MXSTERX 
 
 ^ OF 
 
 E.W. ffowe 
 
 
 ^/Rv^ O 
 
 0,7
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Circulating 
 l4OT?ry No.
 
 By the Same Author. 
 
 THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN. 
 
 I vol. I2I110. $I.5O. 
 
 Howells pronounces it "this remarkable novel . . . uncom 
 monly interesting." 
 
 Mark Twain finds the style " simple, sincere, direct, and at the 
 ame time so clear and so strong." 
 
 The Springfield Republican finds in it " a distinct flavor of its 
 own . . . the freshness and strangeness of the prairie life." 
 
 The Chicago Inter-Ocean finds it " the most dramatic of our 
 American novels . . . a drama of direct appeal. " 
 
 "There runs through the story a vein of pathos that is abso 
 lutely pitiful, and makes one think of ' The Mill on the Floss.' . . . 
 It is a strong, stern, matter-of-fact book. Some of its pages stand 
 out from their sad background of reality like one of Salvato 
 Rosa's pictures. . . . Many of the situations are as dramati 
 cal as any of Bret Harte's." St. Joseph Gazette. 
 
 "Incomparably the best novel of the year, judged from any 
 standard. . . . There is a grace, a sympathetic and tender 
 feeling, a delicious sense of humor, that make the book remarka 
 ble. Brooklyn Union. 
 
 *** for sale by all Booksellers ; or sent 'by us post 
 paid to any part of the United States or Canada, on 
 receipt of price. 
 
 JAMES R. OSCOOD & CO., Boston.
 
 THE 
 
 MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS 
 
 BY 
 
 E. W. HOWE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN" 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 1885
 
 Copyright, 1883, 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 C. J. PETERS AND SON, 
 ELECTROTYPERS.
 
 PS 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. THE TOWN OF DAKK NIGHTS 1 
 
 II. THE LOCKS 19 
 
 III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 28 
 
 IV. DAVY'S BEND 39 
 
 Y. A TROUBLED FANCY 51 
 
 VI. PICTURES IN THE FIKE 59 
 
 VII. THE LOCKS' GHOST 76 
 
 VIII. A KEMARKABLE GIRL 85 
 
 IX. THE "APKON AND PASSWORD" 101 
 
 X. TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY 114 
 
 XL THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR 122 
 
 XII. EUINED BY KINDNESS 139 
 
 XIII. THE KEBELLION OF THE BARITONE 152 
 
 XIV. THE ANCIENT MAIDEN 168 
 
 XV. A SHOT AT THE SHADOW 180 
 
 XVI. THE STEP ON THE STAIR 195 
 
 XVII. THE PURSUING SHADOW 212 
 
 XVIII. THE EISE IN THE KIVER 225 
 
 XIX. MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION .... 238 
 
 XX. THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS . . 249 
 
 XXI. LITTLE BEN . 260 
 
 XXII. TUG'S KETURN 272 
 
 XXIII. THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN . 287 
 
 916
 
 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS. 
 
 DAVY'S BEND a river town, a failing town, 
 and an old town, on a dark night, with a misty rain 
 falling, and the stars hiding from the dangerous streets 
 and walks of the failing town down by the sluggish river 
 which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like its 
 institutions and its people, and as the light of the 
 wretched day that has just closed hurried away from it a 
 few hours since. 
 
 The darkness is so intense that the people who look 
 out of their windows are oppressed from staring at 
 nothing, for the shadows are obliterated, and for all they 
 know there may be great caverns in the streets, filled with 
 water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their 
 front steps. It occurs to one of them who opens the 
 blind to his window a moment, and looks out (and who 
 notices incidentally that the rays from his lamp seem 
 afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crust 
 will form somewhere above the town, up where there is 
 light for the living, and turn the people of Davy's Bend 
 into rocks as solid as those thousands of feet below, which 
 thought affects him so much that he closes his blinds and 
 shutters tighter than before, determined that his rooms 
 shall become caves.
 
 2 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 The rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools 
 in the road with untiring energy, where it joins other 
 vagrant water, and creeps off at last into the gutter, into 
 the rivulet, and into the river, where it joins the restless 
 tide which is always hurrying away from Davy's Bend, 
 and bubbles and foams with joy. 
 
 The citizen who observed the intense blackness of the 
 night comes to his window again, and notes the steady 
 falling of the rain, and in his reverie pretends to regret 
 that it is not possible for the water to come up until his 
 house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid of 
 living in a place where the nights are so dark and wet 
 that he cannot sleep for thinking of them. When he 
 returns to his chair, and attempts to read, the pattering 
 rain is so persistent on the roof and at the windows that 
 the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and he 
 thinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, 
 Davy's Bend would at last be as well off as Ben's City ; 
 and this possibility is so pleasant that he puts out his 
 lig^t, the only one showing in the town, and goes to bed. 
 
 At the foot of a long street, so close to the river that 
 its single light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands 
 the railroad station, where the agent awaits the arrival of 
 the single train that visits the place daily, for only a few 
 people want to go to Davy's Bend, and not many are 
 left to move away, so the agent mutters at the rain and 
 the darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him 
 up so late; for, of all the inhabitants of the place, he is 
 the only one who has business to call him out at night. 
 There are no people in Davy's Bend who are overworked, 
 or whose business cares are so great as to make them 
 nervous or fretful ; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, 
 and have plenty of time in which to tell how dull their 
 own place is, and how distressingly active is Ben's City,
 
 THE TOWN OF DAEK NIGHTS. 3 
 
 located in the country below them, and which is admired 
 even by the river, for it is always going in that direction. 
 
 Fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long 
 to wait ; for just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest 
 comfortably, certain that the train will be late, there is a 
 hoarse blast from a steam whistle up the road, which 
 echoes through the woods and over the hills with a dismal 
 roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and 
 reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the 
 yard ; the headlight appears like a great eye spying out 
 the dark places around the building, and before he has 
 had time to look about him, or express his surprise that 
 the wheels are on time, a few packages have been un 
 loaded, and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurry 
 ing away from Davy's Bend, like the river and the 
 people. - 
 
 There is but one passenger to-night : a man above the 
 medium height and weight, dressed like a city tradesman, 
 who seems to own the packages put off, for he is standing 
 among them, and apparently wondering what disposition 
 he is to make of them ; for the agent is about to retire 
 into the station with his books under his arm. Evidently 
 the stranger is not good natured, for he hails the official 
 impatiently, and inquires, in a voice that is a mixture of 
 indignation and impudence, if the hotels have ho repre 
 sentatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in 
 the rain all night to guard his property. 
 
 The agent does not know as to that, but he does know 
 that the stranger is welcome to leave his packages in the 
 building until morning, which arrangement seems to be 
 the best offering, for it is accepted, after both men have 
 denounced the town until they are satisfied ; for no one 
 pretends to defend Davy's Bend, so the agent readily 
 assents to whatever the stranger desires to say that is
 
 4 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 discreditable to his native place, while he is helping him 
 to carry the trunks and bundles into the light. 
 
 When the rays of the single lamp in the station fall 
 upon the stranger, the agent at first concludes that he is 
 middle-aged, for a new growth of whiskers covers his 
 face completely ; but he thinks better of this during the 
 course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the 
 owner of the packages is not as old as he seemed at first 
 glance, but he is a man not satisfied with himself, or with 
 anything around him, the agent is sure of that ; and as 
 he helps with the baggage, of which there is a great deal, 
 he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in 
 hand to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks 
 sullen enough to fight with very little provocation. His 
 quick, restless eyes were always busy, the agent feels 
 certain that he has been measured and disposed of in a 
 glance, but the longer he looks at the stranger the 
 more certain he becomes that the packages he is helping 
 to handle contains goods of importance, for their owner 
 is evidently a man of importance. 
 
 "There must be gold in that," the agent says, as he 
 puts his end of one of the trunks down, and pauses to 
 rest. " I have been agent here a good many years ; but if 
 that is not an excess, I never had hold of one. Now for 
 the rest of them." 
 
 The work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the 
 light the agent steps upon the outside, locks the door, 
 and puts the key into his pocket. 
 
 "I am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger out 
 side the door, on a covered platform, where they are pro 
 tected from the rain, "but I go in this direction, while the 
 hotel lies in that," pointing the way. " It 's a rough road, 
 and you may have trouble in getting them up, but I guess 
 you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel
 
 THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS. 5 
 
 stands directly at the head of the street. It 's a pity that 
 the town does not afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, 
 but it doesn't, and that ends it. I intend to go away 
 myself as soon as I can, for the company does riot treat 
 me any too well, though it is generally said that another 
 man could not be found to do the work as I do it for the 
 money." 
 
 By this time the agent has his umbrella up, which 
 appears to be as dilapidated as the town, for it comes up 
 with difficulty, so he says good night cheerily, and disap 
 pears; and the traveller, after shivering awhile on the 
 platform, starts out to follow the direction given him, 
 floundering in the mud at every step. 
 
 There is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps 
 between them, and he is barely able to make out the strip 
 of lighte'r shade which he judges is the street he is to 
 follow, the night is so dark ; but as the hotel is said to lie 
 directly across his path, he argues that he is sure to run 
 into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when 
 he realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. After 
 travelling in this manner much longer than was desirable, 
 finding the sidewalks so bad that he takes to the middle 
 of the street, and finally goes back to the walk again 
 in desperation ; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so 
 much rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to 
 imagine that everything is turning into a liquid state in 
 order that it may leave the place by way of the gutters, 
 the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a lantern, 
 carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be .seen in 
 long shadows, is approaching, and that they are very 
 merry, for they are making a good deal of noise, and stop 
 frequently to accuse each other of being jolly old boys, 
 or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or to lean up 
 against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which
 
 6 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 seem to amuse them. Apparently they have no destina 
 tion, for after one of their bursts of merriment they are 
 as apt to walk up the street as down it ; and believing 
 them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the stranger 
 tries to pass them without attracting attention when he 
 comes up to their vicinity ; but the one who carries the 
 lantern sees him, and, locking arms with his companion, 
 adroitly heads the traveller off, and puts the lantern so 
 close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it. 
 
 " Tug," the man says, in an amused way, " a stranger. 
 There will be a sensation in Davy's Bend to-morrow ; it 
 has n't happened before in a year." 
 
 Believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can 
 give him the information he is seeking, the stranger 
 patiently waits while they enjoy their joke ; which they 
 do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries the 
 lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern 
 was raised, was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, 
 leans against his companion, and laughs in an immoder 
 ate but meek fashion. The fellow who had been addressed 
 as Tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, 
 in a queer way, which threw his companion into greater 
 convulsions of merriment than ever, and changing their 
 position so that they support themselves against a building, 
 one of them continues to laugh gayly, and the other to 
 chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as 
 though a stranger in Davy's Bend is very funny indeed. 
 
 " There will be a train going the other way in three 
 hours, for both the trains creep through the town at 
 night, as if they were ashamed to be seen here in day 
 light," the little man says to the traveller, recovering him 
 self, and with a show of seriousness. "You had better 
 take it, and go back ; really you had. Davy's Bend will 
 never suit you. It don't suit anybody. The last man that
 
 THE TOWN OF DAEK NIGHTS. 7 
 
 came here stood it a week, when off he went, and we never 
 expected to see another one. Look at these deserted houses 
 in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into 
 the middle of the street, as if to point around him, but 
 
 remembering that the night is so dark that nothing can 
 
 / 
 
 be seen, he goes back to his companion, and pokes him in 
 the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in 
 the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. 
 This reminds them of their joke again ; so they return 
 to the building, leaning against it with their arms, their 
 heads, and their backs, laughing as they did before. 
 Meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching 
 the two odd men with an air of interest ; but at last, recol 
 lecting his condition, he says, 
 
 " It happens that I am looking for a place that suits 
 nobody, and one that is generally avoided. If you will 
 point out the way to the hotel, I will decide that question 
 for myself to-morrow." 
 
 The little man picks up the lantern immediately when 
 the hotel is mentioned. 
 
 "I never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the 
 alert at once, and starting up the street, followed by his 
 snorting companion, who ambled along like the front part 
 of a wagon pushed from behind. " It is my business to 
 be at the station when the train arrives, to look for passen 
 gers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light ; 
 " but it seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for 
 nobody ever conies ; so I thought I 'd spend the time with 
 Tug." 
 
 The man says this in a tone of apology, as though ac 
 customed to making explanations for lack of attention to 
 business ; and as he leads the way he is not at all like the 
 jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately, while leaning 
 against the building, at his own weak joke ; but perhaps he
 
 8 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out 
 airing himself. However this may be, the stranger follows, 
 taking long strides to keep up, and occasionally stumbling 
 over the person who has been referred to as Tug, and 
 who appears to be unjointed in his legs ; for when room 
 is made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is 
 sure suddenly to turn up on the right. 
 
 Thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length 
 a dim light appears directly ahead of them, and coming 
 up to this presently, the stranger finds that it comes from 
 a building lying across the course in which they are 
 travelling; for the street leading up from the river and 
 the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, 
 as it ended in the other with the station. Another street 
 crosses here at right angles, and the hotel turns travellers 
 either to the right or to the left. 
 
 When the three men enter the place, and the light is 
 turned up, the traveller sees that it had formerly been a 
 business place ; that it has been patched and pieced, and 
 does not seem to answer the purpose for which it is being 
 used without a protest, for the guests fall down two steps 
 when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and every 
 one is compelled to go outside the office to get to the 
 stairway leading to the rooms above. In its better days 
 the room used as an office had probably been a provision 
 store ; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely 
 cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats 
 and flour. 
 
 " I am the clerk here," the man who had carried the 
 lantern says, as he brings out a chair for the stranger, 
 but condemns it after examination because both the back 
 legs are gone, and it can only be used when leaning 
 against the wall. "I am sorry I was not at the station 
 to meet you ; but it is so seldom that anvone comes that
 
 THE TOWN OF DAKK NIGHTS. 9 
 
 I hope you will not mention it to him," pointing his 
 thumb upward, evidently referring to the proprietor sleep 
 ing above. 
 
 The arrival was thinking that queer little men like the 
 one before him were to be found at every country hotel 
 he had ever visited, acting as clerk during the hours when 
 there was no business, and as hostler and waiter during 
 the day, but he iv.ther liked the appearance of this fellow, 
 for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so 
 he turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same 
 time recollecting that he himself had suddenly become 
 very grave. 
 
 "This is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at 
 last fishing out a chair that seems to be strong, and 
 placing it in front of the guest; "but it is the best Davy 
 affords. . The hotel, though, is better than the town ; you 
 will find that out soon enough." 
 
 A small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, 
 now that the light is upon him. lie may be thirty, or 
 forty, or ruty ; for, judged in some ways, he looks old, 
 while judged in other ways he looks young; but it is cer 
 tain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the 
 street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his 
 pale face, which is beardless, with the exception of a meek 
 little tuft on cither side, as though he thinks that since he 
 has been caught laughing it will go hard with him. 
 
 After looking at his companion, with an amused smile, 
 for a moment, the stranger says that he will not mention 
 anything, good or bad, " to him," whoever he may be, and, 
 while thinking to himself that "Davy" is a familiar way 
 of referring to Davy's Bend, he notices that the man who 
 has already been called Tug, and who has found a chair 
 and is sitting bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. 
 He also remarks that Tug is hideously ugly, and that
 
 10 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which has once 
 been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that 
 it glistens in the lamplight. He has a shock of hair, and 
 a shock of beard, both of which seem to have been 
 trimmed recently by a very awkward person ; and the 
 stranger also notices, in the course of his idle examination, 
 that one of Tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open, 
 while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man 
 seeins to be aiming at something. When Tug winks 
 with the eye that is wide open, the one that is nearly 
 shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the ex 
 ample presently, and winks Independently and of its own 
 accord, so that the stranger thinks of him r.s walking with 
 his eyes, taking a tremendous leap with his left, and then 
 a limp with his right. 
 
 Tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold 
 stare of the stranger, and makes several discoveries, one 
 of which is, that the stranger has a rather good-looking 
 face and a large and restless eye. Tug imagines that he 
 can read the man's character in his eye as easily as in 
 an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be 
 resolute at one moment, and gloomy and discontented 
 at another. Although he is looking straight at him, TUG: 
 
 O O O ' O 
 
 is certain that the stranger's thoughts are not always in 
 Davy's Bend ; and, while thinking that the stranger has 
 important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk re 
 turns from the kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece 
 of cold beef, a loaf of bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, 
 and a coffee-pot and a tumbler. Covering with a news 
 paper a round table that stands in the room, he places the 
 articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help 
 himself. 
 
 The stranger declined, but he noticed that Tug, from 
 his position against the wall, was walking toward the
 
 TEGS TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS. 11 
 
 table with his eyes, with first a long step and then a short 
 one, and that at a sign from his friend he walked over 
 hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a raven 
 ous appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his 
 mouth large enough to strangle him. This convinced the 
 stranger that the lunch was really prepared for Tug, and 
 that there would have been disappointment had he ac 
 cepted the clerk's invitation. 
 
 " I don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, 
 seating himself, and apparently enjoying the manner 
 in which Tug was disposing of the cold meat, "but my 
 name is Silas Davy. I am what is known as a good 
 fellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. 
 He discovered this town, or located it, or settled here 
 first, or something of that kind, and once had a great 
 deal of property ; but, being a good fellow, he could n't 
 keep it. If you will give me your name, I will introduce 
 you to my friend, Mr. Tug Whittle." 
 
 " I don't care to know him," the guest replied, some 
 what ill-humoredly, his restless eyes indicating that his 
 thoughts had just returned from a journey out in the 
 world somewhere, as they finally settled on Tug. " I 
 don't like his looks." 
 
 Tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the 
 guest with his right eye, and, after swallowing his last 
 mouthful, with an effort, pointed a finger at him, to inti 
 mate that he was about to speak. 
 
 " Did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off 
 the train to-night?" he inquired, in a deep bass voice, 
 still pointing with his bony finger, and aiming along it 
 with his little eye. 
 
 The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, 
 but at last said he was the only passenger for Davy's 
 Bend.
 
 12 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 "I was expecting more of my wife's kin," Tug said, 
 with an angry snort, taking down his finger to turn over 
 the meat-bone, and using his eye to look for a place not 
 yet attacked. " Come to think about it, though, they are 
 not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach 
 town on foot, in the morning. They are too poor to ride. 
 I wish they were too sick to walk, damn them. Do you 
 happen to know what the word ornery means ? " 
 
 The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply 
 again, but finally shook his head, after some hesitation. 
 
 " Well," the ugly fellow said, " if you stay here, 
 which I don't believe you will, for you look too much 
 like a good one to remain here long, I '11 introduce you 
 not only to the word but to the kin. After you have 
 seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls 
 you ornery." 
 
 Finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclu 
 sion of this speech, Mr. Whittle went on with his eating, 
 and was silent. 
 
 " There are a great many people who do not like Tug's 
 looks," the clerk went on to say, without noticing the 
 interruption, and looking admiringly at that individual, as 
 though he could not understand why he was not more 
 generally admired ; " so it is not surprising that you are 
 suspicious, of him. I do not say it with reference to you, 
 for you do not know him ; but my opinion is that the 
 people dislike him because of his mind. He knows too 
 much to suit them, and they hate him." 
 
 By this time Tug had wiped up everything before him, 
 and after transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his 
 lips and beard to his sleeve, the three men were silent, lis 
 tening to the rain on the outside, and taking turns in look 
 ing out of the windows into the darkness. 
 
 " I suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at The
 
 THE TOWN OF DABK NIGHTS. 13 
 
 Locks to-night," Silas Davy said. " And the windows ! 
 Lord, how the windows must rattle ! I 've been told that 
 when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and win 
 dows at The Locks go on at a great rate, and they must 
 be at it to-night, for I have never known it to be so 
 oppressive and still before." 
 
 " And the light," Tug suggested, removing his aim from 
 the stranger a moment, and directing it toward Davy. 
 
 "Yes, the light, of course," Davy assented. "They 
 say I don't know who says it in particular, but every 
 body says it in general that on a night like this a light 
 appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is 
 seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in 
 an upper room, where it goes out finally, as if someone 
 had been sitting down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck 
 a light te show him up to bed. There is no key to the 
 room where the light disappears, and those who visit the 
 house are not permitted to enter it. I have never seen 
 the light myself, but I have been to the house on windy, 
 noisy days, and it was as silent on the inside as a tomb. 
 The windows and shutters being noisy on quiet nights, I 
 suppose they feel the need of a rest when the wind is 
 blowing." 
 
 The guest was paying a good deal of attention, and 
 Davy went on talking. 
 
 " The place has not been occupied in a great many 
 years. The man who built it, and occupied it, and who 
 owns it now, made money in Davy's Bend, and went away 
 to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that he has 
 never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; I sup 
 pose it is not good enough for him now, for I am told that 
 he is very proud. He has been trying to sell the place 
 ever since, but Davy began going down hill about that 
 time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily ever
 
 14 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 since that nobody will take it. And I don't blame them, 
 for it is nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is 
 big, and respect able-looking, and well furnished." 
 
 The guest's mind is evidently in Davy's Bend now, 
 for he has been paying close attention to the clerk as he 
 talks in a modest easy fashion, even neglecting his first 
 ambition to stare Mr. Whittle out of countenance. It 
 may U> that he is in need of an establishment, and is 
 looking out for one; but certainly he takes considerable 
 interest in the place Silas Davy referred to as The Locks. 
 
 ""Who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted 
 the clerk to inquire. 
 
 The clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to 
 that portion of the room where the counter was located, 
 took from a nail a brass ring containing a number of keys 
 of about the same size. 
 
 " Here are the keys," Davy said, returning to his chair, 
 and holding them up for inspection. " Number one admits 
 you to the grounds through the iron gate ; number two 
 opens the front door; number three, any of the rooms lead 
 ing off from the hall down stairs ; number four, any of the 
 rooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number 
 five and number six, any of the other rooms. We are the 
 agents, I believe, though am not certain ; but anyway we 
 keep the keys. The place came to be known as The Locks 
 because of the number of keys that were given to those who 
 applied to see it, and The Locks it has been ever since."* 
 
 The stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down 
 the room awhile, thinking all the time so intently that it 
 occurred to Tug that he was puzzled to decide whether 
 his family would consent to live in a place which had the 
 reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light. 
 
 "I would like to see this house," he said, stopping 
 in his walk finally, and addressing Davy. "I may be-
 
 THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS. 15 
 
 come a purchaser. Will you show me the way to it, 
 now ? " 
 
 Up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, Tug 
 had occupied himself by aiming at the stranger, but as 
 if the suggestion of a walk up to The Locks was pleas 
 ing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards 
 the door. Silas Davy made no other, reply than to put 
 the ring containing the keys on his arm, and, putting 
 out the light, tha three men stepped out into the rain 
 together. 
 
 The Locks appear to be located towards the river ; not 
 down where the railway train stops to take people on who 
 desire to get away from Davy's Bend, but higher up the 
 street running at right angles in front of the hotel, for 
 the men walk in that direction, Davy and Tug ahead 
 carrying the lantern, with their arms locked together, and 
 the stranger behind, who thinks the two men are a queer 
 pair, for they seem to enjoy being out in the rain, and 
 one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently but 
 timidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the 
 stranger recognizes as signifying pleasure. 
 
 Occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on 
 reaching a particularly bad place, and when he has passed 
 it they go on again ; up hill and down, toward the river, 
 and when they stop at last, it is so dark that the' stranger 
 does not know that they have reached a stone wall with 
 an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes 
 entirely up to them. 
 
 The lock turns heavily, and Tug condescends to hold 
 the lantern while Silas applies both hands to the key. 
 Upon the inside a long stone walk, leading toward the 
 house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch is reached, 
 where they are out of the rain. 
 
 Silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his
 
 16 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 arm, and, once more calling upon Tug to hold the light, 
 opens the door, and they all enter the wide hall. 
 
 Considering that the house lias not been occupied 
 for eight years, it is in good condition. As they Avalk 
 through the different rooms, Davy opening the doors 
 from the bunch of keys on Ins-arm, the stranger notices 
 that they are decently furnished, everything being plain 
 and substantial; and he hears for the first time, while 
 standing in front of the door that is not to be opened, 
 that an old lady and her grand-daughter live on the 
 grounds in a detached building, who, when she sees fit, 
 airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there for 
 eight years, in the pay of the owner. This explains the 
 good condition of everything, and they continue their 
 investigation by the dim light of the lantern. 
 
 There are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the 
 attic, all of them furnished, from the kitchen to the 
 parlor; and the stranger is so well pleased that he in 
 quires the rent asked, and the purchase price. Silas 
 Davy is not certain as to either, but promises that his 
 proprietor will give full particulars in the morning. 
 
 " I will take the house," the stranger finally says, after 
 a lamp has been found and lighted, and seating himself in 
 a chair as an intimation that he is ready for the two men 
 to depart. " If I do not buy it I will rent it, and I will 
 stay here to-night." 
 
 Tug is willing to depart at once, but Silas lags behind, 
 and seems to be ill at ease. 
 
 " Have you any objection to giving me your name, that 
 I may record it at the house?" he respectfully asks. 
 
 " Oh, my name," the stranger returns. " Sure enough ; 
 I had forgotten that." 
 
 It seems to have escaped him, for while Silas stands 
 waiting, he studies for a long time, contracting his brow
 
 THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS. 17 
 
 until he looks so fierce and savage that Tug, who has 
 been aiming at him from the door, steps out into the hall 
 to get out of the way. 
 
 " You may register me as Allan Dorris," he said at 
 last, getting up from his chair, and looking confused, 
 " from Nowhere-in-Particular. It is not important where 
 I am from, so long as I am responsible ; and I will con 
 vince your proprietor of that in the morning. You will 
 oblige me if you will step over to the quarters of the old 
 lady you spoke of, and inform her that there is a new 
 master at The Locks, and that he has taken possession. 
 When you return I will show you out." 
 
 " I neglected to mention," Silas says, after making a 
 note of what the stranger has said on an envelope, " that 
 you can open and close the gate from this room, and lock 
 and unlock it. There is also a speaking-tube leading from 
 this room, whereby you can converse with persons "on 
 the outside. I will call you up when I go out. It is 
 located here, behind the door." 
 
 The two men step over to examine it, and Tug creeps in 
 to look too, and after sighting at it awhile returns to the 
 hall. 
 
 The apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of 
 chains running over pulleys and disappearing through 
 the floor, and a speaking-tube. Silas explains that 
 when the lever is up the gate is open, and when it is 
 down the gate is shut and locked. Both men try it, and 
 conclude that, with a little oil", it will work very well, 
 leaving it open so that the men may pass out. 
 
 There being no further excuse for remaining, Silas and 
 his ugly friend start down the stairs, the stranger hold 
 ing the light at the top; and after they have passed out of 
 the door and slammed it to work the spring lock, and 
 tried it to see that it is locked, Allan Dorris returns to the 
 room they have just left.
 
 18 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 The grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is 
 kindling at the bottom, probably put there years before, 
 judging by the dust ; and the stranger lights this, intend 
 ing to dry his wet clothing. While about it there is a 
 whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it and 
 replying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere 
 to the effect that Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper, is de 
 lighted to hear that the house is to be occupied at last ; 
 that she will call upon the new master in the morning to 
 pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements 
 for the future ; and, good night. 
 
 The stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever 
 down, which closes and locks the gate, and returns to the 
 fire, which is burning brightly by this time. 
 
 " Allan Dorris, from Nowhere-iu-Particular," he mutters 
 after he is seated, and while watching his steaming 
 garments. There is an amused look on his face at first, 
 as he repeats the name, but a frown soon takes its place, 
 that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair, 
 and looks at the fire. 
 
 At length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets 
 up and walks the floor, pausing occasionally to look 
 curiously at the pictures on the walls, or at the carpet, or 
 at the furniture. If he returns to his chair, the frown 
 appears on his face again, and once more he walks to get 
 rid of his thoughts. 
 
 This is continued so long that the darkness finally gets 
 tired of looking in at the windows, and hurries away at 
 the approach of day. From time to time, as the light 
 increases, he steps to the window and looks out ; and 
 when walking away, after a long look at Davy's Bend 
 through the morning mist, he mutters : 
 
 " Allan Dorris, if you are from Nowhere in-Particular, 
 you are at home again."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LOCKS. 
 
 ROM the southern windows of The Locks, Allan 
 -L Dorris looked with curious interest the day after 
 his arrival, and the week and the month following, for 
 he remained there for that length of time without going 
 out, except to walk along the country roads ior exercise, 
 where he occasionally met wagons containing men who 
 cursed the-to\vn they were leaving for its dullness. 
 
 The dwellings of Davy's Bend were built" upon hills 
 sloping toward the little valley where the business houses 
 were, and which poured a flood of water and mud into the 
 long streets in rainy weather through gaping gullies of 
 yellow clay. The rains seemed to be so fierce and frequent 
 there that in the course of time they had cut down the 
 streets, leaving the houses perching on hills above them, 
 which were reached by flights of steps ; and this impi-ession 
 was strengthened by the circumstance that it was a wet 
 time, for it rained almost incessantly. 
 
 The houses were a good way apart, so far as he 
 could see from his southern windows; and this circum 
 stance caused him to imagine that the people were suspi 
 cious of each other, and he noticed that while many of 
 them had once been of a pretending character, they were 
 now generally neglected; and that there was a quiet air 
 everywhere that reminded him of the country visited in 
 his walks. 
 
 19
 
 20 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 The houses themselves appeared to look at him with a 
 cynical air, as the people did, as if to intimate that he 
 need not hope to surprise them with his importance, or 
 with anything he might do, for their quiet streets had 
 once resounded to the tread of busy feet, and they had 
 seen strangers before, and knew the ways of men. Some 
 of the dwellings perching on the hills, deserted now 
 except as to bats and owls, resembled unfortunate city men 
 in a village; for there was a conspicuous air of decayed pro 
 priety about them, and an attempt at respectability that 
 would have been successful but for lack of means. These 
 in particular, he thought, made faces at him, and sneered 
 as he passed through their part of the town in his walks 
 to and from the country roads. 
 
 Several times he heard parties of men passing his house 
 at night, talking loudly to make themselves heard above 
 the jolting of their wagons ; and these usually had some 
 thing $o say about the new owner of The Locks, from 
 which he imagined that there was much speculation in 
 the town concerning him. The house in which he lived 
 was such a gloomy place, and he was shut up in it alone 
 for such a length of time, that he came to listen to the 
 sound of human voices with pleasure, and often went to 
 the windows to watch for the approach of wagons, that 
 he might hear the voices of their occupants ; for there were 
 no solitary travellers that way, and while the men may 
 have been dissatisfied with themselves and their surround 
 ings, they at least had company. He longed to join these 
 parties, and go Avith them to their homes, for he thought 
 the companionship of rough men and their families would 
 be preferable to the stillness of his house; but the wagons 
 drove on, and Allan Dorris returned to his walk across 
 the room, and back again. 
 
 From the window most patronized by him in his lonely
 
 THE LOCKS. 21 
 
 hours he could see a long stretch of the river, and at a 
 point opposite the town a steam ferry was moored. Usu 
 ally smoke was to be seen flying from its pipes during the 
 middle hours of the day, as it made a few lazy trips from 
 one shore to the other ; but occasionally it was not dis 
 turbed at all, and sat quietly upon the water like a great 
 bird from morning until night. 
 
 From making excursions about his own premises, as a 
 relief from doing nothing, he found that the house in 
 which he lived was situated in a wooded tract of several 
 acres in extent, entirely surrounded by a high stone wall, 
 with two entrances ; one in front, by means of a heavy 
 iron gate, which looked like a prison door, and a smaller 
 one down by the stable. The stable, which was built of 
 brick, had been occupied by pigeons without objection for 
 so many .years that they were now very numerous, and 
 protested in reels and whirls and dives and dips in the air 
 against the new owner coming among them at all ; perhaps 
 they imagined that in time they would be permitted to 
 occupy the house itself, and rear their young in more 
 respectable quarters. There were a few fruit and orna 
 mental trees scattered among the others, but they had 
 been so long neglected as to become almost as wild as the 
 native oaks and hickories. Occasionally a tall poplar 
 shot its head above the others, and in his idleness Allan 
 Dorris imagined that they were trying to get away from 
 the dampness below, for in the corners, and along the 
 stone wall, there was such a rank growth of vines and 
 weeds that he was almost afraid to enter the dank 
 labyrinth himself. There was a quaking asp, too, which 
 was always shivering at thought of the danger that might 
 be concealed in the undergrowth at its feet, and even 
 the stout hickories climbed a good way into the air to 
 insure their safety.
 
 22 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Close to the south wall, so close that he could almost 
 touch it, stood a stone church, with so many gables that 
 there seemed to be one for every pigeon from the stable, 
 and on certain days of the week sumeone came there to 
 practise on the organ. At times the music was exquisite, 
 and in his rambles about the place he always went down 
 by the south wall to listen for the organ, and if he heard 
 it he remained there until the music ceased. The music 
 pleased him so much, and was such a comfort in his lone 
 liness, that he did not care to see the player, having in his 
 mind a spectacled and disagreeable person whose appear 
 ance would rob the spell of its charm ; therefore he kept 
 out of his way, though, on the days when the music could 
 be expected, Dorris was always in his place, impatiently 
 waiting for it to commence. There was something in 
 the playing with which he seemed to have been ac 
 quainted all his life ; it may have been only the ex 
 pression of weariness and sad melancholy that belongs 
 to all these instruments, but, however it was, he regarded 
 the organ as an old acquaintance, and took much plea 
 sure in its company even when it was silent, for it occu 
 pied a great stone house like himself, and had nothing 
 to do. 
 
 Between the stable and the house was the residence of 
 Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper a building that had ori 
 ginally been a detached kitchen, but the cunning of 
 woman had transformed the two rooms into a pleasant 
 and cozy place. This looked home-like and attractive, as 
 there were vines over it and flowers about the door; and 
 here Allan Dorris found himself lingering from day to 
 day, for he seemed to crave companionship, though he 
 was ashamed to own it and go out and seek it. Instead 
 of dining in the stone house, he usually sat down at 3Ir*. 
 Wedge's table, which he supplied with a lavish hand, and
 
 THE LOCKS. 23 
 
 lingered about until he thought it necessary to go away, 
 when he tried to amuse himself in the yard by various 
 exercises, which were probably recollections of his younger 
 days ; but he failed at it, and soon came back to ask the 
 motherly old housekeeper odd questions, and laugh good- 
 naturedly at her odd answers. 
 
 A highly respectable old lady was Mrs. Wedge, in her 
 black cloth dress and snowy white cap, and no one was 
 more generally respected in Davy's Bend. During his 
 life Mr. Wedge had been a strolling agent, never stopping 
 in a town more than a week ; and thus she lived and 
 travelled about, always hoping for a quiet home, until her 
 good-natured but shiftless husband took to his bed one 
 day, and never got up again, leaving as her inheritance his 
 blessing and a wild son of thirteen, who knew all about 
 the ways ef the world, but nothing of industry. Hear 
 ing of Davy's Bend soon after as a growing place, 
 which was a long time ago, for Davy's Bend was not a 
 growing place now, she apprenticed her son to a farmer, 
 and entered the service of the owner of The Locks, under 
 whose roof she had since lived. 
 
 The wild son did not take kindly to farming, and ran 
 awav ; and his mother did not hear of him again until 
 
 v * O 
 
 four years after she was living alone in The Locks, when 
 a little girl five years old arrived, accompanied by a letter, 
 stating that the son had lived a wanderer like his father, 
 and that the child's mother being dead, he hoped Mrs. 
 Wedge would take care of his daughter Betty until the 
 father made his fortune. But the father never made his 
 fortune ; anyway, he never called for the child, and Mrs. 
 Wedge had found in her grand-daughter a companion and 
 a comfort, passing her days in peace and quiet. There 
 fore when the new owner offered her a home there, and 
 wages besides, in return for her agreement to undertake
 
 24 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 his small services, she accepted having become attached 
 to the place and lived on as before. 
 
 The house itself, which was built of stone, and almost 
 square, contained ten rooms ; four of about the same size 
 below, and four exactly like them above, and two in the 
 attic or half story in the roof. There were wide halls up 
 stairs and down, and out of the room that Allan Dorris 
 had selected for his own use, and which was on the .corner 
 looking one way toward the gate in front, and the other 
 toward the town, began a covered stairway leading to 
 the attic. 
 
 In this room he sat day after day, and slept night after 
 night, until he almost became afraid of the quiet that he 
 believed he coveted when he came to Davy's Bend ; and 
 at times he looked longingly toward the speaking-tube 
 behind the door, hoping it would whistle an announce 
 ment that a visitor had arrived ; for his habit of sitting 
 quietly looking at nothing, until his thoughts became so 
 disagreeable that he took long walks about the place to 
 rid himself of them, was growing upon him. 
 
 But no visitors came to vary the monotony, except the 
 agent on the morning after his arrival, who received a 
 quarter's rent in advance, and afterwards named a price 
 so low that Allan Dorris bought the place outright, 
 receiving credit for the rent already paid. 
 
 Had the dark nights that looked in at Allan Dorris's 
 windows, and for which Davy's Bend seemed to be 
 famous, been able to remark it, there would have been 
 much mysterious gossip through the town concerning his 
 strange actions. Whenever he sat down, his eyes w r ere at 
 once fixed on nothing, and he lost himself in thought ; he 
 was oblivious to everything, and the longer he thought, 
 the fiercer his looks became, until finally he sprang from 
 his chair and walked violently about, as if his body was
 
 THE LOCKS. 25 
 
 trying to escape from his head, which contained the objec 
 tionable thoughts. At times he would laugh hoarsely, 
 and declare that he was better off at The Locks than he 
 had ever been before, and that Davy's Bend was the best 
 place in which he had ever lived; but these declarations 
 did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy and 
 thoughtful as ever. That he was ill at ease, the dark 
 nights could havd easily seen had they been blessed with 
 eyes; for the dread of loneliness grew upon him, and fre 
 quently he sent for Mrs. Wedge, confessing to her that 
 he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, 
 no matter what it was about. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified 
 way relate how, on her visits to the stores to purchase 
 supplies, great curiosity was everywhere expressed with ref 
 erence to th,e new master of The Locks, what business 
 he would engage in; where he came from; and, most of 
 all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought The 
 Locks for almost nothing. 
 
 "A great many say they would have taken the place at 
 the price themselves," Mrs. Wedge would continue, 
 smoothing down the folds of her apron, a habit of which 
 she never tired, " but this is not necessarily true. The 
 people here never want to buy anything until it is out of 
 the market ; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of 
 which they have great need, for they have little else to do. 
 I believe the price at which you took the house was lower 
 than it was ever offered before, but that is neither here 
 nor there." 
 
 Then Mrs. Wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a 
 quaint way, and of the people, which amused her employer ; 
 and noticing that, in his easy chair, he seemed to enjoy 
 her company, she would smooth out her apron once 
 more, and continue :
 
 26 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " They all agree," there would be an amused smile on 
 Mrs. Wedge's face as she said it, " they all agree that you 
 do not amount to much, else you would have gone to Ben's 
 City, instead of coming here. This is always said of every 
 stranger, for Davy's Bend is so dull that its people have 
 forgotten their patriotism. I have not heard a good word 
 for the town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, 
 and cursed, and ridiculed. I think we despise each other 
 because we do not move to Ben's City, and we live very 
 much as I imagine the prisoners in a jail do, in cursing 
 our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that 
 each one of us will finally be fortunate, while the condi 
 tion of the others will grow worse. We are a strange 
 community." 
 
 Dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near 
 The Locks, and wondered at the deserted houses which he 
 had seen in his walks, whereupon Mrs. Wedge explained 
 that Davy's Bend was once a prosperous city, containing 
 five thousand busy people, but it had had bad luck since ; 
 very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now 
 remained, and even they are trying to get away. What is 
 the cause of this decrease in population ? The growth of 
 Ben's City, thirty miles down the river. The belief 
 which existed at one time that a great town would be 
 built at Davy's Bend turned out to be a mistake. Ben's 
 City seemed to be the place ; so the people had been 
 going there for a number of years, leaving Davy's Bend 
 to get along as best it could. 
 
 This, and much more, from Mrs. Wedge, until at a late 
 hour she notices that Dorris is asleep in his chair, proba 
 bly having got rid of his thoughts ; so she takes up the 
 lamp to retire with it. Holding it up so that the shade 
 throws the light full upon his face, she remarks to herself 
 that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe
 
 THE LOCKS. 27 
 
 man, whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing 
 something about men, and arranging the room for the 
 night, although it does not need it, she goes quietly down 
 the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and into her 
 own apartment.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 A LLAN DOKRIS sleeps on, unconscious of the dark- 
 -^- ness peering in at him from the outside, which is 
 also running riot in the town, and particularly down by 
 the river, where the crazy houses with their boarded win 
 dows seem to collect shadows during*the day for use at 
 night, robbing the sunlight for the purpose ; for there is 
 little brightness and warmth at Davy's Bend, but much of 
 dampness and hazy atmosphere. 
 
 There is light and life down this way ; a light in the 
 window of the wretched house occupied by Mr. Tug 
 Whittle, and all the neighboring buildings are alive with 
 rats and vermin. Tug occupies his house for the same 
 reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of 
 the town the tenants pay no rent. Some of the buildings 
 wore once busy warehouses and stores, but they have 
 been turned over to the rats these ten years, and Tug 
 occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if 
 it falls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins 
 in Avhich to bury the tenants. Besides, the big buildings 
 shelter him from the cold north winds in winter, and do 
 not interfere with the southern breezes from the river in 
 summer; therefore the faded sign of "T. Whittle, Law 
 Office," swings in front of the little fi'ame building bnvk 
 from the street, instead of from the more imposing ones 
 by its side. 
 
 28
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 29 
 
 Everybody knows Tug Whittle, and admits that he is 
 perfectly harmless and hopelessly lazy always except 
 ing Silas Davy, who believes that his friend is very ener 
 getic and dangerous ; therefore when Silas is unable to 
 hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he 
 spends so much time at night with Tug that he is unfit for 
 work during the day, he is also an inhabitant of the little 
 law office, along with the lawyer and the rats, although it 
 is not much of a law office, for it contains nothing but a 
 stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as 
 though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a 
 few broken chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and 
 a few other articles common to a kitchen, all of them 
 second-hand, and very poor. 
 
 There is nothing about the place to suggest a law office 
 save the sign in front, and a single leather-covered book 
 on the inside ; a ponderous volume to which Mr. Whittle 
 applies for everything, including kindling. Silas has seen 
 him look through it to decide questions in science, theol 
 ogy, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which 
 to start his fire ; and while a cunning man would have 
 guessed that Mr. Whittle made up his authority, instead 
 of finding it in the book, Silas Davy, who is not cunning, 
 believes that it is a repository of secrets of every kind, al 
 though it is really a treatise on a law which has been 
 repealed many years. When Silas so far forgets himself 
 as to mildly question something his companion has said, 
 Mr. Whittle refers to the book, and triumphantly proves 
 his position, no difference what it may be ; whereupon the 
 little man feels much humiliated. Mr. Whittle has even 
 been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in 
 Davy's Bend of various offences ; and Silas has so much 
 respect for the volume that he has no trouble in imagining 
 that the den in which Tug lives is not only a law office,
 
 80 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 but a repository of profane, political, and sacred history, to 
 say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal. 
 
 Like the rats again, Tug lies by during the day, and 
 goes abroad at night, for he is seldom seen on the streets 
 until the sun goes down, and he is not entirely himself un 
 til after midnight. Occasionally, on dark, bad days he 
 is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known 
 that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough 
 office. If he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes 
 the case, he gets up long enough to drive them away, and 
 returns to his bed until it is dark, when he yawns and 
 stretches himself, and waits patiently for Silas Davy, who 
 is due about that hour with his supper. 
 
 But for Silas Davy, like the rats again, Tug would be 
 compelled to steal for a living ; for he never works, but 
 Silas believes in him, and admires him, and whenever he 
 is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his friend, 
 who eats it, and is not grateful. Indeed, he often looks 
 at Silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him 
 as well as he should, whereupon Silas looks downcast and 
 miserable ; but, all in all, they get along very well together. 
 
 Up to the present rainy and wet year of our Lord 
 eighteen hundred and no difference what, Tug has never 
 admired anyone, so far as is known ; but he admires Allan 
 Dorris, the new owner of The Locks, and frequently says 
 to Silas that " T/iere is a man," at the same time aimin<r 
 
 ' O 
 
 his big eye in the direction Dorris is supposed to be. 
 There is every reason why Tug should admire Silas Davy, 
 who is very good to him, but he does not, except in a way, 
 and which is a very poor way; and there is no reason why 
 he should admire Allan Dorris, who is suspicious of him, 
 but he does, and on this night, Silas having arrived early 
 with his supper, he is killing two birds with one stone, by 
 discussing both at the same time.
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 31 
 
 " By the horns of a tough bull," Tug says, which is his 
 way of swearing, " but there is a man. Muscle, brain, 
 clothes, independence, money; everything. What, no 
 butter to-night ? " 
 
 He says this impatiently after running through the 
 package his companion has brought, and not finding 
 what he was looking for; and Silas humbly apologizes, 
 saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel. 
 
 " "Well, no matter," Tug continued in an injured way, 
 using a pickle and two slices of bread as a sandwich. " It 
 will come ai-ound all right some day. When I come into 
 my rights, I '11 have butter to spare. But this impudent 
 Dorris ; I like him. He has the form of an Apollo and 
 the muscle of a giant. If he should hit you, you would 
 fall so fast that your rings would fly off your fingers. 
 He 's the kind of a man I 'd be if I had my rights." 
 
 While Tug is munching away at his supper, Davy re 
 members how unjust the people are with reference to these 
 same rights ; how they say he has none, and never will 
 have, except the right to die as soon as possible. The 
 people say that Tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from 
 her house because he would not work, and because he was 
 ugly in disposition, as well as in face and person ; that it 
 was soon found out that he was not so dangerous, after 
 all, when men were talking to him, so they have regarded 
 him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. Some 
 of the people believe that Tug does not appear on the 
 streets during the day for fear of meeting his wife, while 
 others contend that he goes out only at night because he 
 is up- to mischief; but neither class care to question him 
 about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, and 
 knows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled 
 to invent facts for the purpose. 
 
 But Davy knows that Tug can tell a very different
 
 32 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 story, and tell it well, and he is sure that there will be a 
 genuine sensation when he finally tells it, and comes into 
 his own. 
 
 " What a voice he has, and what a eye," Mr. Whittle 
 goes on to say, throwing a leg over a chair to be comfort 
 able. " I usually despise a decent man because I am not 
 one myself, but this fellow damn him, I like him." 
 
 Silas Davy was the sort of a man who is never surprised 
 at anything. Had he been told on a dark night that it was 
 raining blood on the outside, he would not have disputed 
 it, or investigated it, believing that such storms were 
 common, though they had escaped his observation ; there 
 fore he was not surprised that Tug admired Allan Dorris, 
 although he knew he had no reason to. 
 
 " I have known people to come here and denounce us 
 for a lack of culture who knew nothing about propriety 
 except to eat pie with a fork," Mr. Whittle said again ; 
 " but this Dorris, I '11 bet he practises the proprieties 
 instead of preaching them. He don't remind me of the 
 people who come here and call us ignorant cattle because 
 .we do not buy their daub paintings at extravagant prices, 
 or take lessons from them ; he don't look like the cheap 
 fellows who declare that we lack cultivation because we 
 refuse to patronize their fiddle and pianow concerts, there 
 fore look out for Dorris. He 's a man, sure enough ; I '11 
 stake every dollar I 'm worth and my reputation on it." 
 
 Although he had neglected to bring butter, the supper 
 Silas had brought was good enough to put Mr. Whittle in 
 a cheerful humor, and he continued, 
 
 "The people around here put me in mind of the freaks 
 in a xlime museum ; but Dorris's clothes fit him, and he 
 looks well. There are plenty of men so common that they 
 look shabby in broadcloth, and who are so miserably 
 shaped that no tailor can fit their bones ; but this fellow
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 33 
 
 he would look well with a blanket thrown over his 
 shoulders, and running wild. Hereafter, when I refer to< 
 my rights, understand that I would be a Dorris sort of a 
 fellow were justice done me. Did you bring me a 
 drink?" 
 
 Silas produced a flask from his pocket, and while Tug 
 was mixing the contents with sugar, by means of stirring 
 them together with a spoon in a tumbler, making a cheer 
 ful, tinkling sound the while, he delivered a stirring 
 temperance lecture to his companion. He did this so 
 often that Silas regarded himself as a great drunkard, 
 although that was not one of his failings ; but he felt grate 
 ful to Tug, w r ho drank a great deal, for his good advice. 
 He was so mortified to think of his bad habits and 
 Tug's worthiness, that he turned his face away, unable 
 to reply. 
 
 " Dorris reminds me of a young widow two years after 
 the funeral," Mr. Whittle said, after drinking the dram he 
 had prepared. " Handsome, clean, well-dressed, and 
 attractive. I have an ambition to be a young widow my 
 self, but owing to the circumstance that I have been de 
 frauded of my rights, at present I look like a married 
 woman with six children who does not get along with her 
 husband. In short, I am slouchy, and ill-tempered, and 
 generally unattractive, with an old wrapper on, 'and my 
 hair down. Ben, come here." 
 
 The light in the room was so dim that it had not yet re 
 vealed to the eyes of Silas the form of a boy seated on a 
 low box at the side of the room farthest from him, who 
 now came over into the rays of the lamp, and looked 
 timidly at Tug. 
 
 Silas knew the boy very well ; little Ben Whittle, the 
 son of his friend, who worked on a farm three miles in the 
 country, and who came to town occasionally after dark
 
 34 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 to see Silas, who treated him well, but always returning in 
 time to be called in the morning; for his employer was a 
 rough man, and very savage to his horses and cattle and 
 boys. Ben was dressed in a coat no longer than a jacket, 
 buttoned tightly around his body, and his pants were so 
 short that they did not nearly touch the tops of his rough 
 shoes. lie wore on his head a crazy old hat, through the 
 torn top of which his uncombed hair protruded, and al 
 together he was such a distressing sight that Davy was 
 always pitying him, although he w r as never able to do 
 him much good, except to treat him kindly when he came 
 to the hotel at long intervals, and give him something to 
 eat. 
 
 " Are you hungry ? " Tug inquired, looking sharply at 
 the boy, as he stood cringing before him. 
 
 " Yes, sir, if you please." 
 
 "Then help yourself," his father roughly returned, 
 crabbed because Ben had told the truth, and pointing to 
 the table ; whereupon the boy went to nibbling away at 
 the crumbs and bones remaining of the lunch brought by 
 Silas. 
 
 Little Ben was so surprisingly small for a boy of eleven 
 that he was compelled to stand to reach the crumbs and 
 bones, but his father regarded him as a brawny youth 
 as tough as dogwood. 
 
 "When I was a boy of his age," Tug said to Davy, 
 " they dressed me up in good clothes, and admired me, 
 and thought I was about the cutest thing on earth, but I 
 was n't." 
 
 Davy looked up as if to inquire what he really was at 
 Ben's age, and received an answer. 
 
 "I was an impudent imp, and detested by all the 
 neighbors; that's the truth. My father used to go 
 around town, and tell the people the cute things I said,
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 35 
 
 instead of making me go to work, and teaching me 
 industry ; but the people did n't share his enthusiasm, 
 and referred to me as that ' worthless Whittle boy.' Ben, 
 what can you do?" 
 
 " I can cut corn, sir, and drive the team, and plough a 
 little," the boy replied, startled by his father's loud voice. 
 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 "I can't remember everything, sir. I do as much as 
 I can." 
 
 Little Ben did not look as though he could be of much 
 use on a farm, for he was very thin, and very weak-look 
 ing; but apparently this did not occur to his father, who 
 continued to stare at him as though he wondered at his 
 strength. 
 
 "Think of that, will you," Tug continued, addressing 
 Silas again. " He can cut corn, and plough, and all that, 
 and only eleven years old. Why, when he gets to be 
 thirteen or fourteen he will whip old Quade, and take 
 possession of the farm ! What could I do when I was 
 eleven years old? Nothing but whine, and I was always 
 at it, although I was brought up in a house with three- 
 ply carpets on the floor, and always treated well. I was 
 treated too well, and I intend to make a man out of Ben 
 by seeing that he is treated as mean as possible. Look 
 here, you," he added turning toAvard the boy, "'when old 
 Quade fails to lick you twice a day, get your hat and run 
 for me ; and I '11 try and make you so miserable that you '11 
 amount to something as a man." 
 
 It was the opinion of Davy that Ben was meanly 
 enough treated already, not only by his father, but by the 
 farmer with whom he worked ; for no one seemed to be 
 kind to the boy except himself, and he made his long 
 journeys to town for no other reason than to hear Davy's 
 gentle voice. But Davy was afraid to say this to Tug,
 
 36 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 and in his weakness could do nothing to help him. In 
 the present instance he looked out of the window. 
 
 " You are a fortunate boy in one respect, at least," the 
 admirino- father said to his son a<2;ain. "Your mother 
 
 O O 
 
 hates you, and you have a prospect of becoming a man. 
 Many a boy at your age has a good bed to sleep on, and 
 plenty to eat, and will grow up into a loafer; but here 
 you are on the high i-oad to greatness. Had my father 
 been a wise man, as your father is, I might have been a 
 storekeeper now instead of what I am ; therefore don't 
 let me hear you complain I '11 give you something to 
 complain about if I do. The ways of Providence may be 
 a little mysterious to you now, you robust rascal ; but 
 when the lion. Benjamin Whittle goes to Congress he 
 will tell the reporter who writes him up that his father 
 was a kind, thoughtful man who did a great deal for 
 him." 
 
 There was something more than the darkness peering 
 in at the window when Silas Davy looked that way ; a 
 good deal more a strange man's face, which was flat 
 tened against the lower pane. At the moment that Silas 
 saw him, the man seemed to be using his eyes in investi 
 gating the other corner of the room, for he did not know 
 for a moment that he was detected. When his gaze met 
 Silas Davy's, he quickly drew away from the window, 
 and disappeared ; but not until Silas remarked that it was 
 a swarthy, malicious face, and that cunning and deter 
 mination were expressed in its features. Silas was not at 
 all astonished at the appearance, as was his custom ; but 
 when he looked at Tug again, to pay respectful attention 
 to his next observation, he saw that he, too, had seen the 
 face, for he was preparing to go out. 
 
