by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER II.
THE LOCKS.
From the southern windows of The Locks, Allan Dorris looked with curiousinterest the day after his arrival, and the week and the monthfollowing, for he remained there for that length of time without goingout, except to walk along the country roads for exercise, where heoccasionally met wagons containing men who cursed the town they wereleaving for its dullness.
The dwellings of Davy's Bend were built upon hills sloping toward thelittle valley where the business houses were, and which poured a floodof water and mud into the long streets in rainy weather through gapinggullies of yellow clay. The rains seemed to be so fierce and frequentthere that in the course of time they had cut down the streets, leavingthe houses perching on hills above them, which were reached by flightsof steps; and this impression was strengthened by the circumstance thatit was a wet time, for it rained almost incessantly.
The houses were a good way apart, so far as he could see from hissouthern windows; and this circumstance caused him to imagine that thepeople were suspicious of each other, and he noticed that while many ofthem had once been of a pretending character, they were now generallyneglected; and that there was a quiet air everywhere that reminded himof the country visited in his walks.
The houses themselves appeared to look at him with a cynical air, as thepeople did, as if to intimate that he need not hope to surprise themwith his importance, or with anything he might do, for their quietstreets had once resounded to the tread of busy feet, and they had seenstrangers before, and knew the ways of men. Some of the dwellingsperching on the hills, deserted now except as to bats and owls,resembled unfortunate city men in a village; for there was a conspicuousair of decayed propriety about them, and an attempt at respectabilitythat would have been successful but for lack of means. These inparticular, he thought, made faces at him, and sneered as he passedthrough their part of the town in his walks to and from the countryroads.
Several times he heard parties of men passing his house at night,talking loudly to make themselves heard above the jolting of theirwagons; and these usually had something to say about the new owner ofThe Locks, from which he imagined that there was much speculation in thetown concerning him. The house in which he lived was such a gloomyplace, and he was shut up in it alone for such a length of time, that hecame to listen to the sound of human voices with pleasure, and oftenwent to the windows to watch for the approach of wagons, that he mighthear the voices of their occupants; for there were no solitarytravellers that way, and while the men may have been dissatisfied withthemselves and their surroundings, they at least had company. He longedto join these parties, and go with them to their homes, for he thoughtthe companionship of rough men and their families would be preferable tothe stillness of his house; but the wagons drove on, and Allan Dorrisreturned to his walk across the room, and back again.
From the window most patronized by him in his lonely hours he could seea long stretch of the river, and at a point opposite the town a steamferry was moored. Usually smoke was to be seen flying from its pipesduring the middle hours of the day, as it made a few lazy trips from oneshore to the other; but occasionally it was not disturbed at all, andsat quietly upon the water like a great bird from morning until night.
From making excursions about his own premises, as a relief from doingnothing, he found that the house in which he lived was situated in awooded tract of several acres in extent, entirely surrounded by a highstone wall, with two entrances; one in front, by means of a heavy irongate, which looked like a prison door, and a smaller one down by thestable. The stable, which was built of brick, had been occupied bypigeons without objection for so many years that they were now verynumerous, and protested in reels and whirls and dives and dips in theair against the new owner coming among them at all; perhaps theyimagined that in time they would be permitted to occupy the houseitself, and rear their young in more respectable quarters. There were afew fruit and ornamental trees scattered among the others, but they hadbeen so long neglected as to become almost as wild as the native oaksand hickories. Occasionally a tall poplar shot its head above theothers, and in his idleness Allan Dorris imagined that they were tryingto get away from the dampness below, for in the corners, and along thestone wall, there was such a rank growth of vines and weeds that he wasalmost afraid to enter the dank labyrinth himself. There was a quakingasp, too, which was always shivering at thought of the danger that mightbe concealed in the undergrowth at its feet, and even the stouthickories climbed a good way into the air to insure their safety.
Close to the south wall, so close that he could almost touch it, stood astone church, with so many gables that there seemed to be one for everypigeon from the stable, and on certain days of the week someone camethere to practise on the organ. At times the music was exquisite, and inhis rambles about the place he always went down by the south wall tolisten for the organ, and if he heard it he remained there until themusic ceased. The music pleased him so much, and was such a comfort inhis loneliness, that he did not care to see the player, having in hismind a spectacled and disagreeable person whose appearance would rob thespell of its charm; therefore he kept out of his way, though, on thedays when the music could be expected, Dorris was always in his place,impatiently waiting for it to commence. There was something in theplaying with which he seemed to have been acquainted all his life; itmay have been only the expression of weariness and sad melancholy thatbelongs to all these instruments, but, however it was, he regarded theorgan as an old acquaintance, and took much pleasure in its company evenwhen it was silent, for it occupied a great stone house like himself,and had nothing to do.
Between the stable and the house was the residence of Mrs. Wedge, thehousekeeper--a building that had originally been a detached kitchen, butthe cunning of woman had transformed the two rooms into a pleasant andcozy place. This looked home-like and attractive, as there were vinesover it and flowers about the door; and here Allan Dorris found himselflingering from day to day, for he seemed to crave companionship, thoughhe was ashamed to own it and go out and seek it. Instead of dining inthe stone house, he usually sat down at Mrs. Wedge's table, which hesupplied with a lavish hand, and lingered about until he thought itnecessary to go away, when he tried to amuse himself in the yard byvarious exercises, which were probably recollections of his youngerdays; but he failed at it, and soon came back to ask the motherly oldhousekeeper odd questions, and laugh good-naturedly at her odd answers.
