The passing of Joseph from Canaan was complete. It was an evanishment
for which there was neither sackcloth nor surprise; and though there
came no news of him it cannot be said that Canaan did not hear of him,
for surely it could hear itself talk. The death of Jonas Tabor and
young Louden's crime and flight incited high doings in the "National
House" windows; many days the sages lingered with the broken meats of
morals left over from the banquet of gossip. But, after all, it is
with the ladies of a community that reputations finally rest, and the
matrons of Canaan had long ago made Joe's exceedingly uncertain. Now
they made it certain.
They did not fail of assistance. The most powerful influence in the
town was ponderously corroborative: Martin Pike, who stood for all that
was respectable and financial, who passed the plate o' Sundays, who
held the fortunes of the town in his left hand, who was trustee for the
widow and orphan,--Martin Pike, patron of all worthy charities, courted
by ministers, feared by the wicked and idle, revered by the
good,--Judge Martin Pike never referred to the runaway save in the
accents of an august doomster. His testimony settled it.
In time the precise nature of the fugitive's sins was distorted in
report and grew vague; it was recalled that he had done dread things;
he became a tradition, a legend, and a warning to the young; a Richard
in the bush to frighten colts. He was preached at boys caught playing
marbles "for keeps": "Do you want to grow up like Joe Louden?" The
very name became a darkling threat, and children of the town would have
run had one called suddenly, "HERE COMES JOE LOUDEN!" Thus does the
evil men do live after them, and the ill-fame of the unrighteous
increase when they are sped!
Very little of Joseph's adventures and occupations during the time of
his wandering is revealed to us; he always had an unwilling memory for
pain and was not afterwards wont to speak of those years which cut the
hard lines in his face. The first account of him to reach Canaan came
as directly to the windows of the "National House" as Mr. Arp,
hastening thither from the station, satchel in hand, could bring it.
This was on a September morning, two years after the flight, and Eskew,
it appears, had been to the State Fair and had beheld many things
strangely affirming his constant testimony that this unhappy world
increaseth in sin; strangest of all, his meeting with our vagrant
scalawag of Canaan. "Not a BLAMEBIT of doubt about it," declared Eskew
to the incredulous conclave. "There was that Joe, and nobody else,
stuck up in a little box outside a tent at the Fair Grounds, and
sellin' tickets to see the Spotted Wild Boy!" Yes, it was Joe Louden!
Think you, Mr. Arp could forget that face, those crooked eyebrows? Had
Eskew tested the recognition? Had he spoken with the outcast? Had he
not! Ay, but with such peculiar result that the battle of words among
the sages began with a true onset of the regulars; for, according to
Eskew's narrative, when he had delivered grimly at the boy this charge,
"I know you--YOU'RE JOE LOUDEN!" the extraordinary reply had been made
promptly and without change of countenance: "POSITIVELY NO FREE SEATS!"
On this, the house divided, one party maintaining that Joe had thus
endeavored to evade recognition, the other (to the embitterment of Mr.
Arp) that the reply was a distinct admission of identity and at the
same time a refusal to grant any favors on the score of past
acquaintanceship.
Goaded by inquiries, Mr. Arp, who had little desire to recall such
waste of silver, admitted more than he had intended: that he had
purchased a ticket and gone in to see the Spotted Wild Boy, halting in
his description of this marvel with the unsatisfactory and acrid
statement that the Wild Boy was "simply SPOTTED,"--and the stung query,
"I suppose you know what a spot IS, Squire?" When he came out of the
tent he had narrowly examined the ticket-seller,--who seemed unaware of
his scrutiny, and, when not engaged with his tickets, applied himself
to a dirty law-looking book. It was Joseph Louden, reasserted Eskew, a
little taller, a little paler, incredibly shabby and miraculously thin.
If there were any doubt left, his forehead was somewhat disfigured by
the scar of an old wound--such as might have been caused by a blunt
instrument in the nature of a poker.
"What's the matter with YOU?" Mr. Arp whirled upon Uncle Joe Davey, who
was enjoying himself by repeating at intervals the unreasonable words,
"Couldn't of be'n Joe," without any explanation. "Why couldn't it?"
shouted Eskew. "It was! Do you think my eyes are as fur gone as yours?
I saw him, I tell you! The same ornery Joe Louden, run away and
sellin' tickets for a side-show. He wasn't even the boss of it; the
manager was about the meanest-lookin' human I ever saw--and most humans
look mighty mean, accordin' to my way of thinkin'! Riffraff of the
riffraff are his friends now, same as they were here. Weeds! and HE'S
a weed, always was and always will be! Him and his kind ain't any more
than jimpsons; overrun everything if you give 'em a chance.
Devil-flowers! They have to be hoed out and scattered--even then, like
as not, they'll come back next year and ruin your plantin' once more.
That boy Joe 'll turn up here again some day; you'll see if he don't.
He's a seed of trouble and iniquity, and anything of that kind is sure
to come back to Canaan!"
Mr. Arp stuck to his prediction for several months; then he began to
waver and evade. By the end of the second year following its first
utterance, he had formed the habit of denying that he had ever made it
at all, and, finally having come to believe with all his heart that the
prophecy had been deliberately foisted upon him and put in his mouth by
Squire Buckalew, became so sore upon the subject that even the hardiest
dared not refer to it in his presence.
Eskew's story of the ticket-seller was the only news of Joe Louden that
came to Canaan during seven years. Another citizen of the town
encountered the wanderer, however, but under circumstances so
susceptible to misconception that, in a moment of illumination, he
decided to let the matter rest in a golden silence. This was Mr.
Bantry.
