The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE STEP ON THE STAIR.

  There had been two days of rain already, and Allan Dorris sat in hislonely room at ten o'clock at night, listening to its ceaseless patterat the windows, and on the roof, and its dripping from the eaves,thinking that when the sun came out again he would go away and leave it,and remove to a place which would always be in the shadow. Davy's Bendwas noted for its murky weather, and the nights were surely darker therethan elsewhere; but he felt that after his departure he would think ofthe sun as always shining brightly around The Locks, and through thedirty town, even lighting up the dark woods across the river, whichseemed to collect a little more darkness every night than the succeedingday could drive out; for Annie Benton would remain, and surely the suncould not resist the temptation to smile upon her pretty face.

  Davy's Bend, with all its faults, would always remain a pleasant memorywith Allan Dorris, and he envied those who were to remain, for theymight hope to see Annie Benton occasionally pass on her way to church,and be better for it.

  He loved Annie Benton to such an extent that he would rather bethousands of miles away from her than within sight of the house in whichshe lived, since he had sworn not to ask her to share his life; and thenext morning before daylight he intended to go to some far-awayplace,--he did not know where,--and get rid of the dark nights, and therain, and the step on the stair, and the organ, and the player who hadexerted such an influence over him.

  He had not been able to sell The Locks at the price he paid, althoughthe people had been grumbling because they were not offered the bargainoriginally; so he intended to turn it over to Mrs. Wedge, and poorHelen, and the noises and spectres which were always protesting againsthis living there at all, and become a wanderer over the face of theearth. Perhaps his lonely life of a year in The Locks would causeanother ghost to take up its residence in the place, and join poor Helenin moaning and walking through the rooms.

  Mrs. Wedge had disappeared an hour before, her eyes red from weeping,but she was coming back at three o'clock in the morning, at which timeDorris intended to leave for the railroad station; so Dorris settledhimself in his chair to wait until the hour for his departure arrived.

  How distinct the step on the stair to-night! A hundred times it hadpassed up and down since Allan Dorris sat down a few hours before; andthe dripping rain at the windows made him think of sitting up with abody packed in ice. Drip; drip; drip; and the ghostly step so distinctthat he thought the body he was watching must have tired of lying in oneposition so long, and was walking about for exercise.

  The light burned low under its shade, and the other side of the room wasin deep shadow. He thought of it as a map of his life; for it wasentirely dark and blank, except the one ray in the corner, whichrepresented Davy's Bend and Annie Benton. Yet he had determined to goback into the shadow again, and leave the light forever; to exist oncemore in toil and discontent, hoping to tire himself by excitement andexertion into forgetfulness, and sleep, and death.

  Death! Is it so dreadful, after all? Dorris argued the question withhimself, and came to the conclusion that if it meant rest andforgetfulness he would welcome it. There had been a great deal of hopein his life, but he was convinced now that he was foolish forentertaining it at all, since nothing ever came of it. Perhaps hisexperience had been that of other men; he gave up one hope only toentertain another, but experience had taught him that hope was nothingmore than a solace for a wretched race. The old hope that they will bebetter to-morrow, when they will get on with less difficulty and wearylabor; but to-morrow they die, and their children hope after them, andare disappointed, and hope again.

  Should Death open the door, and walk in to claim him, Dorris believed hewould be ready, since there was nothing in the future for him morepleasant than the past had offered. He did not believe he was a morbidman, or one given to exaggerating the distress of his own condition, buthe would give up life as he might give up anything else which was notsatisfactory, and which gave no promise of improvement.

  How distinctly the step is climbing the stair! He had never heard it soplainly before, but the faltering and hesitation were painfully natural;he had heard it almost every night since coming to the house, but therewas a distinctness now which he had never remarked before. A long pauseon the landing; poor Helen dreading to go into the baby's room, hethought, whither she was drawn so often from her grave. But it advancedto the door of the room in which Dorris sat, and stopped again; he drewhis breath in gasps--perhaps it was coming in!

  A timid knock at the door!

  The face of the listener turned as pale as death, and he trembledviolently when he stood upon his feet. Should he open the door or lockit! Going up to the fire, he stirred the smouldering coals until therewas a flood of light in the room, and turned up the lamp to increase theillumination. Still he hesitated. Suppose he should open the door, andfind poor Helen standing there in her grave-clothes! Suppose she shoulddrop on her knees, and ask for her child, holding out her fleshlessfingers to him in supplication, and stare at him with her sightlesssockets?

  After hesitating a long time, he went to the door and threw it wideopen, at the same time springing back from it in quick alarm.

  Annie Benton!