A highly respectable old lady was Mrs. Wedge, in her black cloth dressand snowy white cap, and no one was more generally respected in Davy'sBend. During his life Mr. Wedge had been a strolling agent, neverstopping in a town more than a week; and thus she lived and travelledabout, always hoping for a quiet home, until her good-natured butshiftless husband took to his bed one day, and never got up again,leaving as her inheritance his blessing and a wild son of thirteen, whoknew all about the ways of the world, but nothing of industry. Hearingof Davy's Bend soon after as a growing place,--which was a long timeago, for Davy's Bend was not a growing place now,--she apprenticed herson to a farmer, and entered the service of the owner of The Locks,under whose roof she had since lived.
The wild son did not take kindly to farming, and ran away; and hismother did not hear of him again until four years after she was livingalone in The Locks, when a little girl five years old arrived,accompanied by a letter, stating that the son had lived a wanderer likehis father, and that the child's mother being dead, he hoped Mrs. Wedgewould take care of his daughter Betty until the father made his fortune.But the father never made his fortune; anyway, he never called for thechild, and Mrs. Wedge had found in her grand-daughter a companion and acomfort, passing her days in peace and quiet. Therefore when the newowner offered her a home there, and wages besides, in return for heragreement to undertake his small services, she accepted--having becomeattached to the place--and lived on as before.
The house itself, which was built of stone, and almost square, containedten rooms; four of about
the same size below, and four exactly like themabove, and two in the attic or half story in the roof. There were widehalls up stairs and down, and out of the room that Allan Dorris hadselected for his own use, and which was on the corner looking one waytoward the gate in front, and the other toward the town, began a coveredstairway leading to the attic.
In this room he sat day after day, and slept night after night, until healmost became afraid of the quiet that he believed he coveted when hecame to Davy's Bend; and at times he looked longingly toward thespeaking-tube behind the door, hoping it would whistle an announcementthat a visitor had arrived; for his habit of sitting quietly looking atnothing, until his thoughts became so disagreeable that he took longwalks about the place to rid himself of them, was growing upon him.
But no visitors came to vary the monotony, except the agent on themorning after his arrival, who received a quarter's rent in advance, andafterwards named a price so low that Allan Dorris bought the placeoutright, receiving credit for the rent already paid.
Had the dark nights that looked in at Allan Dorris's windows, and forwhich Davy's Bend seemed to be famous, been able to remark it, therewould have been much mysterious gossip through the town concerning hisstrange actions. Whenever he sat down, his eyes were at once fixed onnothing, and he lost himself in thought; he was oblivious to everything,and the longer he thought, the fiercer his looks became, until finallyhe sprang from his chair and walked violently about, as if his body wastrying to escape from his head, which contained the objectionablethoughts. At times he would laugh hoarsely, and declare that he wasbetter off at The Locks than he had ever been before, and that Davy'sBend was the best place in which he had ever lived; but thesedeclarations did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy andthoughtful as ever. That he was ill at ease, the dark nights could haveeasily seen had they been blessed with eyes; for the dread of lonelinessgrew upon him, and frequently he sent for Mrs. Wedge, confessing to herthat he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, no matterwhat it was about.
Mrs. Wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified way relate how, onher visits to the stores to purchase supplies, great curiosity waseverywhere expressed with reference to the new master of TheLocks,--what business he would engage in; where he came from; and, mostof all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought The Locks foralmost nothing.
"A great many say they would have taken the place at the pricethemselves," Mrs. Wedge would continue, smoothing down the folds of herapron, a habit of which she never tired, "but this is not necessarilytrue. The people here never want to buy anything until it is out of themarket; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of which they have greatneed, for they have little else to do. I believe the price at which youtook the house was lower than it was ever offered before,--but that isneither here nor there."
Then Mrs. Wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a quaint way, andof the people, which amused her employer; and noticing that, in his easychair, he seemed to enjoy her company, she would smooth out her aprononce more, and continue:--
"They all agree,"--there would be an amused smile on Mrs. Wedge's faceas she said it,--"they all agree that you do not amount to much, elseyou would have gone to Ben's City, instead of coming here. This isalways said of every stranger, for Davy's Bend is so dull that itspeople have forgotten their patriotism. I have not heard a good word forthe town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, and cursed, andridiculed. I think we despise each other because we do not move to Ben'sCity, and we live very much as I imagine the prisoners in a jail do,--incursing our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that eachone of us will finally be fortunate, while the condition of the otherswill grow worse. We are a strange community."
Dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near The Locks, andwondered at the deserted houses which he had seen in his walks,whereupon Mrs. Wedge explained that Davy's Bend was once a prosperouscity, containing five thousand busy people, but it had had bad lucksince; very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now remained,and even they are trying to get away. What is the cause of this decreasein population? The growth of Ben's City, thirty miles down the river.The belief which existed at one time that a great town would be built atDavy's Bend turned out to be a mistake. Ben's City seemed to be theplace; so the people had been going there for a number of years, leavingDavy's Bend to get along as best it could.
This, and much more, from Mrs. Wedge, until at a late hour she noticesthat Dorris is asleep in his chair, probably having got rid of histhoughts; so she takes up the lamp to retire with it. Holding it up sothat the shade throws the light full upon his face, she remarks toherself that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe man,whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing something about men,and arranging the room for the night, although it does not need it, shegoes quietly down the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and intoher own apartment.
