The Mystery of the Locks Part 16

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.

"Sometimes I think they are, and sometimes I think they are not," the aunt 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 husband; and very few men are as fond of their wives as they were of their sweethearts. All the men do not improve 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 husbands 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 complete 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'll 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 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 hatreds in the world are those between married people who do not get along. Since you are so curious about matrimony, I'll 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 husbands, 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 early, 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 sister 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.

The regular patronage of the "Ap.r.o.n and Pa.s.sword," like the attendance at a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, but exceedingly respectable.

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 violence.

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 exhausted, 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 remove to Ben's City, which he 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 contemplated change of residence. "But I am deuced timid. I came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extra s.h.i.+rt 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 Ponsonboy 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 Ponsonboy 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 Ponsonboy 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 Ponsonboy, whose first name was Albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, so long as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich and distinguished 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, _now_, 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 induced others to, by being quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a day Ponsonboy and his a.s.sistant 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 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 difficulty, 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 criticise busy people, which he did without saying a word against them.

Mrs. Whittle, the milliner, sat on Ponsonboy'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 somebody. 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 nuisance, although Mrs. Whittle herself believed that she was quite popular because of the good she intended to accomplish, 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, whatever they were. She regarded old Thompson, however, as a mean man, and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of or cared nothing about.

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 intimate that he was up to mischief of the most p.r.o.nounced 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 cla.s.ses 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 disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for it, not feeling 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 generally.

If she accomplished no good, as old Thompson Benton stoutly a.s.serted, 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 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 mistake 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, because 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 severest denunciation.

Could Thompson Benton have known of the pious conclusions 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 are 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 which protects us from an evil which is as common as suns.h.i.+ne, and Thompson Benton was not an exception to the rule.

It was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper 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 evening with which we have to do, and by the time Davy had eaten his own supper 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 companion 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 wouldn'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 didn'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 typographical 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, I'll give him half if he'll prove 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'll 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."