow for
floors two feet more, made the chamber-floor seventeen feet above the
level of the ground.
Climbing one of the hemlocks which I thought must be in line with the
river and the window, I dropped my line until I had unrolled seventeen
feet, and then ascended until the end of the line just touched the
ground. I found I was right in my supposition; and in the clear, mellow
light of the moon the river, the hills and valleys, woods, fields,
orchards, houses and rocks (the latter ugly enough by daylight, and
utterly useless for building purposes) made a picture which set me
thinking of a great many exquisite things entirely out of the
housebuilding line.
I might have stared till the moon went down, for when I've nothing else
to do I dearly enjoy dreaming with my eyes open; but I heard a rustling
in the leaves a little way off, and then I heard footsteps, and then,
looking downward, I saw a man come up the path, and stop under the tree
in which I was.
Of course I wondered what he wanted; I should have done so, even if I
had had no business there myself; but under the circumstances, I became
very much excited.
Who could it be? Perhaps some rival builder, come to take revenge by
setting my lumber afire! I would go down and reason with him. But, wait
a moment; if he _has_ come for that purpose, he may make things
uncomfortable for me before I reach the ground. And if he sets the
lumber afire, and it catches the tree I am in, as it will certainly do,
I will be--
There is no knowing what sort of a quandary I might not have got into if
the man had not stepped out into the moonlight, and up on the sills, and
shown himself to be--Mr. Markson.
"Well," I thought, "you _are_ the most particular man I ever knew--and
the most anxious! I don't know, though--it's natural enough; if _I_
can't keep away from this house, it's not strange that _he_ should want
to see all of it he can. It's natural enough, and it does him credit."
But Mr. Markson's next action was neither natural nor to his credit. He
took off his traveling shawl, and disclosed a carpenter's brace; this
and the shawl he laid on the ground, and then he examined the sills at
the corners, where they were joined.
They were only half joined, as we say in the trade--that is, the ends of
each piece of timber were sawn half through and the partially detached
portions cut out, so that the ends lapped over each other.
Well, Mr. Markson hastily stacked up bricks and boards to the height of
the foundation, and then made a similar stack at the other end of the
foundation-wall, and then he rolled one of the sills over on these two
supports, so it was bottom side up. Then he fitted a bit--a good wide
one, an inch and a quarter, at least, I should say--to the brace, and
then commenced boring a hole in the sill.
I was astonished, but not too much so to be angry. That piece of timber
was mine; Mr. Markson had not paid me a cent yet, and was not to do so
until the next morning, after examining the foundations and sills.
I had heard of such tricks before; my old employer had had men secretly
injure a building, so as to claim it was not built according to contract
when the money came due, but none of them did it so early in the course
of the business.
Within a few seconds my opinion of Mr. Markson's smartness altered
greatly, and so did my opinion of human nature in general. I would have
sadly, but promptly sold out my contract with Mr. Markson for the price
of a ticket for the West, and I should have taken the first train.
As he bored that hole I could see just how all the other builders in
town would look when I had to take the law on Markson, and how all my
friends would come and tell me I ought to have insisted on a payment in
advance.
But, after several sorrowful moments had elapsed, I commenced to think,
and I soon made up my mind what I would do. I would _not_ descend from
the tree while he was there--I have too much respect for my person to
put it at the mercy of an ill-disposed individual. But as soon as he
left the place, I would hasten to the ground, follow him, and demand an
explanation. He might be armed, but I was, too--there were hard
characters at Bartley, and they knew my pocket-book was sometimes full.
Hole after hole that man bored; he made one join another until he had a
string of them ten inches long, or thereabouts; then he began another
string, right beside the first, and then another.
I saw that his bit went but six or seven inches deep, so that it did
not pierce the sill, and I could almost believe him in league with some
rival builder to ruin my reputation by turning over, next morning, a log
apparently sound, and showing it to be full of holes.
I didn't feel any better-natured, either, when I noticed that he had
carefully put a newspaper under where he was boring to catch all the
chips, and destroy any idea of the mischief having been done wilfully
and on the spot; but I determined I would follow him, and secure that
paper of chips as evidence.
Suddenly he stopped boring, and took a chisel from somewhere about his
clothes, and he soon chiseled that honeycombed spot into a single hole,
about five inches by ten, and six or seven inches deep.
It slowly dawned over me that perhaps his purpose wasn't malicious,
after all; and by the time I had reasoned the matter he helped me to a
conclusion by taking from his pocket a little flat package, which he put
into the hole.
It looked as if it might be papers, or something the size of folded
papers; but it was wrapped in something yellow and shiny--oil skin,
probably, to keep it from the damp. Then he drove a few little nails
inside the holes to keep the package from falling out when the sill was
turned over; and then he did something which I never saw mixed with
carpenter-work in my life--he stooped and kissed the package as it lay
in the hole, and then he knelt on the ground beside the sill, and I
could see by his face upturned in the moonlight, showing his closed eyes
and moving lips, that he was praying.
[Illustration: HE KNELT ON THE GROUND BESIDES THE SILL, AND I COULD SEE
THAT HE WAS PRAYING.]
Up to that moment I had been curious to know what was in that package;
but after what I saw then, I never thought of it without wanting to
utter a small prayer myself, though I never could decide what would be
the appropriate thing to say, seeing I knew none of the circumstances. I
am very particular not to give recommendations except where I am very
sure the person I recommend is all right.
Well, Markson disappeared a moment or two after, first carefully
replacing the sill, and carrying away the chips, and I got out of my
tree, forgetting all about the view I had discovered; and the unexpected
scene I had looked at ran in my mind so constantly that, during the
night, I dreamed that Markson stood in the hemlock-tree, with a gigantic
brace and bit, and bored holes in the hills beside the river, while I
kneeled in the second story window-frame, and kissed my contract with
Markson, and prayed that I might make a hundred thousand dollars out of
it. It is perfectly astonishing what things a sensible man will
sometimes dream.