 " Another stranger," Tug said, as he looked for his hat. 
 "We are becoming a great town."
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 37 
 
 Silas asked no question*, but when his companion 
 stepped into the dirty street, leaving little Ben alone, he 
 followed, and walked a few paces behind him, as he hur 
 ried along in the direction of the inhabited portion of the 
 town. As they rieared the dismal lamps, and while they 
 were yet in the darkness, the}" saw the figure of a tall 
 man, enveloped in what seemed to be a waterproof cloak, 
 turn into the main street, which ran parallel with the 
 river, and walk toward the hotel where Davy was em 
 ployed. But the man wearing the cloak did not stop 
 there, except to examine a scrap of paper under the light; 
 after which he turned again, and walked in the direction 
 of The Locks. Silas and his companion followed, as rap 
 idly as they could, for there were no lights now, and they 
 stumbled over the hills, and into the gullies, until The 
 Locks gate was reached, which they found ajar. 
 
 This strange circumstance did not deter them from 
 entering at once, though quietly and with caution, and 
 together they crept up the pavement, and up the front 
 steps, through the front door, which was wide open, and 
 up the stairway, until they stopped in front of the door 
 leading into the room occupied by Allan Dorris. 
 
 Everything was still; and as they stood there in the 
 dark, listening, Tug was surprised to find that Davy was 
 in front of him, whereas he had believed that 'he was in 
 his rear. Likewise Silas Davy was surprised, for while he 
 was sure that Tug had passed him, and gone lightly down 
 the stairs, a moment afterward he put his hand on him, 
 and knew that he was bending over, and listening at the 
 keyhole. 
 
 But nothing could be heard except the regular breath 
 ing of Allan Dorris as he slept in his chair, although they 
 now realized that the mysterious stranger had passed 
 them on the stab's, and was on the outside ; so they crept
 
 38 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 down the stairs, and into the street, closing the door and 
 gate after them. 
 
 Over the hills and into the hollows again ; so they trav 
 elled back to their retreat down by the river, where they 
 greatly surprised little Ben and the rats by opening the 
 door suddenly and walking in upon them. 
 
 Silas dropped down on the bed, and Tug into a chair, 
 where they remained a long time without speaking. 
 
 " What do you make of it ? " Tug inquired at last. 
 
 " Nothing," Silas rettmied. 
 
 There was another long silence, which was finally broken 
 by Tug remarking, 
 
 "I make nothing of it, myself. We are agreed for 
 once."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DAVY'S BEND. 
 
 TT was generally agreed among the people of Davy's 
 -L Bend a thousand in number, the census said ; six 
 hundred they said themselves, for they changed the rule, 
 and exaggerated their own situation unfavorably that 
 the town possessed more natural advantages than any 
 other in 'the world. 
 
 They demonstrated this with great cleverness, by means 
 of maps drawn on brown wrapping-paper inside of the 
 stores, and, after looking at their maps, they triumphantly 
 exclaimed, with a whack of their fists on the counter, 
 "There are the figures; and figures won't lie." But in 
 spite of their maps showing valleys occupied with rail 
 roads (which Capital neglected to build), Ben's City, be 
 low them, continued to prosper, whereas Davy's Bend 
 continued to go steadily down the hill. 
 
 The people did little else than wonder at this, and curse 
 Capital because it did not locate in a town where nature 
 was lavish in the matter of location, instead of going to 
 a place where it would always find the necessity of con 
 tending against odds confronting it. Such a town was 
 
 O ~ O 
 
 Ben's City, in the estimation of those living at Davy's 
 Bend ; but they must have been mistaken, for great houses 
 and institutions grew up where little had been planted, and 
 men with money trampled upon each other in their mad 
 
 39
 
 40 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 haste to take advantage of the prosperity that seemed to 
 be in the air. Those who drew the maps declared that a 
 crash was soon to come, when the capitalists who did not 
 know their own interests would trample upon each other 
 in their haste to get, away ; but those who bought Ben's 
 City property, no difference at what price, soon sold out 
 again at an advance ; and the prosperity of the place 
 was quite phenomenal. 
 
 Never was Capital so thoroughly hated as in Davy's 
 Bend. It was cursed a thousand times a day, and shown 
 to be fickle and foolish and ungrateful ; for evidences of 
 these weaknesses on the part of Capital abounded on every 
 hand. There were railroads to be built out of Davy's 
 Bend that would pay immensely, as had been demonstrated 
 times without number by the local paper; but Capital 
 stubbornly refused to build them, preferring to earn a 
 beggarly per cent elsewhere. There were manufactories 
 to be built in Davy's Bend that would make their owners 
 rich, as every child knew ; but Capital, after a full investi 
 gation, was so dull that it could not see the opportunity. 
 The town was alive with opportunities for profitable in 
 vestments, but Capital, with a mean and dogged indiffer 
 ence, refused to come to Davy's Bend ; therefore Capital 
 was hated, and bullied, and cursed, and denounced; and 
 it was generally agreed that it deserved no better fate than 
 to go to ruin in the general crash that would finally over 
 take Ben's City. 
 
 The people of Davy's Bend were a good deal like a 
 grumbling and idle man, who spends the time which 
 should be devoted to improving his condition to grum 
 bling about his own ill luck and the good luck of his 
 industrious rival, who is steadily prospering; and as men 
 frequently believe that the fates are against them when 
 they are themselves their only opposition, so it Avas
 
 DAVY'S BI:ND. 41 
 
 generally believed in this wretched little town that some 
 sort of a powerful and alert goddess was in league with 
 Ben's City. While they readily admitted their own 
 points of advantage, even to the extent of giving them 
 selves more credit than they deserved, they refused to be 
 equally fair with their competitor, as men do, and con 
 tended, with an ignorant persistency, that Ben's City was 
 prosperous because of " luck," whereas they should have 
 known that there is no such thing, either good or bad. 
 
 But, in course of time, when they found that they 
 would always be in the rear, no difference whether they 
 liked it or not, the people of the Bend, in order to more 
 thoroughly denounce their own town for its lack of 
 ability to attract Capital, began to exaggerate the import 
 ance of Ben's City. A four-story building there became 
 seven sttfries high, and those who visited the place vied 
 with each other in giving vivid and untruthful accounts 
 of its growth and prosperity on their return ; all of which 
 their acquaintances repeated over and over, though they 
 knew it to be untrue, even adding to the exaggerated 
 statements, in order to bully their own meek town. 
 
 Probably they were not proud of the greatness of their 
 rival; for they talked of it as a cowardly man might 
 exaggerate the strength of the fellow who had whipped 
 him, using it as an excuse for defeat. Indeed, they were 
 proud of nothing, except their own accounts of the great 
 ness of Davy's Bend a long while before, when the huge 
 warehouses were occupied, and before Capital had com 
 bined against it ; of this they talked in a boastful way, 
 magnifying everything so much that many of the listeners 
 who had not heard the beginning of the conversation 
 imagined that they were talking of Ben's City ; but of 
 bettering their present condition they had no thought, 
 by common consent it was so very bad that attempts tr
 
 42 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 become prosperous again were useless, so the Bend was a 
 little worse off every year 1 , like an old and unsuccessful 
 man. 
 
 Most of the business men of Davy's Bend had been 
 clerks in the days of the town's prosperity, making their 
 own terms when their energetic employers wanted to 
 get away, and in spite of the general dullness and lack of 
 success, they entertained very good opinions of them 
 selves; for no difference what a citizen's misfortunes 
 were, he loaded them all on the town, and thus apolo 
 gized for his own lack of ability. But for the circum 
 stance that he was tied to Davy's Bend, he would have 
 been great and distinguished ; they all said the same 
 thing, and in order to get his own story believed, every 
 man found it necessary to accept the explanations of the 
 others, or pretend to ; so it happened that the people did 
 not hold themselves responsible for anything, the town 
 in which they lived was to blame for everything that was 
 disagreeable, and was denounced accordingly. 
 
 The esteem with which the people regarded themselves 
 was largely due to the manner in which they were re 
 ferred to in the local paper, a ribald folio appearing once 
 a week. None of the business men were advertisers, but 
 they all gave the publisher free pardon if he referred to 
 them in complimentary terms in his reading columns, and 
 sent in his bill. Thus, the merchant who did not own the 
 few goods he displayed was often referred to as a mer 
 chant prince, with an exceedingly shrewd business head 
 on his shoulders. Sometimes notices of this character 
 'were left standing from week to week by the shiftless 
 editor ; a great number of them would occasionally get 
 together on the same page, referring to different men 
 as the shrewdest, the wisest, the most energetic, etc. ; and 
 it was very ridiculous, except to the persons concerned,
 
 DAVY'S BEND. 43 
 
 who believed that the people read the notices with great 
 pleasure. 
 
 So great was the passion for puffery among them that 
 designing men who heard of it came along quite fre 
 quently, and wrote the people up in special publications 
 devoted to that kind of literature. There would be a 
 pretence that the special edition was to be devoted to 
 the town, but it really consisted of a few lines at the 
 beginning, stating that Davy's Bend had more natural 
 advantages than any other town in the world, and four 
 pages of puffs of the people, at so much per line ; where 
 upon the men made fun of all the notices except their 
 own, believing that its statements were true, and gener 
 ally accepted as a part of the town's history. A few of 
 those who were able had engravings inserted, and the 
 puff writers, in order to make the notices and bills as 
 large as possible, told how long and how often the sub 
 jects had been married ; how many children they had, 
 together with their names, where they came from, and 
 much other mild information of this character. 
 
 It was known that many of the complimentary sketches 
 were written by the persons to whom they referred ; but 
 while Harrisonfield, the grocer, gave wide circulation to 
 the, fact that Porterfield, of the dry-goods store, had re 
 ferred to himself as an intellectual giant, and a business 
 man of such sterling ability that he had received flatter 
 ing offers to remove to Ben's City, he did not know that 
 Porterfield was proving the same indiscretion with refer 
 ence to himself. 
 
 Every new man who wrote up the town in this manner 
 was more profuse with compliments of the people than 
 his predecessor had been ; and finally the common language 
 was inadequate to describe their greatness, and they 
 longed for somebody to come along who could " write,"
 
 44 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 and who could fully explain how much each one was 
 doing for the town ; but although they all professed to be 
 doing a great deal constantly for Davy's Bend, there was 
 no reason to believe that any of them were accomplishing 
 anything in this direction, for it could not have been 
 duller than it was in the year of our Lord just referred 
 to. 
 
 But there was an exception to this rule, as there is said 
 to be to all others, Thompson Benton, the merchant ; 
 the dealer in everything, as the advertisements on his 
 wrapping-paper stated, for he advertised nowhere else. 
 But he was reliable and sensible, as well as stout and 
 surly ; so it was generally conceded that he was the fore 
 most citizen of the Bend. 
 
 Not that he made a pretence to this distinction; old 
 Thompson was modest as well as capable, and whatever 
 good was said of him came from the people themselves. 
 Had there been new people coming to Davy's Bend occa 
 sionally, it is possible that old Thompson would not have 
 been the leading citizen, for it was said that he " improved 
 on acquaintance," and that people hated the ground he 
 walked on until they had known him a dozen years or 
 more, and found out his sterling virtues ; but they had all 
 known him a great many years, and therefore admired 
 him in spite of themselves. 
 
 Thompson Benton had been a resident of the town in 
 the days of its prosperity, and ranked with the best of 
 those who had moved away ; but he preferred to remain, 
 since he had become attached to his home, and feared that 
 he could not find one which would suit him equally well 
 elsewhere. Besides, he owned precious property in the 
 Davy's Bend cemetery, and lavished upon it the greatest 
 care. Hard though he was in his transactions with men, 
 the memory of his wife was sacred to him ; and many be-
 
 DAVY'S BEND. 45 
 
 lieved that, had she lived, he would have been less plain- 
 spoken and matter-of-fact. This devotion was well known ; 
 and when the people found it necessary to forgive him 
 for a new eccentricity, for it was necessary to either for 
 give him or tight him, they said he had never recovered 
 his spirits since the day a coffin was driven up to his 
 house. 
 
 His store was always open at seven in the morning, and 
 the proprietor always opened it himself, with a great iron 
 key that looked as venerable and substantial as the hale 
 old gentleman whose companion it had been so many 
 years ; for it was not a key of the new sort, that might 
 lock up a trilling man's affairs, but a key that seemed to 
 say as plainly as could be that it h'ad money and notes 
 and valuable goods of many kinds in its charge. At six 
 in the evening his store was closed, and the proprietor 
 turned the key, and put it into his pocket. At noon he 
 ate his frugal dinner while seated on a high stool at his 
 
 O C3 
 
 desk, and he had been heard to say that he had not eaten 
 at home at midday in fifteen years ; for on Sundays he 
 dined in state at five o'clock. 
 
 There were no busy days in Davy's Bend, therefore he 
 got along without a clerk, and managed his affairs so well 
 that, in spite of the dulness of which there was such gen 
 eral complaint, he knew that he was a little richer at the 
 close of every day, and that he was probably doing better 
 than many of his old associates who were carrying on 
 business with a great deal of noise and display in Ben's 
 City. Certainly lie was reputed to be rich, and those who 
 were less industrious said that he should have retired 
 years before, and given others a chance. 
 
 Thompson Benton was known as a plain-spoken man, 
 and if he thought one of his customers had acted dishon 
 estly with him, he said so at the first opportunity, and
 
 46 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 gruffly hoped it would n't happen again ; by which he was 
 understood to mean that if it did happen again, there 
 would be a difficulty in which the right would triumph. 
 Indeed, he had been known to throw men out of the front 
 door in a very rough manner, two and three at a time ; but 
 the people always said he was right, and so it usually 
 turned out, for he was never offended without cause. If an 
 impostor came to the town, the people were fully revenged 
 if he called at Benton's store, for the proprietor told him 
 what he thought of him, and in language so plain that it 
 was always understood. 
 
 Thompson Benton's principal peculiarity was his refusal 
 to be a fool. The men who threatened to leave the town 
 because they were not appreciated received no petting 
 from him ; indeed, he told them to go, and try and find a 
 place where they would not grumble so much. The suc 
 cessors of the business men who had moved away were 
 always trying to invent new methods as an evidence of 
 their ability, and some of them did not pay their debts 
 because that was an old, though respectable, custom ; they 
 rejected everything old, no matter how acceptable it had 
 pi-oved itself, and got along in an indifferent manner 
 with methods invented by themselves, though the meth 
 ods of their inventing were usually lame and unsatisfac 
 tory. For such foolishness as this old Thompson had no 
 charity, as he believed in using the experience of others 
 to his own profit ; so he raised his voice against the cus 
 toms of the town, and though he was usually abused for 
 it, it was finally acknowledged that he was right. 
 
 But notwithstanding his austere manner, the people 
 had confidence in old Thompson, and many of the town dis 
 putes were left to him. If the people had spare money, th e y 
 asked the privilege of leaving it in his iron safe (which had 
 belonged to the last bank that moved away), and took his
 
 DAVY'S BEXD. 47 
 
 receipt for it. When they wanted it again, it was always 
 ready ; and if the Ben's City cracksmen ever came that 
 way to look at the safe, they concluded that the propri 
 etor would prove an ugly customer, for it was never dis 
 turbed. 
 
 His family consisted of a maiden sister almost as old 
 and odd as himself, and his daughter Annie, who had 
 been motherless since she was five years old. The people 
 said that old Thompson never smiled during the day ex 
 cept when his pretty daughter came in, and that his only 
 recreation was in her society during two hours in the 
 evening, when she read to him, or played, or sang. 
 They were all certain that he was "wrapped up" in 
 her, and it was also agreed that this devotion was not 
 without cause; for a better girl or a prettier girl than 
 Annie Benton was not to be found in all the country 
 round. 
 
 The house in which he lived was as stout as brick and 
 mortar could make it ; for the people said that he inspected 
 every brick and stick as it was used ; and when it was com 
 pleted, his prudish sister, whom he referred to as the 
 "Ancient Maiden," was equally careful in the furnishing, 
 so that it was a very good house, and kept with scrupulous 
 neatness. The Ancient Maiden's drafts were always 
 honored, for nothing was too good for Thompson Benton's 
 home ; and those who went there never forgot the air of 
 
 * O 
 
 elegant comfort which pervaded everything. Though 
 Thompson Benton went down town in the morning with 
 the men who worked by the day, and carried a lunch bas 
 ket, he dined in the evening in state, surrounded by silver 
 and china both rich and rare ; though he worked ten hours 
 a day, and ate ft, lunch at noon, he slept at night in a bed 
 and in a room which would have rested a king ; and his 
 house was as good as any man's need be.
 
 48 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Very early in life Aunie Benton learned, somehow, 
 that it had been one of her father's pleasures, when he 
 came home at night, to listen to her mother's piano-play 
 ing, when that excellent lady was alive ; and, resolving to 
 supply the vacant place, she studied so industriously with 
 the poor teachers the town afforded that at fifteen she was 
 complimented by frequent invitations to play for thegluni 
 and plain-spoken merchant. If she selected something 
 frivolous, and played it in bad taste or time, and was not 
 invited to play again for a long while, she understood that 
 her music did not please him, and studied to remedy her 
 fault. In course of time she found out what he wanted, 
 though he never gave her advice or suggestion in reference 
 to it ; and he hud amply repaid her for all the pains she 
 had been to by saying once, after she had played for him 
 half an hour in a dark room, while he rested on a. sofa 
 near her, that she was growing more like her mother every 
 day. 
 
 " There were few ladies like your mother, Annie," old 
 Thompson would say, when the girl thanked him for his 
 appreciation. "It pleases me that you remind me of her, 
 and if you become as good a woman as she was, it will be 
 very remarkable, for you have had no mother, poor child, 
 to direct you in her way." 
 
 Annie would try harder than ever, after this, to imi 
 tate the virtues of the dead woman, and bothered the 
 Ancient Maiden a great deal to find out what she was 
 like. She was not a drone, that much was certain ; there 
 fore the daughter was not, and tried to be as useful in the 
 hive as she imagined her mother had been, in every way 
 in which a worthy woman distinguishes herself. 
 
 In like manner the girl learned to read to please her 
 father, and every day he brought home with him somethin r 
 he had come into possession of during the day, and which he
 
 DAVY'S BEND. 49 
 
 wanted read ; a book, a pamphlet, or a marked paragraph 
 in a newspaper, lie seemed to read nothing himself ex 
 cept business letters ; but none of these, or any mention of 
 his affairs, ever came into his home. 
 
 Annie Benton's mother had been organist in the big 
 stone church near The Locks, which the first residents had 
 built in the days of their prosperity, and the girl learned 
 from family friends that her father regularly attended both 
 services on Sunday, to hear the music; pei'haps there were 
 certain effects possible on the great organ which were not 
 possible on a more frivolous instrument ; but it was certain 
 that he never attended after her death until two or three 
 years after his daughter became the organist, and after 
 she was complimented on every hand for her voluntaries 
 before and after the services, and for her good taste in 
 rendering the hymns ; for old Thompson was not a 
 religious man, though he practised the principles of 
 religion much better than many of those who made 
 professions. 
 
 But one summer morning the girl saw her father come 
 in, and occupy the seat he had occupied before her 
 mother's death, and regularly after that he came early and 
 went away late. Except to say to her once, as they 
 walked home together, that she was growing mor.e like 
 her mother every day, he made no reference to the sub 
 ject, though he pretended to wonder what the matter 
 was when she threw her arms about his neck after they 
 reached the house, and burst into tears. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon he had said to her that if she was 
 going down to the church to practise, he would accom 
 pany her, and after that, every Sunday afternoon he was 
 invited to go with her, although she never had practised 
 on Sunday afternoons before. Arriving there, an old 
 negro janitor pumped the organ, and the girl played until
 
 50 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 she thought her father was tired, when they returned home 
 again, where he spent the remainder of the day alone; 
 thinking, no doubt, of his property in the cemetery, and 
 of the sad day when it became necessary to make the pur 
 chase.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A TROUBLED FANCY. 
 
 TT was Annie Benton's playing which Allan Dorris occa- 
 J- sionally heard as he wandered about the yard of The 
 Locks, for she came to the church twice a week in order 
 that she might pretend to practise on Sunday afternoons, 
 and please her father's critical ear with finished playing; 
 and Dorris was so much impressed with the excellence 
 of the music that he concluded one afternoon to look at 
 the performer. 
 
 In a stained-glass window looking toward The Locks 
 there was a broken square, little larger than his eye, and 
 he climbed up on the wall and looked through this open 
 ing. 
 
 A pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, 
 with dark hair, and features as regularly cut as those of a 
 marble statue, instead of the spectacled professor he 
 expected to see. Allan Dorris jumped down on the outer 
 side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the 
 church, entered the door. 
 
 The player was so intent with her work that she did 
 not notice his approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had 
 finished, and he stood almost beside her. She gave a little 
 start on seeing him, but collected herself, and looked at 
 him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there. 
 
 "I hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self- 
 possessed way, "but I live in the place next door called 
 
 51
 
 52 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 The Locks, and having often heard you play of late, I 
 made bold to come in." 
 
 "All are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the 
 leaves of the book before her, and apparently paying little 
 attention to Dorris. " You have as much right here as I, 
 and if I can please anyone with my dull exercises, I am 
 glad of the opportunity." 
 
 Allan Dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the 
 platform devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl 
 had splendid eyes and splendid teeth, as well as handsome 
 features. 
 
 "Do you mind my saying that I think you are very 
 pretty ? " he inquired, after looking at her intently as she 
 turned over the music. 
 
 Allan Dorris thought from the manner in which she 
 looked at him that she had never been told this before, 
 for she blushed deeply, though she did not appear con 
 fused. 
 
 "I don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without 
 giving her an opportunity to reply ; " but I enjoyed the 
 playing so much that I was afraid to look at the per 
 former, fearing he would be so hideously ugly as to spoil 
 the effect ; but you are so much handsomer than I expected 
 that I cannot help mentioning it." 
 
 " You are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoid 
 ing the compliment he had paid her, and with good 
 nature. " I imagined that the new occupant of The Locks 
 was older than you are." 
 
 There was a polite carelessness in his manner which 
 indicated that he was accustomed to mingling with all 
 sorts of people ; for he was as much at his ease in the 
 presence of Annie Benton as he had been with Mrs. 
 Wedge, or with Silas and Tug. 
 
 " I am so old in experience that I often feel that I look
 
 A TROUBLED FANCY. 53 
 
 old in years," he replied, looking at the girl again, as 
 though about to repeat his remark concerning her beauty. 
 "I am glad I do not appear old to you. You have 
 returned my compliment." 
 
 The girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and 
 then look intently at her music, as an apology for smiling 
 at all. 
 
 " How old are you ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 Annie Benton looked a little startled at the question, 
 but replied, 
 
 "Twenty." 
 
 " Have you a lover?" 
 
 This seemed to require an indignant answer, and she 
 looked at him sharply for that purpose, when she discov 
 ered that there was not a particle of impudence in his 
 manner, but rather a friendly interest. He made the 
 inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty 
 niece whom he had never met ; so she compromised the 
 matter by shaking her head. 
 
 " That 's strange," he returned. " It must be because 
 the young men are afraid of you, for you are about the 
 prettiest thing of any kind I have ever seen. It is fortu 
 nate that you live in Davy's Bend; a more intelligent 
 people would spoil you with flattery. Will you be kind 
 enough to play for me?" 
 
 The girl was rather pleased than offended at what he 
 said, for there was nothing of rudeness in his manner; 
 and when she had signified her willingness to grant his 
 request, he went back to the pews, and sat down to. listen 
 to the music. When the tones of the organ broke the 
 silence, Dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing 
 exercises, for the music was very beautiful, and rendered 
 with excellent judgment. 
 
 Her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant
 
 54 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 chords and odd combinations ; the listener happened to 
 like the same sort of thing, too, and the performance had 
 such an effect upon him that he could not remain in his 
 seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. The frown 
 upon his face was very much like that which occupied it 
 when he walked alone in his own room, after permitting 
 himself to think ; for there were wild cries in the music, 
 and mournful melodies. When it ceased, he walked up 
 to the player, and asked what she had been playing. 
 
 "I don't know myself," she answered, looking at him 
 curiously, but timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. 
 "It was a combination of many of the chords I have 
 learned from time to time that pleased me. My father, 
 who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and I thought 
 you might. It was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems* 
 ballads, and everything else I have ever heard." 
 
 " The performance was very creditable, and 1 thank 
 you for the pleasure you have afforded me," he said. 
 " Would you care if I should seat myself here in this chair 
 while you play, and look at you ? " 
 
 The girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there 
 was a look of mingled confusion and pleasure in her face 
 as she replied, 
 
 " I would n't care, but I could not play so well." 
 
 " Then I will go back to the pews; I don't wish to inter 
 fere with the music. If you don't mind it, I will say that 
 I think you are very frank and honest, as well as pretty 
 and accomplished. Many a worse player than you are 
 would have claimed that the rare combination of chords 
 I have just heard was improvising." 
 
 " It is my greatest fault," the girl answered, " to let 
 my fancy and fingers run riot over the keys, without 
 regard to the instructions in the book, and of which I am 
 so much in need. The exercises are so dull that it is a
 
 A TROUBLED FANCY. 55 
 
 great task for me to practise them ; but I never tire of 
 recalling what I have learned heretofore, and using the 
 chords that correspond with my humor. I have played a 
 great deal, lately, with The Locks in my mind, for I have 
 heard much of you, and have known of the strange house 
 all my life. Perhaps I was thinking of you when you 
 were listening." 
 
 "If you will close up the book, and think about me 
 while you are playing, I will go back to the door, and 
 listen. The subject is not very romantic, but it is lonely 
 enough, Heaven knows. I should think the old organ 
 might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, 
 for it is shut up from day to day in a great stone house, 
 as I am." 
 
 Allan Dorris went back by the door, and the organ was 
 still for such a length of time that he thought it very cor 
 rectly represented the silence that hung over his house 
 like a pall ; but finally there was the thunder of the double- 
 bass, and the music began. The instrument was an unu 
 sually good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands 
 of such a player as Annie Benton proved to be ; and Allan 
 Dorris thought she must have learned his history some 
 how, and was now telling it to whoever cared to listen. 
 Dirges ! The air was full of them, with processions of 
 mourning men and women. The girl seemed to have a 
 fondness for odd airs, played in imitation of the lower and 
 middle registers of the voice, with treble accompaniment, 
 and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone, 
 the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain English 
 why Allan Dorris, the occupant of The Locks, caine to 
 Davy's Bend, and why he was discontented and ill at ease. 
 
 The actor with the baritone voice, after telling every- 
 
 ~ *i 
 
 thing he knew, gave way for a march-movement, and a 
 company of actors, representing all the people he h:v1
 
 5G THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 ever knowu, appeared before him under the magic of the 
 music. Some of them looked iu wonder, others in dread 
 and fear, as they passed him in procession ; but the march 
 kept them going, and their places were soon taken by 
 others, from the store iu his memory, who looked in 
 wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the 
 back pew, though lie was no stranger to them. Not by 
 any means; they knew him very well. What an army! 
 They are still coming, flinging their arms to the time of 
 the inarch ; but the moment they arrive they look toward 
 the back pew, and continue looking that way, until they 
 disaj pear ; as though they have been looking for him, and 
 are surprised at his presence in that quiet place. Alter 
 a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded as if all 
 those who had appeared were trying to make their stories 
 heard at once. Their haired, their dread, their fear, all 
 were represented in the chords which he was now hearing, 
 but in the din there was nothing cheerful or joyous. If 
 any of the actors in the play he had been witnessing knew 
 anvthing to the credit of Allan Dorris, their voices were 
 
 f O 
 
 so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories 
 of hate and fear and dread. 
 
 The music at last died away with the double-bass, as it 
 began, and the player sat perfectly still after she had fin 
 ished ; nor did Dorris move from his position for several 
 minutes. 
 
 The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, 
 for nothing could be heard for a long tune except the 
 working of the bellows; for the old janitor was so deaf 
 thai he did not know that the music had ceased. 
 
 "What have you heard about The Locks?" he asked, 
 after he stood beside the girl, feeling as though there was 
 nothing concerning him which she did not know ; for she 
 had expressed it all in the music.
 
 A TROUBLED FANCY. 57 
 
 " Everything about The Locks, and a great deal about 
 you," she answered. 
 
 " I did n't suppose that you had ever heard of me. Who 
 talks about me?" 
 
 " The people." 
 
 "What do they say?" 
 
 " I would n't care to tell you all they say," she answered ; 
 "for in a dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a 
 mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a 
 house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for 
 twenty years." 
 
 She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully 
 followed her down the aisle. 
 
 " Whatever they say," he said, when they were standing 
 upon the outside, " there was a great deal more than art 
 in the piece you dedicated to me. You know, somehow, 
 that I am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. Do the 
 people say that?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Then how did you know it?" 
 
 " I saw it in your manner. Anyone could see that." 
 
 "A perfectly contented man would become gloomy 
 were he to live long in that house," he replied, pointing to 
 The Locks. " When the stillness of night settles upon it 
 there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined 
 by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe the 
 wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out 
 when the windows and doors are closed ; and there is one 
 room where nil the people I have ever known seem col 
 lected, to moan through the night. Did you ever hear 
 about the room in The Locks into which no one is per 
 mitted to look ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not
 
 58 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 to disturb that room, it adjoins the one I occupy, or 
 look into it, or inquire with reference to it ; and if I look 
 ill at case, it must be because of the house I occupy. I 
 am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May I listen 
 to you when you practise again ? " 
 
 " Certainly," she answered. " I could not possibly have 
 an objection." 
 
 She bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the 
 limping negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at 
 Dorris with distrust.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 PICTUEES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 \ LLAN DORRIS was seeing pleasant pictures in the 
 -j_ cheerful fire which burned in his room, for he 
 watched it intently from early evening until dusk, and 
 until after the night came on. 
 
 The look of discontent that had distinguished his face 
 was absent for the first time since he had occupied the 
 strange old hoiise. Perhaps a cheerful man may see plea 
 sant pictures in a fire which .produces only tragedies for 
 one who is sad ; for it is certain that Allan Dorris had 
 watched the same fire before, and cursed its pictures, and 
 walked up and down the room in excitement afterward 
 with clenched fists and a wicked countenance. But there 
 was peace in his heart now, and it could not be disturbed 
 by the malicious darkness that looked in at his windows ; 
 for the nights were so dark in Davy's Bend that they 
 seemed not an invitation to rest, but an invitation to 
 prowl, and lurk, and do wicked things. 
 
 When Mrs. Wedge brought in the lamp, and put it 
 down on the mantel, he did not look up to say a cheerful 
 word, as was his custom, but continued gazing into the 
 fire ; and she noticed that he was in better humor than he 
 had ever been before during their acquaintance. Usually 
 his thinking made him frown, but to-night he seemed to 
 be enjoying it. 
 
 The worthy woman took pleasure in finding excuses to 
 
 59
 
 60 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 go to his room as often as possible, for he seemed to bless 
 her for the intrusion upon his loneliness; but for once lie 
 did not seem to realize her presence, and he was thinking 
 more intensely than usual. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge had come to greatly admire the new occu 
 pant of The Locks. That he was a man of intelligence 
 and refinement there was no doubt; she believed this for 
 so many reasons that she never pretended to enumerate 
 them. Besides being scrupulously neat in his habits, which 
 was a great deal in the orderly woman's eyes, he was uni 
 formly polite and pleasant, except when he was alone, 
 when he seemed to storm at himself. 
 
 There was a certain manly way about him a disposi 
 tion to be just to everyone, even to his housekeeper 
 that won her heart; and she had lain awake a great many 
 nights since he had come to The Locks, wondering about 
 him ; for he had never dropped the slightest hint as to 
 where he came from, or why he had selected Davy's Bend 
 as a place of residence. 
 
 She often said to herself that a bad man could not 
 laugh as cheerfully as Allan Dorris did when he dropped 
 in at her little house to spend a half-hour, on which occa 
 sions he talked good-humoredly of matters which must 
 have seemed trifling to one of his line intelligence : and 
 
 O O s 
 
 she was certain that no one in hiding for the commission 
 of a grave offence could have captured the affections of 
 Betty as completely as he had done, for the child always 
 cried when he returned to his own room, or went out at 
 the iron gate to ramble over the hills, and thought of 
 little else except the time when she could see him again. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge had heard that children shrink from the 
 touch of hands that have engaged in violence or dishonor, 
 and watched the growing friendship between the two 
 with a gfeat deal of interest.
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 61 
 
 Mrs. Wedge believed that he had had trouble of some 
 kind in the place he came from, and that he was trying to 
 hide from a few enemies, and a great many friends, in 
 Davy's Bend ; for Mrs. Wedge could not believe that any 
 one would select Davy's Bend as a place of residence ex 
 cept under peculiar circumstances ; but she always came 
 to the same conclusion, that Allan Dorris was in the 
 right, whatever his difficulty had been. She watched him 
 narrowly from day to day, but he never gave her reason 
 to change her mind he was in the right, and in the 
 goodness of her heart she defended him, as she went about 
 her work. 
 
 " Were it Betty's father come back to me, instead of a 
 stranger of whom I know nothing," the good woman 
 would say aloud, as she swept, or dusted, or scoured in her 
 little house, " I could not find less fault Avith him than I 
 do, or be more fond of him. I know something about 
 men, and Allan Dorris is a gentleman ; more than that, 
 he is honest, and I don't believe a word you say." 
 
 " Grandmother," the child would inquire in wonder, 
 " who are you talking to ? " 
 
 " Oh, these people's tongues," Mrs. Wedge would reply, 
 with great earnestness, looking at Betty as though she 
 were a guilty tongue which had just been caught in the 
 act of slandering worthy people. "I have no patience 
 with them. Even Mr. Dorris is not free from their slan 
 der, and I am tired of it." 
 
 "But who says anything against Mr. Dorris, grand 
 mother?" 
 
 Sure enough! Who had accused him? No one, save 
 his friend Mrs. Wedge, unless his coming to Davy's Bend 
 was an accusation ; but she continued to defend him, and 
 declared before she went to sleep every night: "I'll 
 think no more about it ; he is a worthy man, of course."
 
 62 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 But whatever occupied his thoughts on the evening in 
 question, Allan Dorris was not displeased to hear an an 
 nouncement, from the speaking-tube behind the door, of 
 visitors, for they were uncommon enough ; and going to 
 it, a voice came to him from the depths announcing that 
 Silas and Tug were at the gate, and would come up if he 
 had no objection. Pulling the lever down, which opened 
 the gate, he went down to admit them at the door, and 
 they came back with him. 
 
 During his residence in the place he had met the two 
 men frequently, for they took credit to themselves that he 
 was there at all, since his coming seemed to please the 
 people (for it gave them something to talk about, even 
 if they did not admire him) ; and when he returned to his 
 house in the evening, he often met the strange pair loiter 
 ing about the gate. He had come to think well of them, 
 and frequently invited them to walk in ; but though they 
 apparently wanted to accept his invitation, they acted as 
 though they were afraid to : perhaps they feared he would 
 lose the little respect he already entertained for them on 
 acquaintance. But they had evidently concluded to 
 make him a formal call now, induced by friendliness and 
 curiosity, for they were smartened up a little ; and it had 
 evidently been arranged that Silas should do the honors, 
 for Tug kept crowding him to the front as they walked up 
 the stairs. 
 
 Apparently Tug did not expect a very warm reception 
 at The Locks, for he lagged behind, and sighted at Allan 
 Dorris with his peculiar eyes, as though he had half a 
 mind to try a shot at him ; and when he reached the land 
 ing from the level of which the doors opened into the 
 rooms of the second story, he looked eagerly and curiously 
 around, as if recalling the night when he traced the 
 shadow there, but which had escaped him.
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 63 
 
 Allan Dorris invited both men into the apartment he 
 usually occupied, and there was a freedom in his manner 
 that surprised them both. The pair had decided to visit 
 him from a curiosity that had grown out of their expe 
 rience with the shadow ; and although they expected to 
 find him stern and silent, and angered at their presence, 
 he was really in good humor, and seemed glad to see 
 them ; perhaps he was so lonely that he would have wel 
 comed a visit from a ghost. . They both noticed that the 
 ragged beard which he had worn on his face when he 
 first arrived was now absent; for he was clean shaven, 
 and this made him appear ten years younger. He looked 
 a good deal more like a man in every way than he did on 
 the night of his arrival, when he sat moping in the hotel 
 office ; and Silas and Tug both wondered at the change, 
 but they Were of one mind as to his clean face ; it was a 
 disguise. 
 
 Tug's suit of black glistened more than ever, from hav 
 ing been recently brushed ; and as soon as he had seated 
 himself, he set about watching Allan Dorris with great 
 persistency, staring him in the face precisely as he would 
 look at a picture or an ornament. Silas seated himself 
 some distance from the fire, and seemed greatly dis 
 tressed at his friend's rudeness. 
 
 " I like you," Mr. Whittle said finally, without moving 
 his aim from Dorris's face. 
 
 Dorris seemed amused, and, laughing quietly, was 
 about to reply, when Tug interrupted him. 
 
 " I know you don't like me, and I admire you for it, for 
 every decent man despises me. I am not only the meanest 
 man in the world, but the most worthless, and the ugliest. 
 My teeth are snags, and my eyes are bad, and my breath 
 is sour, and I am lazy ; but I like you, and I tell you of 
 it to your teeth."
 
 64 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Tug said this with so much seriousness that his com 
 panions both laughed ; but if he understood the cause of 
 their merriment, he pretended not to, for lie said, 
 
 " What are you laughing at ? " glaiing fiercely from one 
 to the other. " I am not trying to be funny. I hate a 
 funny man, or a joky man. I have nothing for a funny 
 man but poison, and I have it with me." 
 
 Dorris paid no more attention to his fierce companion 
 than he would to a growling dog, and continued laughing ; 
 but Silas shut up like a knife, as Tug took from his vest 
 pocket a package carefully wrapped in newspaper, and 
 after looking at it a moment with close scrutiny, con 
 tinued, 
 
 "Whenever you find me telling jokes, expect me to 
 giggle at my own wit, and then pour the contents of this 
 package on my tongue, and swallow it ; and it will be no 
 more than I deserve. I have but one virtue ; I am not 
 funny. You have no idea how I hate the low persons 
 who advertise themselves as comedians, or comediennes, 
 or serio-comic singers, or you would not accuse me of 
 it." 
 
 Silas had often seen this package before, for Tug liad 
 earned it ever since they had been acquainted, frequently 
 finding it necessary to renew the paper in which it was 
 wrapped. From certain mysterious references to it 
 Tug had dropped, Silas believed the powder was in 
 tended for a relative more objectionable than any of the 
 others, though he occasionally threatened to use it in a 
 different manner, as in the present instance. Indeed, he 
 seemed to carry it instead of a knife or a pistol; and 
 Silas had noticed on the night when they were following 
 the shadow that his companion earned the package in his 
 hand, ready for instant use. 
 
 " You are the kind of a man I intended to be," Tug
 
 PICTUEES IN THE FIKE. 65 
 
 continued, putting away his dangerous package with the 
 air of a desperado who had been flourishing a pistol and 
 took credit to himself for not using it. " I might have 
 been worthy of your friendship but for my wife's rela 
 tions, but I admire you whether you like it or not. Do 
 your worst ; I am your friend." 
 
 Tug had not taken his huge eye from Dorris's face 
 since entering, except to look at the poison ; but he re 
 moved it as Mrs. Wedge came in to prepare the table for 
 the evening meal. 
 
 Dorris was a good deal like Tug in the particular that 
 he did not sleep much .at night, but he slept soundly when 
 the morning light came up over the woods to chase away 
 the shadows which were always looking into his window ; 
 therefore he frequently ate his breakfast at noon, and his 
 supper at midnight. 
 
 There was a roast of beef, a tea urn, a pat of butter, 
 and a loaf of bread, on the platter carried by the house 
 keeper, while Betty followed with the cups and saucers, 
 and the potatoes, the napkins, and the sugar. 
 
 "I am obliged to you for your good opinion," Dorris 
 said, while the cloth was being laid, " and if you will 
 remain to supper with me, we will become better ac 
 quainted." 
 
 It occurred to Silas that Dorris looked at Tug, .in spite 
 of his politeness, as he might look at an amusing dog that 
 had been taught to catch a bacon rind from off his nose 
 at the word of command, and wondered that Tusr felt so 
 
 ' O 
 
 much at home as he seemed to : for he was watchin^ 1 the 
 
 7 O 
 
 arrangements for supper with great eagerness. Silas was 
 sure the invitation to supper would be accepted, too, for 
 Tug had never refused an - invitation of any kind in his 
 life, except invitations to be a man and go to work, which 
 the people were always giving him.
 
 66 THE MYSTEEY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 At a look from Dorris, Mrs. Wedge went out, and 
 soon returned with additional plates, besides other eat 
 ables that seemed to be held in reserve ; and during her 
 absence the master had been placing the chairs, so 
 that by the time the table was arranged, the three men 
 were ready to sit down, which they did without further 
 ceremony. Among other things Mrs. Wedge brought in 
 a number of bottles and glasses, which were put down by 
 the side of Dorris, and these now attracted the aim of 
 Tug. 
 
 " If you offer us drink," he said, " I give you fair 
 warning that we will accept, and get drunk, and disgrace 
 you. We haven't a particle of decency, have we, you 
 scoundrel ? " 
 
 This, accompanied by a prodigious poke in the ribs, was 
 addressed to Silas Davy, who had been sitting meekly 
 by, watching the proceedings. Tug had a habit of ad 
 dressing Silas as "his dear old scoundrel," and "his 
 precious cut-throat," although a milder man never lived ; 
 and he intently watched Dorris as he opened one of the 
 bottles and filled three of the glasses. Two of them 
 were placed before Tug and Silas, and though Silas only 
 sipped at his, Tug drank off the liquor apportioned to 
 him greedily. This followed in rapid succession, until 
 two of the bottles had been emptied, Dorris watching the 
 proceedings with a queer satisfaction. 
 
 He also helped them liberally to the roast beef and the 
 gravy, and the potatoes, and the bread and butter, to say 
 nothing ef the pickles and olives; but Tug seemed to 
 prefer the liquor to the tea, for he pr.rtook of that very 
 sparingly, though he was anxious to accept everything 
 else offered ; for he occasionally got up from the table to 
 tramp heavily around the room, as if to settle that already 
 eaten to make room for more.
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 67 
 
 Allan Dorris enjoyed the presence of the two men, and 
 encouraged the oddities of each by plying them with 
 spirits. Although the drink had little effect on Silas, 
 who was very temperate, Tug paid tribute to its strength 
 by opening his wide eye to its greatest extent, as if in 
 wonder at his hospitable reception, and closing the other 
 tighter, like a man who had concluded to give one side of 
 his body a rest. 
 
 As the evening wore away, and the liquor circulated 
 more freely through his blood, Tug recited, between fre 
 quent snorts, what a man he had been until he had been 
 broken up and disgraced by his wife's relations, Silas ear 
 nestly vouching for it all, besides declaring that it was a 
 shame, to which their host replied with enthusiasm that it 
 was an outrage that such a bright man and such a good- 
 looking man as Tug had been treated so unjustly, at the 
 same time filling up the glasses, and proposing that they 
 drink to the confusion and disgrace of the relations. 
 Neither of them seemed to realize that Dorris was making 
 game of them ; for Tug listened to all he said and he said 
 a great deal with an injured air that was extremely ludi 
 crous ; and when Davy i-elated that when Mr. Whittle was 
 in practice, the judges begged the favor of his opinion 
 before rendering their decisions on difficult legal ques 
 tions, Dorris regretted that he had not known the 
 judges, for he felt sure that they were wise and agreeable 
 gentlemen. But at the same time Dorris felt certain that 
 if he should be invited to attend the man's funeral, he 
 would laugh to himself upon thinking how absurdly 
 dignified he must look in his coffin. 
 
 Silas had never known Tug when he was great, of 
 
 O O ' 
 
 course, for he had flourished in the time of Silas's father ; 
 but he nevertheless believed it, and seemed to have 
 personal knowledge of the former magnificence of the
 
 68 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 rusty old lawyer. Indeed, but few of the present inhabi 
 tants of Davy's Bend had known Tug when he was clean 
 and respectable, for he always claimed that his triumphs 
 were triumphs of the old days, when Davy's Bend was 
 important and prosperous, and among the energetic citi 
 zens who had moved away and made decay possible. 
 
 "I don't amount to anything except when I am drunk 
 now," Tug said, getting on his feet, and taking aim at 
 his host, " but fill me with aristocratic liquor, and I am as 
 cute as the best of them. Have you ever heard the story 
 of the beggar on horseback ? Well, here he is, at your 
 service. Will the rich and aristocratic owner of this 
 house oblige the beggar by pouring out his dram? Ha! 
 the beggar is at full gallop." 
 
 Dorris good-naturedly obeyed the request, and while 
 Tug was on his feet, his aim happened to strike Silas. 
 
 "Silas, you greatest of scoundrels," he said, "you 
 thoroughly debased villain, loafer, and liar, I love you." 
 
 Reaching across the table, Tug cordially shook hands 
 with his friend, who had been doing nothing up to that 
 time save enjoying Tug's humor, and indorsing whatever 
 he said. Whether Silas enjoyed being called a scoundrel, 
 a villain, a loafer, and a liar, is not known, but he cer 
 tainly heard these expressions very frequently ; for Tug 
 seemed to tolerate him only because of his total and thor 
 ough depravity, though the other acquaintances of Silas 
 regarded him as a mild-mannered little man without 
 either vices or virtues. 
 
 " I have but two friends," Tug said again, seating him 
 self, and gazing stiffly at his host, " Rum and Davy ; rum 
 cheers me when I'm sad, and Davy feeds me when I'm 
 hungry, though the splendid thief does not feed me as 
 well as he might were he more industrious. Rum has a 
 bad reputation, but I announce here that it is one of my
 
 PICTURES IN THE FLRE. 69 
 
 friends. I am either ravenously hungry, or uncomiort- 
 able from having eaten too much, all the time, so that I 
 do not get much comfort from victuals ; but rum hits me 
 just right, and I love it. You say it will make me drunk. 
 Very well ; I want to get drunk. If you argue that it 
 will make me reckless, I will hotly reply that I want to be 
 reckless, and that a few bottles will make me as famous 
 as a lifetime of work and success will make a sober man. 
 Therefore I hail rum as my best friend, next to the un 
 scrupulous rascal known for hailing purposes, when there 
 are boots to be polished, or errands to run, as Hup-avy." 
 
 The eminent legal mind hurriedly put his hand to his 
 mouth, as though thoroughly humiliated that he had hic 
 coughed, and, looking at Dorris with the air of a man who 
 commits an unpardonable indiscretion and hopes that it 
 has not been noticed, continued with more care, with a 
 great many periods to enable him to guard against future 
 weakness. 
 
 " Although I have but two friends, I have a host of 
 enemies. Among them Tigley. My wife's cousin. When 
 I Avas a reputable lawyer, Tigley appeared in Davy's Bend. 
 Tigley was a fiddler. And spent his time in playing in 
 the beer halls for the drinks. The late Mrs. Whittle 
 believed him to be a great man. She called him a 
 mastero, though he played entirely by ear ; and excused 
 his dissipation on the ground that it was an eccentricity 
 common to genius. If Tigley ever comes in my way 
 again there will be something to pay more disagreeable 
 than gold. He taught me to like rum." 
 
 Silas, who acted as a kind of chorus, intimated to Dorris 
 that his friend referred to a word of four letters beginning 
 
 o o 
 
 with an " h,''' and ending with an " 1." 
 
 " That 's one reason why I am a drunkard," the victim 
 of too many relatives added, after a moment's thought.
 
 70 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " The other is that I could never talk up to the old womern 
 except when I was drunk, and it was necessary to talk 
 up to her so often that I finally craved spirits." 
 
 Tug crooked his elbow and produced the package from 
 his vest pocket, which he waved aloft as an intimation that 
 Tigley's nose should be held, when next they met, until 
 he swallowed its contents. 
 
 " By-the-way," Tug said, as if something new had 
 occurred to him, " I warn you not to believe anything I 
 say ; I lie because I enjoy it. Drinking whiskey, and 
 lying, and loving Davy, are my only recreations. Then 
 there was Veazy Vaughn, the Vagrant my wife's uncle 
 he is responsible for my idleness. When he came here, 
 twenty odd years ago, I tried to reclaim him, and went 
 around with him ; but he enjoyed vagrancy so much, and 
 defended his position so well, that I took a taste of it 
 myself. I liked it. I have followed it ever since." 
 
 There was not the slightest animation about Tug, and 
 he sat bolt upright like a post while he talked with slow 
 and measured accent, to avoid another hiccough, and his 
 great eye was usually as motionless as his body. 
 
 " The late Mrs. Whittle treated her relatives so well 
 that other worthless people who were no kin to her 
 began to appear finally, and claim to be her cousins and 
 nieces and nephews," Tug said. "And she used my 
 substance to get up good dinners for them. They came 
 by railroad. By wagon. On foot. And on horseback. 
 I was worse than a Mormon, for I married a thousand, at 
 least, on my wedding-day. Some of them called me 
 ' Uncle W,' while others spoke of me as their ' Dear 
 Cousin T;' but when the last dollar of my money was 
 invested in dried beef, and the relatives had eaten it, I 
 protested, and then they turned me out. The relations 
 have my money, and I have their bad habits. I have
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 71 
 
 nothing left but the poison, and they are welcome to 
 that." 
 
 He once more produced the package, and as he laid it on 
 the table, Dorris half expected to see a troop of ill-favored 
 people come dashing in, grab up the paper, and run away 
 with it. But none of them came, and Tug went on : 
 
 " I was a polite man until my Avife's relations made me 
 selfish. We always had gravy when they were around, 
 and good gravy at that ; but by the time I had helped 
 them all, there was none left for me. 1 now help myself 
 first. Will the Prince pass the Pauper the fresh bottle of 
 rum?" 
 
 The bottle was handed over, and the rare old scoundrel 
 helped himself to a full glass of its contents, drinking as 
 deliberately as he had talked, apparently taking nine big 
 swallows without breathing, at the same time thinking of 
 the one he loved the best, as a means of curing the 
 hiccoughs. 
 
 " I like Mrs. Wedge," Tug said, looking at that excel 
 lent woman with a tipsy grin, as she came into the room 
 with some new delicacy for her employer's guests. " She 
 looks so common, somehow, and I don't believe she knows 
 any more about manners than I do. Whenever you see 
 her eating her dinner, you '11 find that she puts her arms 
 on the table, as I do, though it's not polite. Polite 
 things are not natural, in my opinion ; mind I don't assert 
 it as positive. I hate cold watei', but it 's polite to bathe ; 
 and your respectable shirt-collars rub all the hide off my 
 neck. And anything that 's good for me, I don't like. 
 There 's oatmeal, and graham grits, and such like they 
 are healthy, therefore I don't like their taste ; but give me 
 milk gravy, or salt risin' bread, or fried beef, or any 
 thing else that's not good for me, and you'll find me 
 at home, as the man who had the party said on iis cards."
 
 72 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 During this discourse Mr. Whittle's great eye was 
 following Mrs. Wedge about the room, but when she 
 disappeared it lit on Dorris. 
 
 "I'm with the crowd, though, when it comes to my 
 wife's kin," he said, eyeing his host in an impudent 
 way. " A good many don't say so ; but it makes them 
 all hot to fill their houses with their relations. Whenever 
 you go to see your relations, depend upon it that they are 
 glad when you are gone. They may pretend to like you, 
 but they don't, except when you are away from them. 
 But in all other respects I 'm common. Common ! I 'm 
 so common that I like boiled cabbage; and the olives 
 you blow about I 'd as soon eat green pignuts soaked 
 in brine. Common ! " He yelled out the words as though 
 he were calling some one of that name in the cellar. 
 "If men were judged by their commonness, I would 
 be a chief with plumes in my hat." 
 
 Allan Dorris and Silas Davy were seated with their 
 backs to the windows overlooking the town, while Tug 
 sat opposite them, and in transferring his gaze from one 
 to the other, in dignified preparation for resuming his 
 conversation, which both his companions were enjoying, 
 he saw the mysterious face he had seen once before 
 peering into the room, and which was hastily withdrawn. 
 
 Tug jumped up from his chair at sight of it, and hurried 
 to the window with such haste that the table was almost 
 upset ; but the face, as well as the figure to which it 
 belonged, had disappeared. Tin-owing up the sash, Tug 
 found that he could step out on to a porch, and from this 
 he dropped into the yard with a great crash through the 
 vines and lattice-work. Silas Davy quickly followed, by 
 way of the stairs, suspecting the cause of Tug's disappear 
 ance ; and Dorris was left alone. 
 
 All this had occupied but a few moments, and he prob-
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 73 
 
 ably thought of the circumstance as one of the many 
 eccentricities of the two odd men ; for after pulling down 
 the lever to close the gate (it is a wonder that he was not 
 surprised to find it open) he sat down before the fire and 
 engaged in the pleasant thoughts that were interrupted 
 early in the evening. 
 
 Silas did not come up with Tug until he reached the 
 vicinity of the hotel, where a single street lamp burned all 
 night, and while they were hurrying along without 
 speaking, the figure they were pursuing passed quickly on 
 the opposite side of the street from the hotel. The rays 
 of the lamp were so feeble that the figure was only a 
 shadow ; but they easily recognized it as the one seen be 
 fore that of a man above the medium height, enveloped 
 in a long cloak, not unlike those worn by women in wet 
 weather, with a slouch hat pulled down over his face. 
 
 The two men humed after it, but in the darkness they 
 were frequently compelled to stop and listen for the foot 
 steps of the pursued, in order to detect his course. Each 
 time the echoes were more indistinct, for the fellow was 
 making good use of his legs; and in this manner they 
 traced his course to the river bank, near the ferry landing, 
 where the ferry-boat itself was tied up for the night. They 
 concluded that the fugitive had a skiff tied there some 
 where, which he intended to use in leaving the place, and, 
 hurrying on board the ferry-boat, they rapped loudly at the 
 door of the little room on the upper deck where the crew 
 usually slept, with a view of procuring means of following. 
 
 The fellow who had charge of the ferry, a native of the 
 lowlands lying along the river, was known as "Young 
 
 / ~ o o 
 
 Bill Young," although he greatly desired that the people 
 call him " Old Captain Young ; " therefore both men 
 pounded vigorously on the door, and loudly called " Cap-
 
 74 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 tain Young," as a tribute to his vanity. "Captain 
 Young" soon appeared, for he always slept in a bunk 
 with his clothes on, which he said reminded him of his 
 sea days, although he had never really seen any other 
 water than that on which he operated his ferry. As the 
 two hurriedly explained to him that they wanted a boat, 
 Young Bill Young went to the lower deck, and unlocked 
 one that floated at the stern, and soon Tug and his friend 
 were pulling down the river with long strokes, for there 
 were two pairs of oars. Occasionally they stopped row 
 ing to listen, but nothing could be heard save the gentle 
 ripple of the current ; whereupon they worked with greater 
 vigor than before. 
 
