by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XI.
THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR.
There is a wide and populous world outside of Davy's Bend, from whichAllan Dorris recently came; let the whispers in the air, which frightenevery man with their secrets, answer why he had resolved never again tosee 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 meeting he became more than ever convinced, afterthinking about it,--and he thought about it a great deal,--that if theiracquaintance continued, there would come a time when he would find itdifficult to quit her society. The pleasure he enjoyed in the company ofthe pretty organist was partly due to the circumstance that she wasalways pleased at his approach, although she tried to disguise it; butbeyond this,--a long way beyond this,--there was reason why he shouldavoid her; for the girl's sake, not his own.
He repeated this often to himself, as though he were a desperate manready to engage in any desperate measure; but his manner visiblysoftened when he thought of the pretty girl whose ways were so engaging,innocent, and frank. He knew himself so well,--the number of times hehad gone over the story of his life, in his own mind, since coming toThe Locks even, would have run up into the hundreds; therefore he knewhimself very well indeed,--that he felt in honor bound to give up hisacquaintance with her, although it cost him a keen pang of regret, thisdetermination 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 muchpleasure he had found in Davy's Bend, and how much misery he wouldprobably find there in the future, he passed out of the iron gate of TheLocks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he hoped to walkuntil his body would call for rest at night, and permit him to sleep; ablessing that had been denied him of late more than before he knew AnnieBenton, and when he thought that Davy's Bend contained people only fitto be avoided.
But he was glad that he had resolved never to see the girl again,--forher sake, not his own.
He had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, thinking of thestrange fatality that had made duty painful throughout his entire life;and he walked toward the country because he believed the girl was in thedirection of the town; probably seated in the church at that moment,watching the door for his approach. She was a comfort to him, thereforehe must avoid her; but this had always been the case--he was accustomedto being warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a pleasantplace.
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 somuch admired.
Thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but when he remembered howdull his life would be should her smile never come into it again, hecould not help shuddering.
"But I have been so considerate of others," he said aloud, as he pursuedhis way, "that even the worms in my path impudently expected me to goround them, and seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at allif I did not. Let me not show a lack of consideration now that my heartis concerned."
Above his house, and so near the river that the water rippled at itsbase, was a rugged bluff, separated from the town by a deep and almostimpassable ravine, and for this reason it was seldom visited; AllanDorris had found it during his first month in the town, and he resolvedto visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine and delightfulair of the perfect summer day.
It occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making the difficultascent, that he would like to build a house there, and live in it, wherehe would never be disturbed. But did he want solitude? There seemed tobe some question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his downcastface. When he first came to Davy's Bend, he believed that the rewards oflife were so unsatisfactory that all within his reach that he desiredwas his own company; but an experience of a month had satisfied him thatsolitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not know what hewanted. If he knew what it was his heart craved, he believed that it wasbeyond him, and unobtainable; and so his old habit of thinking wasresumed, though he could never tell what it was all about. Everything hedesired was impossible; that within his reach was distasteful--he couldmake no more of the jumble in his brain, and finally sat with a vacantstare on his face, thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gavehim a headache but no conclusions.
Even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he thought he wantedwhile coming along the road, were not satisfactory now; and as hestarted to walk furiously up the hill, to tire himself, he met AnnieBenton in the path he was following.
She had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came upon her, she wasso intent on arranging them after some sort of a plan, that she wasstartled when he stood beside her.
"I was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of returning hisgreeting. "I intended sending you these."
Dorris could not help being amused that he had encountered the girl in aplace where he had gone to avoid her, but there was evidence in hislight laugh that he was glad of it; so he seated himself on a boulderbeside the path, and asked what she had been thinking of him.
"That you were a very odd man," she answered frankly.
"That has always been a complaint against me," he said, with a tone ofimpatience. "I think I have never known any one who has not said, duringthe course of our acquaintance, that I was 'odd;' whatever is natural inme has been called 'odd' before. If I wanted bread, and was notsatisfied with a stone, they called me 'odd.' The wishes of the horsethat has a prejudice for being bridled on the left side are respected,but there is no consideration for a man who cannot be contented simplybecause it is his duty. I remember that we had a horse of thisdescription in our family when I was a boy, and if he injured any onewho failed to respect his wishes, the man was blamed, not the horse. Butthe people do not have equal charity for a man who is not content whencircumstances seem to demand it of him, no difference what thecircumstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his taste. So youwere finding fault with me? I am not surprised at it, though; mostpeople do."