  He had firmly expected to see the ghost of poor Helen; instead he saw afresh and beautiful girl, but so excited that she could scarcely speak.There was a look of reckless determination in her face which made AllanDorris fear for the moment that she had gone mad, and, strolling aboutthe town, had concluded, in her wild fancy, to murder him for someimagined wrong.

  "How you frightened me!" he said, coming close to her. "Just before yourapped, the ghost of poor Helen had been running up and down the stair,as if celebrating my resolution to leave The Locks, and give it over toher for night walking. You have been out in the storm, and are wet andcold. Come in to the fire."

  The girl crossed the threshold, and entered the room, but did not gonear the fire. She seemed to be trying to induce her hot brain toexplain her presence there, for she turned her back to him, as if inembarrassment.

  "I can no longer control myself," Annie Benton said, facing Dorris withquivering lips, "and I have come to give myself to you, body and soul. Iam lost to restraint and reason, and I place myself in the hands of himwho has brought this about, for I am no longer capable of taking care ofmyself. Do what you please with me; I love you so much that I will besatisfied, though disgrace comes of it. I will never leave you again,and if you go away, I will go with you. I have loved you against myreason ever since I knew you, for you always told me I must not, and Irestrained myself as best I could. But I cannot permit you to go awayunless you take me with you. O, Allan, promise me that you will not goaway," she said, falling on her knees before him. "Do this, and I willreturn home, to regret this rashness forever. If you do not, I willremain, let the consequences be what they may."

  Dorris looked at the girl in wonder and pity, for there was touchingevidence in her last words that she was greatly distressed; but he couldonly say, "Annie! what are you doing!"

  "You have taught me such lessons in love that I have gone mad instudying them," she continued, standing beside him again, "and there isnothing in this world, or the world to come, that I would not give topossess you. I relinquish my father, and my home, and my hope of heaven,that I may be with you, if these sacrifices are necessary to pacify myrebellion. If you have been playing upon my feelings during ouracquaintance, and were not sincere, you have captured me so completelythat I am your slave. But if you were in earnest, I shall always be gladthat I took this step, and never feel regret, no matter what comes ofit. Did you think I was made of stone, not to be moved by your appealsto me? I am a woman, and every sentiment you have given utterance toduring our acquaintance has found response in my heart. It may be thatyou did not know differently, for there is too much sentiment in theworld about women, and not enough knowledge. But I did not deserve allthe good you said about me; it made me blush to realize that much thatyou ha
ve said in my praise was not true, though I loved you for what yousaid. But I show my weakness now. I could not resist the temptation tocome here, and, as you have often told me, when anyone starts to travelthe wrong road, the doors and gates are all open. _Yours_ were all opento-night, and I came here without resistance."

  Dorris was too much frustrated to attempt to explain how his front gateand door came open, which was, perhaps, the result of carelessness; buthe seemed as much alarmed as though a ghost, instead of his sweetheart,had come in at them. Without knowing exactly what he did, he attemptedto take her wet wrap, but she stepped back from him excitedly.

  "Don't touch me!" she said excitedly. "Speak to me!"

  "Sit down, and take off your wet wrap," he answered, "and I will."

  She unfastened a hook at her throat, and the garment fell to the floor.Her dress had been soiled by the walk through the rain, and her hair wasdishevelled; but she never looked so handsome before as she did when shestood in front of Dorris, radiant with excitement. But instead ofspeaking to her, as he had promised, Dorris sat motionless for a longtime, looking at the floor. The girl watched him narrowly, and thoughthe trembled; indeed he was agitated so much that he walked over to thewindow, and stood looking out for a long time.

  "You say you could not resist the temptation to love me, though you_said_ it was wrong," the excited girl continued. "Nor could I helploving you when you asked me to, though you said I should not. You neverspoke to me in your life that you did not ask me to love you. Everythingyou said seemed so sincere and honest, that I forgot my own existence inmy desire to be with you in your loneliness, whatever the penalty of thestep I am taking may be. I have so much confidence in you, and so muchlove for you, that I cannot help thinking that I am doing right, andthat I never will regret it. Speak to me, and say that, no differencewhat the world may say, you are pleased; I care only for that."

  A picture, unrolled from the heavens, has appeared on the outside, andAllan Dorris is looking at it through the window. A long road, through arough country, and disappearing in misty distance; travellers cominginto it from by-ways, some of whom disappear, while others trudgewearily along. There are difficulties in the way which seeminsurmountable, and these difficulties are more numerous as thetravellers fade into the distance; and likewise the number of travellersdecreases as the journey is lengthened. At length only one traveller isto be seen, a mere speck along the high place where the difficult roadwinds. He tries to climb a hill, beyond which he will be lost to view;but he fails until another traveller comes up, when they help eachother, and go over the hill together, waving encouragement to those whoare below; into the mist, beyond which no human eye can look.

