"We rest--a dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise--one wandering thought pollutes the day."
"Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity
Until death tramples it to fragments."
"The silent workings of the dawns" were past, and the whole sky pearled
to an exquisite soft grayness when Myron Holder set out that day to go
to Mrs. Deans'. The road swam dizzily before her; the snake fence
zig-zagged wildly; the trees whirled round; the very stones appeared as
if rolling over and over in awkward gambols; the wayside cows loomed
gigantic to her uncertain vision. Her head throbbed heavily--her knees
trembled; the physical reaction following supreme mental effort had set
in, and her nerves, denied outward expression of the strain put upon
them, were racking her frame sorely. She persevered, however, holding
a wavering course from one side of the road to the other; at last she
reached the little graveyard of Jamestown, wedged in between the farms
of Mr. White and Mr. Deans. Its picket-fence was garlanded with long
trails of the native virgin-bower clematis, just putting forth its
first leaf-buds. The hepaticas, their blossoms past, showed circular
clumps of broad, green leaves, standing erect on downy stalks over the
prostrate copper-colored ones of last year; the blood-root had lost all
its white petals, and its spear-pointed seed-pods and single, broad,
green leaves stood in thick masses, like miniature stands of arms,
spear and shield; but the trilliums were nodding their triune-leaved
blossoms; the wild phlox swayed daintily its cluster of fragile azure
blooms; the meadow violets were clustered in dark-blue masses; the
bracken ferns were uncoiling their fuzzy fronds; the May apples
(mandrake) were pointing through the mellow soil, like so many small
wax candles. Now and then a pungent odor came to her as she trod upon
the fresh-springing pennyroyal, or bruised the stems of the mint that
grew everywhere.
She was late already, as she knew, but was moved to go to see her
father's sleeping-place. She went slowly between the graves, carefully
avoiding treading on any of them. Her father had told her of the
ill-luck that follows the foot that treads upon a grave and the hand
that casts away bread. By what fearful sacrilege had this woman
purchased her fate?
Her eyes were clearing now; and as she stood beside her father's grave,
she looked upon it steadily enough. She felt a rapt sense of his
presence--he had been very good to her in his absent-minded way. If he
had lived! The woman found herself grateful that he died before. She
rested her thoughts here to ask herself a question: If her father had
lived, would she have lost herself? She held her breath for an
instant--then turned and sped from his grave. She felt that her gaze
defiled it--for, throbbing in each artery, tingling through every vein,
poisoning her heart, she felt her whole being rise to affirm its
shame--to give the damning answer "Yes" to that poignant
self-interrogation.
She was certainly late that morning, and Mrs. Deans met her with
flushed face and angry eyes.
"Well, this is a nice time of day! 'Laziness is much worth when it's
well guided.' It would seem to me, Myron Holder, as if you'd try to
make some return for the favors I've shown you, and what I've done for
you, and what I've put up with. Time and time again, I've said to
myself, says I, 'Let her go--what's the good of her? What's the good
of keeping a dog and doing your own barking?' But being sorry for you,
I never said nothing. But now, I tell you, Myron Holder, this thing's
got to quit--either you can come here in decent time, or you can stay
home!" Then, in a more insulting tone of voice, she asked: "What time
did ye start this morning? I'll ask your grandmother. Pretty doings
these, loitering along the roads! I'd have thought you'd had enough of
that. Well, don't look at me like that! You're too good to be spoken
to, I suppose; it's a pity you didn't do some blushing before now!
It's rather late in the day for such delikit feelings--you what?
Stopped in the graveyard? I wouldn't wonder, nothing more likely; were
you alone? Well 'twasn't your fault, if you were. I guess Jed Holder
thinks himself lucky to be rid of the world and such doings as yours.
Poor Jed! Little did he know what shame he was leaving behind him.
How your grandmother stands it and how she abides that brat, _I_ can't
see. One thing I've always said: 'Don't bring me no such brats as
them, for I won't be concerned with no such doings!' But there, what's
the use of talking? I never say nothing, but I think a lot. I guess
your mother must have been a beauty from all I hear tell. Certainly
you didn't get your bad blood off Jed Holder, and you must have took it
somewhere. 'Like mother, like child'--well--none of such worry for
me!" Then, stepping aside suddenly, and thus clearing the passage she
had hitherto barred, she went on: "What are you standing looking at?