 They had rowed in this manner for an hour or more, 
 when, stopping to listen again, the plash of oars was 
 indistinctly heard on the water ahead of them. Lying 
 down in the prow of the boat, Tug could see the boat 
 and its occupants low down on the water, between him 
 and the first rays of light of the coming morning. There 
 was a heavy fog on the river, which was lying close to 
 the water, but this had lifted sufficiently to permit an 
 inspection through the rising mist. There were two 
 figures in the boat ; one rowing, who was evidently the 
 man they had twice seen looking in at them, and the 
 other a much smaller person, who was seated in the stern, 
 and steering. This fact Tug regarded as so remarkable 
 that he told Davy to lie down, and take a look, and when 
 Davy returned to his oars, after a long inspection, he 
 said : 
 
 " I make out two." 
 
 " A big one and a little one," Tug replied, bending to 
 the oars, and causing the boat to hurry through the water. 
 " Earn your supper up at The Locks, and I '11 introduce 
 you to them."
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 75 
 
 On the left hand a smaller stream put into the main 
 river, and at its mouth there was anammense growth of 
 willoAvs, besides a chute, an island, and a bend. Into 
 this labyrinth the boat they were pursuing effectually 
 disappeared ; for though Tug and Silas rowed about 
 until broad daylight they could find no trace of it or its 
 occupants. 
 
 A short distance up the smaller stream was a lonely 
 station on a railroad that did not run into Davy's Bend, 
 and while rowing around in the river, the roar of an 
 approaching train was heard, and the fact that this 
 stopped at the station, with a blast from the engine- 
 whistle indicating that it had been signalled, may have 
 been important ; but it did not occur to either Silas or 
 Tug, who pulled their boat back to town in silence.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE LOCKS' GHOST. 
 
 f I ^HERE was general curiosity in Davy's Bend with 
 J- reference to the new occupant of The Locks, and 
 when the people had exhausted themselves in denouncing 
 their own town more than it deserved, and in praising 
 Ben's City more than it deserved, they began on Allan 
 Dorris, and made him the subject of their gossip. 
 
 Whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with 
 reference to him, and express them, was sure of a wel 
 come at any of the houses where the speculation concern 
 ing his previous history went on from day to day ; and, 
 this becoming generally known, there was no lack of 
 fresh material for idle tongues. Whenever he walked 
 into the town, he knew that the stores turned out their 
 crowds to look at him, and that in passing the residences 
 which were occupied, the windows were filled with 
 curious eyes. But although there were a hundred theories 
 with refei-ence to him, it was only positively known that 
 he one day appeared at his gate, two months after his 
 arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which was inscribed 
 in gold letters : 
 
 DR. DORRIS. 
 
 This curiosity of the people brought Dr. Dorris a great 
 deal of business, for many of them were willing to pay for 
 76
 
 THE LOCKS' GHOST. 77 
 
 the privilege of seeing him, and he applied himself to 
 practice with such energy that he was soon in general 
 demand. As the people knew more of him, their curiosity 
 became admiration ; and many of them defended him from 
 imaginary charges as warmly as did Mrs. Wedge, for 
 there was every reason that the people should admire 
 him, except that he had located at Davy's Bend. 
 
 That he was skilful and experienced as a physician 
 became apparent at once, and it was therefore generally 
 believed that he was only there temporarily ; for certainly 
 no one who was really capable would consent to remain 
 long in Davy's Bend. 
 
 His heart was" not in his work ; this was a part of the 
 gossip concerning him, though it is difficult to imagine 
 how the idea originated ; for he appeared to be pleased 
 when he was called out at night, as though the compan 
 ionship of even those in distress suited him better than 
 the solitude of his own house; but though he was always 
 trving to be cheerful, he could not disguise the fact that 
 
 * O O 
 
 his mind was busy with matters outside of his work. 
 Perhaps this was the excuse of the people for saying that 
 his heart was not in his work, and the charge may have 
 been true. While busy, he gave whatever was in hand 
 careful and intelligent attention, but as soon as he was 
 idle again, he forgot his surroundings, and permitted his 
 mind to wander nobody knew where. When addressed, 
 he good-naturedly remembered that he was in Davy's 
 Bend, and at the service of its people, and did whatever 
 was expected of him with so much gentleness and ability 
 that he won all hearts. This was his brief history during 
 the summer following his arrival, except as shall be re 
 lated hereafter. 
 
 The sun, which had been struggling for mastery over 
 the mist and the fog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the
 
 78 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 pleasanter weather, and his business, served to make him 
 more cheerful than he had been ; and had he cared to 
 think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt 
 have forced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, 
 and that he had every reason to feel contented, though he 
 was not. 
 
 Still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his 
 rather busy life, and nights when he sent for Mrs. Wedge 
 and Betty to keep him company ; for there were strange 
 sounds through his house, when the summer air was still 
 and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattled in the 
 most unaccountable manner. 
 
 Thus it came about that they were with him one night 
 long after their usual time to retire, Dorris being particu 
 larly nervous and restless, and having asked them to 
 come up to his room rather late in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge had told him of Annie Benton a dozen 
 times already, but she made it a baker's dozen, and told 
 him again of her simple history ; of her popularity in the 
 town, though the people all seemed to be shy of her, and 
 of her gruff father, who, in Mrs. Wedge's opinion, would 
 resent the appearance of a lover in the most alarming 
 manner. Mrs. Wedge thought she observed that Dorris 
 was fond of this subject, and kept on talking about it ; 
 for he was paying close attention as he lounged in his 
 easy chair. Dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts 
 of Thompson Benton's jealousy of his daughter that Mrs. 
 Wedge believed that he regarded him as he might regard 
 a growling mastiff, which growled and snapped at who 
 ever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and not 
 expected of him. 
 
 Mi-s. Wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of 
 old Thompson, or of any one else, for that matter, so 
 she added this declaration to the great number she was
 
 THE LOCKS' GHOST. 79 
 
 constantly making in his defence, and repeated it to her 
 self whenever he was in her mind. 
 
 She was pleased with the circumstance that he ad 
 mired Annie Benton, and though she said a great deal in 
 her praise, it was no more than the truth, for she was a 
 girl worthy of admiration and respect. But the subject 
 was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, 
 Dorris roused himself from one of his reveries, and asked 
 her to tell him the history of The Locks, as a last resort to 
 induce her to keep him company. 
 
 The worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed 
 down the folds of her apron, and began by saying, 
 
 " Betty, open the door leading into the hall." 
 
 The child did as she was directed, and, coming back, 
 brought up a low chair, and rested her head on her grand 
 mother's knee. 
 
 " Listen," Mrs. Wedge said again. 
 
 They were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could 
 be distinctly heard on the stair ; it came up to the land 
 ing, and, after hesitating a moment, seemed to pass into 
 the room into which no one was to look. The little girl 
 shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, 
 where she hid away in the folds of her dress. 
 
 Dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he 
 had heard it frequently, and at night the thought had 
 often occurred to him that some one was in the house, 
 going quietly from one room to another. A great many 
 times he had taken the light, and looked into every place 
 from the cellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and 
 discovered nothing, except that when in the attic he 
 heard the strange, muffled, and ghostly noises in the 
 rooms he had just left. 
 
 " It is not a ghost to frighten you," Mrs. Wedge said, 
 looking at her employer, " but the spirit of an unhappy
 
 80 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 woman come back from the grave. Whenever the house 
 is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair, but I 
 have never regarded it with horror, though I have been 
 familiar with it for a great many years. I rather regard 
 it as a visit from an old friend ; and before you came I 
 often sat alone in this room after dark, listening to the 
 footsteps. 
 
 " Jerome Dudley, who built The Locks, was a young 
 man of great intelligence, energy, and capacity; but his 
 wife was lacking in these qualities. Perhaps I had 
 better say that he thought so, for I never express an 
 opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both 
 my friends. I may say with propriety, however, that 
 they were unsuited to each other, and that both knew and 
 admitted it, and accepted their marriage as the blight of 
 their lives. Differently situated, she would have been a 
 useful woman ; but she was worse than of no use to 
 Jerome Dudley, as he was contemptible in many ways 
 towards her in spite of his capacity for being a splendid 
 man under different circumstances. 
 
 "The world is full of such maiTiages, I have been told ; 
 so I had sympathy for them both, and was as useful to 
 them as I could be. When I came here as housekeeper, 
 I knew at once that they were living a life of misery, 
 for they occupied different rooms, and were never together 
 except at six o'clock dinner. 
 
 " Mr. Dudley always went to his business in the morn 
 ing before his wife was stirring, and did not return again 
 until evening ; and, after despatching his dinner, he either 
 went back to his work, or into his own room, from \vhich 
 he did not emerge until morning. He was not a gloomy 
 man, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that 
 she was a drawback rather than a help to him. 
 
 "The management of the house was turned over to me
 
 THE LOCKS' GHOST. 81 
 
 completely, and when I presided at the table in the 
 morning, he was always good-natured and respectful, 
 (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in 
 the same room with him) and frequently told me of his 
 successes, and he had a great many, for he was a money- 
 making man ; but I am sure he never spoke of them to his 
 wife. His household affairs he discussed only with me, 
 and the fact that I remained in his service until I entered 
 yours should be taken as evidence that I gave satisfaction." 
 
 Dorris bowed respectfully to Mrs. Wedge in assent, and 
 she proceeded, 
 
 " Mrs. Dudley spent her time in her own room in an 
 indolent way that was common to her, doing nothing 
 except to look after her little girl, who was never strong. 
 The child was four years old when I came, and the father 
 lavished all his affection upon it. He had the reputation 
 of being a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave 
 but few his confidence, which I think was largely due to 
 his unsatisfactory home ; and I have heard him say that but 
 two creatures in all the world seemed to understand him 
 the child, and myself. It was a part of my duty to 
 carry the child to its father's room every night before 
 putting it to bed ; and though I usually found him at a 
 desk surrounded with business papers, he always had time 
 to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or romp with it if awake. 
 
 "While the mother cheerfully turned over the house 
 hold affairs to me entirely, she was jealous of the child, 
 and constantly worried and fretted with reference to it. 
 The father believed that his daughter was not well cared 
 for, in spite of the mother's great affection, 'for she 
 humored it to its disadvantage ; and I have sometimes 
 thought that the child was sick a great deal more than 
 wr.s necessary. From being shut up in a close room too 
 much, it was tender and delicate, and when the door was
 
 82 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 open, it always went romping into the hall until brought 
 back again, which resulted in a cold and a spell of sick 
 ness. This annoyed Mr. Dudley, and from remarks he 
 occasionally made to me I knew he believed that if the 
 little girl should die, the mother would be to blame. 
 
 " ' It would be better if she had no mother,' he was in 
 the habit of saying. When children are properly managed, 
 they become a comfort ; but if a foolish sentiment is 
 indulged in, the affections of the parents are needlessly 
 lacerated, and they become a burden. I say this with 
 charity, and I have become convinced of it during my 
 long life. Little Dudley was managefl by the mother 
 with so much mistaken affection that she was always a 
 care and a burden. Instead of going to bed at night, and 
 sleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she 
 was always wakeful, fretful, and ill, and Mr. Dudley's rest 
 was disturbed so much that I thought he had some excuse 
 for his bad humor ; for nothing is so certain as that all 
 this was unnecessary. The child was under no restraint, 
 and was constantly doing that which was not good for 
 her, and though her mother protested, she did nothing 
 else. 
 
 " Because the father complained of being disturbed at 
 all hours of the night, the mother accused him of heart- 
 lessness and of a lack of affection, but he explained this 
 to me by saying that he only pi'otested because his child 
 was not cared for as it should be ; because that which was 
 intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, 
 and because he was in constant dread for its life. 
 
 " Whether the mother was to blame or not will 
 perhaps never be known ; but it is certain that the child 
 died after a lingering illness, and the father was in a 
 pitiful state from rage and grief. He did not speak to 
 his wife during the illness, or after the death, which she
 
 THE LOCKS' GHOST. 83 
 
 must have accepted as an accusation that she was somehow 
 responsible ; for she soon took to her bed, and never left it 
 alive except to wearily climb the stairs at twelve o'clock 
 every night, to visit the child's deserted room, the room 
 next to this, and into which no one is permitted to look. 
 Her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the 
 parlor, and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the 
 hour the child died, she wrapped the coverings about 
 her, and went slowly up the stairs, clinging to the railing 
 with pitiful weakness with one hand, and carrying the 
 lamp with the other. 
 
 " I frequently tried to prevent her doing this ; but she 
 always begged so pitcously that I could not resist the 
 appeal. She imagined, poor soul, that she heard the child 
 calling her, and she always asked me not to accompany 
 her. 
 
 " One night she was gone such a long time that at last 
 I followed, and found her dead, kneeling beside her child's 
 empty crib, and the light out. Mr. Dudley was very 
 much frightened and distressed ; and I think the circum 
 stance hastened his departure from Davy's Bend, which 
 occurred a few weeks later. He has never been in the 
 house since. 
 
 " It is said that once a year on the third of May at 
 exactly twelve o'clock at night, a light appears in the 
 lo \verroom, which soon goes out, and appears in the hall. 
 A great many people have told me that they have seen 
 the light, and that it grows dimmer in the low r er hall, and 
 brighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where 
 the empty crib still stands, precisely as if it were carried 
 by some one climbing the stair. It soon disappears from 
 the upper room, and is seen no more until another year 
 rolls round. I have never seen the light, but I have often 
 heard the step. Sometimes it is silent for months
 
 84 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 together, but usually I hear it whenever I am in the main 
 house at night. Just before there is a death in the town, 
 or the occurrence of any serious accident, it goes up and 
 down with unvarying persistency ; but there is a long rest 
 after the death or the accident foretold has occurred." 
 When Mrs. "Wedge had ceased talking, there was 
 
 o o ? 
 
 perfect silence in the room again, and the footsteps were 
 heard descending the stair. Occasionally there was a 
 painful pause, but they soon went on again, and were 
 heard no more. 
 
 " Poor Helen," Mrs. Wedge said, wiping her eyes, " how 
 reluctantly she leaves the little crib." 
 
 Mrs. Wedge soon followed the ghost of poor Helen 
 down the stair, carrying Betty in her arms ; and as Dorris 
 stood on the landing lighting them down, he thought, as 
 they passed into the shadow in the lower hall, that poor 
 Helen had found her child, and was leaving the house 
 forever, content to remain in her grave at last.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A REMARKABLE GIRL. 
 
 A KNTE BENTON had said that she usually practised 
 --- once a week in the church ; and during the lonely 
 days after his first meeting with her, Allan Dorris began 
 to wonder when he should see her again. The sight of 
 her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, 
 had afforded him a strange pleasure, and he thought about 
 her so much that his mind experienced relief from the 
 thoughts -that had made him restless and ill at ease. But 
 he heard nothing of her, except from Mrs. Wedge, who 
 was as loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her 
 as he rode about on his business affairs, and a few times 
 he had walked by her father's house, after dark, and 
 looked at its substantial exterior. 
 
 There was something about the girl which fascinated 
 him. It may have been only the music, but certainly he 
 longed for her appearance, and listened attentively for 
 notice of her presence whenever he walked in 'his yard, 
 which was his custom so much of late that he had worn 
 paths under the trees ; for had he secured all the business 
 in Davy's Bend he would still have had a great deal of 
 time on his hands. 
 
 During these weeks he sometimes accused himself of 
 being in love with a girl he had seen but once, and 
 laughed at the idea as absurd and preposterous ; but this 
 did not drive thoughts of Annie Benton out of his mind, 
 for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her 
 
 85
 
 86 THE ilYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 presence. After listening during the hours of the day 
 when he was not occupied, he usually walked in the path 
 for a while at night, hoping it might be possible that she 
 had changed her hours, and would come to practise after 
 the cares and duties of the day were over. He could see 
 from his own window that the church was dark ; but he 
 had little to do, so he took a turn in the path down by 
 the wall to convince himself that she was not playing 
 softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. But he 
 was always disappointed ; and, after finding that his 
 watching was hopeless, he went out at the iron gate in 
 front, and walked along the roads until he recovered from 
 his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home. 
 
 This was his daily experience for several weeks after 
 his first meeting with the girl, for even the Sunday ser 
 vices were neglected for that length of time on account 
 of the pastor, who was away recruiting his health ; when 
 one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the 
 organ again. Climbing up on the wall, and looking at 
 the girl through the broken window, he imagined that 
 she was not playing with the old earnestness, and certainly 
 she frequently looked toward the door, as if expecting 
 someone. Jumping down from the wall, he went around 
 to the front door, which he found open, and entered the 
 church. The girl heard his step on the threshold, and 
 was looking toward him when he came in at the door 
 leading from the vestibule. 
 
 " I seem to have known you a long time," he said, as 
 he sat down near her, after exchanging the small civilities 
 that were necessary under the circumstances, " and I have 
 been waiting for you as anxiously as though you were my 
 best friend. I have been very busy all my life, and I 
 don't enjoy idleness, though I imagined when I was work 
 ing hard that I would relish a season of rest. I have little
 
 A REMARKABLE GIEL. 87 
 
 to do here except to wait for you and listen to the music. 
 Had you delayed your coming many days longer I should 
 have called on you at your home. You are the only ac 
 quaintance I have in the town whose society I covet." 
 
 There was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting 
 him, and that she was pleased that he came in so promptly. 
 Pier manner indicated it, and she was perfectly willing to 
 neglect her practice for his company, which had not been 
 the case before. She was better dressed, too ; and surely 
 she would have been disappointed had not Dorris made 
 his appearance. 
 
 Annie Benton, like her father, improved on acquaint 
 ance. She was neither too tall nor too short, and, although 
 he was not an expert in such matters, Dorris imagined 
 that her figure would have been a study for a sculptor. 
 A woman so well formed as to attract no particular com 
 ment on first acquaintance, he thought ; but he remarked 
 now, as he looked steadily at her, that there was a remark 
 able regularity in her features. There are women who 
 do not bear close inspection, but Annie Benton could not 
 be appreciated without it. Her smile surprised every one, 
 because of its beauty ; but the observer soon forgot that 
 in admiring her pretty teeth, and both these were forgot 
 ten when she spoke, as she did now to Dorris, tiring of 
 being looked at ; for her voice was musical, and thoroughly 
 under control : 
 
 "I have dreaded to even pass The Locks at night ever 
 since I can remember," she said with some hesitation, not 
 knowing exactly how to treat the frankness with which 
 he acknowledged the pleasure her presence afforded him, 
 " and I don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is 
 lonely. They say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious 
 light, and a footstep on the stair ; and I am almost afraid 
 to talk about it."
 
 88 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Allan Dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought 
 when in the midst of a conversation, and though he said 
 
 O 
 
 he had been waiting patiently to hear the music, it did not 
 arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting for his reply, 
 and gone to playing. 
 
 Xow that he was in her presence he did not seem to 
 realize the pleasure he expected when he walked under 
 the trees and waited for her. Perhaps he was thinking 
 of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so 
 accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the 
 chirping of a cricket ; but more likely he was thinking 
 that what he had in his mind to say to the girl, when alone, 
 was not at all appropriate now that he was with her. 
 
 "An overture to 'Poor Helen,'" Dorris thought, when 
 he looked up, and heard the music, after coming out of 
 his reverie ; for it was full of whispered sadness, and the 
 girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in her mind when 
 she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step 
 on the stair ; and when he walked back to the other end of 
 the church, he thought of the pretty girl in white, at the 
 instrument, as a spirit come back to warn him with music 
 to be very careful of his future. 
 
 Where had the girl learned so much art? He had 
 never heard better music, and though there was little 
 order in it, a mournful harmony ran through it all that 
 occasionally caused his flesh to creep. She was not play 
 ing from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by 
 making odd combinations with the stops ; and so well did 
 she understand the secret of the minors that her playing 
 reminded him of a great orchestra he had once heard, and 
 which had greatly impressed him. 
 
 Where had this simple country-girl learned so much of 
 doubt, of despair, and of anguish ? Allan Dorris thought 
 that had his fingers possessed the necessary skill, his
 
 A REMARKABLE GIRL. 89 
 
 heart might have suggested such strains as he was hear 
 ing; but that a Avoman of twenty, who had never been 
 out of her poor native town, could set such tales of hor 
 ror and unrest and discontent to music, puzzled him. 
 The world was full of hearts containing sorrowful sym 
 phonies such as he was now listening to, but they were 
 usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be 
 but one explanation the organist was an unusual 
 woman ; the only flower in a community of roiigh weeds, 
 scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by God. in His mercy ; 
 a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was there 
 fore modest in its innocence and purity. But her weird 
 music ; she must have thought a great deal because of her 
 motherless and lonely childhood, for such strains as her 
 deft fingers produced could not have been found in a 
 light heart. 
 
 " There are few players equal to you," he said, standing 
 by her side when she finally concluded, and looked 
 around. " A great many players I have known had the 
 habit of drowning the expert performance of the right 
 hand with the clumsy drumming of the left ; but you 
 seem to understand that the left hand should modestly 
 follow and assist, not lead, as is the habit of busy people. 
 There are many people who have devoted a lifetime to 
 study, surrounded with every advantage, who, cannot 
 equal you. I am an admirer of the grand organ, and 
 have taken every occasion to hear it ; but there is a 
 natural genius about your playing that is very striking." 
 
 "No one has ever told me that before," she replied, 
 turning her face from him. " I have never been compli 
 mented except by the respectful attention of the people ; 
 and father once said I could play almost as well as my 
 mother. Your good opinion encourages me, for you 
 have lived outside of Davy's Bend."
 
 90 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Well, yes, he had lived outside of Davy's Bend, and 
 this may have been the reason he now looked away from 
 the girl and became lost to her presence. He did not do 
 this rudely, but there was a pathetic thoughtfulness in 
 his face which caused the girl to remain silent while he 
 visited other scenes. Perhaps Allan Dorris is not the 
 only man let us imagine so, in charity who has lived 
 in other towns, and become thoughtful when the circum 
 stance was mentioned. 
 
 " If there is genius in my playing, I did not know it, 
 for it is not the result of training ; it comes to me like 
 my thoughts," the girl finally continued, when Dorris 
 looked around. " When you were here before, you were 
 kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain pas 
 sage gave evidence of great study and practice. I am 
 obliged to you for your good opinion, but the strains 
 really came to me in a moment, and while they pleased 
 me, I never studied them." 
 
 The girl said this with so much simple earnestness that 
 Allan Dorris felt sure that his good opinion of her play 
 ing would not cause her to practise less in the future, 
 but rather with an increased determination for improve 
 ment. 
 
 " I think that your playing would attract the attention 
 of the best musicians," he said. " The critics could point 
 out defects, certainly, for a great many persons listen to 
 music not to enjoy it, but to detect what they regard as 
 faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would cheerfully 
 forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experi 
 ence, and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. 
 I only wonder where you learned it." 
 
 " Not from competent teachers," she replied, as though 
 she regretted to make the confession. " The best music 
 I ever heard was that of the bands which visit the place
 
 A KEMARKABLE GIRL. 91 
 
 at long intervals. I have seldom attended their enter 
 tainments, but my father has listened with me when they 
 played on the outside, and we both enjoyed it. All that 
 I know of style and expression I learned from them. I 
 once heard a minstrel band play in front of the hall, on 
 a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an audi- 
 ence, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that 
 I remember it yet. It is dreadful to imitate minstrel 
 music in a church, but you have spoken so kindly of my 
 playing that I will try it, if you care to listen." 
 
 They were both amused at the idea, and laughed over 
 it ; and after Dorris had signified his eagerness to hear it, 
 and reached his favorite place to listen, the back pew, he 
 reclined easily in it, and waited until the stops were 
 arranged. 
 
 The music began with a crash, or burst, or something 
 of that kind, and then ran off into an air for the bari 
 tone. This was the girl's favorite style of playing, and 
 there was really a very marked resemblance to a band. 
 There was an occasional exercise for the supposed cor 
 nets, but the music soon ran back into the old strain, as 
 though the players could not get rid of the prospect of 
 an empty house, and were permitting the baritone to 
 express their joint regrets. The accompaniment in the 
 treble was in such odd time, and expressed in , such an 
 odd way, that Dorris could not help laughing to himself, 
 although he enjoyed it ; but finally all the instruments 
 joined in a race to get to the end, and the music ceased. 
 He started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and 
 when half way she said to him : 
 
 " At another time I heard a band coming up from the 
 river. The players seemed to be in better spirits that 
 day"- 
 
 A distant march, and a lively one, came from the
 
 92 THE MYSTEIiY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 organ, and surely there were banners in front of the 
 players. The music gradually became louder, and finally 
 the girl said, 
 
 " Now it turns the corner of the street." 
 
 Then came a crash of melody, and Dorris was almost 
 tempted to look out of the window for the procession 
 that he felt sure was passing. It was just such an air as 
 a band-master might select to impress the people favora 
 bly on his first appearance in a town ; and every member 
 did his best until the grand finale, which exhausted the 
 powers of the organ. 
 
 When the girl turned round, Dorris was laughing, and 
 she joined him in it. 
 
 "It is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, 
 though her face indicated that she did not think it was 
 so dreadful, after all, and that she enjoyed it ; " but when 
 father comes to hear me practise, he insists on hearing the 
 band pieces ; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and quad 
 rilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. The 
 hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of 
 great use to me, for their music is all well arranged, and 
 father says that if I can equal them he will be very proud 
 of me. Please don't laugh at the idea, for father never 
 says anything that is silly, and he knows good music when 
 he hears it. I know it is the fashion to make light of the 
 barrel-organ ; and the people talk a great deal about brib 
 ing the players to leave town ; but father says a great 
 many customs are not founded in good sense, and per 
 haps this is one of them. We so rarely find innocent 
 pleasure that w r e should be free to enjoy it, no matter 
 what it is, or where found, whether custom happens to 
 look on approvingly or not." 
 
 " I am glad you said that," Dorrisreturned, " for I enjoy 
 coming here to listen to your practising, and whether the
 
 A IlEMAKKABLE GIKL. 93 
 
 world approves or not, I intend to come whenever there 
 is opportunity, and you do not object. It is my opinion 
 that you have never been appreciated here, and I will 
 repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appre 
 ciating it. Do you know that you are a remarkable girl ? " 
 
 Dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there 
 was nothing offensive in his frankness. He seemed to 
 say whatever occurred to him, without stopping to think 
 of its effects. 
 
 " It never occurred to me," she said. 
 
 "Really and truly?" 
 
 "Really and truly," she replied. " If there is merit in 
 my playing, I might have lived all my life without find 
 ing it out, but for you." 
 
 "Then let me be the first to tell you of it. You are 
 very pretty, and you have talent above those around you. 
 I hear that your father is a very sensible man ; he no 
 doubt appreciates what I have said, but dreads to tell you 
 of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose 
 much of the charm that is so precious to him. The 
 friends of Cynthia Miller force themselves into the belief 
 that you are no handsomer than she, and that your play 
 ing is no better than her drumming. All the other Davy's 
 Bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; 
 but I, who have lived in intelligent communities, and am 
 without prejudice, tell you that I have never seen a pret 
 tier girl in my life. You have intelligence and capacity, 
 too. Mrs. Wedge has told me the pretty story of how 
 you became an organist, and I admire you for it. . Some 
 people I have known were content to be willing to do 
 creditable things, and came to believe in time that they 
 had accomplished all they intended, without really aco$>m- 
 plishing anything ; but I admire you because you do not 
 know yourself how much of a woman you are ; at least
 
 94 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 you make no sign of it. I am glad to be the first to do 
 justice to a really remarkable woman." 
 
 The remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear 
 this ; for she was very much flustered, and hung her head. 
 
 "If a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he con 
 tinued, " should fall in love with me, I believe I should 
 die with joy; for a girl like you could find in her heart 
 a love worth having. I don't know what I should do 
 under such circumstances, for I have had no experience ; 
 but I imagine I should be very enthusiastic, and express 
 my enthusiasm in some absurd way. No one ever loved 
 me, that I can remember ; for as a child I do not believe 
 I was welcome to the food I ate, though I was not more 
 troublesome than other children who receive so much 
 attention that they care nothing for it. I have been 
 indignant at men for beating their dogs, and then en 
 vied the? love the brutes displayed while the smart was 
 yet on their bodies. It has so chanced that the dogs 
 I have owned were well treated and ungrateful, and 
 finally followed off some of the vagrants who were hard 
 masters. I have thought that they despised me because 
 they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be 
 uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and 
 hard treatment; but certainly they regarded me with 
 indifference and suspicion. But I didn't try to force 
 them to admire me ; I rather kept out of their way ; for 
 an animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you 
 cannot force or persuade a man to admire any one he dis 
 likes." 
 
 " It is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. 
 " Such doubts as you express have often come to me, biit 
 I have comforted myself with the poor reflection that 
 there is so little love in the world that when it is divided 
 among the people, it does not amount to as much as they
 
 A REMARKABLE GIRL. 95 
 
 wish. I know nothing of your situation, past or present, 
 but is it not possible that everyone has the same com 
 plaint that you have?" 
 
 " There is force in your suggestion," he replied thought 
 fully, " but I do not believe that I overdraw my condition ; 
 I know too much of real wretchedness to permit myself 
 to worry over fancied wrongs. I hope I am too sensible 
 to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and 
 then grieve because of a lack of it. I might long for 
 something which does not exist, but so long as I am as 
 well off as others, I will be as content as others; but 
 when I have seen that which I covet, and know that I am 
 as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes 
 me regret which I can shake off, but which, nevertheless, 
 is always in my mind. This regi'et has no other effect 
 than to make me gloomy, Avhich no man should be; I can 
 get it out of my actions when I try, but I cannot get it 
 out of my mind. Happiness is not common, I believe ; 
 for I have never known a man or woman who did not in 
 some way excite my pity on closer acquaintance, but 
 owing to a strange peculiarity in my disposition, I have 
 always felt the lack of honest friendship. This is my 
 malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because 
 of it, as I pity them because of their misfortunes. It 
 must be that I have a disagreeable way about me, and 
 repel friendship, though I am always trying to be agree 
 able, and always trying to make friends. I have little 
 ambition above this ; therefore I suppose it may be said 
 that I am no more unfortunate than others who. have 
 greater ambitions, and fail in them. I have been told that 
 men who have creat success find friends a bother and a 
 
 O 
 
 hindrance ; so it comes about that we are all disap 
 pointed, and I am no worse off than others. How old 
 are you?"
 
 96 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " I shall be twenty on my next birthday ; you asked me 
 that before." 
 
 " A little too old to become my pupil," he continued, 
 " but let me say that if you are as contented as you look, 
 make no experiments in the future; pursue the course 
 you have already pursued as long as you live, and never 
 depart from it. If you are given to dreaming, pray for 
 sound slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and 
 occupy them, extol your plain home, and put aside every 
 thing save simplicity, honesty, and duty. There is 
 nothing out in the great world, from which I came, which 
 will afford the happiness you know here. I know every 
 thing about the world except the simplicity and peace of 
 your life, and these are the jewels which I seek in Davy's 
 Bend. The road leading from this town is the road to 
 wretchedness, and I have heard that those who have 
 achieved greatness would scatter their reputation to the 
 quarters from whence it came for the quiet contentment 
 you know. Many lives have been wrecked by day dream 
 ing, by hope, by fancy. Pay attention only to the com 
 mon realities. If you feel that there is a lack in your 
 life, attack it as an evil, and convince yourself that it is a 
 serious fault ; an unworthy notion, and a dangerous delu 
 sion." 
 
 "Must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, 
 then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "Can this be the 
 sum of life, this round of dull days? This dreaming 
 which you say is so dangerous I have always believed 
 it to be ambition has been the only solace of my life. 
 I have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelli 
 gent people than we have here, that I cannot believe it 
 was wrong ; I almost believe you are dangerous, and I will 
 leave you." 
 
 She walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to
 
 A KEMABKABLE GIRL. 97 
 
 go out, but as Dorris did not move, and continued looking 
 at the floor, she came back again. 
 
 " That is what you ought to do go away and never 
 come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes 
 and looking into her face. " That was a good resolve ; 
 you should carry it out." 
 
 Annie Benton looked puzzled as she asked why. 
 
 "Because every honest sentiment I ever expressed 
 seemed wrong, and against the established order. The 
 friendship of the people does not suit me neither does 
 their love ; and, miserable beggar though I am to feel dissat 
 isfied with that which The King offers, I am not content 
 with it. I wander aimlessly about, seeking I know not 
 what. A more insignificant man than I it would be diffi 
 cult to find ; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, 
 this Prince Myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. A 
 beggar asking to be chooser, I reject those things that 
 men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap 
 but impossible. Sent into the world to long for an im 
 possibility, I have fulfilled my mission so faithfully 
 that I sometimes wonder that I am not rewarded for 
 it. You must not follow a path that ends in such a 
 place." 
 
 He pointed out of the window, and the girl thought 
 he referred to The Locks; certainly it was not a cheerful 
 prospect. 
 
 "For you, who are satisfied with everything around 
 you, and who greet every new day for its fresh plea 
 sures, I am a dangerous companion, for my discontent 
 is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you 
 are a suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your 
 music has lulled me into the only peace I have ever 
 known ; but principle which has always guided me into 
 that which was distasteful demands that I advise you to
 
 98 THE MYSTEKY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping 
 that you will not heed the advice." 
 
 "I regret that what you say that I am contented 
 with everything around me is not true," the girl replied, 
 " but though I am not, and wish I were, I do not repine as 
 you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew." 
 
 "Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my 
 laugh. I will laugh at myself." 
 
 Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard be 
 fore ; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in 
 it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were 
 laughing about. 
 
 " I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, 
 " for I am usually gay. Gay ! I am the gayest man in the 
 world ; but the organ caused me to forget. It 's all over 
 now ; let 's laugh some more." 
 
 And he did laugh again, as gayly as before ; a genteel, 
 hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, 
 though she could not have told what she was laughing 
 about had her life depended upon it, except that it was 
 very funny that her companion was laughing at noth 
 ing. The different objects in the church, including the 
 organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because 
 of their gayety ; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, 
 from recollections of the minstrel band. 
 
 " It makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going 
 home presently, and that I am to return to my cheerful 
 room in The Locks, the gayest house in the world. Bless 
 you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the 
 sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else 
 in the town. I leave it with regret, and return to it with 
 joy ; and the wind I can't tell you what pleasing music 
 the wind makes with the windows and shutters. But 
 if you will let me, I will walk home with you, although I
 
 A REMARKABLE GIRL. 99 
 
 am dying with impatience to return to my usual gaycty. 
 I wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. I 
 am becoming so funny of late I must break my spirit some 
 way." 
 
 It was now dusk, and the girl having signified her will 
 ingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, 
 leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably 
 did with unusual cheerfulness, for Dorris had given him 
 an amount of money that was greater than a month's 
 wages. 
 
 " They say here that if Thompson Benton should see a 
 gentleman with his daughter," Dorris said, as they walked 
 along, " that he would give it to him straight. I suppose 
 they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out ; 
 but I will risk it." 
 
 " They 'say a great many things about father that are 
 unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. 
 Father is the best man in the world." 
 
 " The lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, 
 " but I am anxious to meet this gentleman of whom I have 
 heard so much, so you had better not invite me in, for I 
 will accept. A lion's den would be a happy relief to the 
 gayety of The Locks, where we go on the spectres and 
 I in the merriest fashion imaginable." 
 
 Dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked 
 along he several times suggested another laugh, saying, 
 " now, all together," or, " all ready ; here we go," as a sig 
 nal for them to commence, in such a queer way that the 
 girl could not help joining. 
 
 "I am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your 
 pleasure. Just at present I am a circus tune, but if you 
 prefer a symphony, you have only to say the word. I am 
 sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down over me, 
 and cause -me to be oblivious to everything until you ap-
 
 100 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 pear again. Something tells me that the stout gentleman 
 approaching is the lion." 
 
 They were now in the vicinity of the home of the Ben- 
 tons', and the girl laughingly replied that the stout gen 
 tleman was her father. By the time they reached the 
 gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at Dorris from 
 under his shaggy eyebrows. Annie presented the stranger 
 to her father, who explained who he was, and said that, 
 having been attracted by the music in the church, he had 
 taken the liberty of walking home with the player. 
 
 " I have the habit myself," old Thompson grunted, evi 
 dently relieved to know that Dorris was not a lover, and 
 looking at him keenly. 
 
 He held the gate open for the girl, Avho walked in, and 
 then closed it, leaving Dorris on the outside. He raised 
 his hat, wished them good night, and walked away, and 
 he imagined when he looked back that the girl was stand 
 ing at the door looking after him.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE " APROX AXD PASSWORD." 
 
 r | "^HE guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small 
 -L gossip, had disappeared, and the proprietor was 
 seated at the long table in the dining-room, eating his 
 supper, with no companion save Silas Davy, the patient 
 m an-of-al 1-work . 
 
 A queer case, the proprietor. Instead of being useful 
 to the hotel, as would naturally be expected, he was a 
 detriment .to it, for he did not even come to his meals 
 when they were ready, making a special table necessary 
 three times a day, greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Armsby, 
 who did about everything around the place, from tending 
 the office to superintending the kitchen; and she suc 
 ceeded so well in all these particulars that occasional 
 strangers had been known to familiarly pat her husband 
 on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house 
 which was known far and near for its fine attention to 
 guests. 
 
 Armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that 
 kind, but he owned a gun and a hunting dog, and knew 
 exactly when the ducks appeared in the lakes, and when 
 the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the 
 thickets ; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunt 
 ing costume, to welcome them. In addition to this he 
 was fond of fishing, and belonged to all the lodges; so 
 that he had little time to attend to business, even had he 
 been inclined that way. 
 
 101
 
 102 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Mrs. Armsby regarded the men who sold powder and 
 fishing-tackle, and encouraged the lodges, about as many 
 another sad-hearted woman regards the liquoi-sellers ; 
 and, as she went wearily about her work, had been heard 
 to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going 
 were not greater evils than drinking ; for she had no use 
 for her husband whatever, although he was a great deal of 
 trouble. He never got out of bed without being called a 
 dozen times, but when he did get up, and was finally 
 dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was 
 such a cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the 
 lodge election the night before, or of his fancy shots the 
 day before, with such good nature that he was usually 
 forgiven. Indeed, the people found no other fault with his 
 idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the 
 "Apron and Password," probably a tribute to the English 
 way of naming houses of public entertainment ; for they 
 argued that if Mrs. Armsby could forgive her husband's 
 faults, it was no affair of theirs ; and by this name the 
 place was known. 
 
 But he had one good habit ; he was fond of his wife 
 not because she made the living, and allowed him to 
 exist in idleness, but really and truly fond of her ; 
 though everyone was fond of capable Mrs. Armsby : 
 for though she was nearly always at work, she found 
 tune to learn enough of passing events to be a fair con 
 versationalist, and sometimes entertained the guests in 
 the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the 
 piano. 
 
 It was said that as a girl Mrs. Armsby had been the 
 favorite of a circle of rich relatives and friends, and that 
 she spent the earlier portion of her life in a pleasant and 
 aristocratic home ; but when .she found it necessary to 
 make her own living, and support a husband besides, she
 
 THE "APRON AND PASSWORD." 103 
 
 went about it with apparent good nature, and was gener 
 ally regarded as a very remarkable woman. She had 
 been Annie Benton's first teacher, in addition to her regu 
 lar duties, and a pupil still came to the house occasionally, 
 only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in 
 the upper rooms. 
 
 Armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife 
 had prepared his supper with her own hands, which he 
 was now discussing. 
 
 "There are a great many unhappy women in the 
 world, Davy," Armsby said, looking admiringly at 
 the contents of the plates around him, "for the 
 reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. 
 I wouldn't be a woman for all the money in Thomp 
 son Benton's safe; I am thankful that I am a man, 
 if for nothing else. It is very pretty to say that any 
 woman is so good that she can have her pick of a 
 husband, but it is not true, for most of them marry men 
 who are cross to them, and unfair, and thoughtless ; but 
 Mrs. Armsby has her own way here. She has a maid and 
 a man, and I fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. In 
 stead of being bossed around by her husband, he keeps 
 out of the way and gives her full charge. Pull up to 
 the table and eat something, won't you? Help yourself 
 to the sardines." 
 
 Davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself 
 when Mr. Armsby said : 
 
 "You will find them mighty good; and they ought to 
 be good, for they cost sixty cents a box the three you 
 have on your plate cost a dime. But they are as free as 
 the air you breathe. Help yourself; have some more, and 
 make it fifteen cents." 
 
 Davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, 
 and after browsing around among the mixed pickles and
 
 104 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 goat-cheese awhile, and being told that they ought to be 
 good, for they cost enough, he concluded that Armsby's 
 hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention 
 to his rich fare ; for he was very particular, and in order 
 to please him his wife always provided something for his 
 table which was produced at no other time. There was 
 a bottle of olives on the table, and when Davy took one 
 of them, Annsby explained that he had imported them 
 himself at enormous expense, although they had been 
 really bought at one of the stores as a job lot, the pro 
 prietor having had them on hand a number of years. 
 
 "Any guests to-night?" Armsby inquired, trying to 
 look very much vexed that the clerk had not accepted 
 the invitation to refresh himself. 
 
 " No," Davy answered, a little sulky because of his 
 rebuff. 
 
 "I am sorry for that," Armsby continued. "Mrs. 
 Armsby enjoys a lively parlor, and she has a great deal of 
 time in which to make herself agreeable. What a won 
 derful woman she is to fix up ! Always neat, and always 
 pleasant ; but she has little else to do. You don't take 
 very kindly to the ladies yourself, Davy ? " 
 
 The boarders frequently accused Davy of being fond 
 of various old widows and maids in the town, whom he 
 had really never spoken to, and gravely hinted that the 
 streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials ; 
 but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, 
 except to give a little grunt of contempt for any one so 
 foolish as to marry. 
 
 " Why, bless me, Davy," Armsby said, laying down his 
 knife and fork in astonishment ; " how bald you are becom 
 ing! Let me see the back of your head." 
 
 Silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and 
 looked up at the ceiling.
 
 THE "APEOX AND PASSWORD." 105 
 
 " It 's coming ; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. 
 But we must all expect it ; fortune has no favorites in this 
 respect. I know a man who does not mistreat his wife, 
 but I never knew one who was n't bald. You might as 
 w r ell quit washing your head in salt water, Davy ; for it 
 will do no good." 
 
 The facts were that Davy gave no sign of approaching 
 baldness ; but Armsby, being very bald himself, was 
 always trying to discover that other people's hair was 
 falling out. 
 
 " Better remain single, though," he continued, referring 
 to matrimony again, " than to marry a woman and mis 
 treat her. All the men are unjust to their wives, barring 
 the honorable exception just named ; therefore it has 
 always been my policy to make Mrs. Armsby a notable 
 exception. Is there another woman in the Bend who 
 handles all the money, and does exactly as she pleases ? 
 You are around a good bit ; do you know of another ? " 
 
 Davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the 
 privilege of handling the money, since she earned it all, 
 besides supporting a vagrant husband ; but he said nothing, 
 for Silas was not a talkative man. 
 
 " Whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," 
 continued the model husband. "I never complain; in 
 deed, I find much to admire. There is not another 
 woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot 
 of people." 
 
 Mrs. Armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, 
 and, greeting her husband pleasantly, really seemed 
 charmed with his presence. While she was looking after 
 his wants, he told her of his hunting that day ; how he 
 had made more double shots than any of his companions ; 
 how his dog had proved, for the hundredth time, that he 
 was the very best in the country, as he had always con-
 
 106 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 tended ; how tired and hungry he was, and how fortunate 
 it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that event 
 he would have to be present. 
 
 His wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to 
 arrange for the first meal of the next day, and Arrasby 
 said to Davy, 
 
 " Poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that 
 she has gone into the kitchen to watch Jennie peel the 
 potatoes. If business was not so dull you say it is dull ; 
 I know nothing about it myself I would hire a compan 
 ion for her ; someone to read to her, and walk about with 
 her during the day. It 's too bad." 
 
 Unfortunately for the patrons of the Apron-and-Pass- 
 word, Armsby had been to New York ; and though he had 
 remained but two days, since his return lie had pretended 
 to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous. 
 When a New York man was mentioned, Armsby pre 
 tended to know him intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes 
 of how their acquaintance began and ended. Whenever 
 a New York institution was referred to, he was familiar 
 with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the Davy's 
 Bend people amused themselves by inventing fictitious 
 names and places in New York, and inducing Armsby to 
 profess a knowledge of them, which he did with cheer 
 ful promptness. 
 
 He never neglected an opportunity to talk about his 
 trip, therefore when he put his chair back from the 
 table, and engaged in quiet meditation, Silas felt sure 
 he was about to introduce the subject in a new way ; 
 for Armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy 
 man. 
 
 "You ought to wear the apron, Silas," Mr. Armsby 
 said, looking at Silas with the greatest condescension and 
 pity ; " but it would be dreadful if your application should
 
 THE "APRON AND PASSWORD." 107 
 
 be greeted with the blacks. I don't recommend that you 
 try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will 
 show that we lodge men have so much regard for princi 
 ple that it has never been done ; but it is something that 
 everyone should think about, sooner or later. Only the 
 very best men wear this emblem of greatness. But if 
 you have faults, I should advise you not to run the risk 
 of being humiliated, for the members are veiy particular. 
 A lazy man, or a shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, 
 cannot get in ; and when a man belongs to a lodge, it can 
 be depended upon that he is as near right as they make 
 them. This is the reason we must be particular in admit 
 ting new members. Reputation is at stake ; for, once you 
 are in, the others stand by you with their lives and 
 their sacred honor. There 's nothing like it." 
 
 The landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant 
 thought of the lodges, in connection with their cheapness 
 and general utility, and then continued, after smiling in 
 a gratified way over his own importance in the lodge 
 connection, 
 
 " When I first went to New York I became acquainted 
 with the very best people immediately ; for every man who 
 wears the apron has confidence in every other man who 
 wears it; each knows that the other has been selected 
 from the masses with care, and they trust each other to 
 the fullest extent. One day I went over into " 
 
 Armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his 
 fingers now in vexation. 
 
 " It is strange I am unable to name the town," he said ; 
 " I am as familiar with it as I am with my own stable. 
 Well, no matter; anyway it is a big suburb, and you 
 reach it by crossing the " 
 
 Again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the 
 bridge he had crossed, and the city he had visited, but to
 
 108 THE MYSTEKY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 no avail; though he rapped his head soundly with his 
 knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to walk up ami 
 down the room. 
 
 " If I should forget your name, or Mrs. Armsby's, it 
 would not be more remarkable," he continued, at last, 
 giving up in despair. " I was brought up in sight of 
 them ; but what I started o\\t to say was, that I walked 
 into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at 
 the counter looked at me, at first, with the greatest sus 
 picion, thinking I was a robber, no doubt, until I gave 
 him a certain sign. You should have seen the change in 
 his manner ! He came through a little door at the side, 
 and shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only 
 to those on the inside, took me into a private office in the 
 rear, where a number of other fine-looking gentlemen 
 were seated around a table. 
 
 " ' President Judd,' he said to them, ' this gentleman 
 wears the apron.' 
 
 " All the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. 
 It was not feigned, either, for it was genuine delight ; and 
 a controversy sprang up as to which of them should give 
 his time to my entertainment while in the city, though I 
 protested that I was so well acquainted that I could get 
 along very well alone. But they insisted upon it, and 
 when they began to quarrel rather fiercely about it, I gave 
 them a sign (which reminded them of their pledge to be 
 brothers), whereupon they were all good-natured at once, 
 and one of them said, 
 
 " ' Thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother ; 
 the best of us will occasionally forget. Will you do us 
 the favor to pick out one of our number to show you 
 ahout, and make your stay in the city pleasant ? ' ' 
 
 Davy noticed that Mrs. Armsby was listening at the 
 kitchen door, though Armsby did not know it, for his
 
 THE "APRON AND PASSWORD." 109 
 
 back was turned toward her ; but he did not mention the 
 circumstance. 
 
 "I liked the looks of Mr. Jiidd," Armsby continued, 
 " so I said that if the other brothers would not take 
 offence, I would like his company. The others said, ' Oh, 
 not at all,' all of them making the sign to be brothers at 
 
 7 O O 
 
 the same time, and President Judd at once began arrang 
 ing his business so he could go out with me, not neglect 
 ing to put a big roll of money in his pocket ; and, 
 though it was very big, the others said it wasn't half 
 enough." 
 
 Davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, 
 and vouched for the truth of it when he repeated it him 
 self, and was very much interested in what Armsby was 
 saying. 
 
 " Well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. 
 You cannot imagine how potent it was. We made it 
 when we wanted a carriage, and the driver regarded it as 
 a favor to carry us for nothing ; we made it when we 
 were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at 
 the hotels, which were nothing like this, but larger 
 very much larger." 
 
 Davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learn 
 ing that there were hotels larger than the "Apron and 
 Password ; " but as the proprietor himself had made the 
 statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was 
 certainly very astonishing. 
 
 " I can't think of the name of it now, but they have a 
 railroad in the second story of the street there, and 
 instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came 
 around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking 
 we might meet someone who was not a brother. Judd 
 remained with me five days, taking me to his own resi 
 dence at night, which was twice as big as The Locks, and
 
 110 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 -when we finally parted, he loaded me down with pres 
 ents, and shed tears. Next to the sign, the apron is the 
 greatest thing in the world ; I am sorry you do not wear 
 it." 
 
 Armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon 
 after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there 
 in a case for sale, when Mrs. Armsby came into the dining- 
 room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed. 
 
 " Silas," she said, " don't believe a word Armsby has 
 said to you, or ever will say, 'on this subject. Before he 
 became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a 
 truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. 
 Do you know what they do at the lodges?" 
 
 Davy shook his head, for of course no one except a 
 member could know. 
 
 " Let me tell you, then. They tie cooks' aprons around 
 their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as 
 to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever 
 it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right 
 thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or 
 three or four fingers. It is all about as ridiculous as this, 
 and my advice to you is, never join. Armsby has been 
 talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and 
 I suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is 
 accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them 
 opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper 
 masks." 
 
 Since it was impossible to believe both stories, Silas 
 made up his mind to ask Tug's opinion, Tug would 
 know, but he said nothing. 
 
 " Some of them wear swords," Mrs. Armsby went on 
 to say ; " but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even 
 if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't 
 put them back in their scabbards again. Armsby came
 
 THE "APRON AND PASSWORD." Ill 
 
 home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room 
 he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so 
 awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the 
 dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on 
 the hand. To complete his disgrace, he was compelled 
 to ask me to put it in its case again ; but I fear the lesson 
 did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad 
 as ever since. But while these men might be pardoned for 
 their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are 
 utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends 
 by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, 
 dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. If you 
 should join, you would be expected to do this, and after 
 one appearance you could never look a sensible person in 
 the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self- 
 respect. Besides, it is expensive ; my husband keeps me 
 poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures 
 are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. My only 
 fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it 
 his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and 
 grips, and then we will all be disgraced. It is your mis 
 fortune as well as mine, Silas, that Armsby is not a 
 drunkard. Drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are 
 of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man 
 never reforms. If a lodge man engages in business, he 
 fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man 
 admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in 
 his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the 
 time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't 
 try to get out of the way. Compared to me, Mrs. 
 Whittle is a very fortunate woman." 
 
 Mrs. Armsby got up at this and went out; and as Silas 
 was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he 
 recognized at once as TW's. Whenever Tug had use
 
 112 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 for Silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling 
 him out, since he never came into the hotel until his 
 friend had possession. 
 
 Silas at once put on his hat and went down to the 
 wagon yard, where he found Tug impatiently waiting, 
 who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the 
 lower end of the town and the river as soon as Silas 
 caught sight of him. "When the pair travelled, Davy 
 always lagged behind, as he did in this instance ; for in 
 the presence of genius like Tug's, he felt that his place 
 was in the rear. Others might doubt the ability or even 
 the honesty of his friend, but Silas had no doubt that 
 Tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that 
 everything said to his discredit was untrue. It was a 
 favorite saying of his that when he " came into his own," 
 he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus 
 procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band 
 in front and a company of trumpeters behind ; and Silas 
 was content to wait. Tug occasionally illustrated this 
 idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his 
 body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it 
 occurred to Silas that "his own" must have arrived by 
 boat, and that he was going after it ; for he walked rapidly 
 toward the river without looking around. 
 
 Tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after 
 reaching the street which led down to the crazy collection 
 of houses where he lived, he travelled down that way a 
 while, and at last turned off toward the right, following 
 the course of the river through alleys and back yards, and 
 over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped 
 near an old warehouse, which had been used a great many 
 years before in storing freight arriving by the boats 
 when the Bend was an important town. It was entirely 
 deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow,
 
 THE "APRON AND PASSWORD." 113 
 
 Tug gave his companion to understand that he must be 
 very quiet and secret. 
 
 After they had blown awhile, Tug began crawling 
 around the building on his hands and knees, followed 
 by his companion, occasionally raising his hand as a warn 
 ing when they both stopped to listen. When Tug had 
 reached the other end of the warehouse, he motioned 
 Davy to come up to him ; and when he did so this is what 
 he saw : 
 
 A light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across 
 it, and a woman seated in the stern the woman they 
 had seen when they followed the shadow down the river, 
 after its appearance at Allan Dorris's window. They were 
 certain it was the same woman, because she wore a water 
 proof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed 
 the shadow down the river, and she was very small. Her 
 back was turned toward them, and she was motionless as 
 a statue ; and realizing that as her ears were covered 
 with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men 
 arose to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked 
 back to the other end of the building. 
 
 " I intend to steal her," Tug whispered into his com 
 panion's ear, at the same time reaching down into Davy's 
 pocket and taking out a handkerchief, which he arranged 
 in his hand like a sling ready for use.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY. 
 
 A FTER resting a while, and looking carefully around 
 --- to make sure that they were not watched, Tug and 
 Silas crawled cautiously back to the bank which over 
 looked the boat and its singular occupant, and after warn 
 ing his companion to remain where he was by shaking his 
 hand at him like a club, Tug began to climb down the 
 bank, feeling every step as he went with the cunning 
 stealth of a tiger. Gradually he worked his way to the 
 water's edge ; so careful was he, that even Silas, watching 
 him with breathless interest above, could not hear his step, 
 and at last he stood on the brink of the water. The boat 
 was in an eddy, floating easily about, and when it came 
 within Tug's reach, he clapped the handkerchief over the 
 woman's mouth, tied it in a knot at the back of her head, 
 and came clambering up the bank with her on his shoul 
 ders. Without saying a word, he started to retrace his 
 steps, only stopping once or twice to see that his booty 
 was not smothering, when, finding the little woman all 
 right, he went on over the fences and sloughs, and through 
 the alleys and yards, until he entered his own door. 
 
 " Now then, sister," he said, putting the woman on her 
 feet, and breathing heavily from his exercise, " Tell us 
 who you are. Davy, make a light." 
 
 Silas came lagging in about this time, and did as he was 
 told, though he was a long time about it, for the matches 
 were damp, and the flame slow in coming up. Everything 
 114
 
 TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY. 115 
 
 seemed to be damp in Davy's Bend, and it was no wonder 
 that the matches were slow and sleepy, like the other in 
 habitants of the town ; therefore they came to life with a 
 sputtering protest against being disturbed. While Silas 
 was rubbing them into good humor, Tug was closely 
 watching the little woman with his great eye, and getting 
 his breath ; and when the light was fairly burning, he 
 went over to her side, and removed the handkerchief from 
 her mouth. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " she cried out, in a weak voice, as soon 
 as she could. " Gentlemen ! In the name of God ! I ap 
 peal to you as gentlemen ! " 
 
 " Don't gentleman me," Tug said, bringing the light 
 over to look at the woman's face. " I 'm not a gentleman ; 
 I 'm a thief, and I 've stolen a woman. Nor is he a gen 
 tleman;" pointing to Davy, and holding his head to one 
 side to get a bead on him. " He 's the greatest scoundrel 
 that ever lived. Look at the audacious villain now ! 
 Look at him ! Did you ever see a person who looked 
 so much like the devil? And he is the devil, when he 
 gets started. He 's keen to get at you now, and I '11 have 
 trouble with him if you are at all unreasonable." 
 
 Davy looked like anything but a villain as he meekly 
 watched the pair from the other side of the room ; indeed, 
 he was thinking that Tug was carrying the matter entirely 
 too far, and was becoming alarmed. But Tug did not 
 share this feeling of apprehension, for he seemed desper 
 ately in earnest as he held the lamp close to the woman's 
 face, who tried to shield it from his sight with her thin, 
 trembling hands, and cried out in the same weak voice : 
 "Gentlemen! In the name of GodJ I appeal to you as 
 gentlemen ! " 
 
 A very small woman, with shriveled, face and shat 
 features, was Tug's booty, and she trembled violently as
 
 116 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 she piteously held out her hands to the two men. Tug 
 thought of her as the key to the problem he had been at 
 tempting to solve, so he stood between her and the door 
 to prevent escape. But Silas felt sure that the woman 
 had but lately risen from a sick bed ; for she was weak and 
 trembling, and from sitting long in the damp river air, 
 there was a distressed and painful flush in her face. 
 
 " Come now, sister," Tug said, seating himself in front 
 of her, and frowning like a pirate. " Tell us what you 
 know, and be carried back to your boat. If you refuse to 
 do it, we will take you on a journey to the Hedgepath 
 graveyard, in the woods over the river, where we will 
 erect a stone Sacred to the Memory of an Obstinate 
 Woman. Which will you have? Use your tongue; 
 which will you have?" 
 
 But the woman made no other reply than to appeal to 
 them as gentlemen, in the name of God, and cry, and 
 wring her hands. 
 
 " In case you ever see that foxy companion of yourn 
 again, which is extremely doubtful, for I have a compan 
 ion who murders for the love of it (Here, now, take 
 your hand off that knife, will you," Tug said, by way of 
 parenthesis to Silas, looking at him sharply. Then going 
 over to him, he pretended to take a knife out of Davy's 
 inside coat pocket, and hide it in the cupboard). " If you 
 ever see your friend Sneak again, say to him that I intend 
 to get his head. He is bothering a friend of mine, and I 
 intend to create a commotion inside of him for it." 
 
 Tug walked over to the table where the lamp stood, and, 
 taking the package of poison from his pocket, carefully 
 divided it into two doses ; a large one for a man, and the 
 other for a smaller person, probably a woman. He also 
 took occasion, being near to Davy, to whisper to him that 
 the woman reminded him of his wife's sister Sis.
 
 TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY. 117 
 
 " You are evidently a married woman, sister," the bold 
 rascal said, seating himself in front of his captive, and 
 looking at her in the dignified manner which distinguished 
 him. " I suppose you were very handsome as a girl, and 
 the men fell desperately in love with you, and were very 
 miserable in consequence. But I will let you into a secret ; 
 you are bravely over your beauty now. I suppose your 
 mother braided your hair, and did all the work, that your 
 hands might be as pretty as your face ; and certainly she 
 believed that while the boys might possibly fail in life, 
 you would be all right, and marry a prince, and repay her 
 for her kindness. Your poor mother rented a piano w for 
 yon, too, I reckon, and hired you a teacher ; and when you 
 could drum a little, she thought you could play a great 
 deal, and felt repaid for all her trouble, believing that you 
 would turn out well, and make your brothers feel ashamed 
 of themselves for being so worthless. And while I don't 
 know it, I believe that she paid five dollars to somebody 
 to make you a artist, and that you painted roses and holly 
 hocks on saucers and plates, which your poor mother, in 
 the kindness of her heart, recognized, and greatly admired. 
 I shall believe this as long as I live, for you look like a 
 painter and a pianowist out of practice." 
 
 This train of thought amused Mr. Whittle so much 
 that he paused as if to laugh; but he apparently thought 
 better of it, though his scalp crawled over on his fore 
 head, an oddity which distinguished him when he was 
 amused. 
 
 " Did your poor mother get to sleep peacefully at night, 
 after working all day for you?" inquired Mr. Whittle 
 fiercely. "You don't answer; but you know she didn't. 
 You know she spent the night in wrangling with your 
 father to induce him to give her money that she might 
 buy you more ribbons and millinery and dry goods; and
 
 118 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 kid gloves, probably, although your brother Bill was out 
 at his toes, and hadn't so much as a cotton handkercher; 
 and how your mother went on when your husband came 
 courting you ! He was n't good enough for you then, 
 whoever he was ; though I '11 bet he thinks he 's too good 
 for you now, whoever he is ; and what a time you must 
 have had borrowing silverware and chairs for the wed 
 ding! I've been married, and I know. Your tired 
 mother hoped that when her children grew up they 
 would relieve her, and love her, and be good to her ; but 
 I '11 bet you find fault because she did n't ' do ' more for you ; 
 and that your brother Bill, who ran away because you had 
 all the pie in the house, is taking care of her, providin' 
 she aint dead from bother and too much work, which is 
 likely. And after all this trouble in your behalf, look at 
 you now ! " 
 
 The little woman seemed to be paying some attention 
 to what he was saying, for she looked at him timidly out 
 of the corners of her black eyes a few times, and occasion 
 ally forgot to wring her hands and cry. 
 
 " Look at you now, I say ! Your health has gone off after 
 your beauty, for you seem to have neither with you, and 
 I find you wandering around at night with a Thief. A 
 great fall you've had, sister, providin' you ever were 
 young and pretty, for I was never acquainted with a 
 worse-looking woman than you are ; and if you knew my 
 wife you would be very indignant, for she has the repu 
 tation of being a Terror for looks. When I was younger 
 I fell in love with every girl I met, and had no relief until 
 they married ; then I soon got over it, for you ought 
 to know how they fade under such circumstances ; but 
 you are worse than the rest of them ; you are so ugly that 
 I feel sorry for you. Honestly, I wonder that you do not 
 blush in my presence ; and I am not handsome, God knows.
 
 TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY. 119 
 
 I really feel sorry for you, but in connection with your 
 friend Prowler you are annoying an amiable and a worthy 
 gentleman, who happens to be a friend of Mr. Blood's, the 
 party sitting opposite you; and I fear he does not feel 
 sorry for you. A little less of that word 'gentlemen,' 
 sister, if you please." . 
 
 The woman was appealing to them again as before : 
 " Gentlemen ! In the name of God ! I appeal to you." 
 
 " Promise to take your friend Prowler, and leave this 
 country," Mr. Whittle continued, " and never return, and 
 you shall go free ; but if you refuse Blood ! " 
 
 Tug sprang up and glared savagely at his meek little 
 partner, at the same time advancing toward him. 
 
 " You sha'n't satisfy that devilish disposition of yourn 
 by shooting a woman in the back when Pm around, you 
 cut-throat^" he said. " Have n't I always been ready to 
 join you in putting men out of the way, and have n't I 
 enjoyed the pleasure of it with you? Then why do you 
 want to take the credit of this job to yourself, and enjoy 
 it alone ? You must wait, Blood, until she speaks. We 
 may forgive her, providin' she speaks up cheerful and 
 don't attempt to deceive us." 
 
 Again Tug pretended to take a dangerous weapon from 
 his companion, standing between Davy and the prisoner 
 while about it ; after which he regarded him for a few 
 moments in contemptuous silence. 
 
 " It 's your tongue, sister, and not your tears, as will do 
 you good in this difficulty," Tug said, in answer to a fresh 
 burst of grief from the woman. "I'll give you five 
 minutes to decide between tongue and tears. At the end 
 of that time, if it 's tears, the cravings of that bad man in 
 the corner shall be satisfied. Blood, where is the watch 
 you took from the store ? Hain't got it ? My guess is that 
 you 've lost it gambling, as usual. Well, I '11 count three
 
 120 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 hundred seconds, sister, since we have no watch. One, 
 two, three ; here we go." 
 
 Tug looked reverently up at the ceiling ; and appeared 
 to be engaged in counting for two or three minutes, occa 
 sionally looking at the woman and then at Silas, who 
 thought Tug had been counting at least half an hour 
 already. 
 
 " Two hundred and twenty-one, two hundred and 
 twenty-two, two hundred and twenty-three," he counted 
 aloud. " Fifth call, sister, the time is going ; two hundred 
 and twenty-four, two hundred and " 
 
 At this moment there was a strange interruption to the 
 proceedings. A tall man wearing a rubber coat, which 
 reached below his knees, opened the door, and, leaving it 
 open, stood just upon the inside, carrying a pistol in his 
 right hand, which hung by his side. 
 
 " The shadow ! " both men thought at once ; and very 
 determined and ugly looked the shadow, with his long, 
 sallow face, and dark moustache. 
 
 " Alice," he said to the woman, " come out." 
 
 The woman quickly jumped up, and hurried outside. 
 The shadow followed, backing out like a lion-tamer 
 leaving a cage, and closing the door after him. But 
 while he stood inside the door, although he was there only 
 a moment, both men noticed a strange peculiarity. The 
 upper part of his left ear was gone, cut off clean, as if 
 with a knife; and this peculiarity was so unusual that 
 they remarked it more than his face. The circumstance 
 gave them both an impression that the shadow was a des 
 perate man, and that he was accustomed to fierce brawls. 
 
 Tug and Silas looked at each other in blank dismay a 
 long time after the mysterious pair had disappeared, not 
 venturing to look out, fearing it might be dangerous ; but 
 finally Tug said,
 
 TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY. 121 
 
 " Silas, I must have a gun. Do you happen to have 
 one?" 
 
 Silas shook his head. 
 
 " Then I must steal one, for I need a gun. The 
 shadow looks so much like an uncle of my wife's that I 
 am more determined than ever to kill him." 
 
 Whereupon he went over to the table, emptied the two 
 packages of poison on to the floor, and went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 r I ^HERE is a wide and populous world outside of 
 -i- Davy's Bend, from which Allan Dorris recently 
 came ; let the whispers in the air, which frighten every 
 man with their secrets, answer why he had resolved never 
 again to see Annie Benton. 
 
 During his residence in Davy's Bend he had met the 
 girl frequently, usually at the stone church near his 
 house, where she came to practise ; and after every meet 
 ing he became more than ever convinced, after thinking 
 about it, and he thought about it a great deal, that if 
 their acquaintance continued, there would come a time 
 when he would find it difficult to quit her society. The 
 pleasure he enjoyed in the company of the pretty organist 
 was partly due to the circumstance that she was always 
 pleased at his approach, although she tried to disguise it ; 
 but beyond this, a long way beyond this, there was 
 reason why he should avoid her ; for the girl's sake, not 
 his own. 
 
 He repeated this often to himself, as though he were a 
 desperate man ready to engage in any desperate measure ; 
 but his manner visibly softened when he thought of the 
 pretty girl whose ways were so engaging, innocent, and 
 frank. He knew himself so well, the number of times he 
 had gone over the story of his life, in his own mind, since 
 coming to The Locks even, would have run up into the 
 122
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 123 
 
 hundreds ; therefore he knew himself very well indeed, 
 that he felt in honor bound to give up his acquaintance 
 with her, although it cost him a keen pang of regret, 
 this determination to hear the music no more, and never 
 again see the player. 
 
 Avoiding even a look at the church, which was a 
 reminder of how much pleasure he had found in Davy's 
 Bend, and how much misery he would probably find 
 there in the future, he passed out of the iron gate of The 
 Locks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he 
 hoped to walk until his body would call for rest at night, 
 and permit him to sleep ; a blessing that had been denied 
 him of late more than before he knew Annie Benton, and 
 when he thought that Davy's Bend contained people only 
 fit to be avoided. 
 
 But he was glad that he had resolved never to see the 
 girl again, for her sake, not his own. 
 
 He had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, 
 thinking of the strange fatality that had made duty pain 
 ful throughout his entire life ; and he walked toward the 
 country because he believed the girl was in the direction 
 of the town ; probably seated in the church at that mo 
 ment, watching the door for his approach. She was a 
 comfort to him, therefore he must avoid her ; but this 
 had always been the case he was accustomed to being 
 warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a 
 pleasant place. 
 
 There was something in store for her besides a life of 
 hiding and fear, and an unknown grave at last, with a 
 fictitious name on the headboard ; and he would not cross 
 a path which led toward happiness for one he so much 
 admired. 
 
 Thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but 
 when he remembered how dull his life would be should
 
 124 THE MYSTEKY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 her smile never come into it again, he could not help 
 shuddering. 
 
 " But I have been so considerate of others," he said 
 aloud, as he pursued his way, " that even the worms in 
 my path impudently expected me to go round them, and 
 seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at all if 
 I did not. Let me not show a lack of consideration now 
 that my heart is concerned." 
 
 Above his house, and so near the river that the water 
 rippled at its base, was a rugged bluff, separated from the 
 town by a deep and almost impassable ravine, and for 
 this reason it was seldom visited ; Allan Dorris had found 
 it during his first month in the town, and he resolved 
 to visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine 
 and delightful air of the perfect summer day. 
 
 It occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making 
 the difficult ascent, that he would like to build a house 
 there, and live in it, where he would never be disturbed. 
 But did he want solitude ? There seemed to be some 
 question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his 
 downcast face. "When he first came to Davy's Bend, he 
 believed that the rewards of life were so unsatisfactory 
 that all within his reach that he desired was his own com 
 pany; but an experience of a month had satisfied him that 
 solitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not 
 know what he wanted. If he knew what it was his heart 
 craved, he believed that it was beyond him, and unobtain 
 able; and so his old habit of thinking was resumed, 
 though he could never tell what it was all about. Every 
 thing he desired was impossible ; that within his reach 
 was distasteful he could make no more of the jumble in 
 his brain, and finally sat with a vacant stare on his face, 
 thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gave 
 him a headache but no conclusions.
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 125 
 
 Even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he 
 thought he wanted while coming along the road, were not 
 satisfactory now ; and as he started to walk furiously up 
 the hill, to tire himself, he met Annie Benton in the path 
 he was following. 
 
 She had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came 
 upon her, she was so intent on arranging them after some 
 sort of a plan, that she was startled when he stood beside 
 her. 
 
 " I was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of 
 returning his greeting. " I intended sending you these." 
 
 Dorris could not help being amused that he had en 
 countered the girl in a place where he had gone to avoid 
 her, but there was evidence in his light laugh that he was 
 glad of it ; so he seated himself on a boulder beside the 
 path, and asked what she had been thinking ol him. 
 
 " That you were a very odd man," she answered 
 frankly. 
 
 " That has always been a complaint against me," he 
 said, with a tone of impatience. " I think I have never 
 known any one who has not said, during the course of our 
 acquaintance, that I was ' odd ; ' whatever is natural in me 
 has been called ' odd ' before. If I wanted bread, and 
 wad not satisfied with a stone, they called me ' odd.' The 
 wishes of the horse that has a prejudice for bein'g bridled 
 on the left side are respected, but there is no considera 
 tion for a man who cannot be contented simply because 
 it is his duty. I remember that we had a horse of this 
 description in our family when I was a boy, and if he 
 injured any one who failed to respect his wishes, the man 
 was blamed, not the horse. But the people do not have 
 equal charity for a man who is not content when circum 
 stances seem to demand it of him, no difference what the 
 circumstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his
 
 126 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 taste. 89 you were finding fault with me ? I am not 
 surprised at it, though ; most people do." 
 
 The girl had seated herself near him, and was busily 
 engaged in arranging the flowers until he inquired 
 again, 
 
 " So you were finding fault with me?" 
 
 "No," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to 
 think of you as being different from any other person I 
 have ever known. It was not a very serious charge to 
 think of you as being different from the people in 
 Davy's Bend." 
 
 There was something in that, for they were not the 
 finest people in the world, by any means ; nor could the 
 town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they 
 pretended. 
 
 " No, it is not serious," he replied ; " but I am sorry you 
 are looking so well, for I am running away from you. 
 It would be easier, were you less becoming. I am sorry 
 you are not ugly." 
 
 There was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made 
 her prettier than ever. 
 
 " Running away from me ? " 
 
 "Yes, from you," he answered. 
 
 She began arranging the flowers again, and kept her 
 eyes on them while he watched her face. Dorris thought 
 of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked 
 down the river at the ferry, which happened to be 
 moving. 
 
 " Why?" she asked at last. 
 
 " Because I am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed 
 face. " You should run away when you see me approach, 
 for I am not a fit companion for you. I have nothing to 
 offer that you ought to accept ; even my attentions are 
 dangerous."
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 127 
 
 The bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was 
 no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, 
 and looked at him. 
 
 " I suppose I should be very much frightened," she 
 said, " but I am not. I arn not at all afraid of you." 
 
 He laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at 
 the answer she had made. 
 
 "I know nothing whatever about women," he said, 
 "and I am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. I 
 know men as well as I know myself, and know what to 
 expect of them under given circumstances ; but all those 
 of your sex I have ever known were as a sealed book. 
 The men are always the same, but I never know what a 
 woman will do. No two of them are alike ; there is no 
 rule by which you can judge them, except that they are 
 always better than the men. I have never known this to 
 fail, but beyond that I know nothing of your sex. I say 
 to you that I am dangerous ; you reply that you are 
 not afraid of me. But you ought to be ; I am sure of 
 that." 
 
 " If you desii-e it," she said, " I am sorry, but I feel per 
 fectly safe in your company." 
 
 "It's a pity," he returned, looking down the river 
 again. "If you were afraid of me, I would not be 
 dangerous. I am not liable to pelt you with stones,' or 
 rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our 
 becoming friends." 
 
 "Is friendship so dangerous, then?" 
 
 "It would be between you and me, because I am 
 odd. Look at me." 
 
 She did as requested, with quiet confidence and dig 
 nity. 
 
 " You say you are not afraid of me ; neither am I of 
 you, and I intend to tell you what you can hardly sus-
 
 128 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 pect. I am in love with you to such an extent that I can 
 think of nothing else ; but I cannot offer you an honor 
 able man's love, because I am not an honorable man, as 
 that expression is used and accepted. I have been look 
 ing all my life for such a woman as you are, but now th!lt 
 I have found you, I respect you so much that I dare not 
 attempt to win your favor ; indeed, instead of that, I 
 warn you against myself. Until I was thirty I looked 
 into every face I met, expecting to find the one I sought ; 
 but I never found it, and finally gave up the search, 
 forced to believe that such a one as I looked for did 
 not exist. I have found out my mistake, but it is too 
 late." 
 
 He jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, 
 as if he intended to run away, and did walk a distance, 
 but came back again, as if he had something else to 
 say. 
 
 " I speak of this matter as I might tell a capable artist 
 that I was infatuated with his picture, and could not re 
 sist the temptation to frequently admire it. I have no 
 more reason to believe that there is a -responsive feeling 
 in your heart than I would have reason to believe that 
 the picture I admired appreciated the compliment, but 
 there is nothing wrong in what I have said to you, and it 
 is a pleasure for me to say it ; there can be no harm in 
 telling a pretty, modest woman that you admire her 
 she deserves the compliment." 
 
 Annie Benton did not appear to be at all surprised at 
 this avowal, and listened to it with the air of one who 
 was being told of something commonplace. 
 
 "You do not make love like the lovers I have read 
 about," she said, with an attempt at a stnile, though she 
 could not disguise the oddity of her position. " I do not 
 know how to answer you."
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIK. 129 
 
 " Then don't answer me at all," he replied. " I am not 
 making love to you, for I have denied myself that privi 
 lege. I am not at liberty to make love to you, though I 
 want to; therefore I ask the privilege of explaining why 
 I shall avoid you in the future, and why I regret to do it. 
 The first feeling I was ever conscious of was one of un 
 rest ; I was never satisfied with my home, or with those 
 around me. If I thought I had a friend, I soon found him 
 out, and was more dissatisfied than ever. Of course this 
 Avas very unreasonable and foolish ; anyone would say 
 that, and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explana 
 tion, I could not help it ; I was born that way, nor can I 
 help saying that I am satisfied with you. You suit me 
 exactly, and I was never contented in my life until I sat 
 in the old church and looked at you." 
 
 Though the girl continued to look at him without ap 
 parent surprise, her face was very pale, and she was 
 bi'eathing rapidly. 
 
 "You may regard what I have said as impudent," 
 Dorris continued, " and think that while you are satisfac 
 tory to me, I would not be to you. I am not now, but I 
 would give a great deal to convince you that I am the 
 man you dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake 
 under your pillow, providing you ever did such a ridicu 
 lous thing. It is not conceit for me to say that I believe 
 I could compel you to respect me, therefore I regret that 
 we have ever met at all, for I am not at liberty to woo 
 you honorably ; if you want to know why, I will tell you, 
 for I would place my life in your hands without the 
 slightest hesitation, and feel secure ; but it is enough for 
 the present to say that nothing could happen which woiild 
 surprise me. I am in trouble ; though I would rather tell 
 you of it than have you surmise what it is, for I am not 
 ashamed of it. I can convince you or any one with
 
 130 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 equally good sense that I am not nearly so bad as many 
 who live in peace. Would you like to hear my history ? " 
 
 " No," she replied ; " for you would soon regret telling 
 it to me, and I fear that you will discover some time that 
 I am not worthy of the many kind things you have said 
 about me. I am only a .woman, and when you know me 
 better you will find that I am not the one you have been 
 looking for so long and so patiently." 
 
 " Excuse me if I contradict you in that," he said with as 
 much grave earnestness as though he had been talking 
 politics, and found it necessary to take issue with her. 
 " You are the one. Once there came to me in a dream a 
 face which I have loved ever since. This was early in life, 
 and during all the years which have brought me nothing 
 but discontent and wretchedness, it has been rny constant 
 companion ; the one little pleasure of my life. From the 
 darkness that surrounded me, the face has always been 
 looking at me ; and whatever I have accomplished I have 
 accomplished nothing in Davy's Bend, but my life has 
 been busy elsewhere has been prompted by a desire to 
 please this strange friend. I have never been able to dis 
 miss my trouble I have had no more than my share, 
 perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in 
 the world to render us all unhappy except to welcome 
 the recollection of the dream ; and although I have often 
 admitted to myself that this communion with the unreal 
 was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, it has afford 
 ed me a contentment that I failed to find in anything else ; 
 therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, 
 and it grew stronger as I grew older, causing me many a 
 heartache because there was nothing in life like it. Most 
 men have dreams of greatness, but my only wish was to 
 find the face that always came out of the shadows at my 
 bidding."
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 131 
 
 He paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, 
 where his dream seemed to realize before him, for he 
 looked intently at it, and went on to describe it. 
 
 "It was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there 
 was no expression in it that was not human ; expressions 
 of love, and pity, and forgiveness you have them in 
 your face now, and I believe they are not uncommon. I 
 have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as 
 I grew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory 
 nature of life, I became more than ever convinced that 
 I would feel entirely satisfied could my dream come true. 
 At last I came to believe that it was impossible ; that I 
 was as unreasonable as the man who pined because his 
 tears were not diamonds ; but I could not give up the rec 
 ollection of the face, to which I was always so true and 
 devoted,, and comforted myself with brooding over it, and 
 regretting my misfortune. Instead of greatness or gran 
 deur, I longed for the face, and it was the only one I ever 
 loved." 
 
 Again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his 
 fancy, but this time he seemed to be dismissing it for 
 ever, after a careful inspection to convince himself that 
 the counterpart he had found on earth was exactly 
 like it. 
 
 " Until I met you," he said, looking at Annie Benton 
 again, " this sweetheart of my fancy lived in Heaven, 
 Maid of Air. When you turned upon me that afternoon 
 in the church, I almost exclaimed aloud : ' The face ! 
 My vision has come true ! ' Not a feature was missing, and 
 your actions and your smile were precisely what I had 
 seen so often in my fancy. Therefore you are not a 
 stranger to me ; I have loved you all my life, and instead 
 of worshipping a vision in the future I shall worship you. 
 Why don't you speak to me ? "
 
 132 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " I don't dare to," she answered, looking him full in the 
 face, and without the slightest hesitation. " I am afraid I 
 would say something I ought not to." 
 
 He looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to di 
 vine her meaning, and concluded that if she should speak 
 more freely, he would hear something surprising ; either 
 she would denounce him for his boldness, or profess a love 
 for him which would compel him to give up his resolution 
 of never seeing her again. 
 
 " That was an unfortunate expression," he said. " I am 
 sorry you said that, for it has pleased my odd fancy ; in 
 deed, it is precisely what I was hoping you would say, 
 but there is all the more reason now for my repeating to 
 you that I am dangerous. I know how desperate my af 
 fairs are ; how desperate I am, and how unfortunate it 
 would be if you should become involved. Therefore I say 
 to you, as a condemned prisoner might shut out the single 
 ray of light which brightened his existence, so that he 
 might meet his inevitable fate bravely, that you must 
 avoid me, and walk another way when you see me 
 approaching." 
 
 A hoarse whistle came to them from the ferry in the 
 river, and Dorris thought of it as an angry warning from 
 a monster, in whose keeping he was, to come away from a 
 presence which afforded him pleasure. 
 
 " May I speak a word ? " the girl inquired, turning ab 
 ruptly toward him. 
 
 " Yes ; a dozen, or a thousand, though I would advise 
 you not to." 
 
 " Is what you have said to me exactly true ? " 
 
 " Upon my honor ; exactly true," he answered. 
 
 " Is there no morbid selfishness in it ; no foolish fancy?" 
 
 " Upon my honor, none ! " 
 
 " Do you believe I am your dream come true with the
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 133 
 
 same matter-of-fact belief which convinces you that there 
 is a ferry in the river? " 
 
 She pointed out the boat as it moved lazily through 
 the water, and as he looked at it he seemed to resolve the 
 matter carefully in his mind. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I am as certain that you are the 
 woman I have loved devotedly all my life, as I am certain 
 that there is a river at the foot of the hill. What I have said 
 to you is generally regarded as sentimental nonsense ex 
 cept when it is protected by the charity of a sweetheart 
 or a wife; but it is in every man's heart, though it is 
 sometimes never expressed, and my idle life here has 
 made me bold enough to state that it is true. I have been 
 seeking contentment with so much eagerness, and know so 
 well that it is hard to find, that I have come to believe 
 that there is but one more chance, and that I would find 
 what I lack in the love of a woman like you. Even if I 
 should discover by experience that I am mistaken in this 
 belief, I would feel better off than I ever did before ; for I 
 would then conclude that my fancies were wrong, and 
 that I was as well off as any man ; but this feeling will 
 always be denied me, for I am denied the privilege of hap 
 piness now that it is within my reach. My lonely life here 
 has wrung a confession from me which I should have 
 kept to myself, but it is every word true ; you can depend 
 on that." 
 
 Annie Benton seemed satisfied with the answers he 
 had made, and there was another long silence between 
 them. 
 
 "And your music you play like one possessed," he 
 said finally, talking to the wind, probably, for he was not 
 looking at the girl. " Every sentiment my heart has ever 
 known you have expressed in chords. Had I not known 
 differently, I should have thought you were familiar with
 
 134 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 my history and permitted the organ to tell it whenever 
 we met. What a voice the old box has, and what versa 
 tility ; for its power in representing angels is only equalled 
 by its power to represent devils. There is a song with 
 which I have become familiar from hearing you play the 
 air ; it is a sermon which appealed to me as nothing ever 
 did before. Before I knew the words, I felt sure that they 
 were promises of mercy and forgiveness; and when I 
 found them, I thought I must have been familiar with 
 them all my life ; they were exactly what I had imagined. 
 To look at your cold, passionless face now, no one would 
 suspect your wonderful genius. You look innocent 
 enough, but I do not wonder that you are regarded as a 
 greater attraction than the minister. I have been told 
 that you can kill the sermon, when you want to, by freez 
 ing the audience before it commences, and I believe it. I 
 have no doubt that you take pride in controlling with 
 your deft fingers the poor folks who worship under the 
 steeple which mounts up below us. I only wonder that 
 you do not cause them to cheer, and swing their hats, for 
 they say that you can move them to tears at will." 
 
 " I never feel like cheering myself," she answered, " and 
 I suppose that is why the organ never does. But I very 
 often feel sad, because I am so commonplace, and because 
 there is so little in the future for me. If I play so coldly 
 at times that even the minister is affected, it is because I 
 am indifferent, and forget, and not because I intend it." 
 
 " If you are commonplace," Allan Dorris replied, " you 
 have abundant company ; for the world is full of common 
 people. We are all creatures of such common mould 
 that I wonder we do not tire of our ugly forms. Out of 
 every hundred thousand there is a genius, who neglects 
 all the virtues of the common folks, and is hateful save 
 as a genius. For his one good quality he has a hundred
 
 THE WHISPERS EST THE AIR. 135 
 
 bad ones; but lie is not held to strict account, like the rest 
 of us, for genius is so rare that we encourage it, no matter 
 what the cost. But I have heard that these great people are 
 monstrosities, and thoroughly wretched. I would rather 
 be a king in one honest heart, than a sight for thousands. 
 But this is not running away from you, as I promised, and 
 if I remain here longer I shall lose the power. My path 
 is down the hill ; yours is up." 
 
 He lifted his hat to her, and walked away; but she 
 called to him, 
 
 " I am going down the hill, too, and I will accompany 
 you." 
 
 He waited until she came up, and they walked away 
 together. 
 
 The girl had said that she was going down the hill, too, 
 and would accompany him; but Dorris knew that she 
 meant the hill on which they were standing, not the one 
 he referred to. He referred to a hill as famous as wicked 
 ness, and known in every house because of its open doors 
 to welcome back some straggler from the noisy crowd 
 travelling down the famous hill; but he thought that 
 should a woman like Annie Benton consent to undertake 
 the journey with him, he would change his course, and 
 travel the other way, in spite of everything. 
 
 " Did I do wrong in asking'you to wait for me ? " she 
 inquired, after they had walked awhile in silence. 
 
 " Yes." he answered, " because it pleased me. Be very 
 careful to do nothing which pleases me, for I am not ac 
 customed to it, and the novelty may cause me to forget 
 the vow I have made. A man long accustomed to dark 
 ness is very fond of the light. "What do you think of me, 
 anyway ? " 
 
 " What a strange question ! " the girl said, turning to 
 look at him.
 
 136 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " Be as frank with me as I was with you. What do 
 you think of me ? " 
 
 The girl thought the matter over for a while, and re 
 plied, 
 
 " If I should answer you frankly, I should please you ; 
 and you have warned me against that." 
 
 Dorris was amused at the reply, and laughed awhile to 
 himself. 
 
 " I did n't think of that," he said, though he probably 
 had thought of it, and hoped that her reply would be 
 what it was. " I am glad to hear that I am not repug 
 nant to you, though. It will be a comfort to me to know, 
 now that my dream has come true, that the subject of it 
 does not regard me with distrust or aversion. I am glad, 
 too, tli at after dreaming of the sunshine so long, it is not 
 a disappointment. In my loneliness hereafter that cir 
 cumstance will be a satisfaction, and it will be a pleasure 
 to believe that the sunshine was brighter because of my 
 brief stay ia it. I can forget some of the darkness 
 around me in future, in thinking of these two circum 
 stances." 
 
 They had reached Thompson Benton's gate by this 
 time, and, the invitation having been extended, Dorris 
 walked into the house. The master was not due for an 
 hour, so Dorris remained until he came, excusing himself 
 by the reflection that he would never see the girl again, 
 and that he was entitled to this pleasure because of the 
 sacrifice he had resolved to make. 
 
 It was the same old story over again ; Allan Dorris was 
 desperately in love with Annie Benton, but she must not 
 be in love with him, for he was dangerous, and whether 
 this was true or not, his companion did not believe it. 
 He told in a hundred ways, though in language which 
 might have meant any one of a hundred tilings, that she
 
 THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR. 137 
 
 was his dream come true, and of the necessity which 
 existed for him to avoid her. Occasionally he would for 
 get to be grave, and make sport of himself, and laugh at 
 what he had been saying ; and at these times Annie Ben- 
 ton was convinced more than ever that he was not a dan 
 gerous man, as he said, for there was an honest gentility 
 in his manner, and a gentle respect for her womanhood in 
 everything he did; therefore she listened attentively to 
 what he said, saying but little herself, as he requested. 
 Although he made love to her in many ingenious ways, 
 and moved Annie Benton as she had never been moved 
 before, he did not so intend it. Could his motives have 
 been impartially judged, that must have been the 
 verdict; but while he knew that his love was out of 
 place in the keeping of the girl, he could not resist 
 the temptation of giving it to her, and then asking her 
 to refuse it. 
 
 Several times Annie Benton attempted to speak, but he 
 held up his hand as a warning. 
 
 "Don't say anything that you will regret," he said. 
 " Let me do that ; I am famous for it. I never talked 
 ten minutes in my life that I did n't say something that 
 caused me regret for a year. But I will never regret any 
 thing I have said to you, for I have only made a confes 
 sion which has been at my tongue's end for years. I have 
 known you all my life ; you know nothing of me, and care 
 less, therefore let it be as I suggest." 
 
 "But just a word," the girl insisted. "You do not 
 understand what I would say " 
 
 "I don't know what you would say, but I can imagine 
 what a lady like you should say under such circumstances, 
 and I beg the favor of your silence. Let me imagine 
 what I please, since that can be of little consequence to 
 you."
 
 138 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 There was a noise at the frout door, and old Thompson 
 came in. Dorris bowed himself out, followed by a scowl, 
 and as he walked along toward his own house he thought 
 that his resolution to see Annie Benton no more would at 
 least save him from a quarrel with her father.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 KUINED BY KINDNESS. 
 
 JOHN BILL, editor of the Davy's Bend Triumph, 
 was ruined by a railroad pass. When he taught 
 school over in the bottoms, on the other side of the river, 
 and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, he sel 
 dom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, 
 but when he invested his savings in the Triumph, and 
 the railroad company sent him an annual pass, he made up 
 for lost time, and travelled up and down the road almost 
 constantly, all his earnings being required to pay his ex 
 penses. 
 
 A day seldom passed that John Bill did not get off or 
 on a train at the Davy's Bend station, carrying an impor 
 tant looking satchel in his right hand, and an umbrella in 
 his left, and though he imagined that this coming and go 
 ing gave the people an idea of his importance, he was 
 mistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the 
 town, and very little in it : therefore they made fun of 
 him, as they did of everything else, for the Davy's Bend 
 people could appreciate the ridiculous in spite of their 
 many misfortunes. They knew enough, else they could 
 not have been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had 
 rather extensive knowledge of everything worldly except 
 a knowledge of the ways of Capital, which was always 
 avoiding them ; but this was not astonishing, since Capital 
 had never lived among them and been subject to their 
 keen scrutiny. 
 
 139
 
 140 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 When an event was advertised to take place on the 
 line of road over which his pass was accepted, John Bill 
 was sure to be present, for he argued that, in order to re 
 port the news correctly, he must be on the ground in 
 person ; but usually he remained away so long, and gave 
 the subject in hand such thorough attention, that he con 
 cluded on his return that the people had heard of the pro 
 ceedings, and did not write them up, though he frequent 
 ly asserted with much earnestness that no editor in that 
 country gave the news as much personal attention as he 
 did. 
 
 Still, John Bill claimed to be worth a good deal of 
 money. There was no question at all, he frequently 
 argued, that his business and goodwill were worth fifteen 
 thousand dollars any man would be willing to pay that 
 for the Triumph and its goodwill, providing he had the 
 money; therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted 
 to a trifle of eleven hundred dollars on his material, in 
 the shape of an encumbrance, and a floating indebtedness 
 of half as much more, he was still worth a little more than 
 thirteen thousand dollars. The people said that everything 
 in his office was not worth half the amount of the encum 
 brance, and that his goodwill could not be very valuable, 
 since his business did not pay its expenses ; but John 
 Bill could prove that the people had never treated him 
 j ustly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the facts 
 in his case. 
 
 There was a mortgage, as any one who cared to ex 
 amine the records might convince himself, but it was a 
 very respectable mortgage, and had been extended from 
 time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteen years 
 past. It had .been owned by all the best men in the 
 neighborhood; but while a great many transfers were 
 noted thereon, no credits appeared, so John Bill was no
 
 RUINED BY KINDNESS. 141 
 
 worse than the rest of them. The former parties of the 
 first part had intended paying off the trifling amount 
 in a few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they 
 pleased ; John Bill had the same intention concerning the 
 document, therefore it was no great matter after all. 
 
 Besides, there were the accounts. He had a book full 
 of them, and was always showing it to those who both 
 ered him for money. The accounts were all against good 
 men ; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless, and 
 the accounts should be figured in an estimate of John 
 Bill's affairs, which would add a few thousands more to 
 the total. 
 
 It was a little curious, though, that most of the men 
 whose names appeared on John Bill's ledger had accounts 
 against John Bill, and while he frequently turned to their 
 page and showed their balances, they also turned to John 
 Bill's page in their ledgers, and remarked that there was 
 no getting anything out of him. Thompson Benton had 
 been heard to say that each of these men were afraid to 
 present their bills first, fearing that the others would 
 create a larger one ; so the accounts ran on from year to 
 year. But whoever was in the right, it is certain that 
 the accounts were a great comfort to John Bill, for he 
 frequently looked them over as a miser might count his 
 money. 
 
 John Bill was certain the people of Davy's Bend were 
 ungrateful. He had helped them and their town in a 
 thousand ways, and spent his time (or that part of it not 
 devoted to using his pass) in befriending them ; but did 
 they appreciate him ? They did not ; this may be set 
 down as certain, for if the editor had put them in the 
 way of making money, they were thoroughly ungrateful. 
 Indeed, the people went so far as to declare that John 
 Bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in
 
 142 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 saying so. They had taken his paper, and helped him in 
 every way possible, but he did not appreciate it ; so they 
 accused each other, and a very uncomfortable time they 
 had of it. But though John Bill claimed to be always 
 helping the people, and though the people claimed that 
 they had done a great deal for John Bill, the facts were 
 that neither John Bill nor the people gave substantial 
 evidence of any very great exertions in each other's behalf, 
 so there must have been a dreadful mistake out somewhere. 
 Likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring 
 the greater number of institutions to the town ; but as 
 to the institutions actually secured, there were none to 
 quarrel over, so there was peace in this direction. 
 
 John Bill frequently came to the conclusion that his 
 wrongs must be righted ; that he must call names, and 
 dot his i's and cross his t's, even to pointing out to the 
 world wherein he had been wronged. He could stand 
 systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill 
 his ink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a 
 view of holding up to public scorn those who had tram 
 pled him in the dust of the street. But it was a bold 
 undertaking ; a stouter heart than John Bill's would have 
 shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound 
 as the Davy's Bend folks could have made, so he usually 
 compromised by writing paid locals about the men he 
 had intended to accuse of ingratitude, referring to them 
 as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable to 
 humanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the 
 rate of eight cents per line of seven words. 
 
 John Bill was so situated that he did little else than 
 write paid locals, though he usually found time once a 
 week to write imaginary descriptions of the rapid increase 
 in circulation his paper was experiencing. He had dis 
 covered somehow that men who would pay for nothing
 
 RUINED BY KINDNESS. 143 
 
 else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rare 
 accomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability 
 was such that their competitors were constantly howling 
 in rage ; and it became necessary to use this knowledge 
 to obtain the bare necessities of life. The very men who 
 declared that John Bill could have no more goods at their 
 stores until old scores were squared would soften under 
 the influence of the puff, and honor his " orders " when 
 in the hands of either of the two young men who did his 
 work. 
 
 Perhaps this was one reason the Triumph was on all sides 
 of every question. Whoever saw fit to write for it had 
 his communication printed as original editorial ; for the edi 
 tor was seldom at home, and when he was, he found his time 
 taken up in earning his bread by writing palatable false 
 hoods ; therefore all the contributions went in, and as 
 correspondents seldom agree, the Triumph was a remark 
 able publication. Whenever a citizen had a grievance, he 
 aired it in the Triumph, his contribution appearing as 
 the opinion of the editor. The person attacked replied 
 in like manner ; hence John Bill was usually in the atti 
 tude of fiercely declaring No one week, and Yes with 
 equal determination the next. It was so on all subjects ; 
 politics, religion, local matters everything. The Repub 
 lican who aired his views one week in John Bill's remark 
 able editorial columns was sure to find himself confronted 
 by a Democrat who was handy with a pen in the next is 
 sue ; the man who wrote that This, or That, or the Other, 
 was a disgrace, would soon find out that This, or That, or 
 the Other, were very creditable ; for John Bill's printers 
 must have copy, and John Bill was too busy travelling 
 and lying to furnish it himself. 
 
 Having returned home on the night train, John Bill 
 climbed the stairway at the head of which his office was
 
 144 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 situated, and was engaged in preparing for his next issue. 
 Although he felt sure that a large amount of important 
 mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not 
 be found; and therefore the editor was in rather bad 
 humor, as he produced a list of paid notices to be written, 
 and made lazy preparation for writing them. The editor 
 was always expecting important mail matter, and because 
 it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was 
 in the intrigue against him. While thinking that he would 
 include that official in the expose he felt it his duty to 
 write at some time in the future, a knock came at the 
 door. He had heard no step ascending the stair, there 
 fore he concluded it must be one of his young men ; pro 
 bably the pale one, who was wasting his life in chewing 
 plug tobacco, and squirting it around in puddles, in order 
 that he might realize on a joke which he had perpetrated 
 by printing a sign in huge letters, requesting visitors not 
 to spit on the floor. 
 
 In response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in, 
 a stranger, dressed in a suit of black material that gave 
 him the appearance of being much on the road, for it was 
 untidy and unkempt. He looked a good deal like a genteel 
 man who had been lately engaged in rough work, and John 
 Bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. 
 The stranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, 
 were bushy, and sprinkled with gray ; and he had a rather 
 peculiar pair of eyes, which he used to such an advantage 
 that he seemed to remark everything in the room at a 
 single glance. An odd man, John Bill thought ; a man 
 who might turn out to be anything surprising; so he 
 looked at him curiously quite a long tune. 
 
 "You are Mr. Bill?" the stranger asked, after the 
 two men had looked each other over to their joint satis 
 faction.
 
 EUJLNKD BY KDflXNESS. 145 
 
 The editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of 
 the head, at the same time offering a chair. 
 
 " I came in on the night train," the tall man said, 
 seating himself with the left side of his face toward the 
 door at which he had entered ; " therefore I call upon you 
 at this unseasonable hour to make a few inquiries with 
 reference to your place. It is not probable that I shall 
 become an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but I 
 think you may depend on it that I will shortly furnish 
 you with an item of news. I have read your editorial 
 paragraphs with a good deal of interest, and concluded 
 that you could give me the information desired." 
 
 John Bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger 
 would never find out that he did not write the editorials 
 he professed to admire ; but there was a possibility that 
 his visitor was not sincere. He had said that he came to 
 the town on the night train. John Bill knew this to be 
 untrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, 
 and no one else got off when he did. He was glad, how 
 ever, that the determined-looking visitor did not bring a 
 folded copy of the Triumph with him for convenience in 
 referring to an objectionable paragraph ; for John Bill felt 
 sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be would 
 not go away without satisfaction of some kind. He was 
 bothered a good deal in this way, by reason of his rather 
 peculiar way of conducting the Triumph / but questions 
 with reference to Davy's Bend, he could answer them 
 easy enough. 
 
 But he did not contradict the statement of his visitor 
 concerning the time he arrived in town, for he did not 
 look like a man who would take kindly to a thing of that 
 sort ; so the editor meekly said he would be pleased to give 
 him any information in his power. 
 
 ' ; I will inquire first about the man calling himself
 
 146 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Allan Dorris," the stranger continued, consulting a book 
 which he took from his pocket, and pausing a little before 
 pronouncing the name, " and I ask that this conversation 
 be in confidence. How long has this fellow been here ? " 
 
 The tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the 
 responsible head of the Triumph as though he would 
 intimate that his displeasure would be serious should his 
 instructions be neglected. 
 
 "This is October," Mr. Bill replied, counting on his 
 fingers. " He came in the spring, some time ; probably 
 six months ago. I do not know him personally. He is a 
 doctor, and lives in a place called ' The Locks,' on the 
 edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger 
 toward the stone church, and the house in which Allan 
 Dorris lived. " That 's about all I know of him." 
 
 The peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man 
 followed the direction pointed out for a moment, and 
 then settled on John Bill again. 
 
 " I have heard that he has a love affair with a young 
 woman named Annie Benton," the visitor said with busi 
 ness precision, once more consulting his book, and pausing 
 before pronouncing the name, as he had done before. 
 "What do yoii know about that?" 
 
 " I have heard something of it," the editor replied, " but 
 nothing in particular ; only that he is with her a great 
 deal, and that he meets her usually in a church near his 
 house. The people talk about it, but I am too busy to 
 pay much attention to such matters." 
 
 John Bill was trying to create the impression that he 
 was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which 
 the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the 
 last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, 
 with a modest cough : " Besides, I travel a good deal." 
 But this was not the first time John Bill had tried to
 
 RUINED BY KINDNESS. 147 
 
 create a wrong impression. He foolishly imagined that, 
 being an editor, he was expected to know more than 
 other people ; but as he did not, he frequently filled his 
 mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading 
 of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pre 
 tending that it had just occurred to him, and usually add 
 ing a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. If 
 he encountered a word which he did not know the mean 
 ing of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, 
 usually in connection with arguments to prove that the 
 average man did not understand the commonest words in 
 his language. Nor was this all ; John Bill was a deceiver 
 in another particular. He frequently intimated in the 
 Triumph that if he were a rich man he would spend his 
 money liberally in " helping the town ; " that is, in mend 
 ing the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufac 
 tories which would give employment to " labor." John 
 Bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a 
 poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for 
 taking care of their means. The men who have no 
 money of their own claim to know exactly how money 
 should be invested, but somehow the men who have 
 money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject. 
 
 Upon invitation the editor told of old Thompson Ben- 
 ton and his disposition ; of the beauty of his daughter, 
 and of her talent as a musician ; of Allan Dorris's dispo 
 sition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the 
 next, and so on ; all of which the stranger noted in his 
 book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of 
 the town's gossip progressed. When this was concluded, 
 the book in which the notes were made was carefully 
 put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still 
 keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten- 
 dollar note on the editorial table.
 
 148 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " I shall need your^services soon," he said, " and I make 
 a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. "When 
 the time comes you will know it. Your business then will 
 be to forget this interview. You are also to say nothing 
 about it until you receive the warning to forget. I bid 
 you good-night." 
 
 So saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the 
 stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard. 
 
 A rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought ; 
 a visit at such an hour from a mysterious man who in 
 quired minutely about a citizen who was almost as mucli 
 of a mystery as the visitor himself ; and when he heard a 
 step on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger 
 had forgotten something, and was coming back, so he 
 opened the door, only to meet Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, 
 who carried a sealed envelope in her hand. 
 
 John Bill did not like Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, very 
 well ; for she had a habit of saying that " her work " was 
 all the advertising she needed, referring to the circum 
 stance that she had become the town busybody in her 
 attempts to reform the people ; but he received her 
 politely, and thought to himself that when his sensation 
 finally appeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, 
 and beardy. 
 
 Mrs. Whittle had a good deal to say concerning the 
 careless, good-natured wickedness of the people, and the 
 people had a good deal to say about Mrs. Whittle. One 
 thing they said was, that while she was always coaxing 
 those who were doing very well to become better, she 
 was shamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of 
 little Ben Whittle, her only child, who was being worked 
 to death by the farmer named Quade, in whose employ 
 he was. This unfortunate child had not seen his mother 
 for years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and
 
 RUINED BY KINDNESS. 149 
 
 dirty ; but while Mrs. Whittle imagined that he was doing 
 very well, and felt quite easy concerning him, she could 
 not sleep at night from worrying over the fear that other 
 children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, 
 were growing up in wickedness. Her husband was a 
 drunkard and a loafer, but Mrs. Whittle had no time to 
 bother about him ; there were men in the town so thor 
 oughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on Sunday, 
 instead of going to church, and to this unfortunate class 
 she devoted her life. She frequently took credit to her 
 self that the best citizens of Davy's Bend were not in jail, 
 and believed that they would finally acknowledge their 
 debt to her ; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant 
 husband she never thought at all ; so John Bill could not 
 very well be blamed for disliking her. 
 
 " I heard you would return to-night," the good woman 
 said, panting from her exertion in climbing the stairs, 
 " arid I wanted to deliver this with my own hands, which 
 is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though I don't 
 suppose that any one would doubt that I came on a good 
 errand, even if they had seen me coming up. Bless me, 
 what a hard stair you have ! " 
 
 John Bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, 
 hung the note it contained on an empty *hook within 
 reach of his hand, without looking at it. Meanwhile Mrs. 
 Whittle continued to pant, and look good. 
 
 " It refers to Allan Dorris's affair with Annie Benton," 
 she said, recovering her breath at last. "Something 
 should be done, and I don't know who else is to do it. 
 The people all mean well enough, and they are good 
 enough people as a rule ; but when there is good to be 
 accomplished, I usually find it is not accomplished unless 
 I take an interest in it. No one knows better than John 
 Bill that I do not suspect people, and am always in-
 
 150 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 clined to believe good of them, but there is something 
 wrong about this Allan Dorris. Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. 
 Wilton say so, and you know they are very careful of 
 what they say." 
 
 John Bill had heard that statement questioned, and he 
 mentally added their names to his black list. Two greater 
 talking old women never wore pants, John Bill had heard 
 said, than Messrs. Ponsonboy and Wilton, and when he 
 got at it he would skin them with the others. 
 
 "Better men than Mr. Ponsonboy and Mr. Wilton 
 never lived," Mrs. Whittle said, " and I have concluded 
 to write a hint which Annie Benton as well as Allan 
 Dorris will understand. If nothing comes of it, I will 
 try something else. I am not easily discouraged, Mr. 
 Bill ; I would have given up long ago if I were." 
 
 Mrs. Whittle found it necessary to pause for another 
 rest, and the editor took opportunity to make mental 
 note of the fact (for use in the coming exposure) that she 
 was dressed in the most execrable taste ; that her clothes 
 seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneous 
 assortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, 
 and that she had not taken the trouble to arrange them. 
 John Bill felt certain that when the people were buying 
 copies of his paper to burn, they would read that Mrs. 
 Whittle was in need of the refining influences of a dress 
 maker. 
 
 " You are a good man at heart, Mr. Bill," Mrs. Whittle 
 said again, which was an expression the editor had heard 
 before, for he was always being told that he was a better 
 man than he appeared to be, though he knew a great 
 many people who were not better than they appeared to 
 be. " I know you are, and that you do not mean all the 
 bad things you say sometimes. I know you will help me 
 in doing good, for it is so important that good should be
 
 KUINED BY KINDNESS. 151 
 
 dono. When I think of the wickedness around me, and 
 the work that is to be done, I almost faint at the pros 
 pect, but I only hope that my strength may enable me to 
 hold out to the end. I pray that I may be spared until 
 this is a better world." 
 
 Mr. Bill promised to find a place in his crowded 
 columns for the good woman's contribution, and she 
 went away, with a sigh for the general wickedness. 
 
 " The world will be better off for that sigh," John Bill 
 said, as he settled down in his chair, and heard Mrs. 
 Whittle step off the stair into the street. " What we 
 need is more sighing and less work. There is no lack of 
 workers ; in fact, the country is too full of them for com 
 fort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. 
 The first one who called to-night on Allan Dorris busi 
 ness looked like a worker; a worker-off, I may say. This 
 Dorris is becoming important of late. I must make his 
 acquaintance. Hello ! Another ! " 
 
 The owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway 
 this time turned out to be Silas Davy, who came in and 
 handed John Bill a piece of paper. It proved to be a 
 brief note, which read, 
 
 " To JOHN BILL, If the party who has just left your 
 office left a communication concerning Allan Dorris, I 
 speak for the privilege of answering it. 
 
 TUG WHITTLE." 
 
 John Bill read the note several times over after Silas 
 had disappeared, and finally getting up from his chair, 
 said, 
 
 " I '11 write no more to-night ; there may be interesting 
 developments in the morning."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 
 
 TOURING the summer and winter following the arrival 
 -L^ of Allan Dorris in Davy's Bend, he met Annie Benton 
 at intervals after their strange meeting out on the hills, in 
 spite of his resolution to keep out of her way, and though 
 he was convinced more than ever after each meeting that 
 their acquaintance was dangerous, he candidly admitted 
 to himself that he was powerless to resist the temptation 
 to see her when opportunity offered, for the girl waited as 
 anxiously for his appearance as he did for hers ; she was as 
 deeply concerned as he was, and while this circumstance 
 afforded him a kind of pleasure, it was also painful, for 
 he felt certain that no good could come of it. 
 
 Usually he attended the services in the church once a 
 week, and watched the organist so closely that she always 
 divined his presence, and looked timidly toward where he 
 sat when opportunity offered. Dorris believed that he 
 could cause the girl to think of him by looking at her, 
 and though he changed his position at every service, he 
 had the satisfaction of finally seeing her pick him out, and 
 she never made a mistake, always looking directly at him 
 when she turned her head. 
 
 After the people were dismissed, he occasionally met 
 
 her at the door, and walked home with her behind her 
 
 glowering father, who received the attentions of Dorris 
 
 with little favor. A few times he remained in the church 
 
 152
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 153 
 
 with her a few minutes after the congregation had passed 
 out, but after each meeting he felt more dissatisfied than 
 ever, and chafed under the restraint which held him back 
 A few times, also, he went into the house, after accom 
 panying her home, which pleased Annie Benton as much 
 as it displeased old Thompson, but somehow he did not 
 enjoy her company there as he did when she was alone in 
 the church, for the Ancient Maiden, as well as the Ancient 
 Gentleman, seemed to regard him with suspicion and dis 
 trust; therefore in spite of his vows to let her alone, 
 which he had made with honesty and sincerity, he called 
 on her at the church nearly every week. 
 
 He believed that he was entitled to some credit because 
 he only saw the girl occasionally, for he longed to be with 
 her continually; and there were times, when he heard 
 the organ j that he overcame the temptation and did not 
 enter the church. On these occasions he turned his face 
 doggedly toward The Locks, and paced up and down in 
 his own room until he knew the temptation was removed ; 
 when he would go out into the yard again, hoping that 
 some good fortune had detained the player longer than 
 usual, and that he would meet her unexpectedly. 
 
 This same spirit caused him to haunt the road which 
 she frequented on her visits to and from the town, and 
 quite often he had occasion to appear surprised at her 
 approach when he was not, when he would walk with her 
 one way or the other until it seemed necessary for them 
 to separate. It was not a deep ruse nor did it deceive 
 himself, for he often laughed at its absurdity but it 
 afforded occupation to a man who was idle more than half 
 his time, and Allan Dorris was like other men in the 
 particular that he wanted to do right, but found it very 
 difficult when inclination led in the other direction. 
 When they met in this manner, each usually had time to
 
 154 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 say only enough to excite the curiosity of the other, and 
 to cause them to long for another meeting, and thus the 
 winter was passed, and the early spring came on ; the 
 season of quarreling between frost and sunshine. 
 
 On a certain wild March evening, after a day of idleness 
 and longing to see the girl, Dorris put on his heavy coat 
 and walked in the yard, up and down the old path under 
 the trees, which gave evidences of his restless footsteps 
 even in the snows of winter. As soon as he came out he 
 heard the music, and between his strong desire to see the 
 player, and his conviction that he should never enter her 
 presence, he resolved to leave Davy's Bend and never 
 return. He could better restrain his love for her in some 
 distant town than in Davy's Bend, therefore he would go 
 away, and try to forget. This gave him an excuse to 
 enter the church, though he only intended to bid her 
 good-by ; and so impatient was he that he scaled the 
 wall, and jumped down on the outside, instead of passing 
 out at the gate. 
 
 Annie Benton was watching for him when he stepped into 
 her presence from the vestibule, and as lie walked up the 
 aisle he saw so much pleasure in her face that he regret 
 ted to make the announcement of his departure ; but he 
 knew it was the best thing to do, and did not hesitate. 
 He even thought of the prospect that she might regret 
 his determination, and say so, which would greatly please 
 him. 
 
 " I have concluded to leave Davy's Bend," he said, as 
 he took the hand she offered him, " and have called to 
 say good-by. As soon as I can dispose of my effects I 
 will leave this forbidden ground, and travel so far that 
 I will forget the way back. The more I see of you, the 
 more I love you; and if I continue to live in sight of 
 your house, I will finally forget everything except that I
 
 THE BEBELLIO2ST OF THE BARITONE. 155 
 
 love you, and do you a great harm. It will not take me 
 long to settle up my affairs, and within a few days, at the 
 farthest, I shall be gone." 
 
 The smile on Annie Benton's pretty face vanished at 
 once, as she turned her head and looked from him, at the 
 same time trying to run her fingers over the keys ; but 
 they had lost their cunning, and her hands soon lay idly 
 on the keyboards. When Dorris finally caught her head 
 gently, and turned it toward him, he saw that tears were 
 in her eyes. She did not attempt to hide this, and quietly 
 submitted when he brushed them away. 
 
 " It pains me to know that you regret this announce 
 ment," Dorris said, after looking at her a moment, " though 
 it would pain me more to believe that you did not. It 
 seems to be always so ; there is sorrow in everything for 
 me. I have cursed myself a thousand times for this 
 quality, and thought ill of a nature which had no peace 
 or content in it. I have hated myself for years because 
 of the belief that nothing would satisfy me ; that I would 
 tire of everything I coveted, and that I was born a misan 
 thrope and an embodied unrest. When I have envied 
 others their content, I have always concluded afterwards 
 that there was something in my nature opposed to peace, 
 and that I was doomed to a restless life, always seek 
 ing that which could not be found. I have always be 
 lieved that my acquaintances have had this opinion of me, 
 and that for this reason they did not grant me the charity 
 I felt the need of. But now that I am going away, and 
 will never see you again, I hope you will pardon my say 
 ing that your absence has been the cause of the unrest 
 which has always beset me. Long before I knew you 
 existed I was looking for you ; and I know now that all 
 my discontent would have vanished had I been free to 
 make honorable love to you when we first met. In our
 
 156 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 weakness we are permitted to know a few things ; I know 
 this to be true." 
 
 " Since you have always wished me to take no interest 
 in this acquaintance of ours," Annie Benton replied, in 
 a tone which might have been only sullen, but it sounded 
 very much like the voice of an earnest woman expressing 
 vexation and regret, " let me at least express in words 
 what I have often expressed in my actions that I would 
 have long ago shown you that your affection was returned ; 
 that you are not more concerned than I am. I have al 
 ways been in doubt as to what my course should be ; but 
 let me say this, in justice to my intelligence, though it be 
 a discredit to my womanhood, you can never love me 
 more than I do you. Nor do you more sincerely regret 
 the necessity which you say exists for your going 
 away." 
 
 "I hope I do not take undue credit to myself," he re 
 plied, " when I say that I have known this ever since our 
 acquaintance began, and I only asked you to remain 
 silent because I could not have controlled myself with 
 declarations of love from your lips ringing in my ears. 
 You trusted my judgment fully, and refused to hear the 
 reasons why I said our acquaintance was dangerous ; and 
 I will deserve that confidence by going away, for I know 
 that is the best thing to do. Sometimes there is a little 
 pleasure in a great sorrow. I have known mothers to find 
 pleasure in talking of their dead children, and J find a 
 fascination in talking to you about a love which can never 
 be realized. Heretofore I have been a man shut up in a 
 dungeon, craving sunlight, hating myself because I came 
 to believe that there was no sunlight ; now I realize that 
 sunlight was a natural necessity for my well-being, for I 
 have found it, and it is all I hoped. But I must go back 
 into the dungeon, and the necessity is more disagreeable
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BAEITOJ^. 157 
 
 than I can tell you. I am an average man in every respect 
 save that I feel that I have never had an average man's 
 chance in this matter of love, and fret because of it. 
 That which I crave may be a mistake of the fancy, but I 
 am not convinced of it; therefore I am not as philan 
 thropic as those who have outgrown in experience an 
 infatuation such as I feel for you. I have tried every 
 thing else, and have learned to be indifferent, with all my 
 idols broken and dishonored at my feet ; but there is a 
 possibility in love which I can never know anything 
 about." 
 
 While the girl was listening, there were times when 
 Dorris thought she would 'interrupt him, and make the 
 declaration which he had forbidden; but she controlled 
 herself, and looked steadily away from him. 
 
 " It may occur to you as strange it is strange that 
 while I declare my love for you, I run away from it. In 
 explanation I could only repeat what I have said before ; 
 that it is for your good that I have adopted this course. 
 Had you listened to my brief story, you would now 
 understand why my going away seems to be necessary ; 
 since you preferred not to, I can only say in general 
 terms that nothing could happen, except good fortune, 
 which would surprise me. I am surrounded by danger, 
 and while my life has been one long regret, the greatest 
 regret of all is that which I experience in leaving you. 
 Were I to consult my own bent, I would deny all that I 
 have intimated to my discredit, and make such love to 
 you that you could not resist it ; but I love you, and this 
 course would not prove it. We are doing now what 
 millions of people have done before us ; making a sacrifice 
 for the right against strong inclinations, and we should 
 meet it bravely. There is no hesitation in my manner, I 
 hope."
 
 158 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Annie Benton turned and looked at him, and saw that 
 he was trembling and very much agitated. 
 
 "Then why are you trembling?" she asked. 
 
 "Because of the chill in the air, I presume," he answered, 
 " for I am very determined to carry out my resolution. 
 I might tremble with excitement in resolving to rescue a 
 
 o o 
 
 friend from danger, though it would not indicate a lack 
 
 O ' O 
 
 of courage. You are willing for me to go ? " 
 
 " Since you say it is for the best," she replied, " yes." 
 Believing that he had said all that was necessary, Allan 
 Dorris hesitated between going away and remaining. 
 Walking over to the window, and looking out, he saw 
 that the light he had been talking about was fading away 
 from the earth, as it was fading away from him, and that 
 the old night was coming back. A hill-top he saw in the 
 distance he likened to himself; resisting until the last 
 moment, but without avail, for the darkness was gradually 
 climbing up its sides, and would soon cover it. 
 
 "You will no doubt think that I should have kept 
 away from you when I saw that my pi-esence was not 
 objectionable, and that our acquaintance would finally 
 result in this," he said, coming back to the girl, and stand 
 ing by her side, " but I could not ; let me acknowledge 
 my fault, and say that I am sorry for it. I could not 
 resist the temptation to enter the only presence which 
 has ever afforded me pleasure, try hard as I could, so I 
 kept it up until I am now forced to run away from it. 
 Do I make my meaning clear?" 
 
 " Perfectly," she replied, without looking around. 
 " Life is so unsatisfactory that it affords nothing of per 
 manent value except the love and respect of a worthy, 
 intelligent, and agreeable woman. It is the favor I have 
 sought, and found too late. It is fortunate that you are 
 not as reckless as I am ; otherwise no restraint would keep
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 159 
 
 us apart. But for the respect I have for your good name, 
 I would steal you, and teach you to love me in some far 
 away place." 
 
 " You have taught me already," the girl timidly replied, 
 still looking away. 
 
 " Don't say that," Dorris said in alarm. " That pleases 
 me, for it is depravity, and everything depraved seems 
 to suit me. You must say nothing which pleases me, else 
 I will fail in my resolve. Say everything you can to hurt 
 my feelings, but nothing to please me." 
 
 " I cannot help saying it," she replied, rising from her 
 seat at the organ, and facing him. " If it is depravity to 
 love you, I like depravity, too." 
 
 " Annie," Dorris said, touching her arm, " be careful of 
 what you say." 
 
 " I must say it," she returned, with a flushed face ; " I 
 am only a woman, and you don't know how much weak 
 ness that implies. I am flesh and blood, like yourself ; but 
 you have made love to me as though I were an unconsci 
 ous picture. I fear that you do not understand woman 
 kind, and that you have made an idol of me ; an idol 
 which will fall, and break at your feet. My love for you 
 has come to me as naturally as my years, and I want you 
 to know when you go away that my heart Avill be in 
 your keeping. Why may not I avow my love as well as 
 you ? Why may not I, too, express regret that you are 
 going away ? " 
 
 The girl asked the question with a candor which 
 surprised him ; there was the innocence of a child in her 
 manner, and the enthusiasm of a woman thoroughly in 
 earnest. 
 
 " For the reason that when I am gone it will be in the 
 nature of things for you to forget me," he replied. " You 
 are young, and do not know your heart as well as I know
 
 160 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 mine. In course of time you will probably form an honor 
 able alliance; then you will regret having said this to 
 me." 
 
 " It will always be a pleasure for me to remember how 
 ardently I have loved you," she replied, trembling and 
 faltering, as though not quite certain that the course she 
 was pursuing was right. " I will never feel ashamed of 
 ify no matter if I should live forever. It may not be 
 womanly for me to say so ; but I can never forget you. 
 Your attentions to me have been so delicate, and so well 
 calculated to win a woman's affection, that I want you to 
 know that, but for this hindrance you speak of, your dream 
 might be realized. If I am the Maid of Air, the Maid of 
 Air returns your affection. Surely my regard for you 
 may excuse my saying this, now that you are going 
 away, for you may think of it with pleasure in your future 
 loneliness. I appreciate your love so much that I must 
 tell you that it is returned." 
 
 They were standing close together on the little plat 
 form in front of the organ, and the girl leaned against 
 him in such a manner that he put his left arm around her 
 shoulders to support her. Her head rested on his arm, 
 and she was looking full into his face. The excitement 
 under which she seemed to labor lent such a charm to her 
 face that Allan Dorris thought that surely it must be the 
 handsomest in the world. 
 
 " Kiss me," she said suddenly. 
 
 The suggestion frightened the great brawny fellow, who 
 might have picked up his companion and ran away with 
 her without the slightest inconvenience; for he looked 
 around the room in alarm. 
 
 " I don't know whether I will or not," he replied, look 
 ing steadily at her. " "Were you ever kissed before ? " 
 
 " By my father ; by no one else."
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 161 
 
 " Then I think I will refuse," he said, " though I would 
 give twenty years of my life to grant your request. 
 What a request it is ! It appeals to me with such force 
 that I feel a weakness in my eyes because of the warmth 
 in my heart, and the hot blood never ran races through 
 my veins before as it is doing now. You have complete 
 possession of my heart, and I am a better man than I was 
 before, for you are pure and good ; if I have a soul, it 
 has forgotten its immortality in loving this earthy being 
 in my arms. But it is the proudest boast of a loyal wife 
 that no lips save those of her husband ever touched hers, 
 and my regard for you is such that I do not wish to 
 detract from the peace of your future. If I have made 
 an idol of you, let me go away without discovering my 
 mistake ; grant me the privilege of remembering you as 
 the realization of all my dreaming. In a year from now 
 you will only remember me to thank me for this refusal 
 of your request." 
 
 " In a year from now I will feel just as I do now. I 
 will never change. I will have only this to remember 
 you by, and my acquaintance with you has been the only 
 event in my life worth remembering. Please kiss me." 
 
 He hurriedly pressed her lips to his own, and looked 
 around as though he half expected to be struck dead for 
 the sacrilege, but nothing serious resulted, and the girl 
 continued to talk without changing her position. 
 
 " I have never regretted the restraint which is expected 
 of women until I knew you, for why should I not express 
 my preferences as well as you? In my lonely, dreamy 
 childhood, I had few acquaintances and fewer friends, 
 and you have supplied a want which I hardly knew 
 existed before. Ever since I can remember, I have 
 longed so much to know the people in the great world 
 from which you came that I accepted you as a messenger
 
 162 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 from them, and you interested and pleased me even more 
 than I expected. My life has always been lonely, though 
 not unhappy, and the people I read of in books I accepted 
 as the people who lived outside of Davy's Bend, in the 
 cities by the lakes and seas, where there is culture as well 
 as plenty. I have been familiar with their songs, and 
 played them on the organ when I should have been prac 
 tising ; everything I have 'read of them I have put to 
 music, and played it over and over. Once I read of a 
 great man who died, and who was buried from a church 
 filled with distinguished mourners. The paper said that 
 when the people were all in their seats, the voice of a 
 great singer broke the stillness, in a song of hope, and I 
 have imitated the voice on the organ, and imagined that 
 I was playing a requiem over distinguished dust ; but in 
 future I shall think only of you when I play the funeral 
 march. Since I have known you, I have thought of little 
 else, and I shall mourn your departure as though you had 
 always been a part of me. If I dared, I would ask you 
 on my knees to remain." 
 
 " I have heard you play the songs to which you refer," 
 Dorris replied musingly, "and I have thought that you 
 played them with so much expression that, could their 
 authors have listened to the performance, they would 
 have discovered new beauties in them. I never knew a 
 player before who could render the words of a song as 
 well as the music. You do it, and with so much genius 
 that I wonder that you have nothing but the cold, pas 
 sionless notes to guide you. One dark afternoon you 
 played ' I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,' and a savage 
 could have told what the words were. The entire 
 strength of the organ seemed to be united in the mourn 
 ful air, and the timid accompaniment was peopled with 
 the other characters in the play from which the song is
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BAKITOXE. 163 
 
 taken. That represented you; but you have had me 
 before the organ, telling all I knew, a hundred times. 
 Although you have refused to hear my story, you seem to 
 know it ; for you have told it on the organ as many times 
 as I have thought of it." 
 
 " If I have told your story on the organ," the girl said, 
 " there must have been declarations in it that you were a 
 brave, an honorable, and an unfortunate man, for I have 
 always thought that of you. In spite of all you have said 
 to me against yourself, I have never doubted this for a 
 moment, and I would trust you to any extent." 
 
 "If I expect to carry out my resolution," Allan Dorris 
 replied, as though in anger, though it was really an unspoken 
 protest against doing a disagreeable thing, " I must hear 
 no more of this; a very little more of what you have 
 said, and retreat will be impossible. But before I leave 
 you, let me say this : You once said I was an odd man ; 
 I will tell you why. I seem to be an odd man because 
 you have heard every sentiment there is in my heart ; I 
 have kept nothing back. The men you have known 
 were close-mouthed and suspicious, knowing that what 
 ever they said was likely to be repeated, and this made 
 them cautious. Place other men in my situation as to 
 loneliness and misfortune, and I would not seem so unu 
 sual. There are plenty of staid business men who are as 
 'odd' as I am, but they have never been moved to tell 
 their secrets, as I have done to you. Even were your 
 honorable father to express the love he feels for your dead 
 mother, it would sound sentimental and foolish, and sur 
 prise his acquaintances ; but rest assured that every man 
 will turn out a strange creature when you get his confi 
 dence. I say this in justice to myself, but it is the truth. 
 AVhen you" know any man thoroughly, you either think 
 . more or less of him."
 
 1G4 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 "I don't dare to tell you what is" in my mind," Annie 
 Benton said, as she stood beside him, his arm still 
 around her. "It would startle you, and perhaps cause 
 you to change the good opinion you have expressed of 
 me ; but there can be no harm in my saying this every 
 day of our acquaintance has brought me more respect 
 and love for you. Let me pay you the poor compliment 
 of saying that the more I know of you, the more I respect 
 and honor you." 
 
 "I believe I deserve that," he replied. "I have more 
 than my share of faults, but it has always been a comfort 
 for me to know that my best friends are those who know 
 most of me. But though I have faults, I am not the less 
 sensitive. I believe that should I kill a man, I would as 
 keenly feel the slights of my fellows as would one whose 
 hands were clean. Should I become so offensive to man 
 kind as to merit banishment, my wickedness would not 
 cause me to forget my loneliness. My mistakes have 
 been as trifling in their nature, and as innocent, as neglect 
 to lock a door in a community of thieves; but I have 
 been punished as severely as though I had murdered a 
 toAvn. The thieves have pursued and beaten me because 
 I carelessly permitted them to steal my substance ; and 
 the privilege of touching a pure woman's lips with my 
 own, and folding her in my arms, becomes a serious 
 wrong, though it has only brought me a joy which other 
 men have known, and no harm came of it." 
 
 " I do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl 
 said, with some alarm, stepping away from him, as if 
 frightened at her situation ; " but on the score of friendship, 
 I may say that I shall be very lonely when you are gone. 
 Davy's Bend was never an agreeable place, but I was 
 content with it until you came and filled me with ambi^ 
 tion. I wanted to become worthy of the many kind
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 165 
 
 things you said of me ; I hoped that I might distinguish 
 myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that you had 
 predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, 
 you will never know of it even if I succeed. I may regret 
 your departure on this account, if nothing else. I do re 
 gret it for another reason, but you reprimand me for say 
 ing it." 
 
 The dogged look which distinguished him when think 
 ing came into his face again, and though he seemed to 
 
 O O ' ~ 
 
 be paying no attention, he was listening with keen in 
 terest. 
 
 " Regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, 
 after a protracted silence between them. " Your regret 
 makes me stronger ; it convinces me that I am not its only 
 victim. Duty is a master we must all obey, though I 
 wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom 
 leads us in the direction we would travel. The busy 
 world is full of people who are making sacrifices for duty 
 as great as yours and mine ; let us not fail in doing ours. 
 In the name of the only woman I ever loved, I ask you to 
 bid me good-by with indifference. For the good of the 
 best woman in the world, play a joyful march while I 
 leave your presence, never to return." 
 
 Without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at 
 the organ, and Allan Dorris having awakened the, sleeping 
 janitor, the music commenced ; a march of joy, to the 
 time of which he left the church without once looking 
 back. 
 
 But on reaching the outside he could not resist the 
 temptation to look once more at Annie Benton; so he 
 climbed up to his old position on the wall, and looked 
 at her through the broken pane. 
 
 , t He saw her look around, as if to convince herself that 
 he was gone, when the music changed from joy to regret
 
 166 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 while her face was yet turned toward the door at which 
 he had departed. She was thinking, and expressing her 
 thoughts with the pipes, and Allan Dorris knew what she 
 was thinking as well as if she were speaking the words. 
 There were occasional passages in the music so fierce and 
 wild that he knew the girl was struggling with desperate 
 thoughts ; nor could she easily get rid of them, for the 
 reckless tones seemed to be fighting for mastery over the 
 gentler ones. The old baritone air again ; but strong and 
 courageous now, instead of mournful, and it seemed to be 
 muttering that it had ceased to be forbearing, and had no 
 
 O O' 
 
 respect for customs, or usages, or matters of conscience ; 
 indeed, there was a certain reckless abandon in it which 
 caused the listener to compare it to the roaring song of a 
 man reeling home to squalor and poverty a sort of dec- 
 laration that he liked squalor and poverty better than any 
 thing else. The mild notes of the accompaniment with 
 the right hand how like entreating human voices they 
 sounded a chord of self-respect, of love of home, of 
 duty, in all their persuasive changes, urging the enraged 
 baritone air to be reasonable, and return to the pacific 
 state which it had honored so long ; but the baritone ail- 
 continued to threaten to break over all restraint, and be 
 come as wild and fierce as it sounded. Occasionally the 
 chord of self respect, of love of home, and of duty, seemed 
 to gain the mastery, but the wicked baritone broke away 
 again, though it was growing more mild and tractable, 
 and Allan Dorris thought that it must finally succumb to 
 the eloquent appeal in the treble. " I have been mild and 
 gentle all my life" it seemed to be grumbling the 
 words, as an apology for giving in, instead of declaring 
 them as an excuse for breaking over all restraint " and 
 what good has it done me ? Am I happier than those who 
 have mingled joys with their regrets? My mild sacrifices
 
 THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE. 167 
 
 have resulted in nothing, and I am tempted to try what a 
 little spirit will do." 
 
 But the unruly spirit was pacified at last, and the music 
 resolved itself into a lullaby of the kind which mothers 
 sing to their children ; it may have been a recollection of 
 the player's own childhood, for it soon caused her to bow 
 her head on the keyboard, and burst into tears.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 
 
 "TANE BENTON", old Thompson's maiden sister, was 
 *s as good as anybody, though no one urged the point 
 as steadily as she did herself. Had the President walked 
 into Jane Benton's presence, she would have believed that 
 he had heard of her (although there was no reason 
 that she should entertain that opinion) and had called to 
 pay his respects ; and instead of being timid in so great a 
 presence, she would have expected him to be timid in 
 hers. 
 
 There were people who cared to distinguish themselves : 
 very well, let them do it ; but Jane Benton did not have 
 that ambition, though she had the ability, and could have 
 easily made a name for herself which would have gone 
 thundering down the ages. Let other people distinguish 
 themselves and pay the price ; Jane Benton was distin 
 guished naturally effort was not necessary in her case. 
 If the people did not acknowledge it, it was their loss, not 
 hers. 
 
 The Ancient Maiden was a book-worm, and devoured 
 everything she heard of ; but only with a determination 
 to tear it to pieces, for of course no one could hope to 
 amuse or instruct a lady of forty-five, who not only knew 
 everything worth knowing already, but who had taught 
 school in her younger days on the strength of a certificate 
 ranging from ninety-eight to ninety-nine. This certificate 
 had been issued by three learned men, each one of whom 
 168
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 169 
 
 knew absolutely everything ; and it was agreed by them 
 that Jane Benton should have had an even hundred but 
 for the circumstance that her " hand write " was a little 
 crooked. This fault had since been remedied, and the An 
 cient Maiden still retained the certificate, and the recollec 
 tion of the conclusion by the three learned men, as an 
 evidence that, so far as education was concerned, she 
 lacked nothing whatever. 
 
 When she consented to favor a book by looking through 
 it, there was unutterable disgust on her features as she 
 possessed herself of the contents, since she felt nothing 
 but contempt for the upstarts who attempted to amuse or 
 instruct so great a woman as Jane Benton. And her 
 patience was usually rewarded. 
 
 Thompson ! Annie ! Ring the bells, and run here ! The 
 ignorant .pretender has been found out! A turned letter 
 in the book ! A that for a which ! A will for a shall ! A 
 -would for a should! Hurrah! Announce it to the 
 people ! Another pretender found out ! Lock the book 
 up ! It is worthless ! Jane Benton's greatness, so long 
 in doubt, is vindicated ! 
 
 But while there is not a perfect book in existence now, 
 there is likely to be one, providing Jane Benton lives three 
 or four hundred years longer, for the thought has often 
 occurred to her that she ought to do something for the 
 
 <j o 
 
 race, although it does not deserve such a kindness, as a 
 pattern for all future writers. She has done nothing in 
 forty-five years ; but she has been busy during that time, 
 no doubt, in preparing for a book which will not only as 
 tonish the living, but cause the dead to crawl out of their 
 graves, and feel ashamed of themselves. Let the people 
 go on in their mad ignorance ; Jane Benton is preparing 
 to point out their errors, and in the course of the present 
 century certainly not later than toward the close of the
 
 170 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 next one a new prophet will appear in such robes of 
 splendid perfection that even the earth will acknowledge 
 its imperfections, and creep off into oblivion. 
 
 But notwithstanding her rather remarkable conceit, 
 Jane Benton was a useful woman. For fifteen years she 
 had " pottered around," as old Thompson said, and made 
 her brother's home a pleasant one. Since she could not 
 set the world on lire, she said she did not want to, and 
 at least knew her own home perfectly, and had it under 
 thorough control. When old Thompson needed any 
 thing, and ransacked the house until he concluded that it 
 had been burned up, his sister Jane could put her hand 
 on the article immediately; and perhaps Jane Benton's 
 genius, in which she had so much confidence, was a genius 
 for attempting only what she could do well ; for whatever 
 her intentions were, she had certainly accomplished 
 nothing, except to distinguish her brother's house as the 
 neatest and cleanest in Davy's Bend. 
 
 Notwithstanding her lofty ambitions, and her marvellous 
 capacity in higher walks, she was jealous of what she had 
 really accomplished ; and the servant girl who promised 
 to be industrious and generally satisfactory around old 
 Thompson's house was soon presented with her walking 
 papers, for Jane Benton believed that she was the only 
 woman alive who knew the secret of handling dishes with 
 out breaking them, or of sweeping a carpet without ruin 
 ing it ; therefore a servant who threatened to become a 
 rival was soon sent away, and a less thrifty one procured, 
 who afforded the mistress opportunity of regretting that 
 the girls of recent years knew nothing, and stubbornly 
 refused to learn. Old Thompson had been heard to say 
 once, after his sister had ordered the cook to leave in an 
 hour, that he would finally be called upon to send his 
 daughter Annie away, for no other reason than that she
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 171 
 
 was useful, and careful, and industrious, and sensible ; but 
 the Ancient Maiden had good sense, in spite of her eccen 
 tricities, and dearly loved her pretty niece; and it is 
 probable that old Thompson only made the remark in 
 fun. 
 
 Thompson Benton was too sensible a man to go hungry 
 in anticipation of improbable feasts in the future ; there 
 fore his sister Jane and his daughter Annie were well 
 provided for ; and were seated in a rather elegant room in a 
 rather elegant house, on a certain wet afternoon in the 
 spring of the year, busy with their work. The girl had 
 been quiet and thoughtful all day, but finally she startled 
 her aunt by inquiring, 
 
 " Aunt Jane, were you ever in love ? " 
 
 The Ancient Maiden dropped her work, and looked at 
 the girl in indignation and astonishment. 
 
 " Annie," she sharply said, " what do you mean by ask 
 ing me such a question as that?" 
 
 The Ancient Maiden was particularly severe on the 
 men who attempted to write books, but the sex in general 
 was her abomination. Every man who paid court to a 
 young woman, in Jane Benton's opinion, was a married 
 man, with a large family of children ; and though it 
 sometimes turned out that those she accused of this 
 offence were only twenty years old, or such a matter, she 
 said that made no difference ; they had married young, 
 probably, and investigation would reveal that they had 
 ten or twelve ragged children and a pale wife somewhere 
 in poverty. Therefore the presumption of the girl in 
 asking such a question caused her to repeat again, and 
 with more indignation than before : 
 
 " What do you mean by asking me such a question as 
 that?" 
 
 Annie Benton was like her father in another particular ;
 
 172 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 she was not afraid of Jane, for they both loved her; 
 therefore she was not frightened at her indignation, but 
 
 O O ' 
 
 laughingly insisted on the question. 
 
 "But were you ever in love?" 
 
 "Annie," her aunt replied, this time with an air of 
 insulted dignity, " I shall speak to your father about this 
 when he comes home to-night. The idea of a chit of a 
 girl like you asking me if I have ever been in love ! You 
 have known me all your life ; have I ever acted as though 
 I were in love ? " 
 
 "The question is easy to answer," the girl persisted. 
 " Yes or no." 
 
 Seeing that the girl was not to be put off, Jane Benton 
 pulled a needle out of her knitting for Thompson Benton 
 wore knit socks to keep peace in the family, since his sister 
 believed that should he go down town wearing a pair of 
 the flimsy kind he kept for sale, he would return in the 
 evening only to fall dead in her arms and picked her 
 teeth with it while she reflected. And while about it, 
 her manner softened so much that, when she went out of 
 the room soon after, Annie believed there was a suspicion 
 of tears in her eyes. She remained away such a length 
 of time that the girl feared she had really offended the 
 worthy woman, and was preparing to go out and look for 
 her, when she came back wiping her eyes with her apron, 
 and carrying a great packet of letters, which she threw 
 down on the table in front of Annie. 
 
 " There ! " she said pettishly. " Since you are so 
 curious, read them." 
 
 The girl was very much amused at the turn affairs had 
 taken, and, after breaking the string which held the letters 
 together, looked over several of them. They were dated 
 in the year Annie was born, and one seemed to have been 
 written on her birthday. They all referred to her aunt
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 173 
 
 in the most loving and extravagant terms possible ; and 
 while thinking how funny it was that her wrinkled aunt 
 should be referred to as dear little angel, the Ancient 
 Maiden said, 
 
 "In love! I was crazy! And I can't laugh about it 
 yet, though it seems to be so amusing to you." 
 
 "It only amuses me because I know now that you are 
 like other women," the girl replied quietly. " I think more 
 of you than ever, now that I know you have been in love." 
 
 " Well, you ought to think a good deal of me, then," 
 the Ancient Maiden said, " for I was so crazy after the 
 writer of those letters that I could n't sleep. Love him ! 
 I thought he was different from any other man who ever 
 lived, and I worshipped him ; I made a god of him, and 
 would have followed him to the end of the earth." 
 
 There was more animation in Aunt Jane's voice than 
 Annie had ever noticed before, and she waved the knit 
 ting needle at her niece as though she were to blame for 
 getting her into a love mess. 
 
 " He knew every string leading to my heart," the 
 excited maid continued, " and he had more control over 
 me than I ever had over myself. It was a fortunate 
 thing that he was an honorable man. Now you know it 
 all, and I feel ashamed of myself." 
 
 Miss Jane applied herself to knitting again,, though she 
 missed a great many stitches because of her excitement. 
 
 "But why didn't he marry you, since he loved you?" 
 Annie inquired. 
 
 " Well, since you must know, he found a girl who suited 
 him better," the Ancient Maiden replied. " But before 
 that girl came in the way, he thought he loved me, and 
 I was so well satisfied with his mistaken notion that I 
 worshipped him. And if his old fat wife should die now, 
 I 'd mnrry him were he to ask me to. After you have
 
 174 THE MYSTEEY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 lived as long as I have, you'll find out that fickleness is 
 not such a great fault, after all. Why, sometimes it 
 bothers me to have your father around, and a man can as 
 easily tire of his wife or sweetheart as that ! " 
 
 She snapped her fingei's in such a manner that it 
 sounded like the report of a toy pistol, and the girl looked 
 at her in surprise. 
 
 " We 're all fickle ; you and I as well as the rest of 
 them," she continued. "Had the wives of this country 
 pleasant homes to go back to; were their fathers all rich 
 men, for example, who would be glad to receive them, 
 half of them more than that, two thirds of them 
 would leave their husbands, as they ought to do ; but a 
 wife usually has no other home than that her husband has 
 made for her, and she gets along the best she can. The 
 men are no worse than the women ; we are all fickle, 
 fickle, fickle. As sure as we are all selfish, we are all 
 fickle. If I were married to a rich man who treated me 
 well, I would be more apt to love him than one who was 
 poor, and who treated me badly ; sometimes we forget our 
 own fickleness in our selfishness. Look at the widowers ; 
 how gay they are! Look at the widows; how gay they 
 are ! I have known men and women so long that I feel 
 like saying fiddlesticks when I think of it." 
 
 " But father is a widower, Aunt Jane," the girl said, 
 " and he is not gay." 
 
 " Well, he had to run away with his wife, to get her," 
 the Ancient Maiden replied, after some hesitation. " There 
 seems to be a good deal in love, after all, in cases where 
 people make a sacrifice for it. These runaway matches, 
 if the parties to it are sensible, somehow turn out well." 
 
 "Did father ever think any less of my mother because 
 she ran away with him?" the girl asked. 
 
 " No," her aunt replied. " He thought more of her for
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 175 
 
 it, I suppose. Anyway, I never knew another man to be 
 as fond of his wife as he was." 
 
 Annie Benton and the Ancient Maiden r. ursued their 
 work in silence for a while, when the girl said, 
 
 " I want to make a confession to you, too, Aunt Jane. 
 I am in love with Allan Dorris." 
 
 " Don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her 
 aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vex 
 ation. " I have known it for six months. But it won't 
 do you any good, for he is going away on the early train 
 to-morrow morning. Your father told me so this morn 
 ing, and he seemed glad of it. You have n't kept your 
 secret from him, either." 
 
 To avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl 
 walked over to the window, and looked out. Allan Dor 
 ris was passing in the road, and she felt sure that he was 
 walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her ; per 
 haps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in 
 which she lived. But she did not show herself, although 
 he watched the house closely until he passed out of sight. 
 
 " I supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning 
 to her chair again. " I have always thought that any girl 
 who is desperately in love cannot hide it ; but I wanted 
 to talk to you about it, and I am glad you told me what 
 you did, for I can talk more freely after having heard it. 
 I have no one else to make a confidant of, and I am very 
 much concerned about it. The matter is so serious with 
 me that I am scared." 
 
 " Don't be scared, for pity's sake," the Ancient Maiden 
 replied, with a show of her old spirit. "They all feel 
 that way, but they soon get over it. When I was in love 
 I wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but every 
 thing went on just as usual. I thought the people were 
 watching me in alarm, fearing: I would do something dcs-
 
 176 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 perate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, 
 and I had to get over it, whether I wanted to or not. 
 You will feel differently after he has been gone a week." 
 
 "The certainty that I will not is the reason I have 
 spoken to you," Annie continued gravely. "Allan Dorris 
 loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown 
 me loved you before the other girl came in his way ; and 
 I love him as you have loved the writer of the letters 
 all these years. You have never forgotten your lover ; 
 then why should you say that I will forget mine within a 
 week ? What would you advise me to do ? " 
 
 " Ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding 
 up her work with an unsteady hand. " No matter how I 
 should advise you, I should finally come to believe that 
 I had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. It is usu 
 ally a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromis 
 ing lovers turn out the best. I cannot advise you, Annie ; 
 I do not know." 
 
 Jane Benton imagined that Dorris was going away be 
 cause Annie would not marry him ; but the reverse was 
 really the case, he was going away for fear she would 
 become his wife. 
 
 " My greatest fear is," the girl continued again, " that 
 I do not feel as a woman should with reference to it. 
 I would not dare to tell you how much concerned I am ; I 
 am almost afraid to admit it to myself. I am thoroughly 
 convinced that his going away will blight my life, and that 
 I shall always feel toward him as I do now ; yet there are 
 grave reasons why I should not become his wife. Do 
 you think the women are better than the men ? " 
 
 The Ancient Maiden leaned back in her chair to think 
 about it, and picked her teeth with the knitting-needle 
 again. 
 
 " What is your honest opinion ? " the girl insisted.
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 177 
 
 " Sometimes I think they are, and sometimes I think 
 they are not," the aimt replied, bending over her work 
 again. "When I hear a man's opinion of a woman, I 
 laugh to myself, for they know nothing of them. The 
 women all seem to be better than they really are, and the 
 men all seem to be worse than they really are ; I have often 
 thought that. Women have so many little mean ways, in 
 their conduct toward one another, and are so innocent 
 about it ; but when a man is mean, he is mean all over, 
 and perfectly indifferent to what is thought about him. A 
 lot of women get together, and gabble away for hours 
 about nothing, but the men are either up to pronounced 
 mischief or they are at work." 
 
 " If you were in love with a man, would you have as 
 much confidence in his honesty as you had in your own ? " 
 the girl asked. 
 
 " Certainly," her aunt replied promptly. 
 
 "Then won't you advise me? Please do; for I have 
 as much confidence in Allan Dorris as I have in myself." 
 
 " If you will see that all the doors are fastened," Jane 
 Benton replied excitedly, "I will. Quick! Before I 
 change my mind." 
 
 The girl did as she was directed, and hurried back to 
 her aunt's side. 
 
 " Since there is no possibility of anyone hearing," Jane 
 Benton continued, " I will tell you the best thing to do in 
 my judgment; but whatever comes of it, do not hold me 
 responsible. Think over the matter carefully, and then 
 do whatever you yourself think best. No one can advise 
 you like yourself. You are a sensible girl, and a good girl, 
 and I would trust your judgment fully, and so would your 
 father, though he would hardly say so. There ; that 's 
 enough on that subject. But you can depend on one 
 thing : there is a grand difference between a lover and a
 
 178 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 husband ; and very few men are as fond of their wives as 
 they were of their sweethearts. All the men do not im 
 prove on acquaintance like your father, and I have known 
 girls who were pretty and engaging one year who were old 
 women the next ; matrimony has that effect on most of 
 them, and you should know it. The women do the best 
 they can, I suppose, but you can't very well blame a man 
 sometimes. In 1883 he falls in love with a fresh and pretty 
 girl, and marries her; in 1884 she has lost her beauty and 
 her freshness, and although he feels very meanly over it, 
 somehow his feelings have changed toward her. Of course 
 he loves her a little, but he is not the man he was before 
 they were married not a bit of it. A good many hus 
 bands and wives spend the first years of their marriage in 
 thinking of the divorce courts, but after they find out 
 that they should have known better than to expect com 
 plete happiness from matrimony, and that they are not 
 different from other people, they get on better. Since 
 you have locked the door to hear the truth, I hope you 
 are satisfied with it." 
 
 "But is it necessary for girls to become old so soon?" 
 Annie inquired. 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose that it is," her aunt replied, 
 " but the men had better expect it ; and the women had 
 better expect that since there never was yet an angel in 
 pants, there never will be one. The trouble is, not the 
 men and women, but the false notions each entertain 
 toward the other. Now run and open the doors, or I '11 
 faint." 
 
 Annie Benton, after opening the doors and watching 
 her aunt revive, did not seem at all impressed by what she 
 had heard ; indeed, she acted as though she did not believe 
 it, so the Ancient Maiden gave her another dose. 
 
 "I imagine I have been rather satisfactory to your
 
 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 179 
 
 father," she said, " but had I been his wife I doubt if we 
 would have got along so well. A man who is rather a 
 good fellow is often very mean to his wife ; and it seems 
 to be natural, too, for he does not admit it to himself, and 
 thinks he has justification for his course. I don't know 
 what the trouble is, but I know that the most bitter ha 
 treds in the world are those between married people who 
 do not get along. Since you are so curious about matri 
 mony, I '11 try and give you enough of it. Even a man 
 who loves his wife will do unjust things toward her which 
 he would not do to a sister he was fond of ; and there is 
 something about marriage which affects men and women 
 as nothing else will. There are thousands of good hus 
 bands, but if you could see way down to the bottom of 
 men's wicked hearts not one in ten would say he was glad 
 he had married. That 's a mean enough thing to say about 
 the women, I hope, and if you do not understand what 
 my real preferences in your case are, you must be blind." 
 
 Thompson Benton came in soon after, and they spent a 
 very quiet evening together. Annie retired to her own 
 room eaiiy, and when she came to bid her father good 
 night, tears started in her eyes. 
 
 " What is the matter with the girl ? " he asked his sis 
 ter after Annie had disappeared. 
 
 Jane Benton did not reply for a long time, keeping her 
 eyes on the pages of a book she held in her hand, but at 
 last she said, 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 Thompson Benton must have noticed that his sister was 
 nervous, and had he followed her up the stairs when she 
 retired for the night, he must have marvelled that she 
 went into Annie's room, and kissed her over and over, and 
 then went hurriedly away
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 
 
 regular patronage of the " Apron and Password," 
 JL like the attendance at a theatre when reported 
 by a friendly critic, was small, but exceedingly respect 
 able. 
 
 A gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name 
 of Ponsonboy, and who professed to be a lawyer, usually 
 occupied the head of the one long table which staggered 
 on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when his place 
 was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enough 
 occasionally, Ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his 
 companions were oppressed with the fear that they would 
 be called upon to testify against him in court for vio 
 lence. 
 
 The minister, who occupied the seat next to Ponsonboy, 
 and who was of uncertain age himself, could demonstrate 
 to a certainty that the legal boarder was at least forty-five, 
 but the legal boarder nevertheless had a great deal to say 
 about the necessity which seemed to exist for the young 
 men to take hold, and rescue Davy's Bend from the reign 
 of " the fossils," a term which was applied to most of the 
 citizens of the town after the other epithets had been ex 
 hausted, and as but few of them knew what a fossil was, 
 they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal. 
 
 Ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only 
 be pleased in two ways by accusing him of an intention 
 to marry any stylish girl of twenty, or of an intention to 
 180
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 181 
 
 remove to Ben's City, which lie was always threatening 
 to do. 
 
 " It would be useless for me to deny that I have had 
 flattering offers," it was his custom to reply, when asked 
 if there was anything new with reference to his contem 
 plated change of residence. " But I am deuced timid. I 
 came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and 
 an extra shirt in the other, and I don't want to make a 
 change until I fully consider it." 
 
 It was a matter of such grave importance that Pon- 
 sonboy had already considered it fifteen years, and regularly 
 once a year during that time he had arranged to go, 
 making a formal announcement to that effect to the small 
 but select circle around the table, the members of which 
 either expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him 
 in a few months. But always at the last -moment Pon- 
 sonboy discovered that the gentleman who had been making 
 the flattering offers wanted to put too much responsibility 
 on him, or something of that kind, whereupon the good 
 lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, 
 were happy again. 
 
 It was true that the legal boarder came to Davy's Bend 
 a poor boy, if a stout man of thirty without money or 
 friends may be so referred to ; it was also true that he 
 was poor still, though he was no longer a boy ; but Pon- 
 sonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his 
 friends were concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the 
 door of the town, as they all did. He was property poor, 
 he said, and values had decreased so much of late years, 
 that he was barely able to pay his taxes, although he really 
 possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble 
 down rookery on which there was a mortgage. But Pon- 
 sonboy, whose first name was Albert, appeared to be quite 
 content with his genteel poverty, so long as he succeeded
 
 182 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 in creating an impression that he would be rich and dis 
 tinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable 
 impostor, Davy's Bend. 
 
 The good man on his right, the Rev. Walter Wilton, 
 and pastor of the old stone church where Annie Benton 
 was organist, was a bachelor, like Ponsonboy ; but, like 
 Ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as a bachelor, 
 but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out 
 a lady worthy of his affections. 
 
 Close observers remarked that age was breaking out on 
 good Mr. Wilton in spots, like the measles in its earlier 
 stages ; short gray hairs peeped out at the observer from 
 his face, and seemed to be waving their arms to attract 
 attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so 
 long that it was certain that some time he would become 
 old in a night. He walked well enough, note, and looked 
 well enough ; but when he forgets his pretence of youth, 
 then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some fine 
 morning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand. 
 
 When it was said of Rev. Walter Wilton that he was 
 pious, the subject was exhausted; there was nothing 
 more to say, unless you chose to elaborate on piety in 
 general. He knew something of books, and read in them 
 a great deal, but old Thompson Benton was in the habit 
 of saying that if he ever had an original idea in his head, 
 it was before he came to the Bend as a mild menace to 
 those whose affairs did not permit of so much indolent 
 deference to the proprieties. 
 
 The Reverend Wilton did not gossip himself, but he in 
 duced others to, by being quietly shocked at what they said, 
 and regularly three times a day Ponsonboy and his assist 
 ant on the left laid a morsel before him, which he inquired 
 into minutely but with the air of a man who intended 
 to speak to the erring parties ; not as a gossip. Reverend
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 183 
 
 Wilton never spoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he 
 ever known to speak a good one, but he always gave those 
 around him to understand by his critical indifference to 
 whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to desert 
 his post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the 
 abyss out of which he kept them with the greatest diffi 
 culty, he would certainly show them how the affairs of 
 men should be properly conducted. 
 
 Too good for this world, but not good enough for the 
 next, Reverend Wilton only existed, giving every sort of 
 evidence that, were it not unclerical, he would swear at 
 his salary (which was less than that of a good bricklayer), 
 denounce his congregation for good and sufficient reasons, 
 cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions ; but his 
 trade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, 
 with a great deal of time on his hands in which to criti 
 cise busy people, which he did without saying a word 
 against them. 
 
 Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, sat on Ponsonby's left ; a tall 
 and solidly built lady of forty-five, who was so very good 
 as to be disagreeable. The people dreaded to see her come 
 near them, for her mission was certain to be one of charity, 
 and Mrs. Whittle's heart was always bleeding for some 
 body. Summer and winter alike, she annoyed the people 
 by telling them of " duties " which were not duties at all ; 
 and finally she was generally accepted as the town nui 
 sance, although Mrs. Whittle herself believed that she was 
 quite popular because of the good she intended to accom 
 plish, but which seemed to be impossible because of the 
 selfishness of the people. Thompson Benton had given it 
 out flat that if she ever came bothering around him, he 
 would give her the real facts in the case, instead of putting 
 his name on her subscription paper, but for some reason 
 she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts,
 
 184 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 whatever they were. She regarded old Thompson, how 
 ever, as a mean man, and moaned about him a great deal, 
 which he cither never heard of or cared nothinor about. 
 
 O 
 
 Old Thompson was seldom seen at church on Sunday- 
 evening, therefore Mrs. Whittle felt quite sure that he was 
 prowling around with a view of safe-blowing, or something 
 of that kind, and she never referred to him except to in 
 timate that he was up to mischief of the most pronounced 
 sort. A man who was not at church on Sunday evening, 
 in the opinion of Mrs. Whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, 
 or robbing somebody, for where else could he be ? Mrs. 
 Whittle only recognized two classes of men ; those who 
 were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons ; 
 and in her head, which was entirely too small for the size 
 of her body, there was no suspicion of a middle ground. 
 Those who craved the attention of Mrs. Whittle found it 
 necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or a sinner. 
 
 Theoretically Mrs. Whittle was a splendid woman, and 
 certainly a bad woman in no particular except that she 
 carried her virtues to such an extent that the people dis 
 liked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for it, not feel 
 ing quite certain that they had a right to find fault with 
 one who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to 
 teach others neatness, and thrift, and the virtues gen 
 erally. 
 
 If she accomplished no good, as old Thompson Benton 
 stoutly asserted, it was certain she did some harm, for the 
 people finally came to neglect affairs in which they would 
 otherwise have taken a moderate interest because of 
 their dislike of Mrs. Whittle. A great many others who 
 were inclined to attend to their .own affairs (which are 
 always sufficient to occupy one's time, heaven knows) 
 were badgered to such an extent by Mrs. Whittle that 
 they joined her in various enterprises that resulted in
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 185 
 
 nothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and 
 finally there was a general and a sincere hope that blunt 
 Thompson Benton would find opportunity to come to the 
 rescue of the people. 
 
 Three times a day this trio met, and three times each 
 day it was satisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with Davy's 
 Bend, as well as everything in it, including Allan Dorris. 
 The new occupant of The Locks was generally popular 
 with the people, but the hotel trio made the absurd mis 
 take of supposing that they were the people, therefore 
 they talked of Dorris as though he were generally hated 
 and despised. They were indignant, to begin with, be 
 cause he did not covet the acquaintance of the only circle 
 in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on, and 
 he still made no effort to know them, they could come to 
 only one conclusion ; that he was deserving of their se 
 verest denunciation. 
 
 Could Thompson Benton have known of the pious con 
 clusions to which they came concerning his child, and 
 which she no more deserved than hundreds of other 
 worthy women deserve the gossip to which they arc always 
 subjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given 
 the two men broken heads, and the woman the real facts 
 in her case which he had been promising ; but there is a 
 destiny Avhich protects us from an evil which is as com 
 mon as sunshine, and Thompson Benton was not an ex 
 ception to the rule. 
 
 It was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to sup 
 per and remain late, greatly to the disgust of the cook and 
 the man-of-all-work, and, surrounding the table in easy 
 positions, they gossipped to their heart's content, at last 
 wandering away to their respective homes, very well 
 satisfied with one another, if with nothing else. 
 
 It was after nine o'clock when they got away on the
 
 186 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 eveuing with which we have to do, and by the time Davy 
 had eaten his own sapper and put the room in order for 
 the morning, it was ten. Hurriedly putting up a package 
 of whatever was at hand for Tug, he was about starting 
 out at the kitchen door when he met Mr. Whittle on the 
 steps. He had somehow come into possession of a long 
 and wicked-looking musket, which he brought in with him, 
 and put down near the door connecting the kitchen with 
 the dining-room. Seeing Davy's look of surprise, he 
 seated himself in Ponsonboy's place, and explained. 
 
 " Poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when 
 it bites, but it lacks range, and henceforth I carry a gun. 
 How was Uncle Albert to-night ? " 
 
 Silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and 
 replied that Mr. Ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he 
 should hear himself referred to as Uncle Albert. 
 
 " Oh, would he ? " Tug inquired, sighting at his com 
 panion precisely as he might have sighted along the barrel 
 of his musket. "That man is fifty years old if he is a 
 day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddy tricks 
 with me. I would n't stand it ; I know too much about 
 him. I have known Uncle Albert ever since he was old 
 enough to marry, and I know enough to hang him, the 
 old kicker. I've known him to abuse the postmaster 
 for not giving him a letter with money in it, although he 
 did n't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and 
 whenever he spells a word wrong, and gets caught at it, 
 he goes around telling that he has found a typograph 
 ical error in the dictionary. What did he say about me 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " He said I hope you won't believe that I think so," 
 Davy apologized in advance "that you robbed the 
 only client you ever had of a thousand dollars." 
 
 " Did he, though ?" Tug impudently inquired. "Well,
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 187 
 
 I '11 give him half if he '11 pi-ove it, for I need the money. 
 Uncle Albert hears what is said about me, and I hear 
 what is said about him. If he'll make a date with me, 
 I '11 exchange stories with him ; and he won't have any 
 of the best of it, either. The people sometimes talk 
 about as good a man as I am, and even were I without 
 faults, there are plenty of liars to invent stories, so you 
 can imagine that they give it to Uncle Albert tolerable 
 lively." 
 
 Tug did not mingle with the people a great deal, but 
 he knew about what they were saying, and when talking 
 to Silas he did not hesitate to quote them to substantiate 
 any position he saw fit to take. He had a habit of put 
 ting on his hat on these occasions, and inviting Silas to 
 accompany him out in the town to see the principal 
 people,. in order that they might own to what Tug had 
 credited them with saying. But Silas always refused to 
 go, not doubting that his friend's inventions were true, 
 so it happened that Tug made out rather strong cases 
 against his enemies. 
 
 "I can stand up with the most of them," he said, with 
 an ill humor to which hunger lent a zest ; " and them that 
 beat me, I can disgrace with their poor relations. Show 
 me the man that can't be beat if you go at him right, and 
 you may hang me with a thread. Them that are well- 
 behaved have shiftless relations, and I '11 get them drunk, 
 and cause them to hurrah for ' Uncle Bill,' or ' Aunt Sa- 
 mantha,' or whoever it may be, in front of their fine 
 houses. I pride myself on my meanness, and I '11 not be 
 tromped on. Let him that is without sin cast the first 
 stone, and I '11 not be stoned. You can bet on that, if you 
 want to." 
 
 Tug proceeded with his meal in silence until Silas said 
 to him that Reverend Wilton was a good man. Silas had a
 
 188 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 habit of inducing Tug to abuse his enemies by praising 
 them, and the ruse never failed. 
 
 " Well, don't he get paid for being good ? " Tug replied, 
 waving a kitchen fork in the air like a dagger. "Ain't that 
 his business '( It 's no more to his credit to say that he is 
 good, than to say that Silas Davy is a hotel Handy Andy. 
 If you say that he knows a good deal about books, I will 
 say, so does Hearty Hampton know a good deal about mend 
 ing shoes, for it 's his trade. Shut Hearty up in a room, 
 and pay him to post himself regarding certain old charac 
 ters he cares nothing about, and pay him well, and in the 
 course of years he will be able to speak of people, events, 
 and words which you, having been busy all the time, will 
 know nothing about. He ought to be good ; it 's his busi 
 ness. I always know what a preacher is going to say when 
 he opens his mouth, for don't I know what he 's hired to 
 say? I don't like good men, any way, but a man who is 
 paid to be good, and expects me to admire him for it, 
 will find well, I'll not do it, that's all. How's the 
 old lady?" 
 
 There was a faint evidence that Tug was about to laugh 
 at the thought of his divorced wife, and his cheeks puffed 
 out as a preliminary, but he changed his mind at the last 
 moment, and carefully sighted at Silas, as if intending to 
 wing his reply, like a bird from a trap. 
 
 " She is uncommonly well, for her," Silas said, looking 
 meekly at his companion. " She is almost gay." 
 
 " Oh, the young thing ; is she," Tug retoi'ted. " Do 
 you know what she reminds me of? An old man in a 
 dress trying to imitate a girl." 
 