  "During our entire acquaintance," Dorris said finally, coming over toher, "you have said or done nothing which did not meet my approbation,and cause me to love you more and more. You did not force yourself to dothese things; they were natural, and that was the reason I told you tokeep away from me, for I saw that our acquaintance was becomingdangerous; why, I have offered to tell you before. But what you havedone this night pleases me most of all. I have been praying that youwould do it for months, though I did not believe you would, and, much asI loved you, I intended going away in the morning for your good. I wasafraid to ask you to share my life, fearing you would accept, for I am acoward when you are in danger; but now that you have offered to do it,and relieved me of the fear I had of enticing you into it, I am happierthan I can express."

  Annie Benton's face brightened, and she put her hands in his.

  "Please say that my face is not cold and passionless," she said. "Onceyou told me that when we were out on the hills, and it has pained meever since. Say that there is hot blood and passion in my veins now."

  "When I said that," he answered, "I was provoked because you had so muchcontrol. I had none at all, and declared my passion within a few weeksafter I knew you, but when I did it, you only looked at me in meeksurprise. But I understand it all now, and I want to say that althoughyou may regard what you have done to-night as an impropriety, it is thesurest road to my heart. If it is depravity, I will make you proud ofdepravity, for I will be so good to you in the future that you willbless the day you lost your womanly control. The fact that you havetrusted me completely caused me to resolve to make you a happy woman,and I believe I can do it. I love you because you have blood in yourveins instead of water, and I will make you a queen. I am more of a manthan you give me credit for; I am not the gloomy misanthrope you take meto be, for you have rescued me from that, and I will make the people ofDavy's Bend say that Annie Benton was wiser than the best of them!"

  He struck the table a resounding blow with his fist, and had the enemiesof the man been able to look at his face then, they would have beenafraid of him.

  "May I sit on your knee, and put my arms around your neck while youtalk?" she asked.

  "Yes," he answered, picking her up with the ease of a giant, and kissingher on the cheek. "You may ride on my back all your life if you willonly remain with me. I have never felt like a man until this moment, andthose who have fault to find with my course had better keep out of theway. There is a reason why you and I should not be married--as we willbe before the sun shows itself again, for I intend to send for theminister to come to the church when I am through telling you how much Ilove you, and you shall play our wedding march while I pump theorgan--but I am in the right. I have endured misery long enough toaccommodate others; let them expect it no longer! And now that you knowwhat I intend to do, listen while I tell you who I am, where I camefrom, and why I forced you to your present novel position."

  "I prefer not to hear it," the girl said, without looking up. "I did notknow you before you came to Davy's Bend: I am not concerned in yourhistory beyond that time, and as a mark of confidence in you I shallreserve the telling of it until our married life has been tested: untilI am so useful to you (as I am certain you will be to me) that, nodifference what your secret is, we will consider it a blessing forbringing us together. But for the disagreeable part of your life wewould never have met; we should think of that."

  "Another time, then, or never, as you prefer," he replied. "I would havetold you long ago, had you encouraged me to. Anyway, it is a story ofdevotion to others, and of principle practised with the hatred andcontempt and cowardly timidity which should only characterize villains,and villainous actions; of principle carried to such an extent as tobecome a wrong; but from this hour I shall act from a right motive, inwhich my heart sympathizes; which affords me a return for effort, andwhich will aid in making me a better man. I shall live to accommodatemyself henceforth, instead of as a favor to others. But what will thepeople say of our strange marriage?"

  "I fear it is a sad depravity," the girl answered, "but I don't care."

  "Nor do I; how lucky! If it satisfies you and me, let every tongue inthe world wag, if it will afford them enjoyment. I have neither time norinclination to hunt down the idle rumors that may find their way intocirculation concerning my affairs, for what does it matter whether oldMiss Maid or old Mr. Bach thinks good or ill of me? I never cared aboutsuch trifles; I care less now that I have you."

  Had Dorris looked at the upper sash of the window over the porch,instead of at the girl, he would have seen a malicious face looking inat him, but he was too much occupied for that, and the face was soonwithdrawn.

  "I have never expected anything that was unreasonable," Dorris said,probably recollecting that his actions had been such as to give rise toa suspicion that he was a fickle man, and could not be satisfied withanything. "I know all that it is possible for a woman to be, and I havehoped for nothing beyond that. I ask no more than a companion of whom Iwill never tire, and who will never tire of me--some one who will keepme agreeable company during my life, and regret me when I am dead. Thereare people, and many of them, who fret because they long for that whichis impossible. I have passed that time of life, and will be content withwhat life affords,--with you. I am not a boy, but a man of experience,and I know I w
ill never tire of you. I have thought of the ways in whichyou can be disagreeable, but your good qualities outweigh them all. Iknow you are not an angel; you have faults, but it gives me pleasure toforgive them in advance. If you will be equally charitable with me, wewill be very happy."

  "I have no occasion to be charitable with you," she answered.

  "Then you never will have," was his reply. "Marriage is the greatestinheritance of man, but it is either a feast or a famine. The contrastbetween a man who is happily married, and one who is not, is as great asthe contrast between light and darkness, but there are many more of thefirst class than of the latter. It may be a false social system, butvery often those who ought not to marry hurry into it in the greatesthaste. I have thought that the qualities which attract young people toeach other are the very ones which result in misery: and that loveshould commence in sincere and frank friendship; not charity orsentimentality. I do not believe in affinities, but I do believe thatthere is only one person in the world exactly suited to be my wife, andI intend to kiss her now."

  He did kiss her, but with the tenderness a rough man might display inkissing a tiny baby.

  "Although you say you love me, and I _know_ you do," the girl saidthoughtfully, "you have always acted as though you were afraid of me.You never kissed me but once before in your life, and then I asked youto."

  "Afraid of you!" There was a merry good humor in Allan Dorris's voicewhich would have made anyone his friend. "Afraid of you! Am I afraid ofthe sunshine, or of a fresh breath of air! I am afraid of nothing. I hadthe same fear of you that I have of heaven--a fear that you were beyondmy reach, therefore I did not care to contaminate you with my touch. Butif ever I get to heaven, I will not be afraid of it. I intend to makelove to you all my life, though I shall be careful not to make myselftiresome. We will reverse the rule, and become lovers after we aremarried. You once said that I was queer; I cannot forget that charge,somehow. I _am_ queer; in this respect: I was born a bull with a hatredfor red flags, which have been waved in my face ever since I canremember. I may have been mistaken, but I have always believed that Inever had a friend in my life, although I craved one more than anythingelse. But you have changed all this; I am contented now, and ready togive peace for peace. Of the millions of people in the world, am I notentitled to you?"

  He held her up in his arms, as if he would exhibit her, and ask if thatsmall bundle was an unreasonable request, since he asked no more, andpromised to be entirely satisfied.

  The loud report of a gun on the outside, followed by a crash in theglass in the upper pane of the window as a bullet came in to imbeditself in the wall above their heads, startled them. The girl sprang upin alarm, while Dorris hurriedly ran down stairs and into the yard.

  "A careless hunter has allowed his gun to explode in the road," he said,when he returned after a long absence. But this explanation did not seemto satisfy even himself, for he soon went down to the lower end of thehall, and aroused Mrs. Wedge, by throwing the window-prop on the roof ofher house. On the appearance of that worthy woman, who came in with hereyes almost closed from the sleepiness which still clung to her, but whoopened them very wide at sight of Annie Benton, he said,--

  "Will you two please talk about the weather, and nothing else, until Ireturn? I will return in a few minutes, and make the necessaryexplanations. If there is anything wrong here, I will make it right."

  He left the house hurriedly, and they heard the big iron gate in frontbang after him, but when his footsteps could no longer be heard, andthey no longer had excuse for listening to them, the two women sat inperfect silence. Occasionally Mrs. Wedge looked cautiously around atAnnie Benton, but, meeting her eyes, they both looked away again, andtried to appear at their ease, which they found impossible. FortunatelyDorris was not gone long, and when he came back he put the girl's cloakon, as if they were going out.

  "We will return in a little while," he explained to Mrs. Wedge, wholooked up curiously as he walked out with Annie Benton on his arm. "Ifyou care to wait, we will tell you a secret when we come back, as areward for not speaking while I was out of the room."

  Down the stairs they went, out at the front gate, and toward the town,until they reached the church door, which they entered. On the insidethey found Reverend Wilton waiting for them at the chancel rail, andalthough he tried to appear very much put out because he was disturbedat that unseasonable hour, and yawned indifferently, he was reallyinterested. Perhaps he was thinking of the rare story he would have totell at breakfast.

  Dorris had evidently given instructions as to what was expected of him,for as soon as they stood before him he read the marriage service, andpronounced them man and wife; after which he congratulated them and leftthe church, which was probably in accordance with his instructions, too.

  A single light burned in the building, which barely extended to thevaulted ceiling, and which did not prevent the pews and the pulpit fromlooking like live objects surprised at being disturbed at such an hour;and leading his wife up to the organ, Dorris said: "We will have thewedding march, if you please," whereupon he disappeared behind theinstrument to work the bellows.

