The Mystery of the Locks Part 23

"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 perhaps 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 anything, I made up my mind to distinguish myself for s.h.i.+ftlessness. 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 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 pa.s.s 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 haven't offended you," the meek little man said, looking at his fierce companion in alarm. "I didn'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 hasn'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 couldn't possibly be more disagreeable 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 n.o.ble, 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 Davy cowered under his cold stare as though 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 women in a mouthful," the outraged husband continued. "She is always jumping 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 out 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 women 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 bringing 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_."

Silas was not taking as much interest in the recital as he would have done under other circ.u.mstances, 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 fict.i.tious 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 didn't; she did it to convince herself that she was _Good_, and that I was _Bad_; 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 neat him, Mr. Whittle smashed it to pieces on the floor, after a tremendous pounding and racket, which was one of his ways of expressing anger.

Silas was very much impressed by this ferocious proceeding, 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'll go now."

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.

Arriving 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 SEARCH IN THE WOODS.

From noon until twilight Annie Dorris watched the point on the other sh.o.r.e 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 travellers hurrying forward to find a night's shelter.

Great trees came floating down, with their arms outstretched 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 sh.o.r.e.

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, 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 Dorris stood looking out into the night, hoping that her husband 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.

Returning to the window, she saw such fearful phantoms 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 suspicious 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 encouraging word to his daughter, who had sunk down on her knees beside her father's chair, he left the house and hurried 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 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 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 persistently had resulted in a tragedy at last. The departure of the men at that hour to look for him, and the preparations they had made for the search, were dreadfully significant,--there could be no mistake of that; and Silas wandered along the sh.o.r.e 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 information 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 encouragement. He then told her in a whisper of the departure of the men in the boats, and of their carrying lanterns and torches, but Mrs. Wedge did not give him the encouragement he expected, for she put her hands to her face, and Silas was certain that she was crying. When she had recovered 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 ma.s.s 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 half expected, as he stood trembling in the darkness, that the ghost of poor Helen would lay hands on him, and inquire in pitiful tones for the little girl who seemed to be lost in the house. But it pa.s.sed 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 crying softly to herself awhile, said to him in a voice so agitated 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 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 sometimes they were in doubt as to their bearings, as there was nothing to guide them.

Occasionally they stopped to listen, 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 hoa.r.s.e. But the rippling water laughed with joy because 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 animals, leaving their household effects to be covered with the reptiles which had been frightened out of the thickets and tall gra.s.s, 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 relieved 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.