Having elected an elaborate course in the Arts, at the University which
was of his possessions, what more natural than that Eugene should seek
the Metropolis for the short Easter vacation of his Senior year, in
order that his perusal of the Masters should be uninterrupted? But it
was his misfortune to find the Metropolitan Museum less interesting
than some intricate phases of the gayety of New York--phases very
difficult to understand without elaborate study and a series of
experiments which the discreetly selfish permit others to make for
them. Briefly, Eugene found himself dancing, one night, with a young
person in a big hat, at the "Straw-Cellar," a crowded hall, down very
deep in the town and not at all the place for Eugene.
Acute crises are to be expected at the "Straw-Cellar," and Eugene was
the only one present who was thoroughly surprised when that of this
night arrived, though all of the merrymakers were frightened when they
perceived its extent. There is no need to detail the catastrophe. It
came suddenly, and the knife did not flash. Sick and thinking of
himself, Eugene stood staring at the figure lying before him upon the
reddening floor. A rabble fought with the quick policemen at the
doors, and then the lights went out, extinguished by the proprietor,
living up to his reputation for always being thoughtful of his patrons.
The place had been a nightmare; it became a black impossibility. Eugene
staggered to one of the open windows, from the sill of which a man had
just leaped.
"Don't jump," said a voice close to his ear. "That fellow broke his
leg, I think, and they caught him, anyway, as soon as he struck the
pavement. It's a big raid. Come this way."
A light hand fell upon his arm and he followed its leading, blindly, to
find himself pushed through a narrow doorway and down a flight of
tricky, wooden steps, at the foot of which, silhouetted against a
street light, a tall policeman was on guard. He laid masterful hands on
Eugene.
"'SH, Mack!" whispered a cautious voice from the stairway. "That's a
friend of mine and not one of those you need. He's only a student and
scared to death."
"Hurry," said the policeman, under his breath, twisting Eugene sharply
by him into the street; after which he stormed vehemently: "On yer
way, both of ye! Move on up the street! Don't be tryin' to poke yer
heads in here! Ye'd be more anxious to git out, once ye got in, I tell
ye!"
A sob of relief came from Bantry as he gained the next corner, the
slight figure of his conductor at his side. "You'd better not go to
places like the 'Straw-Cellar,'" said the latter, gravely. "I'd been
watching you for an hour. You were dancing with the girl who did the
cutting."
Eugene leaned against a wall, faint, one arm across his face. He was
too ill to see, or care, who it was that had saved him. "I never saw
her before," he babbled, incoherently, "never, never, never! I thought
she looked handsome, and asked her if she'd dance with me. Then I saw
she seemed queer--and wild, and she kept guiding and pushing as we
danced until we were near that man--and then she--then it was all
done--before--"
"Yes," said the other; "she's been threatening to do it for a long
time. Jealous. Mighty good sort of a girl, though, in lots of ways.
Only yesterday I talked with her and almost thought I'd calmed her out
of it. But you can't tell with some women. They'll brighten up and
talk straight and seem sensible, one minute, and promise to behave, and
mean it too, and the next, there they go, making a scene, cutting
somebody or killing themselves! You can't count on them. But that's
not to the point, exactly, I expect. You'd better keep away from the
'Straw-Cellar.' If you'd been caught with the rest you'd have had a
hard time, and they'd have found out your real name, too, because it's
pretty serious on account of your dancing with her when she did it, and
the Canaan papers would have got hold of it and you wouldn't be invited
to Judge Pike's any more, Eugene."
Eugene dropped his arm from his eyes and stared into the face of his
step-brother.
"Joe Louden!" he gasped.
"I'll never tell," said Joe. "You'd better keep out of all this sort.
You don't understand it, and you don't--you don't do it because you
care." He smiled wanly, his odd distorted smile of friendliness. "When
you go back you might tell father I'm all right. I'm working through a
law-school here--and remember me to Norbert Flitcroft," he finished,
with a chuckle.
Eugene covered his eyes again and groaned.
"It's all right," Joe assured him. "You're as safe as if it had never
happened. And I expect"--he went on, thoughtfully--"I expect, maybe,
you'd prefer NOT to say you'd seen me, when you go back to Canaan.
Well, that's all right. I don't suppose father will be asking after
me--exactly."
"No, he doesn't," said Eugene, still white and shaking. "Don't stand
talking. I'm sick."
"Of course," returned Joe. "But there's one thing I would like to ask
you--"
"Your father's health is perfect, I believe."
"It--it--it was something else," Joe stammered, pitifully. "Are they
all--are they all--all right at--at Judge Pike's?"
"Quite!" Eugene replied, sharply. "Are you going to get me away from
here? I'm sick, I tell you!"
"This street," said Joe, and cheerfully led the way.
Five minutes later the two had parted, and Joe leaned against a cheap
restaurant sign-board, drearily staring after the lamps of the gypsy
night-cab he had found for his step-brother. Eugene had not offered to
share the vehicle with him, had not even replied to his good-night.
And Joe himself had neglected to do something he might well have done:
he had not asked Eugene for news of Ariel Tabor. It will not justify
him entirely to suppose that he assumed that her grandfather and she
had left Canaan never to return, and therefore Eugene knew nothing of
her; no such explanation serves Joe for his neglect, for the fair truth
is that he had not thought of her. She had been a sort of playmate,
before his flight, a friend taken for granted, about whom he had
consciously thought little more than he thought about himself--and
easily forgotten. Not forgotten in the sense that she had passed out
of his memory, but forgotten none the less; she had never had a place
in his imaginings, and so it befell that when he no longer saw her from
day to day, she had gone from his thoughts altogether.