 There was unutterable meanness in Mr. Whittle's last 
 remark, and when he looked around the room with fierce 
 dignity, he seemed to be Avondering why any one should 
 continue to live in the face of his displeasure.
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 189 
 
 " I heard her say to-night, when I brought in a third lot 
 of cakes, that you were the bane of her life," Silas said, 
 timidly, and dodging his head to one side, as if expecting 
 Tug Whittle to jump at him for repeating the scandalous 
 story. " Although she says she is heart-broken, I notice 
 she eats mighty well ; for her." 
 
 "And I suppose Reverend Good and Uncle Alfred 
 encouraged her," Tug replied. "What good husbands 
 bachelors imagine they would be, and what miserable old 
 growlers they turn out. Before a man is married he 
 takes a great deal of comfort to himself in thinking what 
 a kind, indulgent husband and father he would be, and 
 how different from other men, but they soon fall with a 
 dull sickening thud to the level of the rest of us. It's 
 easy enough to be a good husband in theory, and it 's easy 
 enough to be brave in theory, but when the theorists 
 come down to actual business, they are like the rest of us. 
 It 's like an actor in a show. He wants to find a villain, 
 and punish him, and the villain appears about that time, 
 and makes no resistance, and is beaten to great applause, 
 finally shrinking away while the other fellow looks fero 
 ciously at him, but it is not that way in real life. The 
 villain fights in real life, and usually whips. If I knew 
 that the men I dislike would stand it peaceable, like the 
 villains in a show, I 'd beat 'm all to death ; but as it is, I 
 am a coward, like Ponsonboy, and you, and Armsby, and 
 all the rest of them ; except Allan Dorris there's a man 
 who 'd fight. When I read in books about brave men, it 
 makes me feel ashamed, until I remember that the. men in 
 actual life are not like those in the books. What did Her 
 Ladyship say about Hector ? " 
 
 Mrs. Whittle's first husband had been a certain Hector 
 Harlam, with whose history Silas was very familiar from 
 his association with Tug, so he answered,
 
 190 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 " She wiped away a tear, and regretted his death. She 
 seemed greatly affected, for her." 
 
 " She can't possibly regret his death more than I do," 
 Tug said. " He appreciated her ; I never did, and I am 
 sorry she does not join Hector in glory, or wherever he 
 is, for she is no earthly good in Davy's Bend. She told 
 me once that he always called her his baby." 
 
 There was no keeping it in now ; the thought of his wife 
 being called a "baby" was so absurd to Tug that he was 
 about to laugh. His cheeks swelled out as though the 
 laugh came up from below somewhere, and he found it 
 necessary to swallow it, after which there was a faint 
 smile on his face, and a gurgle in his throat. When Mr. 
 Whittle smiled, it was such an unusual proceeding that 
 his scalp had a habit of crawling over towards his face, to 
 take a look, which it did in this instance, and then went 
 back to its old position at the top of his head. It was a 
 dreadful laugh, but Silas was used to it, and was not 
 alarmed. 
 
 " That woman wants to be a man the worst way," the 
 old scoundrel went on to say. " I hope it accounts for the 
 circumstance that she never looks like a woman should. 
 A white dress on a woman a real woman, understand ; 
 not an imitation one looks handsome ; and I never see a 
 girl dressed in white that I do not fall in love with her, 
 but when the old lady puts it on, with a frill at her neck, 
 or any such trifling thing, I want to find a woodpile and 
 an axe to cut off my feet. I don't know why anyone 
 should want to be a man ; I know what a man is, and I 
 wonder at this strange ambition of the old lady. I never 
 see a man that I don't want to spit on him. Ugh ! " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders in unutterable disgust, but 
 soon modified his manner, as Davy began talking of another 
 matter.
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 191 
 
 " Barney Russell, of Ben's City, was here to-day," the 
 little man said. "He used to live iu Davy's Bend; I 
 suppose you remember him." 
 
 " There 's another feller I don't like," Mr. Whittle re 
 plied, with a snort. " He comes up here regularly once a 
 month to crow over us, and tell around that he has two 
 overcoats ; one for winter, and another for spring. Some 
 say he has seven canes, a different one for every day in 
 the week ; but he ain't half the man Dorris is, although he 
 carries silk handkerchiefs with a red ' R ' in the corner. If 
 I should leave Davy's Bend, I 'd never come back, as he 
 does ; for I have done so many contemptible things here 
 that I would n't want to be reminded of them by seeing 
 the place again. I don't blame Barney, though, for hav 
 ing two overcoats," Tug continued thoughtfully. " Next 
 to two pairs of shoes, it 's the greatest luxury a rich man 
 can afford I 'd own two overcoats myself if I had the 
 money. A man who has two overcoats and two pairs of 
 shoes, and uses a knife to cut his tobacco, instead of biting 
 it off like a pig, is ready to die ; there will be little left in 
 the world for him to regret after he 's gone, but to return 
 to the serious business of life : it is usually on a Wednes 
 day when the shadow appears. This is his night, and I 'm 
 looking for him." 
 
 He turned his big eye toward the corner where he had 
 left the musket, and, seeing it was safe, resumed, 
 
 " I have never been of any use to a single human being 
 in all my life, but I intend to make myself useful to Allan 
 Dorris by shooting the shadow. Give me that gun." 
 
 Silas went over to where the gun was standing, and re 
 turned with it in his hand. Placing his finger about half 
 way up the barrel, and following it with his great eye, Tug 
 said, 
 
 " It is loaded to there. Thompson Benton trusted me
 
 192 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 for the ammunition, though he said he knew he would 
 never get the money. I have a notion to pay him now, 
 for contrariness. Have you fifty cents about you ? " 
 
 Silas carefully went through his pockets, as if he were 
 not quite sure about it, but after a long examination re 
 plied that he had n't a cent. 
 
 " Well, it 's no great matter, though you ought to keep 
 money about you; I am liable to need it. But, if let 
 alone by the shadow, Allan Dorris will marry Annie Ben- 
 ton, and become a happy man, which he has never been 
 before. I don't know what he has been up to before he 
 came here, and I don't care, for I like him, and I am go 
 ing out now to get a shot at his enemy." 
 
 Without further words he walked out, followed by 
 Silas, who carefully locked the kitchen door and put the 
 key in his pocket. Viewed at a distance, the pair looked 
 like a man and a boy out hunting ; the boy lagging behind 
 to carry the game. 
 
 It was a bad night, for which the Bend was famous, 
 and though it was not raining, there was so much moisture 
 in the air from a recent rain, that it occurred to Silas, as he 
 went limping along towards The Locks, for they walked 
 in that direction, that if Tug should find the shadow, and 
 fire his gun at it, the discharge would precipitate another 
 shower; for the prop under the water in the sky seemed 
 to be very unsubstantial and shaky that night. 
 
 It had been raining at intervals all day, and the two 
 men floundered along in the mud until they reached the 
 church which stood near Allan Dorris's house, where Tug 
 stopped awhile to consider. Coming to a conclusion after 
 some deliberation, he pulled two long boards up from the 
 church steps, and, giving the gun to Silas to hold, he 
 carried them to the middle gable of the building, on the 
 side looking towards The Locks. Climbing up on the
 
 A SHOT AT THE SHADOW. 193 
 
 window-sill, he placed one end of each board on the wall 
 which surrounded The Locks, and which was only a few 
 feet from the church, and the other on the window-sash, 
 pulling the upper one down to aid the lower one in hold 
 ing his weight, and allowing one end of each board to 
 protrude into the chui-ch. Then climbing up, and strad 
 dling one "of the boards, he took his gun, and motioned 
 his companion to follow. 
 
 When Davy seated himself by the side of his friend, he 
 found that the low gable would protect them from the 
 rain, should it come on, and that from where they sat they 
 commanded a view of Dorris's window ; the one above the 
 porch where they had once seen the shadow appear, and in 
 which a light now appeared. Silas felt certain that it was 
 Tug's intention to wait there all night for a shot, and he 
 made himself as comfortable as possible. 
 
 Occasionally he fell into a light doze, but on coming 
 out of it, by losing his balance, he saw that Tug was still 
 intently watching the window, with the musket in his 
 hands ready for use. 
 
 Two hours passed in this manner, when the patience of 
 Silas was rewarded by seeing Tug crane his neck, and 
 look intently through the trees. Silas looked himself, 
 and saw a man's head slowly rising to the porch roof from 
 below. It came up in full view, and then a part of the 
 body was seen as the shadow climbed over the low railing. 
 As near as Silas could make out, the man wormed himself 
 around, and finally stood upon the porch railing to look 
 in at the top of the window ; so that only a part of his 
 head and none of his body could be seen from where the 
 men were. 
 
 Although he heard Tug cock the gun when the head 
 first appeared, he seemed to be waiting for a larger mark 
 to shoot at ; for there was nothing to be seen except a
 
 194 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 part of a hat. Occasionally this would be withdrawn, but 
 it would soon appear again, and remain motionless a long 
 time, as though the wearer was intently gazing at some 
 thing transpiring in the room which greatly interested 
 him. Tug did not seem at all excited, as Silas was, but 
 sat watching the shadow, as motionless as a stone. 
 
 After a longer disappearance than usual, during which 
 time Tug became very nervous, the hat came in view 
 again, and Silas said softly, 
 
 " Suppose it should disappear, and never come back ? " 
 
 Apparently Tug had not thought of this possibility, for 
 he hurriedly threw the gun to his shoulder, aimed a 
 moment, and fired. The report was tremendous, and 
 seemed to frighten Tug himself; for he hurriedly jumped 
 down, and softly raised the sash into position, replaced 
 the boards on the steps, and set out toward the town. 
 Reaching the vicinity of the hotel, he waited until Silas 
 came up, and said, 
 
 "Sleep in your own bed to-night; we must not be 
 found together." 
 
 So saying he disappeared, and Silas crept to his lonely 
 room to wonder what Allan Dorris would find when he 
 went out to investigate the shooting.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 
 
 had been two days of rain already, and Allan 
 -L Dorris sat in his lonely room at ten o'clock at night, 
 listening to its ceaseless patter at the windows, and on 
 the roof, and its dripping from the eaves, thinking that 
 when the sun came out again he would go away and leave 
 it, and remove to a place which would always be in the 
 shadow. Davy's Bend was noted for its murky weather, 
 and the nights were surely darker there than elsewhere ; but 
 he felt that after his departure he would think of the sun 
 as always shining brightly around The Locks, and through 
 the dirty town, even lighting up the dark woods across 
 the river, which seemed to collect a little more darkness 
 every night than the succeeding day could drive out ; for 
 Annie Benton would remain, and surely the sun could 
 not resist the temptation to smile upon her pretty face. 
 
 Davy's Bend, with all its faults, would always remain a 
 pleasant memory with Allan Dorris, and he envied those 
 who were to remain, for they might hope to see Annie 
 Benton occasionally pass on her way to church, and be 
 better for it. 
 
 He loved Annie Benton to such an extent that he 
 would rather be thousands of miles away from her than 
 within sight of the house in which she lived, since he had 
 sworn not to ask her to share his life ; and the next morn 
 ing before daylight he intended to go to some far-away 
 place, he did not know where, and get rid of the 
 
 195
 
 196 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 dark nights, and the rain, and the step on the stair, and 
 the organ, and the player who had exerted such an influ 
 ence over him. 
 
 He had not been able to sell The Locks at the price he 
 paid, although the people had been grumbling because they 
 were not offered the bargain originally; so he intended to 
 turn it over to Mrs. "Wedge, and poor Helen, and the noises 
 and spectres which were always protesting against his liv 
 ing there at all, and become a wanderer over the face of 
 the earth. Perhaps his lonely life of a year in The Locks 
 would cause another ghost to take up its residence in 
 the place, and join poor Helen in moaning and walking 
 through the rooms. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge had disappeared an hour before, her eyes 
 red from weeping, but she was coming back at three 
 o'clock in the morning, at which time Dorris intended to 
 leave for the railroad station ; so Dorris settled himself 
 in his chair to wait until the hour for his departure 
 arrived. 
 
 How distinct the step on the stair to-night ! A hun 
 dred times it had passed up and down since Allan Dorris 
 sat down a few hours before ; and the dripping rain at 
 the windows made him think of sitting up with a body 
 packed in ice. Drip ; drip ; drip ; and the ghostly step 
 so distinct that he thought the body he was watching 
 must have tired of lying in one position so long, and was 
 walking about for exercise. 
 
 The light burned low under its shade, and the other 
 side of the room was in deep shadow. He thought of it 
 as a map of his life ; for it was entirely dark and blank, 
 except the one ray in the corner, which represented Davy's 
 Bend and Annie Benton. Yet he had determined to go 
 back into the shadow again, and leave the light forever ; 
 to exist once more in toil and discontent, hoping to tire
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 197 
 
 himself by excitement and exertion into forgetfulness, and 
 sleep, and death. 
 
 Death! Is it so dreadful, after all? Dorris argued 
 the question with himself, and came to the conclusion 
 that if it meant rest and forgetfulness he would welcome 
 it. There had been a great deal of hope in his life, but 
 he was convinced now that he was foolish for entertain 
 ing it at all, since nothing ever came of it. Perhaps his 
 experience had been that of other men ; he gave up one 
 hope only to entertain another, but experience had taught 
 him that hope was nothing more than a solace for a 
 wretched race. The old hope that they will be better to 
 morrow, when they will get on with less difficulty and 
 weary labor ; but to-morrow they die, and their children 
 hope after them, and are disappointed, and hope again. 
 
 Should Death open the door, and walk in to claim him, 
 Dorris believed he would be ready, since there was noth 
 ing in the future for him more pleasant than the past had 
 offered. He did not believe he was a morbid man, or 
 one given to exaggerating the distress of his own condi 
 tion, but he would give up life as he might give up any 
 thing else which was not satisfactory, and which gave no 
 promise of improvement. 
 
 How distinctly the step is climbing the stair ! He had 
 never heard it so plainly before, but the faltering and 
 hesitation were painfully natural ; he had heard it almost 
 every night since coming to the house, but there was a 
 distinctness now which he had never remarked before. A 
 long pause on the landing ; poor Helen dreading to go into 
 the baby's room, he thought, whither she was drawn so 
 often from her grave. But it advanced to the door of the 
 room in which Dorris sat, and stopped again ; he drew his 
 breath in gasps perhaps it was coming in ! 
 
 A timid knock at the door !
 
 198 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 The face of the listener turned as pale as death, and he 
 trembled violently when he stood upon his feet. Should he 
 open the door or lock it ! Going up to the fire, he stirred 
 the smouldering coals until there was a flood of light in 
 the room, and turned up the lamp to increase the illumi 
 nation. Still he hesitated. Suppose he should open the 
 door, and find poor Helen standing there in her grave- 
 clothes ! Suppose she should drop on her knees, and ask 
 for her child, holding out her fleshless fingers to him 
 in supplication, and stare at him with her sightless 
 sockets ? 
 
 After hesitating a long time, he went to the door and 
 threw it wide open, at the same time springing back from 
 it in quick alarm. 
 
 Annie Benton ! 
 
 He had firmly expected to see the ghost of poor Helen ; 
 instead he saw a fresh and beautiful girl, but so excited 
 that she could scarcely speak. There was a look of 
 reckless determination in her face which made Allan Dor- 
 ris fear for the moment that she had gone mad, and, 
 strolling about the town, had concluded, in her wild fancy, 
 to murder him for some imagined wrong. 
 
 " How you frightened me ! " he said, coming close to 
 her. " Just before you rapped, the ghost of poor Helen 
 had been running up and down the stair, as if celebrating 
 my resolution to leave The Locks, and give it over to her 
 for night walking. You have been out in the storm, and 
 are Avet and cold. Come in to the fire." 
 
 The girl crossed the threshold, and entered the room, 
 but did riot go near the fire. She seemed to be trying to 
 induce her hot brain to explain her presence there, for 
 she tui'ned her back to him, as if in embarrassment. 
 
 " I can no longer control myself," Annie Benton said, 
 facing Dorris with quivering lips, " and I have come to
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIE. 199 
 
 give myself to you, body and soul. I am lost to restraint 
 and reason, and I place myself in the hands of him who 
 has brought this about, for I am no longer capable of tak 
 ing care of myself. Do what you please with me ; I love 
 you so much that I will be satisfied, though disgrace comes 
 of it. I will never leave you again, and if you go away, 
 I will go with you. I have loved you against my reason 
 ever since I knew you, for you always told me I must 
 not, and I restrained myself as best I could. But I can 
 not permit you to go away unless you take me with you. 
 O, Allan, promise me that you will not go away," she 
 said, falling on her knees before him. "Do this, and I 
 will return home, to regret this rashness foreA r er. If you 
 do not, I will remain, let the consequences be what they 
 may." 
 
 Dorris looked at the girl in wonder and pity, for there 
 was touching evidence in her last words that she was 
 greatly distressed ; but he could only say, " Annie ! what 
 are you doing ! " 
 
 " You have taught me such lessons in love that I have 
 gone mad in studying them," she continued, standing be 
 side him again, " and there is nothing in this world, or 
 the world to come, that I would not give to possess you. 
 I relinquish my father, and my home, and my hope of 
 heaven, that I may be with you, if these sacrifices are 
 necessary to pacify my rebellion. If you have been play 
 ing upon my feelings during our acquaintance, and were 
 not sincere, you have captured me so completely that I 
 am your slave. But if you were in earnest, I shall .always 
 be glad that I took this step, and never feel regret, no 
 matter what comes of it. Did you think I was made of 
 stone, not to be moved by your appeals to me ? I am a 
 woman, and every sentiment you have given utterance to 
 during our acquaintance has found response in my heart.
 
 200 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 It may be that you did not know differently, for there is 
 too mucli sentiment in the world about women, and not 
 enough knowledge. But I did not deserve all the good 
 you said about me ; it made me blush to realize that much 
 that you have said in my praise was not true, though I 
 loved you for what you said. But I show my weakness 
 now. I could not resist the temptation to come here, and, 
 as you have often told me, when anyone starts to travel 
 the wrong road, the doors and gates are all open. Yours 
 were all open to-night, and I came here without resist 
 ance." 
 
 Dorris was too much frustrated to attempt to explain 
 how his front gate and door came open, which was, per 
 haps, the result of carelessness ; but he seemed as much 
 alarmed as though a ghost, instead of his sweetheart, had 
 come in at them. Without knowing exactly what he did, 
 he attempted to take her wet wrap, but she stepped back 
 from him excitedly. 
 
 " Don't touch me ! " she said excitedly. " Speak to 
 me ! " 
 
 " Sit down, and take off your wet wrap," he answered, 
 " and I will." 
 
 She unfastened a hook at her throat, and the garment 
 fell to the floor. Her dress had been soiled by the walk 
 through the rain, and her hair was dishevelled ; but she 
 never looked so handsome before as she did when she 
 stood in front of Dorris, radiant with excitement. But 
 instead of speaking to her, as he had promised, Dorris sat 
 motionless for a long time, looking at the iloor. The girl 
 watched him narrowly, and thought he trembled ; indeed 
 he was agitated so much that he walked over to the win 
 dow, and stood looking out for a long time. 
 
 " You say you could not resist the temptation to love 
 me, though you said it was wrong," the excited girl con-
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 201 
 
 tinned. " Nor could I help loving you when you asked 
 me to, though you said I should not. You never spoke 
 to me in your life that you did not ask me to love you. 
 Everything you said seemed so sincere and honest, that I 
 forgot my own existence in my desire to be with you in 
 your loneliness, whatever the penalty of the step I am 
 taking may be. I have so much confidence in you, and so 
 much love for you, that I cannot help thinking that I am 
 doing right, and that I never will regret it. Speak to me, 
 and say that, no difference what the world may say, you 
 are pleased ; I care only for that." 
 
 A picture, unrolled from the heavens, has appeared on 
 the outside, and Allan Dorris is looking at it through the 
 window. A long road, through a rough country, and dis 
 appearing in misty distance; travellers coming into it 
 from by-ways, some of whom disappear, while others 
 trudge wearily along. There are difficulties in the way 
 which seem insurmountable, and these difficulties are more 
 numerous as the travellers fade into the distance ; and 
 likewise the number of travellers decreases as the journey 
 is lengthened. At length only one traveller is to be seen, 
 a mere speck along the high place where the difficult road 
 winds. He tries to climb a hill, beyond which he will be 
 lost to view ; but he fails until another traveller comes up, 
 when they help each other, and go over the hill together, 
 waving encouragement to those who are below : into the 
 
 O O 7 
 
 mist, beyond which no human eye can look. 
 
 " During our entire acquaintance," Dorris said finally, 
 coming over to her, "you have said or done nothing 
 which did not meet my approbation, and cause me to 
 love you more and more. You did not force yourself to 
 do these things; they were natural, and that was the 
 reason I told you to keep away from me, for I saw that 
 our acquaintance was becoming dangerous ; why, I have
 
 202 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 offered to tell you before. But what you have done this 
 night pleases me most of all. I have been praying that 
 you would do it for months, though I did not believe you 
 would, and, much as I loved you, I intended going away 
 in the morning for your good. I was afraid to ask you to 
 share my life, fearing you would accept, for I am a coward 
 when you are in danger ; but now that you have offered 
 to do it, and relieved me of the fear I had of enticing you 
 into it, I am happier than I can express." 
 
 Annie Benton's face brightened, and she put her hands 
 in his. 
 
 " Please say that my face is not cold and passionless," 
 she said. " Once you told me that when we were out on 
 the hills, and it has pained me ever since. Say that there 
 is hot blood and passion in my veins now." 
 
 "When I said that," he answered, "I was provoked 
 because you had so much control. I had none at all, and 
 declared my passion within a few weeks after I knew you, 
 but when I did it, you only looked at me in meek surprise. 
 But I understand it all now, and I want to say that 
 although you may regard what you have done to-night as 
 an impropriety, it is the surest road to my heart. If it is 
 depravity, I will make you proud of depravity, for I will 
 be so good to you in the future that you will bless the day 
 you lost your womanly control. The fact that you have 
 trusted me completely caused me to resolve to make you 
 a happy woman, and I believe I can do it. I love you 
 because you have blood in your veins instead of water, 
 and I will make you a queen. I am more of a man than 
 you give me credit for ; I am not the gloomy misanthrope 
 you take me to be, for you have rescued me from that, 
 and I will make the people of Davy's Bend say that 
 Annie Benton was wiser than the best of them ! " 
 
 He struck the table a resounding blow with his fist, and
 
 THE STEP ON THE STATE. 203 
 
 had the enemies of the man been able to look at his face 
 then, they would have been afraid of him. 
 
 "May I sit on your knee, and put my arms around your 
 neck while you talk ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, picking her up with the ease of a 
 giant, and kissing her on the cheek. " You may ride on 
 my back all your life if you will only remain with me. I 
 have never felt like a man until this moment, and those 
 who have fault to find with my course had better keep 
 out of the way. There is a reason why you and I should 
 not be married as we will be before the sun shows itself 
 again, for I intend to send for the minister to come to the 
 church when I am through telling you how much I love 
 you, and you shall play our wedding march while I pump 
 the organ but I am in the right. I have endured mis 
 ery long enough to accommodate others ; let them expect 
 it no longer ! And now that you know what I intend to 
 do, listen while I tell you who I am, where I came from, 
 and why I forced you to your present novel position." 
 
 " I prefer not to hear it," the girl said, without looking 
 up. " I did not know you before you came to Davy's 
 Bend : I am not concerned in your history beyond that 
 time, and as a mark of confidence in you I shall reserve 
 the telling of it until our married life has been tested : 
 until I am so useful to you (as I am certain you will be 
 to me) that, no difference what your secret is, we will 
 consider it a blessing for bringing us together. But for 
 the disagreeable part of yovir life we would never have 
 met ; we should think of that." 
 
 "Another time, then, or never, as you prefer," he 
 replied. " I would have told you long ago, had you encour 
 aged me to. Anyway, it is a story of devotion to others, 
 and of principle practised with the hatred and contempt 
 and cowardly timidity which should only characterize vil-
 
 204 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 lains, and villainous actions; of principle carried to such an 
 extent as to become a wrong ; but from this hour I shall 
 act from a right motive, in which my heart sympathizes ; 
 which affords me a return for effort, and which will aid in 
 making me a better man. I shall live to accommodate 
 myself henceforth, instead of as a favor to others. But 
 what will the people say of our strange marriage ? " 
 
 " I fear it is a sad depravity," the girl answered, " but 
 I don't care." 
 
 " Nor do I ; how lucky! If it satisfies you and me, let 
 every tongue in the world wag, if it will afford them 
 enjoyment. I have neither time nor inclination to hunt 
 down the idle rumors that may find their way into circu 
 lation concerning my affairs, for what does it matter 
 whether old Miss Maid or old Mr. Bach thinks good or 
 ill of me ? I never cared about such trifles ; I care less 
 now that I have you." 
 
 Had Dorris looked at the upper sash of the window 
 over the porch, instead of at the girl, he would have 
 seen a malicious face looking in at him, but he was too 
 much occupied for that, and the face was soon with 
 drawn. 
 
 " I have never expected anything that was unreason 
 able," Dorris said, probably recollecting that his actions 
 had been such as to give rise to a suspicion that he was a 
 fickle man, and could not be satisfied with anything. " I 
 know all that it is possible for a woman to be, and I have 
 hoped for nothing beyond that. I ask no more than a 
 companion of whom I will never fire, and who will never 
 tire of me some one who will keep me agreeable com 
 pany during my life, and regret me when I am dead. 
 There are people, and many of them, who fret because 
 they long for that which is impossible. I have passed 
 that time of life, and will be content with what life
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 205 
 
 affords, with you. I am not a boy, but a man of experi 
 ence, and I know I will never tire of you. I have 
 thought of the ways in which you can be disagreeable, 
 but your good qualities outweigh them all. I know you 
 are not an angel ; you have faults, but it gives me plea 
 sure to forgive them in advance. If you will be equally 
 charitable with me, we will be very happy." 
 
 " I have no occasion to be charitable with you," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Then you never will have," was his reply. " Marriage 
 is the greatest inheritance of man, but it is either a feast ' 
 or a famine. The contrast between a man who is happily 
 married, and one who is not, is as great as the contrast 
 between light and darkness, but there are many more of 
 the first class than of the latter. It may be a false social 
 system, but very often those who ought not to marry 
 hurry into it in the greatest haste. I have thought that 
 the qualities which attract young people to each other are 
 the very ones which result in misery: and that love 
 should commence in sincere and frank friendship ; not 
 charity or sentimentality. I do not believe in affinities, 
 but I do believe that there is only one person in the 
 world exactly suited to be my wife, and I intend to kiss 
 her now." 
 
 He did kiss her, but with the tenderness a rough man 
 might display in kissing a tiny baby. 
 
 " Although you say you love me, and I know you do," 
 the girl said thoughtfully, "you have always acted as 
 though you were afraid of me. You never kissed me 
 but once before in your life, and then I asked you to." 
 
 "Afraid of you ! " There was a merry good humor in 
 Allan Dorris's voice which would have made anyone his 
 friend. " Afraid of you ! Am I afraid of the sunshine, 
 or of a fresh breath of air ! I am afraid of nothing. I
 
 206 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 had the same fear of you that I have of heaven a fear 
 that you were beyond my reach, therefore I did not care 
 to contaminate you with my touch. But if ever I get to 
 heaven, I will not be afraid of it. I intend to make love 
 to you all my life, though I shall be careful not to make 
 myself tiresome. We will reverse the rule, and become 
 lovers after we are married. You once said that I was 
 queer; I cannot forget that charge, somehow. I am 
 queer ; in this respect : I was born a bull with a hatred 
 for red flags, which have been waved in my face ever 
 since I can remember. I may have been mistaken, but I 
 have always believed that I never had a friend in my life, 
 although I craved one more than anything else. But you 
 have changed all this ; I am contented now, and ready to 
 give peace for peace. Of the millions of people in the 
 world, am I not entitled to you?" 
 
 He held her up in his arms, as if he would exhibit her, 
 and ask if that small bundle was an unreasonable request, 
 since he asked no more, and promised to be entirely satis 
 fied. 
 
 The loud report of a gun on the outside, followed by a 
 crash in the glass in the upper pane of the window as 
 a bullet came in to imbed itself in the wall above 
 their heads, startled them. The girl sprang- up in alarm, 
 while Dorris hurriedly ran down stairs and into the 
 yard. 
 
 "A careless hunter has allowed his gun to explode in 
 the road," he said, when he returned after a long absence. 
 But this explanation did not seem to satisfy even himself, 
 for he soon went down to the lower end of the hall, and 
 aroused Mrs. Wedge, by throwing the window-prop on 
 the roof of her house. On the appearance of that 
 worthy woman, who came in with her eyes almost closed 
 from the sleepiness which still clung to her, but who
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIK. 207 
 
 opened them very wide at sight of Annie Benton, he 
 said, 
 
 "Will you two please talk about the weather, and 
 
 nothing else, until I return ? I will return in a few 
 
 O * 
 
 minutes, and make the necessary explanations. If there 
 is anything wrong here, I will make it right." 
 
 He left the house hurriedly, and they heard the big 
 iron gate in front bang after him, but when his footsteps 
 could no longer be heard, and they no longer had excuse 
 for listening to them, the two women sat in perfect 
 silence. Occasionally Mrs. Wedge looked cautiously 
 around at Annie Benton, but, meeting her eyes, they both 
 looked away again, and tried to appear at their ease, 
 which they found impossible. Fortunately Dorris was 
 not gone long, and when he came back he put the girl's 
 cloak OH, as if they were going out. 
 
 " We will return in a little while," he explained to Mrs. 
 Wedge, who looked up curiously as he walked out with 
 Annie Benton on his arm. " If you care to wait, we will 
 tell you a secret when we come back, as a reward for not 
 speaking while I was out of the room." 
 
 Down the stairs they went, out at the front gate, and 
 toward the town, until they reached the church door, 
 which they entered. On the inside they found Reverend 
 Wilton waiting for them at the chancel rail, and al 
 though he tried to appear very much put out because he 
 was disturbed at that unseasonable hour, and yawned 
 indifferently, he was really interested. Perhaps he was 
 thinking of the rare story he would have to tell at 
 breakfast. 
 
 Don-is had evidently given instructions as to what was 
 expected of him, for as soon as they stood before him he 
 read the marriage service, and pronounced them man and 
 wife; after which he congratulated them and left the
 
 208 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 church, which was probably in accordance with his instruc 
 tions, too. 
 
 A single light burned in the building, which barely 
 extended to the vaulted ceiling, and which did not pre 
 vent the pews and the pulpit from looking like live 
 objects surprised at being disturbed at such an hour ; and 
 leading his wife up to the organ, Dorris said : "We will 
 have the wedding march, if you please," whereupon he 
 disappeared behind the instrument to work the bellows. 
 
 And such a wedding march was never heard before. 
 The girl put all the joy of her heart into melody, and 
 made chords which caused Allan Dorris to regret that he 
 could not leave the bellows and go round in front to 
 wave his hat and cheer. He was* seated on a box in the 
 dusty little corner, working away industriously ; and when 
 he heard how eloquently the girl was telling the story of 
 her love for him, tears of thankfulness came into his eyes 
 and surprised them, for they had never been there before. 
 Your cheek and mine have been wet with tears wrung 
 from the heart by sorrow, but all of us have not been as 
 happy as Allan Dorris was on his wedding night. 
 
 But there was more than joy in the music ; it changed 
 so suddenly into the plaintive strain of the minstrel 
 baritone as to cause Allan Dorris to start. It may 
 have been because the player was executing with the 
 left hand, and without a light ; but certainly it was diffi 
 cult, like a life. But when the chords were formed, they 
 were very sweet and tender, as we might say with a sigh 
 that flowers on a weary man's grave were appropriate. 
 
 At last the music ceased, dying away like the memory 
 of sobs and cheers and whispers, and taking his wife's arm 
 through his own, Allan Dorris walked back to The Locks. 
 
 O ' 
 
 Mrs. Wedge was informed of the marriage, and could 
 do nothing but cry from happiness; and after she left
 
 THE STEP OX THE STAIR. 209 
 
 them Allan Dorris and his wife had so much to say to 
 each other that daylight came to congratulate them while 
 they were still seated in their chairs. 
 
 But what is this which comes into the mind of Annie 
 Dorris and causes her to start up in alarm? It is the 
 recollection of Thompson Beaton, her plain-spoken father. 
 
 " O Allan ! " she said. " What will father say ? " 
 
 " I will go over and hear what he says," Dorris replied 
 promptly, putting on his hat. "You can go along if you 
 like." 
 
 What a bold fellow he was ! And how tenderly he 
 adjusted the wraps around his wife, after she had signi 
 fied her desire to accompany him, when they stepped out 
 into the frosty morning air ! 
 
 It was about Thompson Benton's time to start down 
 town, and as they paused before his front door, not with 
 out misgivings, he opened it wide and stood before them. 
 Evidently the girl had not been missed from the house, 
 for there was genuine astonishment in the father's face as 
 he looked from one to the other. 
 
 "What does this mean?" he said, looking at Dorris 
 sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " That we were married this morning," Dorris replied, 
 not in the least frustrated, though his wife trembled like 
 a leaf. 
 
 He gave no evidence of the surprise which this an 
 nouncement must have caused him, but looked sullenly 
 at Dorris for several moments, PS though he had a mind 
 to try his strength with him ; but when his eyes fell on 
 his child, his manner changed for the better. Motioning 
 them to follow him, they closed the door, and all sat 
 down in the pleasant family room where the girl's recol 
 lection began, and where her father spent his little leisuro
 
 210 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 in the evening. Here old Thompson looked hard at the 
 floor until he had thought the matter over, when he said, 
 
 "I have never found fault with the girl in my life; I 
 have never had occasion to, and if she can justify what 
 she has done I am content. Are you sure you are right, 
 Annie?" 
 
 He looked up at her with such a softened manner, and 
 there was so much tenderness in his words, that the girl 
 forgot the fear which his hard look had inspired when 
 they met him at the door, and going over to him she put 
 her arm around his neck, and softly stroked his gray hair 
 as she replied, 
 
 "That which I have done has made me very happy. 
 If tli at is justification, I am entirely justified." 
 
 " I requii'e no other explanation," old Thompson 
 answered. "From a little child you have been dutiful, 
 sensible, and capable, and though my selfishness rebels 
 because I am to lose you, a father's love is stronger than 
 selfishness, and I am glad you have found a husband you 
 regard as worthy of your affection. You have drawn a 
 prize, sir." 
 
 He looked at Dorris as a defeated man might look at 
 his rival when he thought it necessary to hide his morti 
 fication, and offer congratulations which he did not feel. 
 
 " There is no doubt of it," Dorris promptly answered. 
 
 " She is very much like her mother," old Thompson 
 continued, " and her mother was the best woman in ten 
 thousand. If I gave her a task to perform, she did it in 
 a manner which pleased me, and she was always a plea 
 sant surprise. This is a surprise, but I find no fault ; I 
 cannot regret that Annie knows the happiness of a young 
 wife. I am a rough man, but I made her mother a very 
 happy woman, and in remembrance of that I am glad the 
 daughter has found a husband she can honor. I have so
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 211 
 
 much confidence in the girl's good sense that I do not 
 question her judgment, and I wish you joy with all my 
 heart." 
 
 He took both their hands in his for a moment, and hur 
 ried away, Dorris and his wife watching him until he dis 
 appeared in a bend of the street, when they went into the 
 house to make their peace with the Ancient Maiden. 
 
 As Thompson Benton hurried along toward his store, 
 swinging the respectable-looking iron key in his hand, who 
 can know the regret he felt to lose his child? His practi 
 cal mind would not help him now, and he must have felt 
 that the only creature in all the world he cared for had 
 deserted him, for the old forget the enthusiasm of the 
 young. 
 
 It was a fortunate circumstance that the day was bad 
 and customers few, for they would not have been treated 
 well had they appeared.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 THE PUKSUING SHADOW. 
 
 A LLAJST DORRIS and his wife Lad been up in the 
 --- hills watching the sunset, and at dusk were returning 
 leisurely home. They were very fond of the unfrequented 
 locality where he had first declared his passion, and when 
 the weather was fine they frequently visited it to imagine 
 themselves lovers again, which was easy enough, for as 
 man and wife they got along amazingly well. And now, 
 when they were returning at nightfall, a shadow crept 
 after them ; from bush to rock, and from tree to shrub, 
 crawling and stealing along like a beast watching its prey. 
 
 Pretty Annie Dorris, pi-ettier than ever before, was ex 
 pressing a fear in her winning way that their happiness 
 was too great to last, and that something dreadful would 
 happen to them. But she had no suspicion of the lurking, 
 creeping shadow which had hurried forward, and now 
 stood almost within arm's length, as her husband re 
 plied, 
 
 " I have been so discontented all my life, and am so con 
 tented now, that I believe the Fates will guard me from 
 it in pity. It is not much that I ask ; a country girl to be 
 my wife, and love me nothing more. And it will al 
 ways be my endeavor to be so useful to the country girl 
 that she will be happy, too, so that the simple boon of 
 peace is not too much to ask when it will make two peo 
 ple entirely happy. I cheerfully give up my place in the 
 strife for greatness and riches in which men seem to be 
 212
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 213 
 
 al \vays engaged, and will be content with the good health 
 and plenty which my simple life here will bring me. As 
 for a living, I can make that easy enough ; I am making 
 more even now than we can possibly spend. I hope your 
 fears are not substantial." 
 
 The country girl had her arm through her husband's, 
 and she looked up into his face with such a troubled 
 expression that he stopped in the road. 
 
 " It may be that I am fearful only because I love you so 
 much," she said. "It almost kills me when I think that 
 any harm might happen to you." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that," he replied, " but you 
 are always saying something which pleases me. You look 
 handsome to-night ; you look prettier now than before you 
 were married, and I think more of you. You don't fade 
 out, and 'I love you for that ; you are as fresh and as girl 
 ish as you ever were before we were married. I think it 
 an evidence of good blood." 
 
 "Now*you are pleasing me," his wife said laughingly. 
 " I have feared very often that you would not like me so 
 well when you knew me better, and that you would finally 
 tire of me." 
 
 " But I don't," Dorris replied. " The more I know of 
 you the better I like you. It 's not usual, but I am more 
 in love after marriage than I was before." 
 
 " I have mingled so little with women," the wife said 
 seriously, " that I sometimes fear that I am not like others 
 of my sex in manners and dress and inclination. Did you 
 ever notice it ? " 
 
 " I think I have," he said. 
 
 She turned upon him with mock fierceness, and pre 
 tended to be very indignant. 
 
 " Because you are not like other women, who act by 
 rule, and are nearly all alike, is the reason I have no greater
 
 214 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 ambition than to be tied to your apron-strings," he said. 
 " I think your freshness and originality are your greatest 
 charms." 
 
 " Long before I ever thought of becoming a wife myself," 
 she said, seriously again, " I noticed that most men seemed 
 to lack a knowledge of women ; that they regarded them 
 as angels while they were girls, and were disappointed 
 because they turned out to be women as wives. I am not 
 unjust, but I have thought the women were partly respon 
 sible for this, since many of them exhibit themselves like 
 dolls, and pretend to be more than they are. This is the 
 reason why I am pleased that you are not disappointed 
 in me." 
 
 " As to your being an angel," he laughingly replied, " I 
 know you arc not one, and I am glad' of it. I have an idea 
 that an angel would soon tire of me, and fly away in disgust, 
 to warn its companions that men were not worth saving. 
 There are some women so amiable that no matter to 
 what extent their affairs go wrong, they cannot muster up 
 enough energetic regret to cause them to supply a remedy. 
 I am not so fond of amiability as to desire it at that price. 
 Whenever you find capacity you will find temper, and I 
 imagine that it would be dangerous to stir you up, for you 
 are as capable a woman as ever I knew. Have tit you 
 temper?" 
 
 " Plenty of it ; too much," she ansAvered. 
 
 They both laughed at this frank confession, and Borris 
 took occasion to say that there was not a spark of it in his 
 nature, though there was temper written in every line of 
 his countenance, and that he would have been an ugly 
 man when once fully aroused was certain. 
 
 They walked on again, and the shadow followed, as if 
 anxious to hear what they were saying. 
 
 "I can't account for it myself," Dorris continued, " but
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 215 
 
 I enjoy your company as much now as I did before we 
 were married. It does me as much good to talk love to 
 you ; I suppose it must be because you deserve it. The 
 fact that you are as careful to look well as you ever did 
 may have something to do with it, but it is certainly the 
 case. I have heard men abused a great deal for neglect 
 ing their wives after marriage, but it never occurs to me 
 to neglect you. I don't want to neglect you ; I think too 
 much of you. If I should fail to be as considerate of you 
 as you are of me, I know that I would no longer receive 
 the full measure of your confidence and love, which is 
 such a comfort to me, therefore it is my first ambition to 
 be just and honest with you in everything. The ambition 
 affords me a great deal of pleasure, too, for I am never so 
 well satisfied as when in your company. With you by my 
 side, there is nothing else that I crave in this world or the 
 next." 
 
 " O Allan ! Nothing in the next? " 
 
 They had seated themselves on a rough seat in a sort of 
 park on the hillside, and Dorris considered the matter. 
 
 " Well, if you go to heaven, I want to go. Of course 
 you will go, for you are good enough, therefore I in 
 tend to do the best I can, so that, when we come to be 
 judged, the Master will realize how much we love each 
 other, and conclude not to separate us. But I depend on 
 you ; He will let me in to please you not because I de 
 serve it." 
 
 " I know you do not think as I do about it," she an 
 swered, " but it is possible that you have not investigated 
 as I have. I am not a foolish girl, but a serious woman, 
 and have studied and thought a great deal, and I am cer 
 tain there is something more than this life. I have never 
 mentioned the subject to you before, because I know that 
 a great many come to dislike religion because they hear
 
 216 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 so much of it from persons no better than themselves, but 
 everything teaches us that we shall live again, and it wor 
 ries me a great deal because you think lightly about a 
 matter which seems so dreadfully serious. My mothers 
 faith convinces me of it, though I cannot tell you why. 
 I am not prepared, as she was, by a long life of purity to 
 receive the evidence ; but promise me that you will think 
 about it, and not combat your own judgment." 
 
 " I have never thought about it much, and investigated 
 but little," he answered. " It has always been natural for 
 me to think of the grave as the end of everything, so far 
 as I am concerned. But I have confidence in your intel 
 ligence and judgment; if you have investigated, and 
 believe, that is enough for me ; I believe. Please do not 
 worry about it any more ; I will try very hard to remain 
 with you." 
 
 He said it lightly, yet there was enough seriousness in 
 his manner to convince her that his love for her was hon 
 est, even if his religion was not. 
 
 " Religion is not natural with me : I feel no necessity for 
 it or lack of it," he said again. " But I have no objection 
 to it ; on the contrary, I have always liked the idea, but I 
 lack the necessary faith. It would be pleasant for me to 
 believe that, in the next country, a day's journey removed, 
 good gifts might be found ; but if I could not believe it, 
 I could not be reasonably blamed for my refusal to attempt 
 the journey. I might even regret that the accounts were 
 not true; but I would not insist that they were true 
 against my honest convictions, because I hoped they were. 
 I am religious enough in sentiment, but my brain is an 
 inexorable skeptic. Nothing is more pleasing to me than 
 the promise of your faith. What a blessed hope it is, 
 that after death you will live in a land of perpetual sum 
 mer ; and exist forever with your friends where there is
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 217 
 
 only peace and content ! I am sure I can never see as 
 much of you as I want to in this life, and I cannot tell 
 you how much I hope we will be reunited beyond the 
 grave, and live forever to love each other, even as we do 
 now. I am willing to make any sacrifice necessary to en 
 sure this future ; it would be a pleasure for me to make 
 greater sacrifices than are required, according to common 
 rumor, for they are not at all exacting, except in the par 
 ticular of faith ; but that I lack, to a most alarming extent, 
 though I cannot help it. You cannot have faith because 
 it is your duty any more than you can love because it is 
 your duty. I only regret that I cannot be religious as 
 natui'ally as I love you, but I cannot, though I try because 
 you want me to. I want to believe that men do not grow 
 old and become a burden to themselves and those around 
 them ; but I know differently, and while I hope that there 
 will be a resurrection, I know that those who have gone 
 away on the journey which begins with death send back no 
 messenger, and that nothing is known of heaven except 
 the declaration of pious people that they believe in it. I 
 love to hear the laughter of children, but it does not con 
 vince me that all the world is in a laughing mood, and 
 that there are no tears. No one can find fault with your 
 religion except that they cannot believe in it. Every 
 thing in nature teaches us that we will return to dust, and 
 that we will be resurrected only as dust by the idle 
 winds. ITou don't mind that I speak freely?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I have tried all my life to convince myself that I pos 
 sessed the spark of immortality, but my stubborn brain 
 resists the attempt. All my reasoning convinces me that 
 I live for the same reason that my horse exists. I am su 
 perior to the faithful animal only in intelligence, for in 
 physical organization I am only an animal. When an
 
 218 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 animal dies, I see its body dwindle away until there is 
 nothing left ; it becomes dust again. I hope that I may 
 share a different fate, but I believe that I shall pass away 
 in precisely the same manner. Understand me ; I want 
 to be religious, but I cannot be. There are some people 
 I suppose there are a great many, though I never knew 
 but one personally who ought to live forever ; they are 
 too rare to die. You are one of them, but I fear you will 
 be lost to the world in the course of nature. You ought 
 to be preserved for the good you can accomplish by play 
 ing the organ. I never believe in heaven so much as 
 when I am in the back pews listening to your music. 
 There is more religion in the old organ when you are at 
 the keyboard than in all the people who listen to it put 
 together ; and I sometimes think that those who write the 
 music and the sengs are inspired, though when you know 
 them, their personal characters do not encourage that im 
 pression." 
 
 She put her hand to his mouth as if to stop him, but he 
 pushed it away with a laugh, and continued, 
 
 " Let me finish, that you may know what I really am, 
 and then I will never mention the subject again. But don't 
 think me worse than other men for my unbelief; they 
 nearly all think as I do, though only the bad ones say so. 
 All good men rejoice that there is a pleasing hope in re 
 ligion, and encourage it all they can, but only a few of 
 them have your faith." 
 
 " All be well yet, Allan," the wife answered. " You 
 have promised to try and get rid of your unbelief, and I 
 know that you will be honest in it. The Master whom 
 I serve next to you I fear I am becoming -very wicked 
 myself, for you are more to me than everything else " 
 
 " There it is again," Dorris said, looking at her, half 
 laughing. " That expression was n't studied, I know, but
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 219 
 
 it pleases me greatly. You are always at it, though you 
 have a right to now." 
 
 " lie is more considerate than any of us imagine, and if 
 He knows you did not believe, He will also know that 
 you could not, and did not intend any disrespect." 
 
 " There is something in that," he answered. " I loved 
 you before I knew you, though I did not believe you ex 
 isted." 
 
 "But you did find me. Is it not possible that you will 
 find Him, though you do not believe He exists?" 
 
 " That is worth thinking about. The next time I take 
 a long ride into the country I will think it over, if I can 
 get you out of my mind long enough. One thing, how 
 ever, is certain ; I want to follow you, wherever that leads 
 me. Let me add, too, that in what I have said I intend 
 no disrespect. It would be impudent in me, a single peb 
 ble in the sands surrounding the shores of eternity, to 
 speak ill of a faith which is held by so many thousands 
 of intelligent and worthy people. I speak freely to you, 
 as my wife, my confidant, that you may know what I 
 am." 
 
 " But you are leading, Allan, and I am following," she 
 said. " You are kind enough to believe that my future is 
 assured, but it is not unless you are saved. You can save 
 both of us by saving yourself. If we were at the judg 
 ment now, and you should be cast out, I would follow you. 
 I might be of some use to you even there." 
 
 " That 's horrible to think about," he replied, rising to 
 his feet; "but it pleases me. Anyway, little woman, we 
 get along delightfully here ; I hope we will always be as 
 well off as we are now. If the next world affords me 
 as much pleasure as this one has during the past three 
 months, I shall be more than satisfied. It is said that a 
 man is very happy when he is in love, and I am growing
 
 220 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 more in love with my wife every day. I suppose it is 
 because I never was in love before. I have had extensive 
 experience in everything else ; I know a little of every 
 thing else. This may be the reason why my honeymoon 
 lasts so long." 
 
 " When I met you that afternoon, out in the hills," she 
 answered, "you were such an expert at love-making that 
 I was at first afraid of you. If ever man made a desper 
 ate, cunning love to a woman, you made it to me; but I 
 soon got over my timidity, and knew you were only des 
 perately in earnest, which made me love you until I went 
 mad. I had nothing to give you but myself, and that I 
 gave so readily that I sometimes fear when you are 
 away from me ; I never think of it at any other time 
 that you accuse me for it." 
 
 "It so happened," he answered, "that you did exactly 
 what I wanted you to do, though I am not surprised at it 
 now, since discovering how naturally you do a hundred 
 things a day to please me. Accuse you ? " 
 
 He laughed good-naturedly at the thought. 
 
 " Instead of that, it is the boast of my life that my 
 sweetheart, my vision which came true, had so much con 
 fidence in me that she placed herself in my keeping with 
 out conditions or promises. You are the hope I have had 
 all my life ; you are the heaven I have coveted; and don't 
 suppose that I find fault because the realization is better 
 than the dream. When you go to heaven, and find that 
 it is a better place than you imagined, you will not accuse 
 the Master of a lack of propriety because he is more for 
 giving of your faults than you expected ; nor do I. Dis 
 miss that thought forever, to oblige me, and believe, instead, 
 that your single fault turned out to be my greatest blessinpr. 
 If I mnde desperate love to you up in the hills, it was 
 natural, for I had no previous expei'ience. I cannot re-
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 221 
 
 member that I ever was a young man ; I was first a child, 
 and then a man with grave responsibilities. But the fancy 
 I told you about the Maid of Air I always loved it 
 until I found you." 
 
 Putting her arm through his, they walked toward the 
 town, and the shadow emerged from a clump of bushes 
 within a few feet of where they had been sitting. The 
 married lovers walked on, unconscious of the presence ; 
 and occasionally the laugh of Mrs. Dorris came to the 
 shadow on the wind, which caused it to listen anxiously, 
 and creep on after them again. 
 
 In turning out of the path that led up into the hills, 
 and coming into the road, Dorris and his wife met Tug 
 and Silas, who were loitering about, as usual; Tug in 
 front, carrying the gun, and Silas lagging behind. 
 
 " What now ? " Dorris said good-naturedly, on coming 
 up with them. " What are you up to to-night ? " 
 
 " On a Wednesday night," Tug replied, putting the 
 stock of the gun on the ground, and turning his head to 
 one side to get a square sight at the woman, " the woods 
 are full of rabbits. We are out looking for them." 
 
 " Why on Wednesday night ? " 
 
 Tug removed his gaze from Mrs. Dorris to Silas. 
 
 "When do we find our game?" he inquired. 
 
 "On Wednesday; at night," the little man 'answered 
 meekly. 
 
 "I don't know how it is, myself," Tug continued, this 
 time taking a shot at Dorris ; "but Wednesday it is. You 
 are both looking mighty well." 
 
 They thanked him for his politeness, and added that 
 they were feeling well. 
 
 " They did n't think much of you when you came," he 
 said, pointing a finger at Dorris, which looked like a pistol, 
 "but they have changed their minds. Even Reverend
 
 222 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Wilton says you will do ; it 's the first kind word he ever 
 said of anybody. It came out Silas, how did it coma 
 out?" 
 
 " Like a tooth," Silas answered, who had been standing 
 by with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " Like a back tooth, you told me. Come now, did n't 
 you say a back tooth ? " 
 
 Silas muttered something which was accepted as an ac 
 knowledgment, and Tug went on, 
 
 "Why did n't you say so, then ? Why do you want to 
 put it on me in the presence of the lady? But Reverend 
 Wilton never said anything bad about you, or anybody 
 else ; he 's too lazy for that. I only wonder that he did n't 
 drop over from exhaustion when he said you 'd do. Well, 
 I should say you would do ; eh, pretty girl? " 
 
 Annie Dorris made no other answer than to cling closer 
 to her husband, and Tug regarded them with apparent 
 pleasure. 
 
 " And there 's Uncle Ponsonboy. Silas, what does 
 Uncle Ponsonboy say ? " 
 
 " He says that Mr. Dorris is a man of promise," Davy 
 answered. 
 
 " Oh, does he ? Well, he 's not the kind of a man of 
 promise, Uncle Ponsonboy is, who has been promising to 
 distinguish himself for forty years. Old Albert reminds 
 me of a nephew of my wife's. I supported him four 
 years m idleness, but he was always boasting that he was 
 able to take care of himself, and that he asked favors of 
 nobody. He used to fill up on my bread and meat, and 
 lounge in front of my fire, and declare that he never knew 
 solid content until he began to make his own living, al 
 though he did nothing except to write to his folks, and s:>y 
 that they need n't worry about him, he was able to tr.ke 
 care of himself. But the old lady holds out against you."
 
 THE PURSUING SHADOW. 223 
 
 Tug swallowed a laugh with a great effort, apparently 
 locking it up with a spring lock, for there was a click in 
 his throat as he took aim at Dorris again and continued, 
 but not before his scalp had returned to its place after 
 cr-Twlirer over on his forehead to look at the smile, 
 
 "I am glad of that, though. The old lady and I never 
 agree on anything. I like the devil because she hates him. 
 1 shall be quite content in purg if she fails to like it." 
 
 Allan Dorris looked puzzled for a moment. 
 
 "Oh, purgatory," he said, finishing the abbreviation, 
 and turning to his wife, who laughed at the idea, " we 
 were talking about that just before you came up." 
 
 " Neither of you need worry about that" Tug said. 
 " You are all right. I am the devil's partner, and I know. 
 But if you should happen down there by any mischance, 
 I will give you the best accommodations the place affords. 
 If there is an ice-box there, you shall have a room in it ; 
 but no ice-water for the old lady. I insist on that condi 
 tion." 
 
 They were very much amused at his odd talk, and prom 
 ised that his instructions should be obeyed in case they 
 became his guests. 
 
 " But why are you the devil's partner?" Dorris asked. 
 
 " Pie must have assistants, of course," Tug replied, " and 
 I shall make application to enter his service as soon as 1 
 arrive. I want to get even with Uncle Ponsonboy." 
 
 Tug locked up a laugh again with a sharp click of the 
 lock, and his scalp hurried back to its place on learning 
 tli at it was a false alarm. 
 
 " I want to get a note from him to this effect : ' Dear 
 Tug : For the sake of old acquaintance, send me a drop of 
 water.' Whereupon I will take my iron pen in hand, 
 and reply : ' Uncle Ponsonboy : Drink your tears.' Then 
 I will instruct one of my devilish assistants to lock
 
 224 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 him tip, and never let him see the cheerful light of the 
 fires again. As the door closes, I will say to him, as I 
 now say to you, Good-night." 
 
 Tug and Silas walked toward the hills, and Dorris and 
 his wife toward the town, but the shadow no longer 
 followed them ; it had disappeared. 
 
 In case the shadow came back that night to prowl 
 around The Locks, and peer in at the windows, it found 
 a determined-looking man on guard, carrying a wicked- 
 looking gun. 
 
 Had the eyes of the shadow followed the feet of the 
 man, it would have noted that they walked around the 
 stone wall at regular intervals, and that they stopped oc 
 casionally, as if listening; it would have seen them 
 strolling leisurely away at the first approach of dawn, 
 carrying the gun and Tug's burly body with them.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE EISE IN THE EIVER. 
 
 rriHE rain had been falling at intervals for weeks, and the 
 -*- sluggish river, which usually crawled at the foot of 
 the town in qniet submission, had become a dangerous 
 torrent. Long since out of its banks, its waters poured 
 through the bottoms with an angry roar, and at night 
 
 O O / 
 
 those who gathered on the brink in the town to mark its 
 steady rising could hear cries of distress from the heavy 
 timber, the firing of guns, and other alarms. 
 
 For two days parties had been out with boats of every 
 description, rescuing those who believed that the waters 
 would soon go down, and remained until escape was im 
 possible, imprisoned in the upper rooms of their houses ; 
 and each returning party brought the most distressing 
 news yet heard of the havoc wrought by the flood. Reach 
 ing from hill to hill, the angry waters ploughed np fail- 
 fields like heavy shot fired in battle, and crept into pretty 
 homes to destroy in a night the work of years, wresting 
 treasures from their fastenings with remorseless fury, 
 and hurrying away with them like living thieves. 
 
 The citizens of Davy's Bend feared that the sun had 
 been drowned by the flood in the heavens, as the people 
 were being drowned by the flood in the bottoms, for its 
 kindly face had not appeared in two weeks. The roads 
 and lanes in the country, highways no longer, were aban 
 doned to the rain and the mist, for no travellers ventured 
 upon them, and if the town had been dull before, it was 
 
 225
 
 226 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 now doubly so, giving the people abundance of time in 
 which to recount their miseries. Men who ventured out 
 in wagons told wonderful tales, on their return, of the reign 
 of the waters, for insignificant streams which had long 
 been regarded with familiar contempt had become danger 
 ous rivers, roaring and crashing through fruitful fields in 
 mad haste to join the floods. Great lakes occupied the 
 low places for so many days that the people feared the 
 land itself had floated away, leaving caverns in the place 
 of their fields, and there was distress in the country as 
 well as in the town. Rude boats to ply upon the newly 
 arrived waters were hastily constructed by men who did 
 not know how to use them, never having lived near a 
 navigable stream, but there seemed a chance for them to 
 learn, for the waters increased steadily every hour. 
 
 As they lay in their beds at night, if they wakened and 
 found that the rain had ceased, the people of the town 
 hoped that the end had come at last, and that the waters 
 would soon subside, but before they had framed their 
 congratulations, the gentle patter of the rain was heard 
 on their roofs once more, which continued through the 
 long night, ceasing only occasionally, that the cries of dis 
 tress and the alarms from the bottom might be heard, 
 whereupon the rain commenced again with joyful vigor, 
 sure that its fury was not without result. 
 
 The rocky hills above and below the town were oozy 
 and wet; and those who roameu about heard great 
 splashes in the water, and knew that j ortions of the bluff 
 were tumbling into the river, as i c tiled of being steady 
 and reliable while everything else was failing, and anxious 
 to join the tide and aid in the general destruction, as 
 well as to get away from a place which seemed so unfortu 
 nate. 
 
 The mild river, patient and uncomplaining so long, was
 
 THE RISE IK THE RIVER. 227 
 
 master now, and it roared like a monster proud of its 
 conquest, and declaring its intention to be wicked and 
 fierce forever. The observers could not understand, so 
 great was the awful flood, how the waters could ever 
 subside, for surely all the lower country must have been 
 flooded days before, and even those who lived in the 
 hills were filled with grave apprehensions. 
 
 Every morning the simple registers, which the people 
 put up along the creeks and sloughs, showed an alarming 
 rise, and they feared that if the rain continued the earth 
 itself would become liquid at last, and resolve itself into 
 a vast sea without shores. 
 
 No one knew how the news came, but there seemed to 
 be whispers in the air that in the upper country the flood 
 was even worse than at Davy's Bend, which added to the 
 general apprehension, a^cl many believed that the rainbow 
 was about to prove faithless at last. Houses of a pattern 
 barely familiar to the people occasionally floated past the 
 town in the cm-rent, and in one of them rode a man who 
 refused to leave his property when the relief boats put 
 off to him ; for he said that he came from hundreds of 
 miles above, and that since the world seemed to be turn 
 ing into water," he preferred his strange craft to the 
 crumbling hills. As he floated away, stark mad from 
 excitement, fear, and hunger, he called back to the men 
 to follow if they valued their lives ; for a Avave twenty 
 feet high was coming down the river, carrying the towns 
 along the bluffs with it. 
 
 Bridges which had been built across gullies in the 
 highlands were seen hurrying by every hour, and it 
 seemed that the hill on which Davy's Bend was built 
 would shortly tremble, and start slowly down the river, at 
 last gratifying the ambition of the people to get away. 
 
 Among those distressed by the unfortunate condition of
 
 228 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 those living in the bottoms were Allan Dorris and his 
 wife, safe in their home above the town. The people 
 seemed so fearful that the rain would never cease that 
 they neglected to get sick, and Dr. Doi-ris would have 
 greatly enjoyed the uninterrupted days he was permitted 
 to spend with his pretty wife but for the distress around 
 him. 
 
 The dripping from the eaves of The Locks at night 
 he thought of it again reminded him of the dripping 
 from the coffin of a body packed in ice, which he was 
 commissioned to watch, and long before day he left his 
 bed and walked the floor. His wife soon joined him, 
 and they looked out of the window at the blank darkness. 
 
 " How it reminds me of the first night I came here," he 
 said. " But what a different man I am ! Then I cursed my 
 existence, and was so disturbed in mind that night was a 
 season of terror. I dreaded its approach as heartily then 
 as I now hail it as a season of repose, and every day I 
 have new reason to rejoice that I am alive. What a 
 fortunate fellow I am ! I can sleep nine hours out of every 
 night, and arise every morning entirely refreshed, not a 
 day older. I am content now to lie down at night, and 
 let the world wag, or quarrel, or do whatever it likes, for 
 the only part of it I care for is beside me. Sometimes I 
 waken, and forget you for a moment, when I wonder how 
 I ever induced such sound sleep to come to my eyes ; but 
 when I remember it all, I feel like cheering, and go off 
 iflto dreamland again with the comfort of a healthy child. 
 It is a wonderful change, and you are responsible for it 
 all ; you have made one man entirely happy, if you have 
 accomplished nothing else." 
 
 As they stood by the window, he had his arms around 
 her, and when she looked up at him he kissed her tenderly 
 on the forehead.
 
 THE RISE IN THE RIVER. 220 
 
 " Our marriage has brought no more happiness to you 
 than it has to me," she answered. " Since you became 
 my husband, I have known only content and gladness, 
 except when I become childish and fear you are sur 
 rounded by some grave danger. If I could charge you 
 with a wish I could think of nothing to ask." 
 
 "Who would harm me? Who would dare?" he asked. 
 
 His wife thought to herself, as she looked at him, that 
 it would be a dangeroiis undertaking to attempt to do 
 him an injury. There were few men his equal in physical 
 strength, and he could hold her out at arm's length. 
 
 "Danger is a game that two can play at," he said, and 
 there was a frown on his face so fierce as to indicate that 
 some one who was his enemy had come into his mind. 
 "I have seen the day when I would have allowed almost 
 any one the privilege of taking my life, if it would have 
 afforded them pleasure, but let them keep out of my 
 way now! The tiger fighting for her whelps would not 
 be fiercer than I, if attacked. I have more to live for 
 than any other man in the world, and I would fight, not 
 only with desperation, but with skill and wickedness. If 
 any one wants my life, let him see that he does not lose 
 his own in attempting to take it." 
 
 Allan Dorris had been oppressed with a vague fear ever 
 since his marriage that his long period of rest meant a 
 calamity at last, though he had always tried to argue the 
 
 notion out of his wife's mind. He had often felt that 
 
 
 
 he was watched, though he had seen nothing, heard noth 
 ing, to warrant this belief. He could not explain it to 
 himself ; but frequently while walking about the town he 
 turned his head in quick alarm, and looked about as if 
 expecting an attack. Once he felt so ill at ease at night, 
 so thoroughly convinced that something was wrong, that 
 he left his wife quietly sleeping, and crawled under the
 
 230 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 trees in The Locks' yard for an hour, with a loaded pistol 
 in his hand. But he had seen nothing, heard nothing, 
 and his own actions were so much like the presence he 
 half expected to find, that he was ashamed of them, and 
 laughed at his fears. 
 
 But the dark night and the cheerless rain brought the 
 old dread into his mind, and he said to his wife, 
 
 "We are all surrounded by danger, though I am as 
 exempt from it as other men, but if I should meet with an 
 accident some time I take many long rides at night, and I 
 have often been in places when a single misstep of my horse 
 would have resulted in death I want you to know that 
 your husband was an honorable man. I have my faults, 
 and I have regrets ; but as the world goes I am an honest 
 
 o * o 
 
 man. Your love for me, which is as pure and good as it 
 can be, has had as much warrant as other wives have for 
 their love. It was never intended that si perfect man or 
 woman should exist on this earth, as a reproach to all the 
 other inhabitants, and I have my faults; but I have as 
 clear a conscience as it was intended that the average man 
 should have." 
 
 "I am sure of that," his wife answered. " You always 
 impress me as being a fair man, and this was one reason 
 why I forget myself in loving you. I did not believe you 
 would be unjust to anyone; surely not to one you 
 loved." 
 
 "I believe I am entitled to the compliment you pay 
 me," he replied. " I know myself so well that a compli 
 ment which I do not deserve does not please me ; but I 
 deserve the good opinion you have just expressed. I have 
 known people whose inclinations were usually right; but 
 mine were usually wrong either that, or I have been so 
 situated that, by reason of hasty conclusions, duty has 
 always been a task; but notwithstanding this I have
 
 THE KISE IN THE EIVEK. 
 
 always tried to be honest and fair in everything. It some 
 times happens that a man is so situated that if he would 
 be jiist to himself he must be unjust to others. I may 
 have been in that situation, and there may be those who 
 believe that I have wronged them ; but I am sure that an 
 honest judge would acquit me of blame. I have often 
 wanted to tell you my brief and unimportant history ; but 
 you have preferred not to hear it. While I admire you 
 for this exhibition of trust in me, I have often wondered 
 that your woman's curiosity did not covet the secret." 
 
 "It is not a secret since you offer to tell it to me," she 
 replied. " But I prefer not to know it now. You once said 
 to me that every life has its sorrow ; mine is the belief 
 that I know what your history is ; but I prefer to hope 
 that I am wrong rather than know my conjecture is 
 right." 
 
 He looked at her with incredulity, and was about to 
 inquire what she knew, when she continued : 
 
 " You never speak to me that I do not get a scrap of 
 your past history ; I read you as easily as I read a book. 
 But I knew it when I became your wife, and I think less 
 of it now than ever ; you are so kind to me that I think I 
 shall forget it altogether in time. It is scarcely a sorrow ; 
 rather a regret, as I regret during my present happy 
 life that I am growing old. Sometimes I think I love 
 you all the more because of your misfortune, though I 
 never think of it when I am with you ; it is only when 
 I am alone that it occupies my mind." 
 
 " You are sure that you have not made it worse than it 
 is?" 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 " Who was in the right ? " 
 
 " You were." 
 
 " That much is true, anyway," he answered, looking out
 
 232 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 at the torrent in the river, which the approaching day 
 light now made visible. "I formerly had a habit of 
 talking in my sleep ; you may have learned something in 
 that way." 
 
 "A great deal," she replied. "I learned your name." 
 
 For the first time since she had known him he seemed 
 confused, and there was a flush of mortification in his face. 
 He picked up a scrap of paper and pencil which were 
 lying on a table near them, and handing them to her, 
 said, 
 
 " Write it." 
 
 Without the slightest hesitation, she wrote quickly on 
 the paper, and handed it back to him. He looked at it 
 with a queer smile, tore up the scrap, and said, 
 
 " That would have come out in the story you refused 
 to hear. I have never deceived you in anything." 
 
 "Except in this," she answered, putting her arms 
 around him. "You are a much better man than I believed 
 you were when we were first acquainted ; you have de 
 ceived me in that. My married life could not be happier 
 than it is." 
 
 " I do not take much credit to myself that we are con 
 tent as husband and wife," he replied. " I think the fact 
 that we are mated has a great deal to do with it. There 
 are a great many worthy people for the world is full of 
 good women, if not of good men who li ve in the great 
 est wretchedness ; who are as unhappy in their married 
 relations as we are happy. I have known excellent men 
 married to excellent wives, who are wretched, as I have 
 known two excellent men to fail as partners in business. 
 You and I were fortunate in our alliance. It often occurs 
 to me that Mrs. Armsby should have had a better husband, 
 poor woman. How many brave, capable men there are in 
 the world who would rejoice in the possession of such a
 
 THE RISE IN THE EIVEK. 233 
 
 wife ; worthy, bonest men who made a mistake only in 
 marrying the wrong woman, and who will die believing 
 there is nothing in the world worth living for, as I be 
 lieved before I met you. Everyone who is out in the 
 world a great deal knows such men, and pities them, as 
 I do; for when I contrast my past with my present, I re 
 gret that others, more deserving than I, cannot enjoy the 
 contentment which love brings. You and I are not phe 
 nomenal people in any respect, but we arc man and wife 
 in the fullest sense of the term ; and others might enjoy 
 the peace we enjoy were they equally fortunate in their 
 love affairs. It is a grand old world for you and I, and 
 those like us, but it is a hell for those who have been 
 coaxed into unsuitable marriages by the devil." 
 
 " There is as much bitterness in your voice now as there 
 was when you said to me in the church that you were go 
 ing away never to come back," his wife said, looking at 
 him with keen apprehension. 
 
 * " I am a different man now to what I was then," he 
 replied, with his old good-nature. " Have you never re 
 marked it?" 
 
 " Often ; every time I hear you speak." 
 
 " I find that there are splendid people even in Davy's 
 Bend, and I imagine that when the mind is not tortured 
 they may be found anywhere. In my visits to the homes 
 of Davy's Bend, I hear it said in every quaiter that surely 
 the neighbors are the best people in the world, and their 
 kindness in sickness and death cause me to believe that as 
 a rule the people are very good, unless you chain, two an 
 tagonistic spirits together, and demand that they be con 
 tent. I know so much of the weakness of my race . 
 because it happens to be my business that I wonder 
 they are as industrious and honorable as I find them. 
 This never occurred to me before, and I think it is evidence
 
 234 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 that I am a changed man ; that I am more charitable than 
 I ever was before, and better." 
 
 They both looked out the window in silence again. A 
 misty morning, threatening rain, and the river before 
 them like a sea. 
 
 " I must do something to help those who are imprisoned 
 in their homes by the flood," Allan Dorris said, as if a 
 sight of the river had suggested it to him. " I will go 
 down where bouts are to be had presently, and row over 
 into the timber. Do you see that line of trees ? " 
 
 Below the town, in the river bend, a long line of trees 
 made out into the channel, which were on dry land in 
 ordinary times, but the point was covered now, for the 
 flood occupied the bottom from bluff to bluff. He pointed 
 this out, and when his wife saw the place he referred to, 
 she nodded her head. 
 
 " My boat will be carried down the stream by the strong 
 current, and I will probably enter the timber there. I 
 will wave my good-by to you from that point." 
 
 He went out soon after to prepare for the trip, and 
 during his absence his wife hurriedly prepared his break 
 fast ; and when he came back he wore coat and boots of 
 rubber. 
 
 " What a wonderful housekeeper you arc," he said, as 
 he sat down to the table. " No difference what I crave, 
 you supply it before I have time to worry because of the 
 lack of it. But it is so in everything ; I never want to 
 do a thing but that I find you are of the same mind. It 
 is very easy to spoil a boy, but I think the girls are natu 
 rally so good that they turn out well without much 
 attention. You had no mother to teach you, but you 
 took charge of my house with as much good grace and 
 ease as though you had been driven to it all your life. I 
 think a great deal more of your sex because of my acquain-
 
 THE RISE IN THE RIVER. 235 
 
 tance with you. If my wife is not the most wonderful 
 woman in the world, I shall never know it." 
 
 " I am almost ashamed to say it after your kind remark," 
 his wife replied, " but I am afraid I do not want you to 
 go over into the bottoms. The thought of it fills me with 
 dread, though I know you ought to go." 
 
 " And why not ? " he said cheerfully. " I may be able 
 to rescue some unfortunate over there, and there is noth 
 ing dangerous in the journey. I shall return before the 
 night comes on, no fear of that ; but before I go I want 
 to tell you again how much my marriage with you has 
 done for me. I want you to keep it in your mind while I 
 am away, that you may understand why I am glad to re 
 turn. Until I came here and met you, I was as discon 
 tented as a man could possibly be, and I am very grateful 
 to you.' A life of toil and misery was my lot until you 
 came to my rescue, and I thank you for your kindness to 
 me. It occurred to me while I was out of the room just 
 now, that the shadow under the trees is very much like 
 the shadow I intended to penetrate when you came to me 
 that dark night and blessed me. Once you came into the 
 room where I was lying down, after returning from the 
 country, though I was not asleep as you supposed. The 
 gentle manner in which you touched my forehead with 
 your lips; that was love I have thought .about it a 
 thousand times since, and been thankful. The human 
 body I despise, because of my familiarity with it ; but such 
 a love as yours is divine. I only regret that it is not 
 more general. Love is the only thing in life worth hav 
 ing ; if a man who lacks it is not discontented, he is like an 
 
 O ' * 
 
 idiot who is always laughing, not realizing his condition. 
 Some people I have known suggested depravity by their 
 general appearance ; you think of your own faults from 
 looking at them, and feel ashamed ; but it makes me am-
 
 23G THE MYSTEHY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 bitious to look at you, and every day since I have known 
 you I have been a better man than I was the day before." 
 
 He had finished his repast by this time, and they walked 
 out to the front door together, arm in arm, like lovers. 
 
 " I have heard it said," he continued, as he tied up his 
 rubber boots and made final preparations for starting, 
 "that if a wife is too good to her husband, he will finally 
 come to dislike her. You arc too good to me, I suppose, 
 but it never occurs to me to dislike you for it ; on the 
 contrary, it causes me to resolve to be worthy of your 
 thoughtf ulness. It will do me good to go into the shadow 
 for a day ; I will appreciate the sunshine all the more 
 when I return. But if I should not return if an acci 
 dent should happen to me, which is always possible any 
 where my last thought would be thankfulness for the 
 happiness of the past three months." 
 
 " But you do not anticipate danger?" she said, grasping 
 his arm, as if to lead him back into the house. 
 
 " There is no danger," he replied. "Even if my boat 
 should fail me, I could swim back to you from the far 
 thest point, for I love you so much. You have never seen 
 my reserve strength in action ; if a possibility of being 
 separated from you should present itself, I imagine I should 
 greatly surprise my enemies. Never fear ; I shall come 
 back in good time. I believe that should I get killed, my 
 body would float against the current and hug the bank at 
 the point nearest The Locks." 
 
 He kissed her quickly and hurried away, and his form 
 was soon lost in the bend of the street. 
 
 How dark it was under the trees ! The increasing dull 
 daylight brightened everything save the darkness under 
 the trees ; nothing could relieve that. What if he should 
 go into it never to return, as he had intended the night 
 they were married ! No, no, no ; she wrung her hands
 
 THE RISE IN THE RIVER. 237 
 
 at that thought, and ran towards the door, as if intend 
 ing to pursue him and bring him back before he could 
 enter it. But Allan was strong and trusty, and he 
 would come back to laugh at her childish fears as she took 
 his dripping garments at the close of the day, and listened 
 to an account of his adventures, no fear of that. 
 
 A half hour later she saw a boat with a single rower 
 put out from the town, and make slow headway against 
 the strong current to the other shore. Was he going 
 alone ? It was not dangerous ^ she persuaded herself of 
 that, but she thought it must be very lonesome rowing 
 about in such a flood ; and he should not go out again, 
 for he would do anything she wished, and she would ask 
 it as a favor. 
 
 Why had she neglected to think of this, and ask him to 
 go with others? But it was too late now, for the 
 rower soon reached the line of trees he had pointed out 
 to her from the window, waved his white handkerchief, 
 which looked like a signal of danger, and disappeared 
 into the shadow.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. - 
 MR. WHITTLE MAKES A COXFESSIOX. 
 
 first rays of the bad morning, as it looked in at 
 Mr. Whittle's window, found that worthy busily en 
 gaged in cleaning and scouring his gun. It was not yet 
 his bedtime, for of late he spent all of every night, in 
 stead of part of it, in prowling about bent on mis 
 chief, he said, but Silas Davy knew that Tug had a fierce 
 desire to protect Allan Dorris, for whom he had taken 
 such a strange fancy, from harm; and that night after 
 night, whether the weather was good or bad, his friend 
 kept watch iiround The Locks, carrying his gun in readi 
 ness for instant use. Silas usually kept him company 
 until he became sleepy, and knew that he must return in 
 order to keep awake and attend to his work the next da}' ; 
 but Tug, who slept during the day, seldom deserted his 
 post. He may have left his beat occasionally for an hour 
 or two, but only to creep carefully up into the hills back 
 of the house, where he crouched and listened beside the 
 paths, and then crept back again. 
 
 A good many times he walked down to the hotel, 
 always choosing an hour when lie knew Silas would be 
 alone in the kitchen, on which occasions he never failed 
 to take a shot with his eyes np the alleys, and into all 
 the dark places; but he did not remain long, so that 
 almost every night, when Silas went to bed, he had the 
 satisfaction of knowing that if the shadow should attempt 
 238
 
 MTt. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION. 239 
 
 to harm Allan Dorris, there would be an explosion loud 
 enough to alarm the town. 
 
 Silas, who had been out on the bottoms the day before, 
 came in late in the evening, and, throwing himself on the 
 bed, he slept so soundly that when Tug appeared, late in 
 the morning, from one of his vagrant tramps, he was not 
 aroused. And there he lay now, in his clothes, sound 
 asleep, his face as innocent as a child's, as his mind 
 was. 
 
 As Tug scoured away on the gun, rubbing off the rust 
 and dirt, he occasionally looied at Silas, and the thought 
 no doubt occurred to him, that if there ever was a thor 
 oughly unselfish, incapable, kind-hearted fellow, there he 
 was, on the bed, asleep, and resting well. 
 
 " He '11 soon be awake, though," Tug said aloud, looking 
 up at the window, and noting the increasing light. " He 
 can't sleep when it's light enough for him to work. He 
 has been driven to it by his hard masters until he knows 
 nothing else, and he has a habit of getting up at daylight 
 which he can never overcome. Silas was ruined by too 
 much work ; I was ruined by too little of it, I suppose. 
 Anyway, I 'm ruined ; nobody disputes that. I am so or 
 nery that I am becoming ashamed of myself." 
 
 Mr. "Whittle meditated a moment, and then putting 
 down his gun he walked over to a piece of looking-glass, 
 which was tacked against the wall, and took a long look 
 at himself. The inspection was apparently unsatisfactory, 
 for he shook his fist at the reflection, made a face at it, 
 and muttered ill-humoredly as he walked back to his 
 chair. 
 
 "If Davy didn't forget so easy," Mr. Whittle said 
 aloud again, rubbing away on the gun-barrel, " what 
 a fine man he would be ! If he could make money as 
 easily as he is good-natured, he would be a fine fellow ;
 
 240 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 but they say he works to no purpose, and must have some 
 body to watch him, though he means well, everybody 
 says that. If Davy should be told to turn a crank, he 
 would do it better than anybody, and keep at it longer ; 
 but the men who make money not only work hard, but 
 use judgment, and Davy lacks judgment, poor fellow; 
 they all say that. If the hotel should ketch afire he 
 wouldn't put it out unless somebody told him to; he 
 wouldn't think of it. But he means as well as any man 
 in America ; I can cheerfully say that for him. An ordi 
 nary man never opens his mouth without saying some 
 thing mean ; but if ever I heard Davy say a mean thing, 
 or knew him to do a mean thing, may I become a preacher. 
 Well, the talents must be divided, I suppose ; for no per 
 son seems to combine any two of them. I know enough, 
 but somebody else has the honesty, the industry, the 
 decency, etc., which I lack. Unfortunately, it does not 
 follow that a sensible man is a square man or a good man. 
 I'd rather trust a fool for honesty than a man with a 
 big head, any day. The worst crimes I have ever heard of 
 were the work of men cursed with more brains than 
 conscience. I thought he could n't sleep long after the 
 sun was up." 
 
 Looking over at his sleeping partner, he saw that he 
 was becoming uneasy, and soon he sat up on the edge of 
 the bed, and looked around in bewilderment as he rubbed 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Well, rogue, how do you feel?" Tug inquired, stop 
 ping his scouring. 
 
 "What time is it ? n Davy inquired, with a show of ex 
 citement, and getting on his feet without answering the 
 question. 
 
 "I should say it was five o'clock, Wednesday morning," 
 Tug replied, looking out at the window, and then back
 
 MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION. 241 
 
 at his companion, as if wondering at his nervousness. 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I meant to remain awake to tell you of it last night," 
 Silas replied hurriedly ; " but I was so tired, from rowing 
 all day, that I dropped off to sleep soon after I came in. 
 I have seen the shadow ! " 
 
 Tag sprang up from the low chair in which he had 
 been sitting, and began to nervously fumble through his 
 pockets, as if looking for ammunition. 
 
 " I was out in the bottoms with Armsby, yesterday," 
 Davy continued, "and twice we passed a man rowing 
 about alone. We were not very close to him, bat I am 
 sure it was the shadow, and that he meant mischief. Each 
 time when we encountered him he rowed away rapidly, 
 and when Armsby hailed him he paid no attention." 
 
 Tug was much concerned over this news, for, after find 
 ing his ammunition^ he went to loading his gun with great 
 vigor. 
 
 " Could you see his short ear ? " he stopped to inquire, 
 after ramming down a great quantity of powder. 
 
 " No, his left side was from me, but I am sure it was 
 the same man. And I am sure that the boat in which he 
 rowed was the same one you took the little woman out of. 
 I hurried here as fast as I could to tell you, but when I 
 lay down on the bed to wait for you, I fell asleep. Armsby 
 made me row all day while he kept a look-out for ducks. 
 I am sorry I fell asleep." 
 
 Silas rubbed his sore arms, and looked very meek, but 
 Tug was too busy making arrangements to go out to 
 notice him. 
 
 " The impudence of the scoundrel," he said, as he poured 
 in the shot. " I never thought to look for him in daylight. 
 Which way did he go?" 
 
 Tug peered into the tube of the gun with his big eye,
 
 242 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 before capping it, as if expecting to find his enemy crouch 
 ing clown in the powder, but finding that the powder 
 primed, he put on a cap, and stood ready to go out. 
 
 " Into the woods," Silas answered. " When we first 
 met him, he was rowing toward town, but on seeing us 
 he turned the other way. That was about noon, and just 
 before night we saw him again, coming toward town as 
 before, but he pulled off to the right when he met us, and 
 disappeai*ed under the trees. I expected you in every 
 moment when I fell asleep, or I would have gone up to 
 The Locks, and told Allan Dorris. We ought to tell him 
 about this man, Tug. His appearance here so regularly 
 means trouble. Within a year we have seen him a dozen 
 times, and each time he has been lurking around Allan 
 Dorris. We really ought to do something." 
 
 In the emergency Silas did what he had done a hun 
 dred times in other emergencies he said that something: 
 
 *j O 
 
 should be done, and folded his hands. 
 
 " Ain't I trying to do something ? " his companion an 
 swered testily " Have n't I tried my best to shoot him ? 
 What more can I do ? But he has only been here seven 
 times. Here is the record." 
 
 He handed the gun over to Silas, who saw for the first 
 time that there were seven notches cut in the stock, the 
 particularly long one representing the time that Tug had 
 shot at the shadow, and missed. 
 
 The men had talked of warning Dorris a great many 
 times before, but Tug had always argued that it was un 
 necessary; that it would only render him nervous and 
 suspicious, whereas he was now contented, and very use 
 ful to the townspeople and his young wife. Silas had 
 always been in favor of putting his friend on his guard 
 against an enemy who seemed to come and go with the 
 night, but Tug had stubbornly held out against it, and per-
 
 ME. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION. 243 
 
 haps this was the reason he guarded The Locks so faith 
 fully. Sometimes he would only hear a noise in the 
 underbrush ; at other times he saw a crouching figure, but 
 before deciding to fire at it, it would disappear, but there 
 was always something to convince him that his old enemy 
 was still occasionally lurking about the town. A few times 
 he had seen him openly, as has been narrated, but there 
 was always something in the way of the accomplishment 
 of the purpose nearest his heart ; the only purpose of his 
 life. He did not know himself why he had taken such an 
 interest in Dorris, nor had he ever attempted to explain 
 it to Silas, but he admired the man, and the only ambition 
 he had ever acknowledged was connected with the safety 
 of the pei-son he admired, according to his own confession, 
 next to Rum and Devilishness, for not even Davy out 
 ranked' the owner of The Locks in Tug's callous heart. 
 And Dorris himself was not more pleased when his wife 
 was praised than was the rusty old lawyer, and at her sug 
 gestion ho had worked whenever he could get it to do 
 during the winter which had just passed ; at copying, 
 drawing legal papers, and at keeping books, for he was 
 competent at any of these occupations. It is probable 
 that had she asked him to go to work as a day laborer he 
 would have consented, for she was kind to him in a great 
 many ways, and often invited him to visit The Locks, when 
 he appeared looking very much like a scarecrow, the result 
 of his attempts at fixing up, and using his great eye, after 
 arriving, to look around for refreshments, for he was 
 always hungry. Being a noted character, when it be 
 came known that he had "reformed," and that he 
 was patronized by the Dorrises, a great many others 
 took pains to patronize him, and give him work of 
 the kind he was willing to do, for he was still very par 
 ticular in this respect. When at The Locks, if he threat-
 
 244 THE MYSTEKY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 ened to drink too much, Mrs. Dorris took his glass and 
 kept it, although her husband was usually in favor of 
 "turning him on," as Tug expressed it, for he was very 
 amusing when a little tipsy, and kept them in continued 
 laughter by his dignified oddity. 
 
 " I will tell him to-day," Tug said, taking the gun into 
 his own hands again. " He must not go into the bottoms 
 unless accompanied by a party, and as he hasn't been 
 over yet, he may take it into his head to go to-day. I 
 will tell him in an hour; he won't be up before that 
 time." 
 
 "Do you know, Tug," Silas said, "what I think of 
 you?" 
 
 " Well, out with it. Let 's have it." 
 
 "I think you are a better man than you pretend." 
 
 "It 's a lie ! " his companion replied fiercely, hitting the 
 table a hard blow with his clenched fist. " It 's a lie ! " 
 
 " I have often thought it was very much to your credit 
 that you took such an interest in a hunted man," Davy 
 said, " who is shadowed by a cowardly enemy, but per 
 haps I am mistaken I usually am ; it 's not important." 
 
 Tug hung his head in mortification at this suggestion, 
 and for once in his life neglected to be indifferent and 
 dignified at the same time, which was possible with him, 
 if with no one else. 
 
 " Whoever accuses me of being a good man," he said 
 finally, " wrongs me. When I made the discovery a good 
 many years ago that I could never hope to become any 
 thing, I made up my mind to distinguisli myself for 
 sliiftlessness. I despise a common man, therefore I am 
 an uncommonly proficient loafer. I am better known in 
 this town than some of your respectable men, and I don't 
 have to work so hard. There are men here, and plenty 
 of them, who have worked all their lives, and who have
 
 MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION. 245 
 
 no more than I have, which is nothing. They expect 
 that there is a great deal in the future for them, but 
 I have sense enough to know there is nothing very 
 great in the future for any of us, therefore I live as my 
 fancy dictates. I am a natural-born vagrant ; most of us 
 are, but most of us do not say so. I despise five-cent 
 respectability, therefore I am a dollar vagrant, and will 
 pass for that anywhere. I had enough of good people 
 when I was married to one of them ; my wife was a Good 
 Woman." 
 
 " I hope I have n't offended you," the meek little man 
 said, looking at his fierce companion in alarm. " I did n't 
 mean any disrespect." 
 
 "Oh, you needn't take it back," Tug retorted. 
 " You 've gone too far. It 's all right ; but let me tell 
 you the truth for once in my life I believe I never did 
 before. I expect it will set me to coughing, but I will 
 try it. My wife has n't a relative in the world that I 
 know of ; certainly I never met any of them. The only 
 objection I have to her is that she is Good. She is so 
 Good that she is a bore ; goodness is a fault, and a grave 
 one with her. She could n't possibly be more disagree 
 able than she is, and her fault is, she is Good. When 
 there is a dry spell, she wants to get up a rain, and 
 whether it rains or not, you are expected to give her 
 credit for philanthropy. When it is too cold, she moans 
 about the poor people who are suffering, and those who 
 are around her must accept this as noble, or be called 
 wicked, or heartless, or something else. She even has a 
 Good way of gossiping about people, and I despise her 
 for no other reason than that she is Good. I can't 
 tolerate her ; she makes my feet cold." 
 
 Tug had uttered the word good in each instance like 
 an oath, and Dayy cowered under his cold stare as though
 
 246 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 fearing he might be good, and was about to be accused 
 of it. 
 
 "Everything she does is right; everything you do is 
 wrong, there you have the old womern in a mouthful," 
 the outraged husband continued. " She is always jump 
 ing on you for not being Good, and for your refusal to see 
 goodness in her ; and no one around her sees a moment's 
 peace, for she badgers them to death for their neglect to 
 rid the earth of sin, or some other trifling matter like 
 that. She neglects herself in the most shameful manner 
 to moan about Rampant Rum, or the Vitality of Vice, for 
 I never saw her ears clean, and if ever you find her with 
 clean finger-nails, look cut for the pigs, for they will fly. 
 If she is a Good Woman, then hurrah for the devil. 
 The fat, the lean, the long, the short, the ugly ; they go 
 into the Good business, for I never knew anyone who 
 could attract attention in the ordinary way to engage in 
 it, and when a woman becomes too fat for society, or too 
 plain to be admired, she goes to yelling that she is better 
 than anybody else, and wants everybody to behave, 
 although they may be behaving all right already. The 
 good-looking and amiable ones remain at home, where 
 they belong, and I admire them for it. Had I been a 
 rich man, the old womern would have remained with me, 
 and called that good, but since I was a friendless devil, 
 and a worthless vagabond, she left me, and called that 
 good ; I hope she is the only woman of that kind in the 
 world. Look how she treats little Ben ! Does she act 
 like a mother toward him ? Don't I have to take all the 
 care of him, and look after him, and attend to his bring 
 ing up ? Is it common for mothers to neglect their own 
 ragged children, and weep over fat and contented people ? 
 That 's what she does ; therefore, if you are a friend of 
 mine, don't call me Good"
 
 ME. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION. 247 
 
 Silas was not taking as much interest in the recital as 
 he would have clone under other circumstances, for he 
 was thinking of Allan Dorris ; but Tug was determined to 
 talk about the " old womern." 
 
 " When we were first married," he continued, " I told 
 her some sort of a lie about myself ; a simple sort of a 
 yarn about nothing, and only intended to earn cheap 
 glory for myself. In some way she found me out, for she 
 is always poking her nose around smelling for sin ; and, 
 until I could stand it no longer and finally left her, she 
 was continually asking me for additional particulars of 
 the fictitious incident I had related. I say she found me 
 out ; I don't know it, but I always believed she did, and 
 that she only asked these questions to hear me lie, and 
 gloat over her own virtue. The story I told her was 
 about saving a man's life, and as he afterwards came to 
 Davy's Bend, and knew the old womern, I felt sure that 
 she had found me out. After that she asked me a 
 thousand questions about it, and every time I invented 
 a new lie to go with the first one. Did she do this 
 because she was Good? You bet she did n't ; she did it 
 to convince herself that she was Good, and that I was 
 J3ad; but I tell you that, average me up, I am as good 
 as she is, and I am perfectly worthless." 
 
 Picking up a rickety chair which stood nea'r him, Mr. 
 Whittle smashed it to pieces on the floor, after a tremen 
 dous pounding and racket, which was one of his ways of 
 expressing anger. 
 
 Silas was very much impressed by this ferocious pro 
 ceeding, and looked on in meek astonishment until his 
 companion was seated again. 
 
 "Isn't it time for you to go to The Locks?" he asked. 
 
 " Sure enough," Tug said. " I am going up there this 
 morning. I '11 go now.''
 
 248 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Without further words, he picked up his gun, and 
 started out, going over the hills to avoid the frequented 
 streets. He had made up his mind to make a full breast 
 of the story, so he walked along leisurely, thinking that 
 he had a genuine surprise in store for his friend. 
 
 Ai-riving at The Locks' gate, he blew the whistle, which 
 was always looking out into Dorris' room like an eye, and 
 waited for an answer. It came soon after ; the cheerful 
 voice of Annie Dorris, inquiring what was wanted. 
 
 " It "s me, Tug," he answered, " I want to see Dr. 
 Dorris." 
 
 " He left an hour ago, to go over into the bottoms," 
 was the reply. "Anything urgent?" 
 
 "Oh, no," the man replied, as he swallowed a great 
 lump which came up into his throat. "Nothing urgent; 
 I only wanted him to pull a tooth." 
 
 With long strides at first, Tug started for the river, 
 but after he was out of sight from The Locks, he ran like 
 a man pursued, and arriving at the place where the ferry 
 was tied up, making steam for the day's work, he seized 
 the first boat within his reach, and pushed off into the 
 stream. The owner of it called to him to come back, as 
 he wanted the boat himself ; but Tug paid no attention, 
 except to row the harder, and soon disappeared under the 
 trees.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE SEAECH IN THE WOODS. 
 
 ROM noon until twilight Annie Dorris watched the 
 -JL point on the other shore of the river, where her 
 husband had promised to wave the signal of his return 
 long before nightfall, but nothing did she see save the 
 floating debris of the flood, which looked like tired trav 
 ellers hurrying forward to find a night's shelter. 
 
 Great -trees came floating down, with their arms out 
 stretched as if for help, and occasionally these disappeared 
 in the angry water, as human floaters might disappear 
 after giving up in despair, believing it to be impossible to 
 reach the shore. 
 
 Boats carrying parties of men came back, one by one, 
 to the town, as the afternoon wore away, and the ferry 
 came in later in the evening, panting like a thing of life 
 after its hard day's work; but no boat with a single, 
 strong rower appeared to cheer the gaze of the faithful 
 watcher. 
 
 Everything seemed to be hurrying away from her, and 
 from Davy's Bend, and from the gathering darkness under 
 the trees, save the returning boats, and she thought their 
 occupants appeared to be anxious to reach their own 
 homes, and tell of some horror in the woods. Perhaps 
 some of the rowers had a message to be delivered at The 
 Locks ; and when they did not come, the fear found its 
 way to her throbbing heart that the news was dreadful, 
 
 219
 
 250 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 and that they delayed until they could muster up more 
 courage. 
 
 While it was yet light on the water, an ugly night-shade 
 collected under the trees where her husband's boat had 
 disappeared, reaching out with long arms, to capture those 
 in the boats, who were hurrying away from it, a black 
 monster it seemed, fat with prey, watching the town with 
 stealthy care until its people were sleeping after the day's 
 work, and unsuspicious of attack. 
 
 As Annie Dorris watched this black shadow grow 
 larger and larger, and become so bold as to approach still 
 nearer to the town, it seemed to her that no one within it 
 could ever escape; and though an occasional boat did 
 come out, it hurried toward the town rapidly, as if in 
 fright, and this encouraged her to hope that her husband 
 had been delayed in some way, and would safely return, 
 with wonderful adventures to relate. So she kept up the 
 vigil, and saw the shadow grow blacker as the afternoon 
 became night. 
 
 When it was too dark to see even the river, Annie Dor 
 ris stood looking out into the night, hoping that her hus 
 band had returned another way, and that his footstep 
 would soon be heard on the stair ; for she could think of 
 no danger that could befall him, since rowing in the flood 
 was safe, in spite of the strong current. Once she heard 
 a light step on the stair, and she was sure that it was her 
 husband coming up to surprise her, and there was a pause 
 of long duration on the landing; but when she threw 
 open the door in joyful expectation, the quiet darkness 
 looked at her in pity. More than once the footstep on 
 the stair was heard by the anxious and terrified wife, and 
 more than once she hurried to the door to look into the 
 hall ; but hope seemed to be leaving the house, and she 
 imagined she heard it in the lower hall, hurrying away.
 
 THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS. 251 
 
 Returning to the window, she saw such fearful phan 
 toms in the darkness that she ran, bareheaded, into the 
 street, and up the hill to her father's house. 
 
 " Annie ! " Thompson Benton said, as she ran into his 
 room with starting eyes and dishevelled hair. " Annie, 
 what has happened ? " 
 
 "Oh, father," she replied, bursting into tears, "my 
 husband has not returned from the bottoms ! " 
 
 Thompson Benton had been expecting a calamity to 
 befall Allan Dorris ; for, while he had grown to honestly 
 admire him, there was always something in his manner 
 which indicated that he was in danger. Perhaps this sus 
 picious dread grew out of the keen relish with which Allan 
 Dorris enjoyed his home ; as if every day were to be his 
 last. It may have been the result of the general belief 
 that he remained in the town to hide away from malicious 
 enemies, or knowledge of the pathetic sadness which 
 always distinguished his manner; but, whatever it was, 
 Thompson Benton put on his coat and boots, which he 
 had just taken off, precisely as a man might do who had 
 been summoned on a long-expected errand. He had no 
 explanations of the absence to offer to the weeping wife, 
 but became grave at once, and made his preparations to 
 go out in nervous haste. So, without speaking an encour 
 aging word to his daughter, who had sunk down on her 
 knees beside her father's chair, he left the house and hur 
 ried down to the town. 
 
 "With long strides he reached the river's brink, where 
 a number of boats were tied, and spoke to a few trusty 
 men who were there, some of whom at once put oars into 
 two of the boats, while others hurried back into the town 
 after lanterns and torches. 
 
 While they were gone Thompson Benton walked up 
 and down the bank, pausing frequently to look toward
 
 252 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 the woods, but he said nothing, and paid no attention to 
 those who looked at him curiously for an explanation ; for 
 the absence of this grim old man from his home at night 
 was important ; it was particularly important now, since 
 it was known that he was only waiting for the return of 
 the men with the torches, to go over into the bottoms. 
 
 The news spread rapidly that something unusual was in 
 the air, and when the two boats, rowed by four men each, 
 pushed out into the stream, half of the town was left on 
 the bank to talk of their mission in low whispers, and hope 
 that Allan Dorris would be found safe and well. 
 
 Among those who watched the lights in the boats as 
 
 o o 
 
 they were rowed away and finally disappeared under the 
 trees, was Silas Davy, who felt that his neglect to warn 
 Allan Dorris of the shadow which followed him so per 
 sistently had resulted in a tragedy at last. The departure 
 of the men at that hour to look for him, and the prepara 
 tions they had made for the search, were dreadfully sig 
 nificant, there could be no mistake of that ; and Silas 
 wandered along the shore for an hour, hoping to see the 
 boats return, and hear the men talking cheerfully on the 
 water, indicating that his friend had been found. But 
 the longer he watched the woods, the darker they became, 
 and the less prospect there seemed to be that the lights the 
 men had carried would ever reappear, so he resolved to 
 walk up to The Locks, hoping to find Dorris there, and be 
 the first to give the news to the town. But at the gate 
 he met Mrs. Wedge, who anxiously asked him for infor 
 mation of the missing man ; there was nothing cheerful 
 in her pale, anxious face, nor in the stillness which hung 
 about the place like a pall. 
 
 Silas was compelled to acknowledge that there was so 
 little hope in the town that he had come there for encour 
 agement. He then told her in a whisper of the departure
 
 THE SEARCH IK THE WOODS. 253 
 
 of the men in the boats, and of their carrying lanterns and 
 torches, but Mrs. Wedge did not give him the encourage 
 ment he expected, for she put her hands to her face, and 
 Silas was certain that she was crying. When she had re 
 covered her composure, she motioned the little man to 
 follow her, and they walked together up the broad walk, 
 and up the stone steps until they entered the door. There 
 were no lights in the house, and the great mass of stone 
 seemed to be a part of the darkness from the woods. 
 When they were on the inside, Mrs. Wedge carefully 
 closed the door, and said to him softly, 
 
 " Listen ! " 
 
 A timid step on the stair,, going up and coming down in 
 unceasing monotony. Occasionally it stopped on going 
 up, as if it were of no use to look again ; on coming down, 
 as if fearing some corner had been overlooked in the 
 search, but it soon went on again, up and down the stair, 
 into the room which was sacred to the empty cradle, and 
 out of it again, the step on the stair which always gave 
 warning of trouble. Once it came so near them that Silas 
 
 O 
 
 half expected, as he stood trembling in the darkness, that 
 the ghost of poor Helen would lay hands on him, and in 
 quire in pitiful tones for the little girl who seemed to be 
 lost in the house. But it passed by, and wearily ascended 
 the stairs, only to come wearily down again after a short 
 absence in the room where the light and the life had gone 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge led Silas back to the gate, and, after cry 
 ing softly to herself awhile, said to him in a voice. so agi 
 tated that he could scarcely understand her, 
 
 " It has not been heard before since they were married. 
 I had hoped that poor Helen had found rest at last, but 
 her footstep on the stair this night means I won't say 
 the word ! It might be carried by some evil spirit to his
 
 254 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 wife. The poor girl is at her father's, and I am afraid to 
 look at her. O Annie, Annie ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the boats pursued their journey into the 
 woods ; a man in the bow of each with a torch to direct 
 the rowers. The underbrush was submerged, and they 
 made fair progress toward the line of hills opposite the 
 town, though they drifted about a good deal, for some 
 times they were in doubt as to their bearings, as there was 
 nothing to guide them. Occasionally they stopped to lis 
 ten, hoping that Dorris had disabled his boat, and was safe 
 in some of the trees, but, hearing nothing, they hallooed 
 themselves, each one taking his turn until they were all 
 hoarse. But the rippling water laughed with joy be 
 cause their voices sounded dead in the forest lake, and 
 seemed afraid to venture out into the damp, noisome 
 darkness. 
 
 Finding a place where the current was not so strong, 
 they pulled to a point which they believed to be above the 
 town, calling " Halloo ! Halloo ! " at every boat's length ; 
 but the devilish gurgle in the water continued, and their 
 voices came back to them, like hounds ordered to enter a 
 dangerous lair. Occasionally a waterfowl resting for the 
 night was disturbed, and went crashing through the 
 branches of the trees, but no other sound came to them, 
 and as the hours wore away they looked at each other in 
 grave apprehension. 
 
 A few times, in the middle of clearings, they came upon 
 deserted houses, with vagrant water pouring in at the 
 windows, only to creep out at other windows after making 
 a search in the rooms for lives to destroy. But most of 
 the people had escaped to the hills with their farm ani 
 mals, leaving their household effects to be covered with 
 the reptiles which had been frightened out of the thickets
 
 THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS. 255 
 
 and tall grass, and which clung to whatever offered them 
 safety. Under the trees they frequently found drifts 
 composed of household furniture, bridges, fences, out 
 houses, logs, stumps, and what not, and the desolation 
 which reigned supreme in that dark, damp place was re 
 lieved but little by the glare of the torches, which made 
 the men look like pale-faced spirits rowing about in an 
 eternal effort to escape. 
 
 If the men wearied in the search, a look at the earnest, 
 gray-haired old man in the largest boat, who was always 
 straining his eyes in attempting to penetrate the darkness, 
 revived them, and they floated on, pulling to the right or 
 to the left, as Thompson Benton directed, and crying, 
 " Halloo ! Halloo ! " in tones which sounded plaintive, and 
 sad, and hopeless. Always an earnest man, Thompson 
 Benton had never before been as earnest as he was this 
 night, and he had called " Halloo ! Halloo ! " so frequently 
 that when he spoke it was either in a hoarse voice, or in a 
 soft whisper. 
 
 At the lower point of the bend in the hills which gave 
 the town its name, a sluggish lake was found, the main 
 current striking diagonally across the river to shorten the 
 distance in its hurry to do mischief below, and the boats 
 found their way into this. While floating around not far 
 from the base of the hills, those who were in the smaller 
 boat suddenly came upon a gravestone, the top of which 
 was only a foot out of water. 
 
 " We are floating over Hedgepath graveyard," the man 
 who was in front carrying the torch said to the othei-s. 
 The stone which had attracted his attention seemed to be 
 taller than the others, for it was the only one appearing 
 above the surface ; the water covered everything except 
 this rounded piece of stone, which alone remained to mark 
 the resting-place of the dead, providing the dead had not
 
 256 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 been seized with the universal desire for floating off, and 
 gone away to visit graveyards in the lower country. 
 
 He caught hold of the stone to steady the boat, and, 
 throwing his light upon the other side of it, read : 
 
 " Sacred to the memory of " 
 
 The name in whose honor the slab had been raised was 
 below the water, and the man put his hand down into it 
 to read, as a blind man reads raised letters. 
 
 " The first letter is A," he said, rubbing the face of the 
 stone with his fingers, " like the alphabet ; and the next 
 is L." 
 
 The fellow continued rubbing the face of the stone with 
 the tips of his fingers, while his lips moved as he tried 
 letter after letter, and gave them up. 
 
 " Hello ! Another L ! " he said in surprise, at last, draw 
 ing up his hand hurriedly on making the discovery, and 
 shaking it violently to throw off the water, but there re 
 mained on his wrist a sickening scum, which he hurriedly 
 transferred to the side of the boat. 
 
 " I '11 read no further," he said, with a frightened look. 
 'I'm afraid it will turn out to be Allan, with a space 
 and a bisj ' D ' following it." 
 
 O fJ 
 
 The torch-bearer still held on to the stone while the 
 rowers rested, but the other boat, in which Thompson 
 Benton sat, was busy a short distance beyond them ; 
 from one clump of debris to another, as if he only 
 hoped now to find the lifeless body of the one he 
 sought. 
 
 " Strange people are buried here," the torch-bearer said, 
 speaking softly to his panting companions, while they 
 rested from their hard work. " Suicides, and those who 
 have died violent deaths ; Iledgepath is devoted to them. 
 I 've heard it said that this is a rough neighborhood, but 
 the best of their dead are put away further up the hill. If
 
 THE SEAECH IN THE WOODS. 257 
 
 the flood has not drowned out the ghosts, we will see one 
 to-night." 
 
 The suggestion of ghosts was not a pleasant one to the 
 rowers, particularly to those who were farthest from the 
 torch, for they looked timidly about as though they were 
 likely to be approached fr'om behind by spirits riding on 
 headstones. 
 
 " There is a road running along the edge of Iledgepath, 
 leading from the ferry into the hills," the torch-bearer 
 said, who was the bravest of the lot, because he was 
 directly under the light, " and those who have travelled 
 it at night say that the inhabitants of this place sit on 
 stumps beside the road and want to argue with the 
 passers-by. One fellow who was hanged, he has a great 
 deal to say about the perjured witnesses ; and another who 
 was accused of poisoning himself, he says he found it in 
 his coffee, though he does not tell Avho put it there ; and 
 so many others have horrible stories to tell that travellers 
 usually hurry by this place as fast as they can." 
 
 It was not a cheerful subject, but his companions lis 
 tened with close attention, occasionally casting glances 
 behind them. 
 
 "The unknown people who are found floating in the 
 river ; they are buried here, and those who travel the 
 Hedgepath road at night say these offer them letters, and 
 ask that they be posted. I have forgotten who it was, 
 but somebody told me that he received one of these letters 
 in his own hand, and mailed it, and that soon after one of 
 the bodies was taken up by friends from a distance, and 
 carried away." 
 
 The grim joker was interrupted by a hail from the other 
 boat, and the men dipped their oars into the water, and 
 pulled toward it. 
 
 Thompson Benton and those who were with him were
 
 258 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 looking with eager eyes at a boat which was floating a 
 short distance beyond them, within the rays of their torch, 
 and which was rising and falling with the ripples, with 
 both oars hanging helplessly out in the water. The men 
 were waiting in fear for their companions to come up to 
 keep them company before approaching it, and when the 
 two boats were side by side, they were held together, and 
 the outside oars of each were used to row toward the 
 deserted craft, as a party of men who discover a suspicious 
 object in a strange locality might move toward it together. 
 
 As they drew nearer, the form of a prostrate man was 
 seen 
 
 Dismiss thy husband into the shadows from whence he 
 came, O pretty wife, for he is murdered. 
 
 In the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the 
 rowers found Allan Dorris, dead ; his eyes closed as if in 
 disturbed sleep, and his face upturned to the heavens. 
 His right hand was gripped on the side of the boat, as if 
 his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting posture, 
 and look toward the town where his faithful wife was 
 watching for his return. The flash of the torches made 
 the face look ghastly and white, and there was a stain of 
 blood on his lips. Those who looked upon the face saw 
 in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with 
 them as long as they lived ; they spoke of it tenderly to 
 their children, who grew up and gave their own children 
 descriptions of Allan Dorris's pitiful face as he lay dead in 
 his boat on the night when the waters of the great flood 
 began to recede. It is said that the face of a sorrowing 
 man looks peaceful in death ; it may be equally true that 
 death stamps unmistakable regret on the face of its victim 
 who is not ready. 
 
 O, pitiless Death, you might have spared this man, who 
 was just beginning, and taken one of the mourning thou-
 
 THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS. 259 
 
 sands who watch for you through the night, and are sad 
 because of your long delay. This man desired so much 
 to live that his white face seems to say now : " I cannot 
 die ; I dread it Oh, how terrible it would be to die now ! " 
 And his eyes are wet with tears ; a touching monument of 
 his dread of thee ! 
 
 The rough men reverently uncovered their heads as 
 Thompson Benton looked at the dead man in stupefaction, 
 but when he had recovered, he lifted the body gently up, 
 and made a hasty examination. Laying it down again, he 
 looked at the men, and said in atone which indicated that 
 he had long expected it, 
 
 " Shot in the back." 
 