  And such a wedding march was never heard before. The girl put all thejoy of her heart into melody, and made chords which caused Allan Dorristo regret that he could not leave the bellows and go round in front towave his hat and cheer. He was seated on a box in the dusty littlecorner, working away industriously; and when he heard how eloquently thegirl was telling the story of her love for him, tears of thankfulnesscame into his eyes and surprised them, for they had never been therebefore. Your cheek and mine have been wet with tears wrung from theheart by sorrow, but all of us have not been as happy as Allan Dorriswas on his wedding night.

  But there was more than joy in the music; it changed so suddenly intothe plaintive strain of the minstrel baritone as to cause Allan Dorristo start. It may have been because the player was executing with theleft hand, and without a light; but certainly it was difficult, like alife. But when the chords were formed, they were very sweet and tender,as we might say with a sigh that flowers on a weary man's grave wereappropriate.

  At last the music ceased, dying away like the memory of sobs and cheersand whispers, and taking his wife's arm through his own, Allan Dorriswalked back to The Locks.

  Mrs. Wedge was informed of the marriage, and could do nothing but cryfrom happiness; and after she left them Allan Dorris and his wife had somuch to say to each other that daylight came to congratulate them whilethey were still seated in their chairs.

  * * * * *

  But what is this which comes into the mind of Annie Dorris and causesher to start up in alarm? It is the recollection of Thompson Benton, herplain-spoken father.

  "O Allan!" she said. "What will father say?"

  "I will go over and hear what he says," Dorris replied promptly, puttingon his hat. "You can go along if you like."

  What a bold fellow he was! And how tenderly he adjusted the wraps aroundhis wife, after she had signified her desire to accompany him, when theystepped out into the frosty morning air!

  It was about Thompson Benton's time to start down town, and as theypaused before his front door, not without misgivings, he opened it wideand stood before them. Evidently the girl had not been missed from thehouse, for there was genuine astonishment in the father's face as helooked from one to the other.

  "What does this mean?" he said, looking at Dorris sharply from under hisshaggy eyebrows.

  "That we were married this morning," Dorris replied, not in the leastfrustrated, though his wife trembled like a leaf.

  He gave no evidence of the surprise which this announcement must havecaused him, but looked sullenly at Dorris for several moments, as thoughhe had a mind to try his strength with him; but when his eyes fell onhis child, his manner changed for the better. Motioning them to followhim, they closed the door, and all sat down in the pleasant family roomwhere the girl's recollection began, and where her father spent hislittle leisu
re in the evening. Here old Thompson looked hard at thefloor until he had thought the matter over, when he said,--

  "I have never found fault with the girl in my life; I have never hadoccasion to, and if she can justify what she has done I am content. Areyou sure you are right, Annie?"

  He looked up at her with such a softened manner, and there was so muchtenderness in his words, that the girl forgot the fear which his hardlook had inspired when they met him at the door, and going over to himshe put her arm around his neck, and softly stroked his gray hair as shereplied,--

  "That which I have done has made me very happy. If that isjustification, I am entirely justified."

  "I require no other explanation," old Thompson answered. "From a littlechild you have been dutiful, sensible, and capable, and though myselfishness rebels because I am to lose you, a father's love is strongerthan selfishness, and I am glad you have found a husband you regard asworthy of your affection. You have drawn a prize, sir."

  He looked at Dorris as a defeated man might look at his rival when hethought it necessary to hide his mortification, and offercongratulations which he did not feel.

  "There is no doubt of it," Dorris promptly answered.

  "She is very much like her mother," old Thompson continued, "and hermother was the best woman in ten thousand. If I gave her a task toperform, she did it in a manner which pleased me, and she was always apleasant surprise. _This_ is a surprise, but I find no fault; I cannotregret that Annie knows the happiness of a young wife. I am a rough man,but I made her mother a very happy woman, and in remembrance of that Iam glad the daughter has found a husband she can honor. I have so muchconfidence in the girl's good sense that I do not question her judgment,and I wish you joy with all my heart."

  He took both their hands in his for a moment, and hurried away, Dorrisand his wife watching him until he disappeared in a bend of the street,when they went into the house to make their peace with the AncientMaiden.

  As Thompson Benton hurried along toward his store, swinging therespectable-looking iron key in his hand, who can know the regret hefelt to lose his child? His practical mind would not help him now, andhe must have felt that the only creature in all the world he cared forhad deserted him, for the old forget the enthusiasm of the young.

  It was a fortunate circumstance that the day was bad and customers few,for they would not have been treated well had they appeared.