Next morning I arrived at the building a few minutes before seven, and
found Markson there before me. He expressed himself satisfied with
everything, and paid me then and there a thousand dollars, which was due
on acceptance of the work as far as then completed.
He hung around all day while we put up the post and studding--probably
to see that the sill was not turned over and his secret disclosed; and
it was with this idea that I set the studding first on his particular
sill. By night we had the frame so near up, that there was no
possibility of the sill being moved; and then Markson went away.
He came up often, after that, to see how his house was getting along.
Each time he came he would saunter around to that particular sill, and
when I noticed that he did this, I made some excuse to call the men away
from that side of the house.
Sometimes he brought his family with him, and I scarcely knew whether to
be glad or sorry; for, while his daughter, a handsome, strong, bright,
honest, golden-haired girl of fifteen or sixteen, always affected me as
if she was a streak of sunshine, and made me hope I should some day have
a daughter like her, his wife always affected me unpleasantly.
I am not a good physiognomist, but I notice most people resemble animals
of some sort, and when I decide on what animal it is, in any particular
case, I judge the person accordingly.
Now, Mrs. Markson--who was evidently her husband's second wife, for she
was too young to be Helen's mother--was rather handsome and extremely
elegant, but neither manners nor dress could hide a certain tigerish
expression which was always in her face. It was generally inactive, but
it was never absent, and the rapidity with which it awoke once or twice
when she disapproved something which was done or said, made me
understand why Mr. Markson, who always seemed pleasant and genial with
any one else, was quite silent and guarded when his wife was with him.
Pretty soon the people of Bartley knew all about the Marksons. How
people learn all about other people is more than I can explain. _I_
never have a chance to know all about my neighbors, for I am kept busy
in looking to myself; but if all the energy that is devoted to other
people's business in Bartley were expended on house-building, trade
would soon be so dull that I should be longing for a mansion in the
skies.
Everybody in Bartley knew that Helen Markson's mother, who was very
beautiful and lovable, had died years before, and that her stepmother
had been Mrs. Markson only two or three years; that the second Mrs.
Markson had married for money, and that her husband was afraid of her,
and would run away from her if it wasn't for Helen; that Mrs. Markson
sometimes got angry, and then she raved like mad, and that it was
wearing Mr. Markson's life away; for he was a tender-hearted man, in
spite of his smartness. Some even declared that Markson had willed her
all his property, and insured his life heavily for her besides, and that
if he died before Helen was married, Helen would be a beggar.
But none of these things had anything to do with my contract. I worked
away and had good weather, so I lost no time, and at the end of five
months I had finished the house, been paid for it, had paid my bills,
and made a clear two thousand dollars on the job. I could have made a
thousand more, without any one being the wiser for it, but I don't
build houses in that way--the public will greatly oblige me by cutting
this out. This money gave me a handsome business start, and having had
no serious losses, nor any houses thrown back upon my hands--(for I
always make it a point to do a little better than I promise, so folks
can't find fault)--I am now quite well off, and building houses on my
own account, to sell; while some of my competitors, who started before I
did, have been through bankruptcy, while some have been too poor to do
even that.
A few years after building Markson's house, I went with a Southern
friend into a black-walnut speculation. We bought land in the Southwest,
cut the timber, got it to market, and made a handsome profit, I am glad
to say. This business took me away from home, and kept me for months,
but, as I was still without family ties, I did not suffer much during my
absence. Still the old village seemed to take on a kind of motherly air
as the stage, with me in it, rattled into town, and I was just dropping
into a pleasant little reverie, when a carriage, which I recognized as
Markson's, dashed down the road, met us, and stopped, while the coachman
shouted:
"Raines's foreman says the old man's coming home to-day."
He meant me.
"Reckon his head was purty level," replied the stage-driver, tossing his
head backward toward me.
"Mr. Raines," said the coachman, recognizing me, "Mr. Markson is awful
sick--like to die any minute--an' he wants to see you right away--wishes
you wouldn't wait for anything."
What to make of it I didn't know, and said so, upon which the
stage-driver rather pettishly suggested that 'twouldn't take long to
find out if I got behind Markson's team; and, as I agreed with him, I
changed conveyances, and was soon at Markson's house.
Helen met me at the door, and led me immediately to Markson's chamber.
The distance from the door of his room to the side of his bed couldn't
have been more than twenty feet, yet, in passing over it, it seemed to
me that I imagined at least fifty reasons why the sick man had sent for
me, but not one of the fifty was either sensible or satisfactory.
I was even foolish enough to imagine Markson's conscience was troubled,
and that he was going to pay me some money which he justly owed me,
whereas he had paid me every cent, according to contract.
We reached his bedside before I had determined what it could be. Helen
took his hand, and said:
"Father, here is Mr. Raines."
Markson, who was lying motionless, with his face to the wall, turned
quickly over and grasped my hand and beckoned me closer. I put my head
down, and he whispered:
"I'm glad you've come; I want to ask you a favor--a dying man's last
request. You're an honest man (N.B.--People intending to build will
please make a note of this.--J.R.), I am sure, and I want you to help me
do justice. You have seen my wife; she can be a tiger when she wants to.
She married me for money; she thinks the will I made some time ago,
leaving everything to her, is my last. But it is not. I've deceived her,
for the sake of peace. I made one since, leaving the bulk of my property
to Helen; it came to me through her dear mother. I know nobody to trust
it with. Mrs. Markson can wrap almost any one around her finger when she
tries, and--"
His breath began to fail, and the entrance of his wife did not seem to
strengthen him any; but he finally regained it, and continued: