Eben Huckin’s father had been a United Presbyterian and his mother a Methodist. Eben belonged to neither church, a fact which he ascribed to his having been drawn toward both denominations by forces so exactly equal that he had never become affiliated with either. Yet he prided himself on being a man of profound religious convictions. How could it be otherwise with one whose forefathers had for generations sung psalms and slept through two-hour sermons on the hard, uncomfortable benches of the bluest of blue-stocking Presbyterianism or prostrated themselves at the mourners’ bench on every opportunity? The austerity of these ancestors afforded him a reason for habitually absenting himself from Sunday services in either of the two temples where his parents had so long and faithfully worshiped. The church-folk in the valley were getting entirely too liberal. He was a conservative.
“‘Hen the United Presbyter’ans hes to hev an organ to sing by an’ the Methydists gits to hevin’ necktie parties an’ dancin’, it’s time for a blue-stockin’ like me to set at home o’ Sundays an’ dewote himself to readin’ Lamentations,” he was wont to explain to his cronies at the store.
Holding as he did such puritanical ideas, it is not to be wondered that he viewed with bitter hostility the coming of an Episcopal clergyman to West Salem. He had offered no objection when Samuel Marsden, who owned nearly all the land surrounding the village, married a woman from the city, but when that young autocrat turned the United Presbyterians out of the building where they had worshiped for a century and had an Episcopal minister come from down the river to hold weekly services there, the blood of all the Huckins boiled and Eben felt called upon to protest.
At first these protests took the form of long discourses, delivered on the store porch and touching on the evil of introducing “ceety notions an’ new-fandangled idees” into the spiritual life of the community. They continued in this strain until one fine April day when the sun was shining with sufficient warmth to allow Eben and his cronies to move from the darkness within the store to the old hacked bench without, where they could bask in the cheering rays.
The green shoots on the tall maple by the hitching rail, the shouts of the boys fishing in the creek below the rumbling mill, the faint “gee haw” of the man who was plowing in the meadow across the stream, the contented clucking of a trio of mother hens, wandering up and down the village street with a score of piping children in their wake—these and a hundred other things told that spring was at hand. After their long winter of imprisonment the shoemaker, the squire and the blacksmith would have been contented to enjoy themselves in silence, but Eben was in one of his talkative moods. That very morning his niece had announced her intention of forsaking the church in which her fathers had worshiped, and becoming an Episcopalian. His cup of woe was overflowing. He had been able to view with complacence such defections in other families. They had afforded him splendid illustrations with which to enliven his discourses on the weakness of the generality of mankind. He had set the Huckins above the generality. It had seemed to him impossible that one could err who boasted the blood of men who had gone to church with the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. He had always laid particular stress on that point. He was a firm believer in heredity and had long contended that the descendants of those who first settled the valley were blessed with strong characters. Yet one of the blood had become an Episcopalian! And he had met the rector!
“The first I knowd of it was this mornin’ at breakfast,” said Eben, adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles that he might look over their tops so sternly as to check any hilarity on the part of his auditors. “Mary sais to me, ‘Uncle, I wish you’d spruce up a leetle this afternoon ez the rector’s comin’.’
“‘Mary,’ sais I, thinkin’ I’d cod her jest a leetle, ‘a miller runs a mill, a tinner works in tin, a farmer farms, but what in the name of common sense does a rector do?’
“‘I mean the preacher,’ she answers.
“‘Mary,’ I sais, ‘ef the parson heard you a callin’ him sech new-fandangled names, he’d hev you up before the session.’
“She was quiet a piece, for she seen I was in a wery sewere turn o’ mind. I didn’t pay no more attention tell I was jest about gittin’ up from the table ’hen she spoke up agin.
“‘Uncle,’ she sais, ‘I hope you won’t mind, but that’s what we Piscopaleens calls preachers—rectors. Mr. Dawson is a rector.’
“Well, sirs, I was so took back, I jest set down an’ gasped. I thot I was goin’ to hev a stroke. Here was one o’ my blood, my own brother’s dotter, raised on the milk o’ Presbyter’anism, fergittin’ the precepts o’ her youth, strayin’ out o’ the straight an’ narrow way an’ takin’ up with the new-fandangled idees o’ the Piscopaleens. An’ why? Because she liked the singin’! ’Hen I heard that I rose in my wrath an’ started down here to cool off. On reachin’ the apple tree be the bend in the road, I set down on the grassy bank to rest a leetle an’ look ’round. Pretty soon I see a man comin’ over the medder, an’ ez he got close I knowd be the cut o’ his coat an’ the flatness o’ his black slouch that it was the preacher hisself. ’Hen he reached the creek he give a run an’ jump an’ went flyin’ over it in the most ondignifiedest way I ever seen. ‘It seems like he thinks he’s an angel a’ready an’ is spreadin’ his wings,’ I sais to meself. Then he puts both hands on the top o’ the six-rail fence an’ waults over it like a circus performer, landin’ almost at me feet.
“‘Hello,’ he sais.
“‘Hello,’ sais I, never liftin’ me eyes offen the wheat field acrosst the road.
“‘Fine day,’ sais he.
“‘I was jest tryin’ to make up me mind whether it was or not,’ sais I.
“I thot that ’ud settle him, but I mistook me man. He were the thickest headedest, forwardest felly I ever laid eyes on. He jest laughed. Now I admits that ’hen he laughed he ’peared a tol’able pleasant enough sort o’ a leetle person, but I wasn’t in no frame o’ mind fer jollyin’.
“‘I was jest on me way up to your placet to see ye,’ he sais.
“‘Was ye?’ I answers. ‘Well—I heard ye was comin’. I’m jest on me way to store.’
“It almost seemed I could see that gentle hint comin’ outen his one ear after it hed gone in the other.
“‘So ye waited here fer me,’ sais he. ‘How nice of ye! We’ll jest stroll down to the willage together.’
“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ve changed me mind. I’m goin’ to stay where I am.’
“‘Ye couldn’t a picked a nicer placet,’ he sais.
“An’ with that he set right down be me side. Mad? Why, I was jest bubblin’. An’ I hed a right to be, fixed ez I was with a Piscopaleen preacher stickin’ to me closer then a burdock burr to a setter dog’s tail. I didn’t say a word, but jest set there with me eyes on the mo’ntain like he wasn’t about.
“By an’ by he speaks. ‘Mr. Huckin, that’s a nice mule you hev runnin’ ’round the pasture adjoinin’ our church.’
“‘So,’ sais I.
“‘An’ mebbe you wouldn’t mind pasturin’ him in some other field a Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Ye mind a few weeks ago I sent you a message askin’ that you keep your cattle out o’ that field on the Sabbath because they disturbs our service. Ye mind it, don’t ye?’
“‘Dimly,’ I answers.
“‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I guesst it must ’a’ ben pretty dim, fer last week ye forgot to take ’em out an’ added that nice mule to the flock. I like that beast mighty well, but I objects to his puttin’ his head in the chancery winder durin’ the most solemn part of our service, like he done the other day.’
“‘Hen I pictured that ole mule attendin’ the ’Piscopaleen preachin’ I wanted to laugh all over, but I didn’t dast fer it ’ud ’a’ give him an openin’. I jest turned an’ looked at the preacher ez stern ez I could.
“‘Perhaps,’ I sais, ‘these new-fandangled, ceetyfied goin’s on o’ yourn amused him.’
“He didn’t smile then—not a bit of it. He was riled—bad riled, an’ pinted his finger at me an’ cried, ‘See here, you old hardshell.’ That was the wery name he called me. ‘See here,’ he sais. ‘Since I’ve ben a missionary in this community I’ve tried to conduct meself in a proper an’ humble sperrit, but ef I hev to carry my missionary efforts on among the mules, I’ll do it with a gun.’
“‘Hen I heard that I stood right up an’ glared at him. I didn’t mind his shootin’. It wasn’t that what stirred me up. It wasn’t that what made me shake me stick in the air like I was scotchin’ a chestnut tree. No, sirs.
“‘Mission’ry!’ I sais. ‘Then all we is heathen,’ I sais. ‘Parson, folks hev ben singin’ sams in this walley fer a hundred an’ fifty year. The folks in this walley hes ben contributin’ to the support o’ mission’ries in furrin lan’s fer the last cent’ry. There are more camp-meetin’s, an’ bush-meetin’s, an’ protracted meetin’s, an’ revivals an’ love-feasts in this walley in a year than they are years in your life. Yit you calls yourself a mission’ry. You complains about my cattle disturbin’ your meetin’s. Ef they enjoy listenin’ to your mission’ry efforts in behalf o’ we heathen, I don’t think I otter stop it. You might do ’em some good.’
“With that I turned an’ walked down the road. I never looked ’round tell I come to the edge o’ the peach orchard. Then I peeked back over me shoulder. There was the preacher, still standin’ be the apple tree lookin’ after me. He was smilin’. Mighty souls! Smilin’! I could ’a’ choked him.”
An oak tree, upturned, its roots stretched forth appealingly in the air, its branches washing helplessly to and fro in the stream, a broken scow lying high upon the beach, bottom up, a great crevasse in the side of the canal through which could be seen an imprisoned and deserted canal-boat, told of the spring flood. The Juniata had fallen again to its natural courses, but it was still turbulent and the current was running strongly. It was fast growing dark. Heavy clouds were rolling along the mountains from the west whence sounded the low grumbling of the coming storm.
Eben Huckin, standing by his boat, looked anxiously up the river, and then across to where the village had been lost in the fast gathering blackness. By a hard pull to the opposite bank and a run up half a mile of level road he might make the shelter of the mill before the clouds broke. But this meant tremendous exertion and Eben, with the rust of sixty years in his joints, preferred a drenching. So he tucked his basket in the locker in the stern and fixed his oars as deliberately as though the sun were smiling overhead. Then he began to push out into the stream.
The rattle of gravel flying before fast falling feet and a crashing of laurel bushes along the towpath caused him to pause.
“Hold on there!” came a voice. “Take me over.”
A moment later a man emerged from among the trees and came tumbling down the bank. It was Dawson. He stopped short and hesitated when he saw Eben, and was about to turn back when the old man said brusquely, “Git in.”
Impelled by a flash of lightning on the mountain side and a crash of thunder overhead, the rector scrambled into the stern of the boat. Eben gave it a shove and climbed in after him. The river had seized the clumsy craft and had swept it far out from the bank before the old man could fix his oars and get it under control. Then with steady strokes he bore away for the other side.
As Dawson sat watching the coming storm and felt the boat moving along through the water, carrying him nearer and nearer to the lights of the village, he forgot the incident of the mule and the quarrel of the previous day and remembered only that his enemy was taking him from the dark, forbidding mountains behind, where the very trees were thrashing their limbs and straining to and fro as though they would break from their imprisonment and run for shelter too.
“I can never thank you enough for rowing me over, Mr. Huckin,” he said.
There was no reply save a vicious creak of the row-locks. The old man paused at the end of the stroke but kept his eyes fixed on the sky overhead. It seemed as if he was about to answer and then thought better of it, for, ignoring his companion completely, he leaned sharply forward, caught the water with the blades and sent a shower splashing over the stern. Dawson was wet through. He was a young man with a temper, and while he could enjoy an intellectual combat with the rough old fellow before him, he had no mind to be under dog in a physical encounter.
“See here, Eben Huckin,” he said quietly, but in a voice of determination. “Just handle those oars a little more properly or I’ll take command of this craft.”
There was another loud rattle of the row-locks, and the rector involuntarily closed his eyes and ducked, thinking to catch the oncoming wave on the top of his broad hat. The expected deluge did not materialize, and he looked up in surprise to see Eben leaning over the side of the boat grasping wildly at an oar which was now far out of his reach and floating rapidly away.
“Oh, my Gawd!” cried the old man, throwing himself into the bottom of the boat. “We’re loss, Parson, we’re loss!”
He covered his face with his hands and swung despairingly to and fro, crying, “We’re loss—we’re loss!”
The boat had turned around and was being swept along stern foremost by the swift current. Dawson saw this, but the peril of their position was not yet clear to him.
“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t understand just what has happened.”
“Happened!” cried Eben. “Happened? Why, your talkin’ done it. I was listenin’ to you, an’ an oar got caught in some brushwood an’ twisted outen my hand. I jumped fer it, lettin’ go o’ the other. Now they’re both gone.”
“But as far as I can see the only difference is we’re going in another direction and a great deal faster,” said the rector calmly.
“We’re just goin’ right fer the canal dam,” groaned the old man. “It’s only four mile straight away, an’ ’hen the river’s like this here, it’s a reg’lar Niagry.”
“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously. The mountains were now lost in the darkness. He looked to the right to see the lights of the village already far up the river.
“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can steer her into the shore?”
“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em, wouldn’t git us outen this current.”
“Is there no island we are likely to run into?”
“Nawthin’ but Bass Rock, an’ ez it’s only ten feet square we mowt ez well hope—no, no, it ain’t no uset.”
“We might swim.”
“I can’t swim.”
“I can—a little. If you could we would get out.”
Then the clouds broke and the rain came down in torrents. They were enveloped in blackness and could no longer see one another.
To Dawson, sitting in the stern, his hands grasping the sides of the boat, his head bowed against the storm, it seemed as though they had suddenly been carried out on a great sea. Land was near, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. A plunge over the side and a few strong strokes might take him to safety. But he could not desert the old man—not till he felt the craft sinking beneath him and the water closing over his head. The boat swung up and down in monotonous cadence, and he felt himself being carried helplessly on and on.
There was a flash of lightning, a deafening crash overhead, and all was dark again. It was but for an instant, and yet he saw clearly, hardly a stone’s throw away, a small house on the river bank. A thin wreath of smoke was fighting its way out of the chimney against the rain. In one window there was a light, and in that light a man was standing, complacently smoking a pipe and peering out through the narrow panes and over the river, watching the play of the lightning along the Tuscaroras.
Huckin half rose to his feet.
“It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder ef he seen us.”
Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He continued his unavailing cries for some minutes, and then sank back to his seat.
“Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought, “Parson, kin you pray?”
“I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the quiet reply.
“Mebbe it’ll do some good,” Eben rejoined, “I hain’t never ben much on it meself—not ez much ez I otter ’a’ ben, but my pap he was powerful in prayer.”
He was silent a moment, and added regretfully, “Oh, don’t I wish he was here now!”
“You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked Dawson.
“Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer. “But I don’t like drownin’, an’ I don’t make no bones about it. Our family hes allus gone be apoplexy, an’ I had an idee I’d go that way, too. All this here comes so sudden. Oh, Parson, it’s sech an onrastless, oncertain way o’ goin’, a-washin’ roun’ like this fer hours. Ef it ’ud stop after we was gone, I wouldn’t min’ so much, but to keep on a-washin’ an’ bobbin’ roun’ this ole river—Parson, Parson, pray agin.”
The old man leaned forward and clasped his companion’s hand.
“Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried.
A flash of lightning lit up the river. Just ahead Dawson saw a broad rock. As they were going they would sweep by it. He sprang forward over the seats until he reached the bow. Then he leaped into the water, still keeping a fast hold with one hand on the side of the boat. A few strong strokes and the clumsy craft turned her head. The swimmer’s feet touched the shelving stone, and he reached out blindly till he felt a jagged bit of rock. The stern of the boat swung around and it tugged hard to release itself from the firm grasp that had checked its wild career.
Eben Huckin tumbled into the water. Dawson seized him and dragged him from the river, while the boat, now free, went whirling away down stream.
For a long time the two men lay in silence, face downward, on the stone. Then the storm went by and the moon came climbing up the other side of the mountain, and by its light they could make out the narrow confines of their refuge. It was hardly ten feet in length and breadth, and was divided down the middle by a crevice. They could see the river whirling on all sides. To their right, over the stretch of water, rose the Tuscaroras; to their other hand they looked into the blackness of the woods which extended from the bank to the ridges miles away.
“Parson, do ye hear that rumblin’, that rumblin’ jest like the mill in busy times, ’hen all the wheels is goin’?” Huckin was sitting up watching Dawson wring the water from his felt hat. The rector strained his ears.
“That’s the dam, Parson. It’s jest a piece below here, an’ mighty near we come to hearin’ that soun’ most onpleasant loud. Who’d ’a’ thot we’d ever hit this here bit o’ rock?”
“Why, Eben, I rather had an idea all along that we might do so,” Dawson laughed. “I was watching for it. I had no intention of letting myself get drowned when you heathen in the valley needed a missionary so badly.”
“True, Parson, true,” said the old man fervently. “It ’ud ’a’ ben a hard blow fer the walley to hed you tuk jest at this time.”
The rector smiled faintly. He gazed inquiringly at his companion. The moon shining full on Eben’s countenance gave him a saintly appearance, for the rougher features had disappeared in the half-light, and the long white hair and beard, so unkempt in the full glare of day, now framed a benevolent, serious face. Dawson was satisfied.
For a long time nothing passed between the two. Then Eben nudged the rector gently and whispered, “D’ye believe in sperrits?”
“Why, of course not,” was the reply.
“Well, I’m glad you don’t.”
“Why did you ask?”
“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this here rock is sayd to have a ha’nt.”
“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging a little closer.
“Yes, be Bill Springle’s ghos’. I never put much stock in the story meself, but that’s what folks sais. I know them ez claims to hev seen it. I knows one man ez refused to sleep here all night fer a five-dollar bill.”
“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no idea the people hereabouts were so superstitious.”
“It ain’t jest superstition, Parson. It’s mostly seein’ an’ believin’. Bill Springle’s ben dead these thirty year, an’ in that time, they sais, many folks hes seen him.”
“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better things to do than to spend their nights sitting on cold, damp rocks.”
“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’ Springle was onusual. He lived back along the other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’ down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle wedged right in that crack ahint me.”
Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the prostrate body of his companion into the interesting crevice. Then he fell back to his old place, giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh.
“He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’ they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in the story meself, ez——”
“I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted. “But suppose we talk of something more cheerful.”
A long silence followed.
“Parson,” the old man at length said, “why don’t ye sleep?”
“On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.”
“I’ll watch ye. D’ye see that lone pine tree standin’ out o’ that charcoal clearin’ on top o’ the mo’ntain?” Huckin indicated the spot with his hand, and Dawson nodded. “Well, ’hen the moon gits over that tree I’ll wake ye up. Then I’ll sleep.”
The rector replied by rolling over on his back and watching the stars until his eyes closed. Soon the old man heard a soft, contented purring and he knew that for a time he was alone—at least till Bill Springle joined him. For a long while he sat in deep thought with his eyes fixed on the whirling waters below him. Suddenly he leaned over and peered into the face of the man sleeping at his side.
“Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t mind no more about that mule.”
The Chronic Loafer arose from the bench and stepped to the edge of the porch. He rested his left hand on the pillar, thrust his right hand into his pocket and gazed searchingly at the mountains.
“What’s keepin’ you so quiet to-day?” asked the Teacher, lifting his eyes from the county paper. “One might suppose from the way you was watchin’ those mountains, you was expectin’ them to come over here so you could go fishin’.”
The Loafer turned and looked down on the pedagogue. There was pity in his eyes and disdain lurking about the corners of his mouth.
“Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped the Teacher.
“I guess you never fished,” was the reply.
“To tell the truth I prefer more active pursuits.” The learned man said this with the air of one who was in the front rank in the great battle of life. “I prefer doin’ things to loungin’ along a creek tryin’ to catch a few small trout that never did me any harm.”
“I thot you’d never fished much,” said the Loafer, letting himself down on the steps and getting out his pipe. “Ef you hed you’d know that half the pleasure of it is gittin’ to the stream. You figure on how nice it’ll be ’hen you’re away from the dusty road, in the woods, lyin’ in the grass ’longside of a cool, gurglin’ pool, with the trout squabblin’ among themselves to git at your bait. You arrive there, an’ first thing you set on a rattlesnake. That makes you oneasy fer the rest o’ the day. Then you find you’ve left your bait-can at home an’ stirs up some yeller-jackets, ez you are huntin’ under rocks fer worms. You lays down your extry hooks where you can find ’em quick, an’ then ’hen you need ’em you discovers they’re in your foot. No, sir, ef I was wantin’ to go fishin’ in them mo’ntains, an’ I hed the power, I’d tell ’em to git back five mile so I’d hev furder to walk to reach the run.”
“I hain’t got nawthin’ agin your idees o’ fishin’,” said the Patriarch from his place on the bench between the Tinsmith and the G. A. R. Man, “but what you say about expectin’ is ridic’lous. You was sayin’ a bit ago that you was goin’ to hev chicken an’ waffles fer supper to-night. You’ve put in a fine day expectin’ it. But ef you goes home an’ sets down to sausage an’ zulicks, I can see things flyin’ ’round your shanty most amazin’. All the joys o’ expectation ’ll be wiped outen your mind by dissypintment.”
“But you are talkin’ o’ great expectations, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They result in great dissypintments. I’ve been speakin’ o’ the leetle things o’ life. Now there’s the old soldier.” He pointed to the veteran. “He was eight year expectin’ to git a pension. He talked o’ nawthin’ else. Ef he’d only git it he’d be happy. Well, he got it, an’ he lost the pleasure o’ lookin’ for’a’d to it. Is he satisfied? No. He’s jest put in wouchers claimin’ that th’ee new diseases hev cropped out on him an’ that he laid the foundations fer ’em in the Wilderness thirty year ago. He wants a raise. He’s happy agin, fer he is expectin’.”
The G. A. R. Man arose.
“I’m goin’ home,” he said, “an’ I guess I might ez well stop in at your place an’ tell your missus to never mind the chicken an’ waffles ez you’ve hed enough fun jest expectin’ ’em.”
“Well, that would be a good idee,” the Loafer drawled. “But you’d better jest yell it to her over the fence. You know she’s ben expectin’ chicken an’ waffles, too.”
The veteran dropped back to his place on the bench.
The Patriarch nudged him and said pleasantly, “Why don’t you go on?”
“I guesst I’d better wait fer the stage an’ git the news,” was the growling reply.
“You hain’t answered my first question yet,” said the Teacher to the Loafer. “You was standin’ there half an hour lookin’ at them mountains as though they was made of chicken an’ waffles. You were thinkin’ of somethin’.”
“True,” the Loafer replied. “I was thinkin’ o’ Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon.”
“Mighty souls!” the Patriarch cried. “Reginal’ Deeverox an’ Lord Desmon! You are the greatest man fer makin’ acquaintances I ever seen.”
“Deeverox was that new segare drummer that come th’oo here yesterday, wasn’t he?” the Tinsmith inquired.
“No,” the Loafer responded. “He was never a segare drummer ez fur ez I know. He was the real hair to the Earldom of Desmon.”
“Desmon! An’ where in all nations is Desmon?” the Patriarch exclaimed.
“Englan’,” was the calm reply.
“Then I s’pose you was fussin’ ’round Englan’ last week, ’hen we thot ye was wisitin’ your ma’s folks in Buzzard Walley,” cried the Tinsmith. “Now what air you givin’ us?”
“‘Hen I told you uns I was wisitin’ Mother’s folks, I sayd what was true.” The Loafer was undisturbed by the storm he had raised and spoke very slowly, emphasizing his words by a shake of his pipe. “You see it was this ’ay. The man I was speakin’ of was called Lord Desmon, tho’ his reg’lar name was Earl o’ Desmon. His pap’s name was Lord Desmon, too, an’ so was his gran’pap’s. Before his gran’pap died, his pap’s older brother, that is the uncle o’ the man I’m referrin’ to, merried a beautiful maid who was workin’ about the placet. The old man cast him off an’ he went to South Ameriky, leavin’ a son who went be the name o’ Reginal’ Deeverox. Be rights this Deeverox should ’a’ hed the property, bein’ the hair o’ the oldest son. He didn’t know it tho’, an’ his uncle didn’t take the trouble to hunt him up ’hen the gran’pap died, but jest settled down on the farm himself.”
“What in the name o’ common sense is an earl?” asked the Miller. “What does he do?”
“Nawthin’,” the Loafer explained. “In Englan’ an earl is a descendant o’ them ez first cleared the land. He usually hes a good bit o’ property an’ farms it on the half.”
“What gits me is jest how many o’ them Lord Desmons they was,” the Tinsmith interposed.
“There was the original gran’pap—he’s one. Then there was his son that merried the maid an’ ought to ’a’ ben earl—he is two. Next there was his brother who got the property—he is th’ee. His son makes four, an’ Reginal’ Deeverox, whose right name was Lord Desmon, is five.”
“That there name Lord seemed to run in the family,” said the Miller. “I don’t wonder they got mixed. Why didn’t they hev a Joe or a Jawhn?”
“Was these here some o’ your pap’s friends?” asked the Patriarch.
“I only wished he hed ’a’ knowd them,” the Loafer answered. “I don’t think he did tho’. Mebbe he was acquainted with Alice Fairfax, but I never heard him speak o’ her an’ The Home an’ Fireplace never mentioned him ez bein’ at her castel. I guessed ef Pap hed ’a’ been there he would ’a’ told me, fer he wasn’t much on keepin’ things secret.”
The Patriarch brought his stick down on the floor with a vigorous bang.
“See here,” he cried, “what has got into you anyway? Ef you knows anything about this here Lord Desmon, Reginal’ Deeverox, Alice Fairfax business, out with it, I sais. ’Hen you hears a piece o’ news ye jest set an’ smiles all over it to yourself like ez tho’ you was tormentin’ us. Ez ef we cared! Let anybody else hev a bit o’ news tho’ an’ you don’t give ’em no rest tell you’ve wormed it out of ’em—not tell you’ve wormed it all out of ’em.”
“Now see here,” was the spirited answer, “it ain’t jest that I should be accused this ’ay. The Home an’ Fireplace magazine was layin’ ’round the counter a whole week afore I even looked at it. I s’posed you’d all ben readin’ it. That’s why I thot ye might help me out.”
“Shucks! So all this here is nothin’ but somethin’ you’ve been readin’ in the paper,” the Teacher sneered.
“Exact. An’ ef you’d read the same piecet I guess you’d ben worrit, too.”
“Reginal’ Deeverox—Deeverox.” The Patriarch was thinking hard and talking to himself. “I don’t mind that piecet, an’ I read most o’ that paper,” he said, looking up. “What page was it on?”
“I don’t mind the number,” the Loafer answered, “but it begins on a page that hes a pictur o’ the house o’ Miss Annie Milliken in Tootlesbury, Massachusetts, an’ a long letter from her sayin’ how she hed been bed-rid fer thirty year tell a kind friend recommended Dr. Tarball’s Indian Wegetable Pacific.”
“Now I do recklect somethin’ about that caset,” the Tinsmith interposed. “It was a fight over a bit o’ property an’ a girl.”
“Exact,” said the Loafer.
“Well, how d’ye know it’s so?” the Miller asked. “Because it’s in the paper is no sign it’s true.”
“See here,” was the sharp reply, “do you s’pose ’hen they is so much in this world that’s true the editor o’ The Home an’ Fireplace ’ud go to the trouble o’ makin’ up lies to print? Why, it wouldn’t pay.”
The Miller was about to argue against this proposition, but the Patriarch leaned over and laid a hand on his knee, checking him.
“Jest wait tell we find out who got the property,” the old man said.
“An’ the girl,” cried the Tinsmith.
“That’s jest what I’ve ben tryin’ to find out,” said the Loafer. Forthwith he plunged into the history of Reginald Devereux and Lord Desmond. “You see I found the paper on the counter yesterday ez I was waitin’ for the mail. I remember now ’most everything that was in that piecet, an’ most a mighty puzzlin’ piecet it was, too. It begin at a placet called Fairfax Castel, which was the home o’ Alice Fairfax, who the paper sayd was most tremendous good-lookin’, bein’ tall an’ willowy, with gold-colored hair an’ what it called p-a-t-r-i-c-i-a-n cast o’ features. She was twenty year old an’ hed an income o’ ten thousand pound a year.”
“Pound o’ what?” inquired the Patriarch.
“The paper didn’t tell. It jest sayd pound.”
“That’s the way with them editors,” cried the old man. “They allus forgits important points. They expects a man to know everything.”
“I guess that them must ’a’ ben pound o’ somethin’ they raised on the place,” the Tinsmith suggested.
“That’s jest the way I looked at it,” the Loafer continued. “It didn’t make no difference, anyhow, ez long ez she hed somethin’ to live on. This here Lord Desmon hed a placet near hers an’ used to ride over every day regular an’ set up with her. He was tall an’ hed keen black eyes. Wherever he went he tuk with him a hound he called M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o or somethin’ like that.”
“Now ye mind that he hed no real claim on the Desmon placet an’ he knowd it. Before his pap died he hed called him to his bedside an’ sayd to him, ‘Beware of a man with an eagle tattooed on his right arm. He’s the real hair.’ So Lord re’lized that he was livin’ on a farm that belonged to the son o’ his pap’s brother. He knowd that afore his uncle died he’d sent word home that his son an’ hair could be told be the eagle. Of course the warnin’ made Lord kind o’ oneasy at first, but ez the years went by an’ he heard nawthin’ o’ his cousin he concided that the ole man hed jest ben th’owin’ a scare inter him. Meantime he’d ben doin’ wery well with Alice Fairfax, an’ things was all goin’ his way. Then a strange artist come th’oo the walley. He was paintin’——”
The Patriarch interrupted with a hilarious chuckle.
“Now, boys, look out,” he cried. “They never yit was a painter that wasn’t catchin’ with the weemen. Ye mind Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy an’ how she’d fixed it up to merry Joe Dumple? She hired a regular painter to come out from town to put a new coat on the house, an’ he made himself so all-fired handy ’round the placet mendin’ stove-pipes, puttin’ in glass an’ slickin’ up the furnitur’ she took him afore Joe got there.”
“This here artist wasn’t one o’ that kind,” the Loafer said. “He made them regular hand-paintin’s they hangs in parlors, an’ done a leetle in the way o’ portrates. He put up at the tavern an’ then started out fer a stroll th’oo the Fairfax placet. He hed jest entered the park, the paper sayd, ’hen——”
“The what?” asked the Miller.
“The park. Don’t ye know, one o’ them places fixed up special fer walkin’ in, with benches, an’ brick pavements, a fountain, an’ flower-beds an’ a crowket set. Hain’t ye never seen the one at Horrisburg?”
“Oh, one o’ them!” the Miller said. “Well, I guesst those must ’a’ ben pound o’ gold Alice Fairfax got a year.”
The Loafer resumed the narrative.
“Ez the artist walked along th’oo the park he heard a scream, follered be a beautiful girl who run down the road pursued be a ferocious dog. The paper sayd the great hound was in the act o’ leapin’ at her to catch her be the neck ’hen the stranger run for’a’d an’ grabbin’ the brute be the th’oat throttled the life outen him. The anymal’s fiery breath, the paper sayd, was blowin’ in the artist’s face ’hen his hands closed on the furry neck. It was a mighty close shave, I should jedge. A minute later Lord Desmon run up all out o’ wind. The dead beast was his M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o. He thot a heap o’ the hound, an’ the paper sayd that ’hen he looked on the still quiverin’ body of his dead companion he swore to be a-v-e-n-g-e-d. An’ ez he looked up at the stranger that young man knowd Lord hed it in fer him.
“Alice Fairfax couldn’t thank the artist enough, an’ nawthin’ ’ud do but he must come up to her house an’ meet her pap. ’Hen the ole man hear the story he wouldn’t hev it any other way but that the stranger must stop with them. The paper sayd that he quickly pushed a button——”
“He done what?” cried the Patriarch.
“He pushed a button an’——”
“Pushed a button! Well, mighty souls!” the G. A. R. Man exclaimed. “What a fool thing to do.”
“He pushed a button an’ one o’ the hands appeared. This felly’s name was Butler an’ he was employed jest a purpose to do chores ’round the house. The ole man give him orders to hev Reginal’ Deeverox’s—that was the artist’s name—trunk brought up from the tavern an’ put in the spare room.”
“I ain’t got it clear yit,” the Miller interposed. “Ef ole man Fairfax pushed one o’ his own waistcoat buttons how in the name o’ all the prophets ’ud Butler feel it?”
“Don’t ye s’pose he might ’a’ pushed one o’ Butler’s waistcoat buttons?” replied the Loafer. “That’s a pint o’ no importance. The main thing is that Deeverox put up at Fairfax’s an’ from that day things went wrong with Lord.
“Reginal’ was a wonderful good-lookin’ chap He was six-foot tall an’ wery soople. He’d long, curly hair that flowed over his shoulders like a golden shower, ez the editor put it. His bearings was free an’ noble. Now Lord was no slouch either, an’ with his money he was pretty hard fer a poor painter to beat, yit——”
“Joe Dumple hed th’ee hundred a year an’ a fifty-acre farm,” the Patriarch cried, “but choosin’ between him an’ the painter, Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy tuk——”
“I’ve told ye afore that this here Deeverox was a portrate painter, an’ ye can’t settle this question be referrin’ to the Spiegelsoles any way. Ez I was sayin’, Reginal’ hed no money but he hed a brilliant mind. His face was like an open book, the paper sayd——”
“That’s rather pecul’ar.” It was the veteran who broke into the story this time. “There’s Jerry Sprout, who lives beyant Sloshers Mills, he hes a head jest the shape of a fam’ly Bible, but ye can shoot me ef I can see how a man could hev a face like an——”
“Open book,” the Loafer said. “Well, you hev no ’magination. But ef ye don’t believe what I’m tellin’, you can go git the paper an’ read it yourself.”
“Come, come; no argyin’.” The Patriarch was in his soothing mood. “What become o’ Lord?”
“Lord hated Reginal’ with a bitter hatred, the paper sayd, because of the death of M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o, an’ now, ez Alice Fairfax begin to look not onkindly on the handsome stranger, his cup was more embittered an’ he wowed revenge. Things kept gittin’ hotter an’ hotter ’round the castel. Ole man Fairfax was tickled to death with Reginal’ an’ ’sisted on him stayin’ all summer. Lord come over regular every day, spyin’ ’round an’ settin’ up with Alice ’hen he’d git a chancet. Time an’ agin, the paper sayd, he asted her to be his own, but she spurned him. The last time he asted her was at a huntin’ party they hed at the castel. Everybody in the county was there—Lord Mussex, Duke Dumford, Earl Minnows, Lady Montezgewy an’ a lot of others—all over to hunt.”
“Hunt what?” asked the Miller.
“Well, I s’pose they would be likely to drive five or six mile over to Fairfax’s to hunt eggs—wouldn’t they?” roared the Loafer. “Hunt what? Mighty souls! What would they hunt? Foxes, of course. The whole party started off after the hounds, Alice Fairfax an’ Lord Desmon leadin’ with——”
“Hol’ on!” cried the Patriarch. “Did you say weemen an’ all, a-huntin’ foxes? That Englan’ must be a strange placet. Why, it ain’t safe to trust a woman with a gun. Oh, what a pictur! S’pose we was to go huntin’ that ’ay with our weemen.” The old man leaned back and shook. “Pictur it! Jest pictur it! Why, they ’ud be blowed afore they got to the top o’ the first ridge.”
“An’ we’d hev to spend most of our time lettin’ the bars up an’ down so they could git th’oo the fences,” the Tinsmith said.
“Well, the weemen over there was along—least that’s what the article sayd,” the Loafer continued. “They got track o’ a fox an’ final catched him in a lonely bit o’ woods. They give his tail to Lady Montezgewy, who——”
“She couldn’t ’a’ made much of a hat outen jest the tail,” said the G. A. R. Man.
“Well, the article doesn’t explain much about that. It sais while these things is occurrin’ we will take the reader to another part o’ the fiel’ where Lord Desmon kneels at the feet of Alice Fairfax. The paper sais she sais, ‘I loves another.’ ‘What,’ sais he, the paper sais, springin’ to his feet an’ makin’ a movement ez tho’ graspin’ an unseen foe. ‘What,’ he sais, ‘that low painter varlet!’ Jest then, the paper sais, the bushes was pushed aside an’ forth jumped Reginal’ Deeverox. ‘You here, Miss Fairfax?’ he sais, the paper sais. ‘I’ve hunted fer ye fur an’ near.’ In his eagerness to reach her side a twig cot his coat-sleeve an’ tore it wide open. The paper sais ez Lord Desmon looked upon the splendid figure of his rival he seen there on his arm—What? the paper sais. An eagle!”
“Now, watch for a good ole wrastle,” cried the Patriarch.
“You’re wrong, Gran’pap,” said the Loafer. “They didn’t dast fight afore a lady. Instead Lord jest ground his teeth. The paper sayd he knowd that the lost hair o’ the broad acres o’ the Desmons hed come to claim his own.”
The Miller’s clay pipe fell to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces.
“Well, I’ll swan!” he exclaimed. “Why, this here artist was one o’ them Desmon boys ye was speakin’ of first off, wasn’t he?”
“What happened next?” inquired the Teacher.
“The article didn’t tell,” the Loafer replied. “It cut right off there an’ carried the reader back to Fairfax Castel. It was evenin’ an’ they was hevin’ a hunt ball.”
“A hunt what?” The Patriarch leaned forward with his hand to his ear.
“A hunt ball—a dance,” the pedagogue explained. “Over there after huntin’ they always have a dance.”
“Mighty souls! but them English does enjoy themselves,” the old man murmured. “Goes huntin’ all day—takes the weemen along leavin’ no one behind to look after the place—then hes a dance after they gits back. Now ’hen I hunted foxes I was allus so low down tired an’ scratched up be the briars agin I got home, I was satisfied to draw me boots, rub some linnyment on me shins an’ go to bed. But go on. I guesst the paper’s right.”
“That night, walkin’ up an’ down the terrace, Reginal’ Deeverox told Alice Fairfax the secret o’ his life, the article sayd, how he was Lord Desmon an’ how the other Lord Desmon was livin’ on stolen property. He ast her to hev him, an’ ez she didn’t say nawthin’ he jest clasped her to his boosum, the paper sayd. All this time Lord hed ben watchin’ from behind a statute. ’Hen the girl run away to tell her pap about it, Lord stepped out an’ faced Reginal’.
“He sayd, ‘One of us must die.’ With that he catched Deeverox be the th’oat an’ tried to push him off the terrace. They was a clean drop o’ fifty foot there, with runnin’ water at the bottom. Reginal’ was quick an’ grabbed his foe ’round the waist. Back’ard an’ for’a’d they writhed, the paper sayd, twistin’ an’ cursin’. Now they was on the edge o’ the precipice, an’ Alice Fairfax, runnin’ to meet her loved one, ez the article explained, seen dimly outlined in the glare o’ the castel lights the black figures o’ the cousins ez they fought o’er the terrace of death. She was spelled. Sudden the one Desmon hurled the other Desmon from him. They was an awful cry ez the black thing toppled over the edge, the paper sayd.”
The Loafer put his hand in his coat-pocket and brought it forth full of crushed tobacco leaves, with which he filled his pipe. Then he lighted a match and began smoking.
“Well?” cried the men on the bench in unison.
“Well?” repeated the Loafer.
“Which Desmon was it?” asked the Tinsmith.
“That’s jest where I’m stumped,” was the reply. “That’s jest what’s ben puzzlin’ me, too. Ye see that page hed ben tore out an’——”
“Mighty souls!” gasped the Patriarch.
“Did ye look fer it?” asked the Miller, rising and moving toward the door.
“Well of course I looked. D’ye s’pose I ain’t ez anxious ez you to know which Desmon was kilt?”
“What does you mean be gittin’ us anxious,” yelled the old man. “Why don’t ye keep your troubles to yourself ’stead o’ unloadin’ em on other folks?”
“Don’t blame me that ’ay,” said the Loafer. “I done the best I could. I looked all over the store fer that page. I didn’t git no sleep last night jest from thinkin’ what become of it. Now I mind that last Soturday I seen a felly from Raccoon Walley carry it off wrapped ’round a pound o’ sugar. I done the best I could fer ye.”
The Teacher arose and walked to the end of the porch. Here he wheeled about and faced the company, stretching his legs wide apart, throwing out his chest and snapping his suspenders with his thumbs.
“You should never begin a story if you can’t tell it to the end,” he said. “I might as well teach my scholars how to add only half down a column of figures.”
“Yes,” said the Patriarch, “I would like to know most a mighty well which o’ them Desmon boys was kilt. But I’m too ole to chase a pound o’ sugar nine mile to Raccoon Walley to find out. They are terrible things, these struggles caused be onrastless human passions. This here petickler story is all the more terrible because them boys was cousins. While we do all feel a bit put out at not knowin’ which of ’em licked, we’ve at least learned somethin’ ’bout how they lives in Englan’. An’ it should teach us a lesson o’ thankfulness that we was born an’ raised in a walley where folks is sensible—that is most of ’em.”
The End