Ain't you going to scrub to-day, or are you come visiting? I'm sorry
if you have"--here a fine sarcasm echoed in her tone--"because I can't
go and set down and entertain you, for I have my bread and butter to
earn. But don't mind me--go right into the setting-room and make
yourself at home."
Myron having availed herself of the first opportunity to move from
under Mrs. Deans' insulting glances, had already divested herself of
her sunbonnet, and was getting cloths and water for her scrubbing.
Soon she escaped from Mrs. Deans' eyes, but the sound of her jibing
tongue came harshly to her in every pause of her work.
The forenoon passed. After dinner the hired man brought the newspaper
in and gave it to Mrs. Deans. She looked at the price of butter and
eggs, and passed it to her husband.
He sat blinking by the half-open window: upon the window-sill was a
bottle of sarsaparilla, a patch-work pin-cushion, and two or three
potatoes Homer Wilson had brought to the Deans as samples--he being
agent for a seedsman. Mrs. Deans brought out a big canvas-bag of
carpet-balls, and, placing two chairs back to back, began winding the
balls into huge skeins. She was going to dye them. Mrs. Deans worked
away with her hanks, tying them carefully in separate strands, so that
they would dye equally. Mr. Deans read his paper, its leaves rustling
in his tremulous fingers. The sound of Myron Holder's scrubbing came
raspingly through the air. The bound girl was out in the "yard" raking
together dead leaves, bits of old bones, and emptied sarsaparilla
bottles, making it tidy for the summer.
"Well, Jane!" ejaculated Henry Deans, in a tone of pleased surprise,
"who d'ye think's dead?"
"Who? Old Mrs. White? Is it her? Or Mrs. Warner's sister up in Ovid?
She was took terrible bad a week ago Friday. It's young Emmons! I
know it! But say, isn't he owing for that last cord of wood? I never
seen anything like it, the way people cheat! It's something awful!
But I'll have that four dollars, though, out of Mame Emmons. If she
can afford flannel at fifty cents a yard (and Ann White saw her pricing
it), she can afford to pay her debts. Well, them Emmonses always was
shiftless, but----"
"It ain't Emmons, though Homer Wilson says he looks most terrible bad;
it's Follett!"
"You don't say!" said Mrs. Deans; "you don't say! When was he took?"
"It don't tell," answered her husband, screwing his eyes horribly as he
read the obituary over again. "It don't tell--oh--yes it does!
'Caught a heavy cold a month ago and settled on his lungs.' Well,
he's gone, then."
"Not much loss, his kind ain't," said Mrs. Deans contemptuously.
"Wonder if he forgot me before he went?" said her husband, with a
reflective enjoyment. "That was a pretty good one, wasn't it, Jane?"
"Yes; no mistake about it, Henry, you hit the nail on the head that
time. I declare it does beat all how time flies. Just think! it's six
years full since then----"
"Six years full--no, seven," assented Mr. Deans.
"No, six," said his wife; "it was just the year before your accident."
"So 'twas." A pause, then he said, "I think I'll have some
sarsaparilly, Jane."
Mrs. Deans got a spoon from the table-drawer, drew out the gummy cork,
and gave him a spoonful.
"Better have a taste yourself," he suggested.
"Don't know but I will," she said, and helped herself to a dram.
The cork was replaced; silence fell upon the pair. Henry Deans and his
wife had partaken of the closest communion they knew. Mrs. Deans left
her rags presently to go out to superintend the placing of some new
chicken-coops, and Mr. Deans dozed off into a pleasurable reverie,
evoked by the death of Dan Follett.
Around the name of Dan Follett clustered the recollections of Mr.
Deans' happiest achievement--for, using Dan Follett as an unworthy
instrument, he had purged Jamestown of malt and spirituous liquors and
brought the village within the temperance fold.