The girl had seated herself near him, and was busily engaged inarranging 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 asbeing different from any other person I have ever known. It was not avery serious charge to think of you as being different from the peoplein Davy's Bend."
There was something in that, for they were not the finest people in theworld, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible forall their faults, as they pretended.
"No, it is not serious," he replied; "but I am sorry you are looking sowell, for I am running away from you. It would be easier, were you lessbecoming. I am sorry you are not ugly."
There was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettierthan ever.
"Running away from _me_?"
"Yes, from you," he answered.
She began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them whilehe watched her face. Dorris thought of himself as a snake watching abird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened tobe moving.
"Why?" she asked at last.
"Because I am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "You shouldrun 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 aredangerous."
The bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excusefor 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. Iam not at all afraid of you."
He laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she hadmade.
"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, andknow w
hat to expect of them under given circumstances; but all those ofyour sex I have ever known were as a sealed book. The men are always thesame, 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 arealways better than the men. I have never known this to fail, but beyondthat I know nothing of your sex. I say to you that I am dangerous; youreply that you are not afraid of me. But you ought to be; I am sure ofthat."
"If you desire it," she said, "I am sorry, but I feel perfectly safe inyour company."
"It's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "If you wereafraid of me, I would not be dangerous. I am not liable to pelt you withstones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of ourbecoming 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 dignity.
"You say you are not afraid of me; neither am I of you, and I intend totell you what you can hardly suspect. I am in love with you to such anextent that I can think of nothing else; but I cannot offer you anhonorable man's love, because I am not an honorable man, as thatexpression is used and accepted. I have been looking all my life forsuch a woman as you are, but now that I have found you, I respect you somuch 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 Imet, expecting to find the one I sought; but I never found it, andfinally gave up the search, forced to believe that such a one as Ilooked for did not exist. I have found out my mistake, but it is toolate."
He jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, as if he intended torun away, and did walk a distance, but came back again, as if he hadsomething else to say.
"I speak of this matter as I might tell a capable artist that I wasinfatuated with his picture, and could not resist the temptation tofrequently admire it. I have no more reason to believe that there is aresponsive feeling in your heart than I would have reason to believethat the picture I admired appreciated the compliment, but there isnothing wrong in what I have said to you, and it is a pleasure for me tosay it; there can be no harm in telling a pretty, modest woman that youadmire her--she deserves the compliment."
Annie Benton did not appear to be at all surprised at this avowal, andlistened to it with the air of one who was being told of somethingcommonplace.
"You do not make love like the lovers I have read about," she said, withan attempt at a smile, though she could not disguise the oddity of herposition. "I do not know how to answer you."
"Then don't answer me at all," he replied. "I am not making love to you,for I have denied myself that privilege. I am not at liberty to makelove to you, though I want to; therefore I ask the privilege ofexplaining why I shall avoid you in the future, and why I regret to doit. The first feeling I was ever conscious of was one of unrest; I wasnever satisfied with my home, or with those around me. If I thought Ihad a friend, I soon found him out, and was more dissatisfied than ever.Of course this was very unreasonable and foolish; anyone would say that,and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explanation, I could nothelp it; I was born that way, nor can I help saying that I am satisfiedwith you. You suit me exactly, and I was never contented in my lifeuntil I sat in the old church and looked at you."
Though the girl continued to look at him without apparent surprise, herface was very pale, and she was breathing rapidly.
"You may regard what I have said as impudent," Dorris continued, "andthink that while you are satisfactory to me, I would not be to you. I amnot now, but I would give a great deal to convince you that I am the manyou dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake under your pillow,providing you ever did such a ridiculous thing. It is not conceit for meto say that I believe I could compel you to respect me, therefore Iregret that we have ever met at all, for I am not at liberty to woo youhonorably; if you want to know why, I will tell you, for I would placemy life in your hands without the slightest hesitation, and feel secure;but it is enough for the present to say that nothing could happen whichwould surprise me. I am in trouble; though I would rather tell you of itthan have you surmise what it is, for I am not ashamed of it. I canconvince you--or any one with equally good sense--that I am not nearlyso 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 Ifear that you will discover some time that I am not worthy of the manykind things you have said about me. I am only a woman, and when you knowme better you will find that I am not the one you have been looking forso long and so patiently."