 Lashing their boats together, the rowers ^pulled back 
 to town without speaking a word; that containing the 
 body of Allan Dorris towing behind, the pathetic face look 
 ing up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. The stars came 
 out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, 
 and the storm was over. 
 
 Peace to the pathetic dust ! In the town on the hill, 
 where the twinkling lights mingle with the stars, waits a 
 weeping woman who knew Allan Dorris well ; let her 
 opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the gossiping 
 winds which have been whispering into the ears of the 
 people.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LITTLE BEK 
 
 IN answer to a note requesting his presence at The 
 Locks, Silas Davy hurried towards that part of the 
 town as soon as he found relief from his duties at the hotel, 
 regretting as he went along that Mr. Whittle was not 
 ahead of him with his gun, for late events had not 
 been of a cheerful nature, and he felt the need of better 
 company than little Ben, who dragged his weary frame 
 into the hotel kitchen a few minutes before Silas started. 
 
 Not that Silas did not love the boy ; nor had he any 
 objection to his company on this errand, but with cries 
 of murder in the air, and the reports of guns, he thought 
 he would have preferred a stouter companion in his walk ; 
 but as they hurried along, little Ben keeping up with 
 difficulty, Silas thought that perhaps the boy's mild good 
 ness would keep away evil, and protect them both. It 
 occurred to him for the first time that in a storm of thun 
 der and lighting he should like to keep close to little Ben, 
 for though mankind might be unjust to him, the monsters 
 of strength would pity his weakness, and strike elsewhere, 
 therefore Silas came to feel quite content in his company. 
 
 Of the shot in the bottoms which had created so much 
 excitement in Davy's Bend, and of the drifting boat which 
 had been found in the flood by Thompson Benton and 
 his men, Silas knew nothing except as he heard these 
 matters discussed about the hotel. Although the people 
 went to The Locks in crowds the day after the body was 
 260
 
 ' LITTLE BEN. 261 
 
 found, and remained there from early in the morning 
 until late at night, every new arrival being taken into one of 
 the darkened lower rooms to look at the dead man, Silas 
 was not of the number. He was afraid to look at his 
 friend's face, fearing he could see in it an accusation of 
 his neglect to give warning of the shadow, so he remained 
 away, and went about his duties in a dreamy way, starting 
 at every sound, as though he feared that the people had at 
 last found out his guilt, and had come to accuse him for 
 not notifying them of the danger of which he had been 
 aware. The receipt of the note had frightened him, too, 
 and he felt sure that when be entered the presence of 
 Annie Dorris, she would bretik down, and inquire why he 
 had robbed her of a husband in his usual thoughtless Avay. 
 Perhaps the sight of little Ben, in his weakness and good 
 ness, would plead for him, so he picked the child up, and 
 carried him on the way as far as his own weak arms would 
 permit. 
 
 Mrs. Wedge soon appeared in answer to his ring at The 
 Locks gate, and admitted him into the hall where he had 
 heard the step on the stair on the night when there was 
 alarm because of Dorris's absence in the bottoms. It was 
 dark in the hall now, as it was then, and while Silas 
 waited for Mrs. Wedge to fasten the door at which they 
 had entered, he listened eagerly for the footsteps, and 
 when he did not hear them, he trembled at the sound of 
 his own as he finally went up the stairs behind Mrs. 
 Wedge, followed by little Ben. 
 
 Going up to the door leading into the room which had 
 been occupied by his friend, Silas was ushered into the 
 presence of Annie Dorris, who was seated near the window 
 where the shadow had twice appeared. There was a 
 great change in her manner, he noticed at once ; the pretty 
 lace, which had formerly always carried the suspicion of
 
 262 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 a laugh, was now distinguished by a settled grief, and it 
 was pale and haggard. 
 
 Her pale face was in sharp contrast to the dress of 
 mournful black, and the good fellow who was always 
 trying to do right, but who was always in doubt as to 
 which was right and which was wrong, would have given 
 his life cheerfully to have been a month younger. 
 
 While Silas stood near the doorway, changing his bat 
 from one hand to the other in confusion, he noticed that 
 tears stai'ted to her eyes. 
 
 " Please don't cry," Silas said, walking towards her. 
 " I want to tell you the guilty part I have taken in this 
 dreadful affair, but I cannot muster up the courage when 
 there are tears in your eyes. Please don't cry." 
 
 Annie Dorris bravely wiped her tears away at this re 
 quest, and looked at Silas with a face indicating that if 
 his presence had opened her wounds afresh, she would try 
 and conceal it. 
 
 " I am oppressed with the fear that I am to blame for 
 this," he continued, in desperate haste, " and I must tell 
 you, and get it off my mind, even though you send for the 
 sheriff and have me arrested; I cannot contain the secret 
 any longer, now that I am in your presence." 
 
 Little Ben had crawled into a chair on entering the 
 room, and was already fast asleep, with his head hanging 
 on his breast, dreaming, let us hope, of kind treatment, 
 and of a pleasant home. 
 
 " Within a month after Allan Dorris came to Davy's 
 Bend," Silas said, seating himself near Mrs. Dorris, "Tug 
 and I discovered that he was shadowed by some one, who 
 came and went at night. For more than a year, until 
 the day before it happened we saw the strange man at 
 intervals, but Tug said it would unnecessarily alarm you 
 both to know it, so we kept it to ourselves. I am sorry
 
 LITTLE BEX. 263 
 
 we did it, but we thought then it was for the best. I 
 always wanted to tell you, but Tug, who worshipped you 
 both, would never consent to it until the morning your 
 husband went into the bottoms alone. When he came 
 here, and found that he had gone, he followed him, and 
 has not been seen since The day before, while rowing 
 in the bottoms, I met the shadow, and when Tug heard 
 this, he came at once to warn your husband not to venture 
 out alone." 
 
 Annie Dorris made no reply. Perhaps this was no 
 more than she expected from Silas, whom she had sent 
 for to question. 
 
 "The shot which once came in at that window was 
 fired by Tug," Davy continued, pointing to the pane 
 which had been broken on the night of Allan Dorris's 
 marriage to Annie Benton, " and he fired at the shadow 
 as it was looking in at your husband. For more than a 
 year Tug has carried a gun, and has tried to protect you ; 
 but he made a mistake in not giving warning of this 
 stealthy enemy. Of late months he has spent his nights 
 in walking around this place, trying to get a shot at the 
 shadow ; and though some people accuse him of a horri 
 ble crime, because of his absence from town, he is really 
 on the track of the guilty man, and will return to prove 
 it. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to see you in mourn 
 ing, but I hope you believe I did what I thought was for 
 the best." 
 
 When Silas had concluded, they were both silent and 
 thoughtful, and the heavy breathing of little Ben was all 
 the sound that could be heard. This attracted the atten 
 tion of Silas, and he said, respectfully, 
 
 " Would you mind kissing the boy, ma'am ? The poor 
 little fellow is so friendless, and has such a hard time of 
 it, that he makes my heart ache. If you will be good
 
 264 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 enough, I will tell him of it, and he will always remember 
 it gratefully. Poor chap! I don't suppose he was ever 
 kissed in his life." 
 
 Annie Dorris went over to the sleeping boy, and, after 
 kissing him, as had been requested, picked him up, and 
 laid him down on a lounge which stood in the room. 
 
 " There was always something fierce and mysterious 
 about my husband," Mrs. Dorris said, after a time ; " but 
 both attracted me to him. I could not help it. A hun 
 dred times he has offered to tell me his story, but I did 
 not care to hear it ; so that now I know nothing about 
 him except that he was the most worthy gentleman I ever 
 knew, and combined all those qualities which my heart 
 craved. I knew when we were first married that some 
 such result as this was probable, but I could not resist 
 him ; and I do not regret it now. Three months of such 
 happiness as I have known will repay me for future years 
 of loneliness, and his kindness and consideration are sweet 
 memories, which console me even now while my grief is 
 so fresh. He was manly and honorable with me in every 
 way; and the fault, if there has been a fault, was my 
 own. I am sure that he was a better man because of his 
 misfortune. I believe now that trouble purifies men, and 
 makes them better ; and the more I studied him the more 
 I was convinced that there were few like him; that a 
 trifling thing had ruined his life, and that there were 
 hundreds of men, less honorable, who were more fortu 
 nate. Even now I do not care to know more of him than 
 I already know. I fear that this is a fault ; but I knew 
 him better than anyone else in the world, and his manner 
 was so pathetic at times, and his love for me always so 
 pronounced, that, though I am now a young woman, 
 I expect to spend my life in doing honor to a noble 
 memory."
 
 LITTLE BEN. 265 
 
 There was something so womanly in her manner that 
 Silas was convinced that she would live only to honor the 
 memory of his friend. There was inexpressible sadness 
 in her face, but there was also strength, and capacity, and 
 love, and honor. 
 
 "I am the one person whose good opinion he cared 
 for," she said again ; " and I forget everything except his 
 love for me, and his manliness in everything. It is no 
 thing to me what he was away from here. A single atom 
 in the human sea, he may have committed a wrong while 
 attempting to do right, and came here a penitent, trying 
 to right it; but as I knew him he was worthy of any 
 woman's profoundest admiration, and he shall receive it 
 from me as long as I live. The stream of life leads up 
 wards to heaven against a strong current, and, knowing 
 myself, I" do not wonder that occasionally the people for 
 get, and float down with the tide. He has told me that 
 he had but one apology to make to any one, to me, for 
 not finding me. sooner. This was a pretty and an unde 
 served compliment ; but it was evident that in his own 
 mind he did not feel that he had wronged anyone, and I 
 feel so. I have no idle regrets, and do not blame you 
 and Tug. On the contrary, I thank you both for your 
 thoughtful care. When Tug returns, as I am sure he will, 
 bring him here. Who has not wounded their best friends 
 in trying to befriend them ? Though you two have 
 grievously wounded me, I recognize the goodness of your 
 motives, and feel grateful." 
 
 She got up at this, and started toward the door, motion 
 ing Silas to follow. From the dark hall she stepped 
 through the door which Dorris had never entered 
 alive ; but he had been carried there dead. A dim 
 light burned near the door, and there was something 
 in the air a taint not to be described, but to be
 
 266 THE JIYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 remembered with dread which made Silas think of a 
 sepulchre. 
 
 On a raised platform, in the room to which the steps of 
 poor Helen were always leading, stood a metallic burial 
 case, with a movable lid showing the face under glass. 
 The face was so natural that Silas thought it must have 
 been preserved in some manner, for his friend seemed to 
 be quietly sleeping, and he could not realize that he had 
 been dead a week. Even before Silas had taken his hasty 
 glance, Annie Dorris had knelt beside the inanimate clay 
 of her husband, and he thought he had better go away 
 he could think of nothing else to do and leave her. 
 And this he did, only stopping at the door to see a picture 
 which he never forgot, the coffin, the sobbing woman, 
 the dim light, and the gloomy hangings of the room. 
 
 On being awakened, little Ben shielded his face with his 
 hands, as if expecting a blow, which was his usual greet 
 ing on opening his eyes, but, recognizing his friend, he 
 contentedly followed him down the stairs, and out at the 
 iron gate into the street. Davy was not a large man or 
 a strong man, but little Ben found it difficult to follow 
 him, and was compelled to ask his friend to stop and rest 
 before they reached the hotel. When they finally reached 
 the kitchen, they found it deserted, and Silas hastily 
 placed meat and bread before the boy. This he devoured 
 like a hungry wolf, and Davy wondered that such a little 
 boy had so much room under his jacket. 
 
 " They don 't feed you overly well at the farm, do they, 
 Ben ? " Silas inquired. 
 
 The boy had turned from the table, and was sitting 
 with his hands clasped around his knees, and his bare feet 
 on the upper round of the chair. After looking at his 
 companion a moment, he thoughtfully shook his head. 
 
 "You work hard enough, heaven " knows," Silas said
 
 LITTLE BEN. 267 
 
 again, in a tone which sounded like a strong man pitying 
 some one less unfortunate, but there was little difference 
 between the two, except age, for there was every reason 
 to believe that should little Ben's cough get better, he 
 would become such a man as Silas was. 
 
 "I do all I can," little Ben answered, "but I am so 
 weak that I cannot do enough to satisfy them. I haven't 
 had enough sleep in years : I think that is the trouble 
 with me." 
 
 That cough, little Ben, is not the result of loss of sleep : 
 you must have contracted that in going out to work in 
 the early moi-ning, illy clad, while other children were 
 asleep. 
 
 " I 'm going to tell you something, poor fellow," Silas 
 said, " which will please you. While you were asleep up 
 at The' Locks to-night, the lady kissed you." 
 
 Little Ben put his hand apologetically to his mouth, 
 and coughed with a hoarse bark that startled Silas, for he 
 noticed that the cough seemed worse every time the boy 
 came to town. But he seemed to be only coughing to 
 avoid crying, for there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 "You are not going to cry, Ben?" Silas said, in a 
 voice that indicated that he was of that mind himself. 
 
 "I think not, sir," the boy replied. "When I first 
 went to the farm, I cried so much that I think that the 
 tears have all left me. I was only thinking it was very 
 kind of the lady, for nobody will have me about except 
 you, Mr. Davy. My father and mother, they won't have 
 me around, and I am in Mr. Quade's way; and his wife 
 and children have so much trouble of their own that 
 they cannot pay attention to me. They live very poorly, 
 and work very hard, sir, and I do not blame them; but 1 
 often regret that I am always sick and tired, and that no 
 one seems to care for me."
 
 268 THE MYSTERY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 Little Ben seemed to be running the matter over in bis 
 mind, for he was silent a long while. In rummaging 
 among his recollections he found nothing pleasant, appa 
 rently, for when he turned his face to Silas it showed the 
 quivering and pathetic distortion which precedes an open 
 burst of grief. 
 
 " If you don't care," he said, " I believe I will cry ; I 
 can't help it, since you told me about the lady." 
 
 The little fellow sobbed aloud at the recollection of his 
 hard life, all the time trying to control himself, and wiping 
 his eyes with his rough sleeve. He was such a picture of 
 helpless grief that Silas Davy turned his back, and appeared 
 to be rubbing something out of his eyes ; first one and 
 then the other. 
 
 " I am sorry I am not able to help you, Ben," the good 
 fellow said, turning toward the boy again, after he had re 
 covered himself ; " but I am of so little consequence that 
 I am unable to help anyone ; I cannot help myself much. 
 I have rather a hard time getting along, too, and I am a 
 good deal like you, Ben, for, though I work all the time, I 
 do not give much satisfaction." 
 
 Little Ben looked at his companion curiously. 
 
 " I thought you were very happy here, sir," he said, 
 " with plenty to eat eveiy day. You are free to go to the 
 cupboard whenever you are hungry, but often I am un 
 able to sleep because I am so hungry. You never go to 
 bed feeling that way, do you, Mr. Davy ? " 
 
 " No," he replied, almost smiling at the boy's idea that 
 anyone who had plenty to eat must be entirely content ; 
 "but I am a shiftless sort of a man, and I don't get on 
 very well. I always want to do what is right and fair, 
 but somehow I don't always do it ; I sometimes think, 
 though, that I am more unjust to myself than to anyone 
 else. It causes me a good deal of regret that I am not able
 
 LITTLE BEX. 269 
 
 to help such as you, Ben. If I were able, I would like to 
 buy you a suit of clothes." 
 
 " Summer is coming on, sir, and these will do very 
 well," the boy replied. 
 
 " Yes ; but you were very thinly clad last Avinter, Ben, 
 and oftentimes I could not sleep from thinking of how 
 cold you were when out in the fields with the stock. If 
 ever there was a good boy, you are one, Ben ; but you are 
 not treated half so well as the bad boys I know. This 
 is what worries me, as hunger worries you." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you are poor, sir," little Ben said. 
 " Not that I want you to do more for me than you have 
 done, but you have always been so kind to me that I 
 thought you must be rich to afford it. You always have 
 something for me when I come to town, and I am very 
 thankful to you." 
 
 What a friendless child, Davy thought, to consider 
 what he had done for him the favor of a rich man ! A 
 little to eat, and small presents on holidays ; he had been 
 able to do no more than that ; but, since no one else was 
 kind to the boy, these were magnificent favors in his eyes. 
 
 "On which cheek did the lady kiss me, Mr. Davy?" the 
 boy inquired later in the night. 
 
 " On this one," Davy replied, touching his left cheek 
 with his finger tips. 
 
 " I was thinking it was that one," little Ben continued. 
 " There has been a glow in it ever since you told me. I 
 should think that the boys who have mothers who do not 
 hate them are very happy. Do you know whether they 
 are, Mr. Davy?" 
 
 "I know they ought to be," he said; "but some of 
 them are veiy indifferent to their mothers. I have never 
 had any experience myself; my own mother died before 
 I could remember."
 
 270 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " It seems to me," little Ben continued, " that if I were 
 as well off as some of the boys I see, I should be entirely 
 satisfied. I must start home soon, or I will not get there 
 in time to be called for to-morrow's work, and when I 
 creep into the hay, where I sleep after coming to see you, 
 I intend to think that the kiss the lady gave me was the 
 kiss of my mother, and that she does not hate me any 
 more." 
 
 For such as you, little Ben, there must be a heaven. 
 The men who are strong in doubt, as well as in the 
 world's battles, come to that conclusion when they re 
 member that there can be no other reward for such as 
 you and Silas Davy, for your weakness is so unfit for this 
 life that it must be a burden which can only be reckoned 
 in your favor in the Master's house where there are 
 many mansions. 
 
 " If thei*e were not so many happy children," little Ben 
 said again, " perhaps I should not mind it so much, but I 
 see them wherever I go, and I cannot understand why my 
 lot is so much harder than theirs. My bones ache so, and 
 I w T ant to sleep and rest so much, that I cannot help feel 
 ing regret ; except for this I hope I would be happy as 
 you are." 
 
 Silas Davy is anything but a happy man, little Ben, 
 but, being a good man, he does not complain, and does the 
 best he can, so when the boy soon after started for the 
 farm, and Silas walked with him to the edge of the town, 
 he pretended to be very well satisfied with himself, and 
 with everything around him. Indeed, he was almost gay, 
 but it was only mockery to encourage his unfortunate 
 companion. 
 
 "Next Christmas, Ben," Silas said, as they walked 
 along, "you shall have" he paused a moment to con 
 sider his financial possibilities "a sled from the store."
 
 LITTLE BEX. 271 
 
 " That is too much," Ben replied, with hope and glad 
 ness in his voice. " A sled will cost a great deal, for the 
 painting and striping must come high. I would like to 
 have a sled more than anything else, but I am afraid you 
 would rob yourself in buying it. I am afraid that is too 
 much, Mr. Davy." 
 
 " It will not cost as much as you expect, and I can 
 easily save the money between this and Christmas," the 
 good fellow replied. " I have always wanted to do it, and 
 I will, and it will be a pleasure. Remember, Ben, when 
 you feel bad off in future, what you are to get when you 
 come to see me Christmas morning." 
 
 "I will not forget, sir." 
 
 " When you own the sled, and I have had the pleasure 
 of giving it to you, we will feel like very fortunate fel 
 lows, w-on't we, Ben?" Silas said again, cheerfully, as 
 they walked along. 
 
 " We shall feel as though we are getting along in the 
 world, I should think, Mr. Davy," the boy replied. 
 
 They had reached the edge of the town by this time, 
 and Davy stopped to turn back. He took the boy's hand 
 for a moment, and said, 
 
 " Remember the sled, Ben. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, sir. I will not forget." 
 
 Silas had scarcely said good night to him before he was 
 lost to his sight, he was such a very little fellow.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 TUG'S RETURN. 
 
 A MONTH had passed since Allan Dorris was found 
 -^~ floating over the mounds in Hedgepath graveyard, 
 and the waters having gone down in the bottoms, the peo 
 ple were busy in rescuing their homes from the ooze and 
 black mud beneath which they were buried. There had 
 been so much destruction in the bottoms, and so much 
 loss of trade in the town, that the people were all 
 mourners like Annie Dorris and Silas Davy, and it did 
 not seem probable that any of them would ever be cheer 
 ful again. 
 
 Silas Davy was the only person in the town, save Annie 
 Dorris, who knew the secret of the murder, and he kept 
 it to himself, believing that Tug was on the trail of the 
 culprit, and that nothing could be gained by making the 
 people aware of the mysterious man and his mysterious 
 visits. He was sure that Tug would return finally, when, 
 if he saw lit, he might tell the people what he knew ; 
 otherwise they might continue their conjectures, which 
 generally implicated Tug. From the day of the murder 
 he had not been seen in the town, and while it was not 
 openly charged that he had fired the fatal shot, a great 
 many talked mysteriously of his disappearance, and 
 believed that he had something to do with it, for about 
 this time it became known that he had frequently been 
 seen around The Locks in the middle of the night, carry 
 ing a gun. 
 
 272
 
 TUG'S RETURN. 273 
 
 Silas had gone down to the old house by the river, to 
 see if the bed gave any signs of having been occupied, 
 as there was a possibility that Tug had returned, and was 
 ashamed to make his presence known, not having accom 
 plished his purpose. But there was no sign. The dust 
 upon everything was proof enough that the owner was 
 still away, and Silas was preparing to blow out the light, 
 and return to the hotel, when his friend came walking in 
 at the door ; ragged, dirty, and footsore, and a picture of 
 poverty and woe, but there could be no doubt that it was 
 Tug, for he carried in his right hand the old musket that 
 had so long been his constant companion. His clothes 
 hung in shreds about him, and bare skin appeared at his 
 elbows and knees ; his tall hat was so crumpled that it 
 looked like a short hat, and his hair and whiskers were 
 long and unkempt. There were bits of hay and twigs 
 clinging to his clothing, and Silas was sure that he had 
 been sleeping out at night, and creeping through the brush 
 during the day. 
 
 "Tug, my old friend!" Silas said, in a voice trembling 
 with excitement and pleasure. " God bless me ; how glad 
 I am to see you ! " 
 
 Tug sat down wearily in a chair, and laid the gun 
 down at his feet. He was certainly very tired, and very 
 hungry, and very weak, and Silas thought how fortunate 
 it was he had brought a lunch with him, although he had 
 only hoped that Tug would eat it. This he placed before 
 his friend, who pulled his chair up to the table at sight of 
 the sandwiches, and said in a hoarse voice, 
 
 " I 've caught an awful cold somewhere. Do you starve 
 a cold, or stuff it ? I 've been starving it for several days, 
 and I think I '11 try stuffing. You don't mean to tell me 
 you have brandy in that bottle, do you?" 
 
 It was brandy fortunately, which Silas had been saving
 
 274 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 for his friend since his departure, but he seemed so tired 
 now that he could not enjoy it with his old relish, for he 
 did not look at it with his usual eagerness, and there was 
 a melancholy air about him which was very distressing to 
 the little man by his side. As Silas watched him, he 
 thought that he discovered that he had grown a dozen 
 years older within a month, and that he would never 
 again be the contented, easy-going man he was before. 
 He was a serious man now, too, a thing he had always 
 despised, and it did not seem possible that he could ever 
 recover from it. 
 
 When he had finished his meal, he walked slowly and 
 painfully over to the bed, and, stretching out upon it, 
 remained silent so long that Silas feared he had washed 
 his voice down his thi'oat with the brandy. 
 
 " How is Missus Pretty ? " he inquired at last, turning 
 to Silas, who sat beside him. 
 
 " Very poorly, I am sorry to say," Silas replied, in a 
 husky voice. 
 
 This did not encourage Tug to talk, for he became 
 silent again, and although Silas was keen to hear where 
 his friend had been, he was silent, too. 
 
 "Have you told her that we were to blame?" Tng 
 asked, after a long pause. 
 
 " Yes, I told her everything, but she does not blame 
 us, and asked me to bring you up immediately after your 
 return." 
 
 There was the click in the ragged man's throat that 
 usually distinguished him when he was about to laugh, 
 but surely Tug had no intention of laughing now, though 
 he wiped his big eye hurriedly, and in a manner indi 
 cating that he was vexed. 
 
 "I might have known that it was wrong not to tell 
 Allan Dorris of this enemy," Tug said. "I ain usually
 
 TUG'S RETURN. 275 
 
 wrong in everything, but I hoped I was doing them a 
 favor in this matter ; for who would n't worry to know that 
 they were constantly watched by a man who seemed to 
 have come a long distance for the purpose ? They were 
 so happy that I enjoyed it myself, and I wanted to pro 
 tect them from The Wolf, and though The Wolf was 
 smarter than I expected, I meant well ; you know that." 
 
 " I am sure of it," Davy replied. 
 
 " A man who has been bad all his life cannot become 
 good in an hour, and while I meant well, I did not know 
 how to protect them from this danger. We should have 
 taken them into our confidence when The Wolf first 
 appeared ; I can see that now, after it is too late. It was 
 my fault, though ; you always wanted to. I '11 have more 
 confidence in you in future." 
 
 Both men seemed to be busy thinking it all over for 
 several minutes, for not a word was exchanged between 
 them until Silas inquired, 
 
 " Do you suppose there is any danger of the shadow 
 molesting Mrs. Dorris ? " 
 
 Tug was lying on his back, and putting his hand under 
 him he took from his pistol-pocket a package wrapped in 
 newspapers, which looked like a sandwich. Handing this 
 to Davy, he said, 
 
 " Look at it." 
 
 Going over to the table and the light, Davy began the 
 work of unwrapping. There was a package inside of a 
 package, which continued until a pile of newspapers lay 
 on the table. At last he came to something wrapped in 
 a piece of cloth, and opening this he found a human ear, 
 cut off close to the head ! He recognized it in a moment, 
 the ear of the shadow, with the top gone ! 
 
 He hurriedly wrapped the horrible thing up as he had 
 found it, and while he was about this he felt sure that
 
 276 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 Tug's journey had not been in vain ; that somewhere he 
 had encountered the shadow and killed him, bringing 
 back the ear as a silent and eloquent witness. 
 
 When the package had been returned to Tug's pocket, 
 he turned on his side, rested his head on his hand, and 
 told his story. 
 
 " Out into the river like a shot ; that 's the way I rowed 
 that misty morning when I found that Allan Dorris had 
 gone into the bottoms alone. I had no idea where to go 
 to find him, so I pulled over toward the hills on the east 
 shore, where there was a slow current, and concluded to 
 float down the stream. It may have been an hour later, 
 while in the vicinity of the big bend, that I heard a shot 
 below me. Rowing toward it with all my might, I soon 
 came upon Allan Dorris lying dead in the bottom of his 
 boat. Only stopping to convince myself that he was 
 stone dead, I pulled out after his murderer. I knew who 
 it was as well as if I had seen the shot fired, and I knew 
 that he would be making down the river to escape, so I 
 made clown the river myself to prevent it. He had the 
 start of me, and seemed to know the bottom better than 
 I did, for when I came into the main current I could see 
 him hurrying away, a good half mile ahead of me. But 
 I was the best rower, and within an hour I was coming 
 within shooting distance, when he suddenly turned under 
 the trees, near the island where we saw him the first time. 
 I lost track of him here for several hours, but at last I 
 came upon his boat, a long distance up the creek, and just 
 when I heard a whistle down at the station. Had I 
 thought of this before, I might have found him there, and 
 brought him back alive, for I have since found out that he 
 signalled the train and went away on it ; but it was too 
 late then, so I could do nothing but go over to the station 
 arid wait for the next train."
 
 TUG'S EETTJRN. 277 
 
 The narrator's hoarseness became so pronounced that 
 Silas brought him the remaining brandy, which he tossed 
 off at one swallow. 
 
 " A lonely enough place it was," Tug continued, " and 
 nobody around except the agent, who told me there would 
 not be another train until a few hours after midnight, so 
 I occupied myself in studying maps of the road. I had 
 no money, of coui-se, but I felt sure I could make my way 
 to a certain big town several hundred miles away, which 
 I had once heard Dorris mention, and it had been in my 
 mind ever since that he came from there. Of course his 
 enemy lived in the same place, and the certainty that 
 The Wolf came to the Bend on that road once, and went 
 away by the same route, and the probability that he 
 always came to the Bend from that station by rowing up 
 the river, made me feel certain that the course I had 
 mapped out was right. 
 
 " I need not tell you that I had trouble in travelling 
 without money, for there are many people who cannot 
 travel comfortably even when supplied with means in 
 abundance ; but in course of tune I arrived in the city I 
 once heard Dorris mention, very tired, dirty, and hun 
 gry, as you will imagine, but not the least discouraged ; 
 for the more I heard about the place, and I inquired 
 about it of every one who would listen to me, -r- the surer I 
 was that I would find The Wolf there. The people with 
 whom I talked all had the greatest respect for the city, as 
 they had here for Dorris ; this was one thing which made 
 me feel sure he came from there, but there were a great 
 many other evidences which do not occur to me now. I 
 arrived in the morning, and there was so much noise in 
 the streets that it gave me the headache ; and so many 
 people that I could not count them, therefore I cannot 
 tell you the population of the place.
 
 278 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 "It was so big and gay, though, that I am certain that 
 the Ben's City people would have been impressed as 
 much as I was, though they put on airs over us. A Ben's 
 City man would have felt as much awe there as a 
 Davy's Bend man feels in Ben's City, and it did me a 
 great deal of good to find out that Ben's City is nothing 
 but a dirty little hole after all. 
 
 " For two Aveeks I wandered about the streets, looking for 
 that ear. There were crowds of people walking and riding 
 around who were like Allan Dorris in manners and dress, 
 and I was sure that they all knew him, and respected him, 
 and regretted his departure, for I knew by this time that 
 he came from that place to Davy's Bend. There was an 
 independence and a rush about the town so unlike Davy's 
 Bend, and so like Allan Dorris, that I was certain of it. 
 Several times I thought of approaching some of the well- 
 dressed people, and telling them that I was looking for 
 the man who had murdered Allan Don-is, feeling sure 
 that they would at once offer to assist me in the search ; 
 but I at last gave it up, fearing they would think he had 
 taken a wonderful fall in the world to be friends with a 
 man like me. 
 
 " One day, about three weeks after my arrival, I met 
 The Wolf on a crowded street. I tapped him on the 
 shoulder, and when he turned to look at me, he trembled 
 like a thief. 
 
 " ' That matter of killing up at Davy's Bend, ' I said, 
 ' I am here to attend to it.' 
 
 "He recovered his composure with an effort, and re 
 plied, 
 
 " ' "What 's that to me, vagrant ? Keep out of my way, 
 or I '11 have you jailed. I do not know you.' 
 
 "'You are a liar,' I replied, 'and your manner shows it. 
 I am dressed this way as a disguise. I have as good
 
 TUG'S BETURN. 279 
 
 clothes as anybody when I choose to wear them. I am a 
 private detective.' 
 
 "I had heard that a great many vagrants claim to be 
 private detectives, so I tried it on him, and it worked 
 well ; for he at once handed me a card with an address 
 printed on it, and said, 
 
 " ' Call at that number to-night ; I want to see you.' 
 
 " lie had probably heard of private -detectives, too, for 
 I knew he wanted to buy mo off; so I consented to the 
 arrangement, knowing that lie would not run away. 
 
 " When it was dark, I went to the street and number 
 printed on the card, and The Wolf met me at the door of 
 a house almost as big as The Locks, but land seemed to 
 be valuable there, for others were built up close to it on 
 both sides. There was a row of houses just alike, as far 
 as I cbulct see, but different numbers were printed on all 
 of them to guide strangers. The Wolf led the way up 
 stairs, after carefully locking the door, and when we 
 were seated in a room that looked like an office, and 
 which was situated in the back part of the house, he 
 said, 
 
 '"What do you want?' 
 
 "'I want to kill you,' I replied. 
 
 " He was a tall, nervy man, but I was not afraid of him ; 
 for I am thick and stout. He laughed contemptuously, 
 and replied, 
 
 " 'Do you know this man's offence?' 
 
 " ' IS T o,' I answered, 'but I know yours.' 
 
 "He sat near a desk, and I felt sure that under the lid 
 was concealed a pistol ; therefore I found opportunity to 
 turn the key quickly, and put it in my pocket. 
 
 " ' Now you are in my power,' I said to him. ' You 
 killed Allan Dorris, and I can prove it, and I intend to 
 kill you.'
 
 280 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 " A very cool man was The Wolf ; and he watched me 
 from under his heavy eyebrows like a hawk, taking sharp 
 note of everything I did, but he did not appear to be 
 afraid. I could n't help admiring the fellow's nerve, for 
 he was the coolest man I ever saw, and there was an air 
 of importance about him in his own house which did not 
 appear when he was crawling around Davy's Bend. 
 There was something about him that convinced me he 
 was a doctor, like Dorris, though I heard nothing and 
 saw nothing to confirm the belief. 
 
 " ' I have had enough trouble over this affair already,' he 
 said, 'and I am. willing to pay for your silence. You 
 don't know what you are about, but I do, and I know 
 there is more justice in my cause than there is in yours. 
 I have been actuated by principle, while you are merely 
 a vagrant pursuing a hobby. You are interfering in the 
 private affairs of respectable people, sir, and I offer you 
 money with the contempt that I would throw a bone to a 
 surly dog, to avoid kicking him out of my way.' 
 
 " ' I am not a respectable man myself,' I answered, ' but 
 I know that it is not respectable to shoot from behind. I 
 give you final notice now that I don't want your money ; 
 I want your life, and I intend to have it. Back in the 
 poor town I came from there is a little woman whose 
 face I could never look upon again were I to take 
 your money, and I intend to be her friend and protector 
 as long as I live. I believe the money you offer me 
 belongs to Dorris ; for you look like a thief who believes 
 that every man is as dishonest as yourself, and has his 
 price. Even my rags cry out against such a proposition.' 
 
 " He was as cool as ever, and looked at me impudently 
 until I had finished, when he said, 
 
 " ' I want to step into the hall a moment 
 
 "He knew I was watching the door to prevent his
 
 TUG'S RETTJEN. 281 
 
 escape, and acknowledged that I was master of the situa 
 tion by asking my permission. 
 
 " ' To call help, probably,' I said. 
 
 " ' No, to call a weak, broken woman ; I want you to see 
 her. Whatever I have done, her condition has prompted 
 me to.' 
 
 " I opened the door for him, and he stepped into the 
 dark hall, where he called ' Alice ! ' twice. I was so near 
 him that he could not get away, and we stood there until 
 Alice appeared at the other end of the hall. It was the 
 little woman we had here one night ! But though she was 
 dressed better than when we saw her, she was paler; and 
 when she came down the dark hall, carrying a candle 
 above her head to light the way, I thought I had never 
 before seen such a sickly person out of a grave. 
 
 "When she came up to us t saw that she was panting 
 from her slight exertion, and we stepped into the room 
 together. She did not know me, and looked at me with 
 quiet dignity, as if she would conceal from me that she 
 was weak and sick. 
 
 '"Does he bring news of him?' she asked, looking from 
 me to The Wolf. 
 
 "The woman was crazy; there was no doubt of it. 
 Had she not been she would have fallen on her knees, and 
 said to me, as she did the night she was in this room, 
 'Gentlemen, in the name of God!' for I was determined 
 to make way with a person who was probably her only 
 protector. 
 
 '"Does the gentleman come from him?' the pale 
 woman asked again. 
 
 " She is the only person who ever called me a gentleman, 
 and what little compassion I had before vanished. 
 
 " The Wolf paid no attention to her talk, and I thought 
 lie was accustomed to it; perhaps she was always asking
 
 282 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 questions to which no reply could be given. She .ras not 
 a young woman, and there was something about her 
 probably the result of her sickness which was so repug 
 nant that I almost felt faint. If she had walked toward 
 me, I would have run out of the house, but fortunately 
 she only looked at me. 
 
 " ' If you came here at his request,' the little woman 
 said, as she stood in the middle of the room, ' take this to 
 him for me. I have been writing it for two years; it will 
 explain everything.' 
 
 " I thought the man was pleased because she had com 
 menced the conversation so readily ; for he appeared to 
 be in good humor, as though she were saying exactly what 
 he had desired she should to impress me. 
 
 " ' When they told me he was contented in his new 
 home,' she continued, ' I was satisfied, and I want him to 
 know it. He had life, and vigor, and energy, and no one 
 ever blamed him but Tom and me. This letter says so ; 
 I want you to take it to him. When I discovered that he 
 disliked me, and would always neglect me, it was a cruel 
 blow, though he was not to blame for it, for other men 
 have honestly repented of their fancies. I could not 
 think of him as a bad man for no other reason than that 
 he was dissatisfied with me ; for all the people were his 
 friends, and he must have deserved their friendship. I 
 suppose a man may form a dislike for his wife as naturally 
 as he forms a dislike for anything else I have reason to 
 know that they can and not commit a graver offence 
 than one who happens to dislike any other trifle which dis 
 pleases him. I would have told him this myself had he 
 not kept out of my way so long ; it is all written in this 
 letter, and my name is signed to it. I commission you to 
 give it to him.' 
 
 " She took from her bosom and handed me a crumpled
 
 TUG'S RETURN. 283 
 
 piece of paper, on wliich nothing was written, but I care 
 fully put it in iny pocket, to humor her strange whim. 
 
 ' ' I am satisfied now, since I have heard that he is con 
 tented, and if Tom is willing we will never refer to the 
 matter again. He is a good man ; even Tom says that 
 between his curses, and why not let him alone? Tell him. 
 that Alice gave you the letter with her own hands, and 
 that she will not live long to annoy him. Tell him that 
 Alice rejoices to know that he is contented ; for Tom has 
 told me all about .t, and since my sickness it has been a 
 pleasure for me to think that a worthy man and he is a 
 worthy man ; for no one can say aught against, him except 
 that he could not admire me, which does not seem to be 
 a very grave offence, for no one else admires me has 
 found what his ability and industry entitles him to, 
 peace. Peace! How he must enjoy it! How long he 
 has sought it ! I can understand the relish with which he 
 enjoys it.' 
 
 " The Wolf was not pleased with this sort of talk ; it 
 was not crazy enough to suit him, and he looked at her 
 with anger and indignation in his ugly face. 
 
 o o o 
 
 " ' I never said it before, Tom,' she continued, evidently 
 frightened at his wicked look, ' but I must say it now, for 
 I cannot remember the hate you tried to teach me ; I can 
 only remember that a man capable of loving and being 
 loved buried himself with a woman he could not tolerate, 
 all from a sense of duty, and looked out at the merry 
 world only to covet it. I have forgotten the selfishness 
 which occupies every human heart ; it was driven out of 
 my nature with hope and ambition, and I am only just 
 when I say that he deserved pity as well as I. He was 
 capable of something better than such a life; and was 
 worthy of it. I might have been worthy; but I was not 
 capable, and was it right to sacrifice him because I crept
 
 284 THE MYSTEHY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 while be ran ? Do we not praise men for remedying their 
 mistakes? You know we do, and I only praise him for 
 it ; nothing more. The truth should always be written 
 on a tomb ; this house is like a tomb, it is so cold and 
 damp, and I must tell the truth here. I am cold ; why 
 don't you build a fire ? ' 
 
 "She put her hand into the flame of the candle she 
 carried, to warm it, but it did not burn, very much to my 
 surprise ; and she looked at me with quiet assurance while 
 she warmed her hands in this odd manner. As I watched 
 her I noticed that the wild look which marked her face 
 when she first appeared was returning; her craze came 
 back to her, and she put it on with a shiver. 
 
 '"Your feet are resting on a grave,' she said to me 
 again, after staring around the room awhile, and as coolly 
 as she might have called my attention to muddy boots. 
 'Please take them off. It may be his grave. I have 
 brought flowers to decorate it ; an armful. Stand aside, 
 sir.' 
 
 "I did as she told me, and, advancing toward where I 
 sat, she pretended to throw something on nothing out of 
 her empty hands. 
 
 " ' I came across a grave in the lower hall this morning, 
 Tom,' she said to The Wolf, pausing; and she said it with 
 so much indifference that I thought she must have meant 
 a moth. ' Of course they would not be together : I have 
 never expected that. The grave in the hall was shorter 
 than this one, and it was neglected. But this one, this 
 shows care. And look, Tom! The flowers I threw upon 
 it are gone already ! ' 
 
 "There was surprise and pain in the little woman's 
 voice, and she pretended to throw other flowers from her 
 withered hands on the mound her disordered fancy had 
 created.
 
 TUG'S EETUEN. 285 
 
 " ' They disappear before they touch it ! ' she said. ' I 
 almost expect it to speak, and protest against any atten 
 tion from me. And it is sinking ; trying to get away 
 from me! How much his grave .is like him; it shrinks 
 away from me. I '11 gather them up ; I '11 not leave them 
 here ! ' 
 
 " Out of the air she seemed to be collecting wreaths, and 
 crosses and flowers of every kind, and putting them back 
 into her arms. 
 
 " ' I will put them on the neglected mound in the lower 
 hall, for no one else will do it. How odd the fair flowers 
 will look on a background of weeds ; but there shall be 
 roses and violets on my grave, though I am compelled to 
 put them there. Open the door, Tom; my strength is 
 failing. I must hurry.' 
 
 " The door was opened, and she passed out of it, and 
 down the dark hall, staggering as she went. When she 
 reached the door through which she came at The Wolf's 
 call, at the lower end of the passage, she turned around, 
 held the candle above her head again, and said, 
 
 " ' Be merciful, Tom ; I request that of you as a favor. 
 You were never wronged by him, except through me, and 
 I have never been resentful except to please you. Let 
 the gentleman return and deliver the letter I gave him.' 
 
 "Opening the door near which she stood, she disap 
 peared. 
 
 " So Tom was the cause of all the trouble ? I resolved 
 as AVC stepped back into the room that he should regret it, 
 and I think there is no doubt that he does." 
 
 Tug turned on his back again, and seemed to be consid 
 ering what course he had better pursue with reference to 
 the remainder of his story. At last he got up from the 
 bed slowly and painfully, and walked over to the cup 
 board where his law-book was kept, which he took down
 
 286 THE MYSTEHY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 and opened on the table. After turning over its pages 
 for a while, pausing occasionally to read the decisions pre 
 sented, he shut up the book, returned it to the shelf, and 
 went back to the bed. 
 
 " I am too much of a lawyer," he said, " to criminate 
 myself, pardner, and you '11 have to excuse me from going 
 into further details. But I can give you a few conjec 
 tures. In my opinion the pale, ugly little woman without 
 a mind, but who looked respectable enough, was once 
 Allan Dorris's wife, but I don't know it ; I heard nothing 
 
 * * o 
 
 to confirm this suspicion except what I have told you. 
 The Wolf was her brother (a man with an uglier disposi 
 tion I never laid eyes on), and I shall always believe that 
 Dorris married her when a very young man ; that he 
 finally gave her most of his property and struck out, 
 resolved to hide from a woman who had always been 
 a burden and a humiliation to him. It is possible 
 that he was divorced from her a great many years beiuro 
 he came here, and that she lost her mind in consequence ; 
 it is possible that he had nothing to do with her; but I 
 give you my guess, with the understanding that it is to 
 go no farther. I am not in the habit of telling the truth ; 
 but this is the truth : I know no more about his past 
 history than you do ; but while in the city I came to the 
 conclusion I have just given you." 
 
 There was another short silence, and Silas became 
 aware of the fact that Tug was breathing heavily, and 
 that, for the first time since he had known him, he was 
 asleep in his own house at night.
 
 CHAPTER XXTTT. 
 THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN. 
 
 r MWO years have passed since the great flood in the 
 J- river, which is still told about with wonder by those 
 who witnessed it, and Tug Whittle is now living in the 
 detached building at The Locks, which was occupied so 
 long by Mrs. Wedge, that worthy lady having long since 
 taken a room in the main house. 
 
 Little Ben, released from his hard work at Quade's, 
 is growing steadily worse, in spite of the kindness 
 shown him by Mrs. Donis and Mrs. Wedge. A victim 
 of too much work is little Ben ; but he is as mild and 
 gentle as ever, and spends his days, when he is able, in 
 wandering about the yard, and keeping out of the way, 
 for he cannot forget the time when every hand was against 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Whittle has become an industi'ious man during the 
 two years, and is as devoted to Mrs. Dorris and her little 
 child as it is possible for a man to be. The day after 
 Tug's return to the Bend from his tramp to the lower 
 country, he called on Mrs. Dorris, and related his story 
 as he related it to Silas Davy, and going into the little 
 detached house after its conclusion, he did not come out 
 again for two days and nights ; and it was supposed that 
 he was making up for lost sleep. After his appearance he 
 was fed by Mrs. Wedge, and at once began to make him 
 self useful around the place. In a little while they learned 
 to trust him, and he soon took charge of everything, con- 
 287
 
 288 THE MYSTERZ OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 ducting himself so well that there was never any reason 
 for regretting the trust reposed. 
 
 Allan Dorris had died possessed of several farms in the 
 adjoining neighborhood, and these Mr. "Whittle worked to 
 so much advantage, with the aid of tenants on each, that 
 in a financial way Mrs. Dorris got on very well ; for Mr. 
 Whittle wanted nothing for himself except the privilege 
 of serving her as he did. 
 
 Very often he was absent from The Locks for weeks at 
 a time, looking after the farm affairs, and he seldom visited 
 his mistress except to give accounts of his stewardship, 
 which were always satisfactory. He had been heard to 
 say that it was his fault that she was a widow ; therefore 
 he did not care to see her except when it seemed to be 
 necessary, for her modest grief gave him such pangs of 
 remorse that he wanted to take the musket, which he still 
 retained in tunes of peace, and make away with himself. 
 Therefore he spent much of his time in managing her 
 affairs, which called him out of town ; and he became 
 known as a tremendous worker, to rival his record as a 
 ioafer, Mr. Whittle himself said ; but Silas Davy knew, 
 and even the people admitted it, that he was greatly 
 devoted to his young mistress, and that he had no other 
 aim in life than to make her as comfortable as possible in 
 her widowed condition. 
 
 Occasionally he came to town, on an errand, after night 
 fall, and returned to the country before day, as little Ben 
 had done, and usually they only knew he had been around 
 the house at all by something he had left for their surprise 
 in the morning. If he found anything in the country he 
 thought would please Mrs. Dorris or little Ben, he went 
 to town with it after his day's work on the farm, and left 
 his bed in the detached house before day to return. 
 
 Besides the harm he had done Mrs. Dorris, the wrong
 
 THE GOING DOWN OF THE STJN. 289 
 
 he had done his son was on his mind a great deal, and he 
 avoided the boy whenever it was possible. He was 
 ashamed to look into his face, though he was always doing 
 something to please him. His rough experience on the 
 farm had forever ruined the boy's health, and his father 
 was continually expecting to be summoned from the field 
 to attend his funeral. 
 
 Tug was still rugged and rough, and unsociable with 
 those with whom he came in contact in the field or on the 
 road, but he loved those in The Locks, from Mrs. Dorris 
 down to the baby, with a devotion which made him a more 
 famous character than he had ever been as a vagrant. He 
 had become scrupulously honest and truthful, as well as 
 industrious ; and those who marvelled at the change were 
 told by the wiser heads that Tug had something on his 
 mind .which he was trying to relieve by good works. 
 
 Silas Davy no longer had reason to regret that he was 
 unable to buy little Ben a suit of clothes, for little Ben 
 was well clothed now, and comfortably situated, except 
 as to his cough ; but in other respects the clerk had not 
 changed for the better. 
 
 He was still employed at the hotel, and still heard the 
 boarders threaten to move to Ben's City ; for Davy's Bend 
 continued to go slowly down the hill. He still heard 
 Armsby boast of his fancy shots, and of his -triumphs in 
 the lodge ; and, worst of all, he still heard patient Mrs. 
 Armsby complain of overwork, and knew that it was true. 
 
 He occasionally went to The Locks to see Mr. Whittle, 
 usually on Sunday evening, when that worthy was 
 most likely to be at home, and as we come upon them 
 now, to take a last look at them, it is Sunday evening, and 
 Tug and Silas are seated on a rude bench, in front of the 
 detached house, with little Ben between them. 
 
 "I have come to the conclusion, Mr. Davy," --Tug is
 
 290 THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS. 
 
 wonderfully polite recently, and no longer refers to his 
 companion by his first name, "I have come to the con 
 clusion that there is only one way to get along ; it is ex 
 pressed in a word of four letters work. Busy men do 
 not commit great crimes, and they know more peace 
 than those who are idle ; therefore the best way to live is 
 to behave yourself. I don't know whether I can behave 
 myself enough from now on to do any good, or not ; but 
 I intend to try." 
 
 " I think you can, Tug," Davy replied. " You have 
 been very useful during the past two years." 
 
 " But I have been very useless during the past forty and 
 odd," Mr. Whittle continued, looking at little Ben as 
 though he were evidence of it. " I have changed my 
 mind about everything, with one exception, within a few 
 years, except that I do not believe a certain person is 
 good, I have no opinion now that I had a year ago, but 
 on this I will never change. My acquaintance with Dor- 
 ris and his wife has taught me a good many things which 
 I did not know before. His bravery taught me that 
 bravery comes of a clear conscience, and his wife's good 
 ness and devotion teach me to believe that a dead man is 
 not so bad off, after all. Did you know that she expects 
 to meet her husband again ? " 
 
 Tug waved his hand above his head, intended as an 
 intimation that Mrs. Don-is expected to meet her husband 
 in heaven, and looked at Silas very gravely, who only 
 nodded his head. 
 
 "She seems to know it," Tug continued, "and why 
 should I dispute her ? How much more do I know than 
 Annie Dorris ? By what right do I say that she is wrong, 
 and that I am right ? She is good enough to receive mes 
 sages, but I am not ;. and it has occurred to me that I 
 had better be guided by her. I have never been con-
 
 THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN. 291 
 
 verted, or anything of that kind, but I have felt regret for 
 my faults. I have done more than that. I have said 
 aloud, as I worked in the fields, ' I 'm sorry.' I have fre 
 quently said that, may be only to myself, but may be 
 to the winds, which are always hurrying no one knows 
 where. Who knows where they may carry the sound 
 when a wicked man says, sincerely, ' I 'm sorry? ' ' 
 
 Sure enough, who knows ? May it not be to heaven ? 
 
 " I have heard her play hymns on the organ which I 
 felt must be songs of hope, the words of which promised 
 mercy, for they sounded like it, and she does not play 
 them for amusement ; I believe it is her offering for the 
 peace of Allan Dorris, and a prayer could not go farther 
 into heaven than her music. I have known her to go to 
 the church with the little baby, and I should think that 
 when. the Lord hears the music, and looks down and sees 
 Annie Dorris and the child, He would forget a great deal 
 when Dorris comes before Him." 
 
 Silas had heard the music, too, and he agreed that if it 
 could have been set to words, they would have been 
 "Mercy! Mercy!" 
 
 "I am too old a crow to be sentimental," Tug said 
 again, " but I have felt so much better since I have been 
 working and behaving myself that I intend to keep it up, 
 and try and wipe out a part of my former record. If I 
 should go to sleep some night, and not waken in the morn 
 ing as usual to go away to work, very good ; but if I should 
 waken in a strange place, I should like to meet Allan 
 Dorris, and hear him say, ' Tug, I have reason to know 
 that erring men who have ever tried to do right receive a 
 great deal of consideration here; you have done much 
 toward redeeming yourself.' " 
 
 Silas was very much surprised to hear his companion 
 talk in this manner, and said something to that effect.
 
 292 THE MYSTEKY OP THE LOCKS. 
 
 " I am surprised myself," Tug answered, " but the 
 devotion of Annie Dorris to the memory of her hus 
 band has set me to thinking. The people believe that 
 Allan Dorris was buried in The Locks' yard, by Thomp 
 son Benton, but I know that his iron coffin still stands 
 in the room where you saw it. I think his clay feels 
 grateful for the favor, for it has never been offensive 
 like ordinary flesh. The lid has been shut down never to 
 be opened again, but when I last looked under it, I saw 
 little except what you might find in the road, dust." 
 
 The chill of the evening air reminds them that it is 
 time for little Ben to go in, but the two men remain out 
 side to look at the sunset. 
 
 " The people of this town," Mr. Whittle continued, 
 after the boy had disappeared, " are greatly amused over 
 the statement that when an ostrich is pursued, it buries 
 its head in the sand and imagines that it is hid. I tell 
 you that we are a community of ostriches; I occasionally 
 put a head into the sand myself, and so do you and all 
 the rest of them. When little Ben is near me, I try to 
 cause him to forget the years I neglected him, by being 
 kind, but he never looks at me with his mild eyes that I 
 do not fear he is thinking : You only have your head in 
 the sand, and there is so much of you in sight that I 
 remember Quade. Therefore I keep out of his way when 
 ever I can. Do you think his cough is any better ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not, Tug," Silas replied. " I was think 
 ing to-day that it is growing steadily worse." 
 
 Tug looked toward the setting sun and the church, and 
 the solemn tones of the organ came to them ; Annie 
 Dorris was playing the hymn the words of which seemed 
 to be " Mercy ! Mercy ! " 
 
 " Word will be sent to you some day," Tug said, as if 
 the music had suggested it, "that little Ben is " he
 
 THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN. 293 
 
 paused, and shivered, dreading to pronounce the word 
 "worse. I wish you would get word to me some way, 
 without letting any one know it ; I want to go away some 
 where. Then you can come out for me, and tell them on 
 your return that I could not be found. It is bad enough 
 for me to look at him now ; I could never forget my sin 
 toward him were I to see him dead. Of course you will 
 go with him to the cemetery, with Mrs. Dorris and Mrs. 
 Wedge and Betty ; and I would like to have the baby at 
 poor Ben's funeral, for he thinks so much of it, but it will 
 be better for me to stay away, though I want them to think 
 it accidental. When I return, you can show me the place, 
 and on my way to and from the town I will stop there and 
 think of the hymn which Mrs. Dorris plays so much." 
 
 The sun is going down, and it seems to pause on the 
 hill to take a last look at the town. Perhaps it is tired of 
 seeing it from day to day, and will in future travel a new 
 route, where objects of more interest may be seen. 
 Anyway, it lingei-s on the hill, and looks at the ragged 
 streets and houses of the unfortunate town down by the 
 river, which is always hurrying away, as if to warn the 
 people below to avoid Davy's Bend, where there is little 
 business, and no joy. 
 
 When its face is half obscured by the hill, the sun 
 seems to remember The Locks, with whose his'tory it has 
 been familiar, and looks that way. So much shadow has 
 gathered around it already from the woods across the 
 river that objects are no longer to be distinguished: 
 nothing but the huge outlines. At last the sun disappears 
 behind the hill, but a friendly ray comes back, and looks 
 toward The Locks until even the church steeple disap 
 pears ; and Davy's Bend, and The Locks, with its sorrow 
 and its step on the stair, are lost in the darkness.
 
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