It was thus: Dan Follett had come to "keep tavern" in the old Black
Horse Inn. This was a quaint brick building that stood at the corner
of the Front Street nearest the lake. It had but a narrow frontage on
the Front Street, but stretched back, a long building, on the side
street. From the corner of the inn hung a sign-board, depending from
an iron rod. The sign was a jet black horse, rampant, with the legend,
"Black Horse Inn." The front of the inn, rising abruptly, as it did,
from the side-walk, was more quaint than inviting, but the side view
was very hospitable, for all along the side street a veranda (floored
with oak and roofed by the second story of the inn, which overhung it)
extended, approached by broad, generous steps. It was an old, old
building, with queer nooks and corners in it, quaint brass newel-posts
in the stairway, odd sideboards built into the walls, and dark,
hardwood floors. It was by far the oldest building in Jamestown, and
the huge, untidy willow tree before the door had grown from a switch
thrown down by one of the soldiers, when he and his comrades departed
after their long billet in Jamestown.
Jamestown was not called Jamestown in those days, but Kingsville.
Times had changed with the village, and its name with them; but the
Black Horse Inn remained unchanged--only the bricks had reddened the
mortar between them, so that its walls were all one dark, rich red.
"Many a summer's silent fingering" had wrought a green lace-work of ivy
over the front and at the corners, and about the chimneys a vivid green
stain showed the minute mosses that were gathering there. It was
having indeed a green old age; and if the second story was beginning to
sag a little between the centre-posts, it conveyed no hint of decay, or
lack of safety. The droop only showed a kindly and protective attitude
towards the open-armed chairs that stood on the veranda beneath.
In the little garden behind the inn, long neglected and overrun, were
bushes of acrid wormwood, stray wisps of thyme, straggling roots of
rosemary, and bushes of flowering currants. In the spring, from among
its springing grasses came whiffs of perfume; for the English violets,
planted long, long ago, had spread through and through the tangle of
weeds, unkempt grass, and untrimmed bushes.
The one ambition that had lived in Jed Holder's saddened breast after
he came to Jamestown was to be able to rent the Black Horse Inn. But
it was only a vague, purposeless wish to possess the right of that
little square garden, amid whose desolation he discerned the traces of
an English hand. Like so many of Jed's dreams, this one never
materialized.
To this house, then, came Dan Follett--displayed his license to sell
"wine, beer, malt and other spirituous liquors," set out some
hospitable armchairs, erected a horse-trough before the door, and,
having assumed a huge and glistening white apron, strode about, a
jolly, good-natured, guardian spirit. His rubicund face was always
beaming, his little eyes always blinking away tears of laughter. There
was but little trade in Jamestown, but Follet managed to make ends
meet, for the lake was noted for its fishing, and parties of fishermen
were right glad to find a place where they could leave their horses and
refresh themselves. But Dan Follett and Dan Follett's business were
sore rocks of offence in the eyes of the Jamestown brethren.
At "after meeting" many plans were discussed for the discomfiture of
Dan Follett, and, incidentally, the devil. Many a "class meeting"
evolved an indignation caucus which dealt with the enormity of Dan
Follett's calling, which was cited, with many epithets, as the cause of
every evil under the sun. But of all this righteous indignation jolly
Dan Follett took no heed, and was as ready to lend his stout brown
horse to Mr. Deans or Mr. White when their own "odd" horse was busy as
he was to hire it to the few fishermen who fancied a ride along the
lake shore.
Henry Deans brooded long over this unholy thing in their midst, and
finally hit upon a plan to put the devil, in the person of Dan Follett,
to some discomfiture. Mr. Deans was senior deacon in the Methodist
Church and, as such, took it upon himself to provide the bread and wine
for sacramental purposes. One Saturday, the day before the spring
communion, Mrs. Deans stood admiring her bread.
"I reckon Ann White'll open her eyes when she tastes that to-morrow,"
she said. "There's nothing like making your own yeast--good hop-yeast.
I don't take no account with salt-rising bread; may be sure enough, but
hops for me every time."
These audible meditations were interrupted by a tramp's voice at the
open door--a forlorn-looking object, asking for something to eat. Mrs.
