Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 5

  Here I shall quote you again from the diary of Uncle Eb. 'It was so darkI couldn't see a han' before me. "Don't p'int yer gun at me," the manwhispered. Thought 'twas funny he could see me when I couldn't see him.Said 'twas his home an' we'd better leave. Tol him I was sick (rumatiz)an' couldn't stir. Said he was sorry an' come over near us. Tol' him Iwas an' ol' man goin' west with a small boy. Stopped in the rain. Gotsick. Out o' purvisions. 'Bout ready t' die. Did'n know what t' do.Started t' stike a match an' the man said don't make no light cos Idon't want to hev ye see my face. Never let nobody see my face. Said henever went out 'less 'twas a dark night until folks was abed. Said welooked like good folks. Scairt me a little cos we couldn't see a thing.Also he said don't be 'fraid of me. Do what I can fer ye.'

  I remember the man crossed the creaking floor and sat down near us afterhe had parleyed with Uncle Eb awhile in whispers. Young as I was I keepa vivid impression of that night and, aided by the diary of Uncle Eb, Ihave made a record of what was said that is, in the main, accurate.

  'Do you know where you are?' he enquired presently, whispering as he haddone before.

  'I've no idee,' said Uncle Eb.

  'Well, down the hill is Paradise Valley in the township o' Faraway,'he continued. 'It's the end o' Paradise Road an' a purty country. Beensettled a long time an' the farms are big an' prosperous--kind uv a lando' plenty. That big house at the foot o' the hill is Dave Brower's. He'sthe richest man in the valley.'

  'How do you happen t' be livin' here?--if ye don't min' tellin' me,'Uncle Eb asked.

  'Crazy,' said he; ''fraid uv everybody an' everybody's 'fraid o' me.Lived a good long time in this way. Winters I go into the big woods. Gota camp in a big cave an' when I'm there I see a little daylight. Here 'nthe clearin' I'm only up in the night-time. Thet's how I've come to seeso well in the dark. It's give me cat's eyes.'

  'Don't ye git lonesome?' Uncle Eb asked.

  'Awful--sometimes,' he answered with a sad sigh, 'an' it seems good t'talk with somebody besides myself. I get enough to eat generally. Thereare deer in the woods an' cows in the fields, ye know, an' potatoes an'corn an' berries an' apples, an' all thet kind o' thing. Then I've gotmy traps in the woods where I ketch partridges, an' squirrels an' coonsan' all the meat I need. I've got a place in the thick timber t' do mycookin'--all I want t' do--in the middle of the night Sometimes I comehere an' spend a day in the garret if I'm caught in a storm or if Ihappen to stay a little too late in the valley. Once in a great whileI meet a man somewhere in the open but he always gits away quick as hecan. Guess they think I'm a ghost--dunno what I think o' them.'

  Our host went on talking as if he were glad to tell the secrets of hisheart to some creature of his own kind. I have often wondered at hisfrankness; but there was a fatherly tenderness, I remember in the voiceof Uncle Eb, and I judge it tempted his confidence. Probably the loveof companionship can never be so dead in a man but that the voice ofkindness may call it back to life again.

  'I'll bring you a bite t' eat before morning,' he said, presently, as herose to go, 'leet me feel o' your han', mister.'

  Uncle Eb gave him his hand and thanked him.

  'Feels good. First I've hed hold of in a long time,' he whispered.

  'What's the day o' the month?'

  'The twenty-fifth.'

  'I must remember. Where did you come from?'

  Uncle Eb told him, briefly, the story of our going west

  'Guess you'd never do me no harm--would ye?' the man asked. 'Not a bit,'Uncle Eb answered.

  Then he bade us goodbye, crossed the creaking floor and went away in thedarkness.

  'Sing'lar character!' Uncle Eb muttered.

  I was getting drowsy and that was the last I heard. In the morning wefound a small pail of milk sitting near us, a roasted partridge, twofried fish and some boiled potatoes. It was more than enough to carryus through the day with a fair allowance for Fred. Uncle Eb was a bitbetter but very lame at that and kept to his bed the greater part of theday. The time went slow with me I remember. Uncle Eb was not cheerfuland told me but one story and that had no life in it. At dusk he let mego out in the road to play awhile with Fred and the wagon, but came tothe door and called us in shortly. I went to bed in a rather unhappyframe of mind. The dog roused me by barking in the middle of the rightand I heard again the familiar whisper of the stranger.

  'Sh-h-h! be still, dog,' he whispered; but I was up to my ears in sleepand went under shortly, so I have no knowledge of what passed thatnight. Uncle Eb tells in his diary that he had a talk with him lastingmore than an hour, but goes no further and never seemed willing to talkmuch about that interview or others that followed it.

  I only know the man had brought more milk and fish and fowl for us. Westayed another day in the old house, that went like the last, and thenight man came again to see Uncle Eb. The next morning my companion wasable to walk more freely, but Fred and I had to stop and wait for himvery often going down the big hill. I was mighty glad when we wereleaving the musty old house for good and had the dog hitched withall our traps in the wagon. It was a bright morning and the sunlightglimmered on the dew in the broad valley. The men were just coming frombreakfast when we turned in at David Brower's. A barefooted little girla bit older than I, with red cheeks and blue eyes and long curly hair,that shone like gold in the sunlight, came running out to meet us andled me up to the doorstep, highly amused at the sight of Fred and thewagon. I regarded her with curiosity and suspicion at first, while UncleEb was talking with the men. I shall never forget that moment when DavidBrower came and lifted me by the shoulders, high above his head, andshook me as if to test my mettle. He led me into the house then wherehis wife was working.

  'What do you think of this small bit of a boy?' he asked.

  She had already knelt on the floor and put her arms about my neck andkissed me.

  'Am' no home,' said he. 'Come all the way from Vermont with an ol' man.They're worn out both uv 'em. Guess we'd better take 'em in awhile.'

  'O yes, mother--please, mother,' put in the little girl who was holdingmy hand. 'He can sleep with me, mother. Please let him stay.'

  She knelt beside me and put her arms around my little shoulders and drewme to her breast and spoke to me very tenderly.

  'Please let him stay,' the girl pleaded again.

  'David,' said the woman, 'I couldn't turn the little thing away. Won'tye hand me those cookies.'

  And so our life began in Paradise Valley. Ten minutes later I wasplaying my first game of 'I spy' with little Hope Brower, among thefragrant stooks of wheat in the field back of the garden.