"Excuse me if I contradict you in that," he said with as much graveearnestness as though he had been talking politics, and found itnecessary to take issue with her. "You _are_ the one. Once there came tome in a dream a face which I have loved ever since. This was early inlife, and during all the years which have brought me nothing butdiscontent and wretchedness, it has been my constant companion; the onelittle pleasure of my life. From the darkness that surrounded me, theface has always been looking at me; and whatever I have accomplished--Ihave accomplished nothing in Davy's Bend, but my life has been busyelsewhere--has been prompted by a desire to please this strange friend.I have never been able to dismiss my trouble--I have had no more than myshare, perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in theworld to render us all unhappy--except to welcome the recollection ofthe dream; and although I have often admitted to myself that thiscommunion with the unreal was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, ithas afforded me a contentment that I failed to find in anything else;therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, and it grewstronger as I grew older, causing me many a heartache because there wasnothing in life like it. Most men have dreams of greatness, but my onlywish was to find the face that always came out of the shadows at mybidding."
He paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, where his dreamseemed to realize before him, for he looked intently at it, and went onto describe it.
"It was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there was no expressionin it that was not human; expressions of love, and pity, andforgiveness--you have them in your face now, and I believe they are notuncommon. I have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as Igrew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory nature of life, Ibecame more than ever convinced that I would feel entirely satisfiedcould my dream come true. At last I came to believe that it wasimpossible; that I was as unreasonable as the man who pined because histears were not diamonds; but I could not give up the recollection of theface, to which I was always so true and devoted, and comforted myselfwith brooding over it, and regretting my misfortune. Instead ofgreatness or grandeur, I longed for the face, and it was the only one Iever loved."
Again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his fancy, but this time heseemed to be dismissing it forever, after a careful inspection toconvince himself that the counterpart he had found on earth was exactlylike it.
"Until I met you," he said, looking at Annie Benton again, "thissweetheart of my fancy lived in Heaven, Maid of Air. When you turnedupon me that afternoon in the church, I almost exclaimed aloud: 'Theface! My vision has come true!' Not a feature was missing, and youractions and your smile were precisely what I had seen so often in myfancy. Therefore you are not a stranger to me; I have loved you all mylife, and instead of worshipping a vision in the future I shall worshipyou. Why don't you speak to me?"
"I don't dare to," she answered, looking him full in the face, andwithout the slightest hesitation. "I am afraid I would say something Iought not to."
He looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to divine her meaning,and concluded that if she should speak more freely, he would hearsomething surprising; either she would denounce him for his boldness, orprofess a love for him which would compel him to give up his resolutionof never seeing her again.
"That was an unfortunate expression," he said. "I am sorry
you saidthat, for it has pleased my odd fancy; indeed, it is precisely what Iwas hoping you would say, but there is all the more reason now for myrepeating to you that I am dangerous. I know how desperate my affairsare; how desperate I am, and how unfortunate it would be if you shouldbecome involved. Therefore I say to you, as a condemned prisoner mightshut out the single ray of light which brightened his existence, so thathe might meet his inevitable fate bravely, that you must avoid me, andwalk another way when you see me approaching."
A hoarse whistle came to them from the ferry in the river, and Dorristhought of it as an angry warning from a monster, in whose keeping hewas, to come away from a presence which afforded him pleasure.
"May I speak a word?" the girl inquired, turning abruptly 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 same matter-of-factbelief 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 helooked 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 loveddevotedly all my life, as I am certain that there is a river at the footof the hill. What I have said to you is generally regarded assentimental nonsense except when it is protected by the charity of asweetheart or a wife; but it is in every man's heart, though it issometimes never expressed, and my idle life here has made me bold enoughto state that it is true. I have been seeking contentment with so mucheagerness, and know so well that it is hard to find, that I have come tobelieve that there is but one more chance, and that I would find what Ilack in the love of a woman like you. Even if I should discover byexperience that I am mistaken in this belief, I would feel better offthan I ever did before; for I would then conclude that my fancies werewrong, and that I was as well off as any man; but this feeling willalways be denied me, for I am denied the privilege of happiness now thatit is within my reach. My lonely life here has wrung a confession fromme which I should have kept to myself, but it is every word true; youcan depend on that."
Annie Benton seemed satisfied with the answers he had made, and therewas another long silence between them.
"And your music--you play like one possessed," he said finally, talkingto the wind, probably, for he was not looking at the girl. "Everysentiment my heart has ever known you have expressed in chords. Had Inot known differently, I should have thought you were familiar with myhistory and permitted the organ to tell it whenever we met. What a voicethe old box has, and what versatility; for its power in representingangels is only equalled by its power to represent devils. There is asong with which I have become familiar from hearing you play the air; itis a sermon which appealed to me as nothing ever did before. Before Iknew the words, I felt sure that they were promises of mercy andforgiveness; and when I found them, I thought I must have been familiarwith them all my life; they were exactly what I had imagined. To look atyour cold, passionless face now, no one would suspect your wonderfulgenius. You look innocent enough, but I do not wonder that you areregarded as a greater attraction than the minister. I have been toldthat you can kill the sermon, when you want to, by freezing the audiencebefore it commences, and I believe it. I have no doubt that you takepride in controlling with your deft fingers the poor folks who worshipunder the steeple which mounts up below us. I only wonder that you donot cause them to cheer, and swing their hats, for they say that you canmove them to tears at will."
"I never feel like cheering myself," she answered, "and I suppose thatis why the organ never does. But I very often feel sad, because I am socommonplace, and because there is so little in the future for me. If Iplay so coldly at times that even the minister is affected, it isbecause I am indifferent, and forget, and not because I intend it."
"If you are commonplace," Allan Dorris replied, "you have abundantcompany; for the world is full of common people. We are all creatures ofsuch common mould that I wonder we do not tire of our ugly forms. Out ofevery hundred thousand there is a genius, who neglects all the virtuesof the common folks, and is hateful save as a genius. For his one goodquality he has a hundred bad ones; but he is not held to strict account,like the rest of us, for genius is so rare that we encourage it, nomatter what the cost. But I have heard that these great people aremonstrosities, and thoroughly wretched. I would rather be a king in onehonest heart, than a sight for thousands. But this is not running awayfrom you, as I promised, and if I remain here longer I shall lose thepower. 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 wouldaccompany him; but Dorris knew that she meant the hill on which theywere standing, not the one he referred to. He referred to a hill asfamous as wickedness, and known in every house because of its open doorsto welcome back some straggler from the noisy crowd travelling down thefamous hill; but he thought that should a woman like Annie Bentonconsent 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 theyhad walked awhile in silence.
"Yes," he answered, "because it pleased me. Be very careful to donothing which pleases me, for I am not accustomed to it, and the noveltymay cause me to forget the vow I have made. A man long accustomed todarkness 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.
"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 replied,--
"If I should answer you frankly, I should please you; and you havewarned me against that."
Dorris was amused at the reply, and laughed awhile to himself.
"I didn'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 Iam not repugnant to you, though. It will be a comfort to me to know, nowthat my dream has come true, that the subject of it does not regard mewith distrust or aversion. I am glad, too, that after dreaming of thesunshine so long, it is not a disappointment. In my loneliness hereafterthat circumstance will be a satisfaction, and it will be a pleasure tobelieve that the sunshine was brighter because of my brief stay in it. Ican forget some of the darkness around me in future, in thinking ofthese two circumstances."
They had reached Thompson Benton's gate by this time, and, theinvitation having been extended, Dorris walked into the house. Themaster was not due for an hour, so Dorris remained until he came,excusing himself by the reflection that he would never see the girlagain, and that he was entitled to this pleasure because of thesacrifice he had resolved to make.
It was the same old story over again; Allan Dorris was desperately inlove with Annie Benton, but she must not be in love with him, for he wasdangerous, and whether this was true or not, his companion did notbelieve it. He told in a hundred ways, though in language which mighthave meant any one of a hundred things, that she was his dream cometrue, and of the necessity which existed for him to avoid her.Occasionally he would forget to be grave, and make sport of himself, andlaugh at what he had been saying; and at these times Annie Benton wasconvinced more than ever that he was not a dangerous man, as he said,for there was an honest gentility in his manner, and a gentle respectfor her womanhood in everything he did; therefore she listenedattentively to what he said, saying but little herself, as he requested.Although he made love to her in many ingenious ways, and moved
AnnieBenton as she had never been moved before, he did not so intend it.Could his motives have been impartially judged, that must have been theverdict; but while he knew that his love was out of place in the keepingof the girl, he could not resist the temptation of giving it to her, andthen asking her to refuse it.
Several times Annie Benton attempted to speak, but he held up his handas a warning.
"Don't say anything that you will regret," he said. "Let me do that; Iam famous for it. I never talked ten minutes in my life that I didn'tsay something that caused me regret for a year. But I will never regretanything I have said to you, for I have only made a confession which hasbeen at my tongue's end for years. I have known you all my life; youknow 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 Iwould 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 yoursilence. Let me imagine what I please, since that can be of littleconsequence to you."
There was a noise at the front door, and old Thompson came in. Dorrisbowed himself out, followed by a scowl, and as he walked along towardhis own house he thought that his resolution to see Annie Benton no morewould at least save him from a quarrel with her father.