Deans gave him some good advice about idleness, drinking, and begging,
and sent him off. Then she turned her face to the bread again,
separating the loaves carefully, and wrapping two of them up in clean
towels. A verse flitted through her mind about taking the children's
bread and giving it to the dogs; it struck her as apposite, but her
good memory, strangely enough, failed to recall anything about "a cup
of cold water."
"Them tramps!" soliloquized Mrs. Deans. "A likely thing I was goin' to
break into the bread for the Lord's table for the like of him!" She
was just putting the bread into the tin on the pantry floor, where she
kept it, when a sudden thought made her drop the bread and stand
upright.
"I declare!" she said. "Henry'll never remember the wine! I forgot to
tell him when he went away! What in the world will we do now? Borrow
it of Ann White I won't; that's settled. Well, if it don't beat all!"
Henry Deans returned from the Saturday market about three o'clock; Mrs.
Deans met him in the yard and asked him, before the horses stopped:
"Did you remember the wine?"
A slow smile crept over Henry Deans' face. He pulled up his horses
deliberately.
"Did you remember the wine?" asked his wife again.
"Yes, I remembered it," he answered, still smiling slowly.
"Well," said Mrs. Deans, "why didn't you say so at first? I've just
been nearly out of my mind a-worrying about it all day. Where is it?
Hand it here and I'll take it in."
"I haven't got it yet," said her husband, descending nimbly from his
perch, and then, for it was dangerous to prolong a joke too far with
his wife, he went and whispered in her ear.
Mrs. Deans' face slowly became irradiate with a joyful and appreciative
glow.
"Well, Henry," she said, "you're no slouch, I tell you; I always knew
your head was level."
"Guess that'll sicken him, eh?" chuckled Henry Deans, and began to
unbuckle his harness-straps.
For the rest of the afternoon Henry Deans and his wife went about in
smiling content, chuckling irrepressibly if they chanced to meet.
They had supper at six. Night was already setting in, for the days
were not at their longest yet. About half-past seven, Henry Deans got
his hat, and, his wife letting him softly out of the front door, took
his way to the village. He soon reached its outskirts. Down the
unlighted back street he went, across the short transverse one, until
the side door of the Black Horse Inn was reached. Dan Follett answered
his knock in person. There was a short colloquy between the two; then
Dan went his way to the darkened bar-room, and, having declined an
invitation to go inside, Henry Deans waited. Presently Dan returned
with a bottle and, after a generous demur, accepted the money which Mr.
Deans insisted on paying, saying:
"I'm not a church-goer myself, Mr. Deans, but I wouldn't begrudge
giving a little now and again;" then after repeating his invitation,
bade Mr. Deans a cheery "Good-night," and closed the door.
Henry Deans went home, hardly able to restrain his mirth. From far
down the road he saw a narrow slit of light, showing the front door
ajar for him. He slipped inside, to be immediately greeted by his wife.
"Did you get it?" she asked, breathlessly.
"I got it, and him, too," said Henry Deans; and they laughed together,
as they put the bread and wine for the Lord's table in a basket.
The next day, a sweet and sunshiny Sunday, the mystery of the Lord's
Supper was yet again enacted in Jamestown--the symbolic wine, clear and
ruddy as heart's blood; the bread, white as an infant's brow.
Next day Henry Deans drove to the market town. On Tuesday Dan Follett
was served with a summons to appear before the Court to show why he had
broken the law by selling a bottle of wine to one Henry Deans in
unlawful hours.
Follett's rage was intense, and could only be gauged by the height of
Henry Deans' satisfaction. Of course Follett was fined. He had no
defence and offered none, but was fain to relieve his mind by
attempting to thrash Deans, which only resulted in his being laid under
bonds to keep the peace. The whole affair had completely sickened
Follett of Jamestown. He departed to new scenes, and the Black Horse
Inn again was tenantless.
The exploit covered Henry Deans with glory, and he bore the honor with
the conscious front of one who feels he is not overestimated. Dan
Follett was dead now, and Henry Deans slept the sleep of the just in
musing over his memories. And from the lonely garden of the Black
Horse Inn the English sweet violets sent up their fragrance to the
unperceiving night.