by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XVII.
THE PURSUING SHADOW.
Allan Dorris and his wife had been up in the hills watching the sunset,and at dusk were returning leisurely home. They were very fond of theunfrequented locality where he had first declared his passion, and whenthe weather was fine they frequently visited it to imagine themselveslovers again, which was easy enough, for as man and wife they got alongamazingly well. And now, when they were returning at nightfall, a shadowcrept after them; from bush to rock, and from tree to shrub, crawlingand stealing along like a beast watching its prey.
Pretty Annie Dorris, prettier than ever before, was expressing a fear inher winning way that their happiness was too great to last, and thatsomething dreadful would happen to them. But she had no suspicion of thelurking, creeping shadow which had hurried forward, and now stood almostwithin arm's length, as her husband replied,--
"I have been so discontented all my life, and am so contented now, thatI believe the Fates will guard me from it in pity. It is not much that Iask; a country girl to be my wife, and love me--nothing more. And itwill always be my endeavor to be so useful to the country girl that shewill be happy, too, so that the simple boon of peace is not too much toask when it will make two people entirely happy. I cheerfully give up myplace in the strife for greatness and riches in which men seem to bealways engaged, and will be content with the good health and plentywhich my simple life here will bring me. As for a living, I can makethat easy enough; I am making more even now than we can possibly spend.I hope your fears are not substantial."
The country girl had her arm through her husband's, and she looked upinto his face with such a troubled expression that he stopped in theroad.
"It may be that I am fearful only because I love you so much," she said."It almost kills me when I think that any harm might happen to you."
"I am glad to hear you say that," he replied, "but you are always sayingsomething which pleases me. You look handsome to-night; you lookprettier now than before you were married, and I think more of you. Youdon't fade out, and I love you for that; you are as fresh and as girlishas you ever were before we were married. I think it an evidence of goodblood."
"Now you are pleasing me," his wife said laughingly. "I have feared veryoften that you would not like me so well when you knew me better, andthat you would finally tire of me."
"But I don't," Dorris replied. "The more I know of you the better I likeyou. It's not usual, but I am more in love after marriage than I wasbefore."
"I have mingled so little with women," the wife said seriously, "that Isometimes fear that I am not like others of my sex in manners and dressand inclination. Did you ever notice it?"
"I think I have," he said.
She turned upon him with mock fierceness, and pretended to be veryindignant.
"Because you are not like other women, who act by rule, and are nearlyall alike, is the reason I have no greater ambition than to be tied toyour apron-strings," he said. "I think your freshness and originalityare your greatest charms."
"Long before I ever thought of becoming a wife myself," she said,seriously again, "I noticed that most men seemed to lack a knowledge ofwomen; that they regarded them as angels while they were girls, and weredisappointed because they turned out to be women as wives. I am notunjust, but I have thought the women were partly responsible for this,since many of them exhibit themselves like dolls, and pretend to be morethan they are. This is the reason why I am pleased that you are notdisappointed in me."
"As to your being an angel," he laughingly replied, "I know you are notone, and I am glad of it. I have an idea that an angel would soon tireof me, and fly away in disgust, to warn its companions that men were notworth saving. There are some women so amiable that no matter to whatextent their affairs go wrong, they cannot muster up enough energeticregret to cause them to supply a remedy. I am not so fond of amiabilityas to desire it at that price. Whenever you find capacity you will findtemper, and I imagine that it would be dangerous to stir you up, for youare as capable a woman as ever I knew. _Haven't_ you temper?"
"Plenty of it; too much," she answered.
They both laughed at this frank confession, and Dorris took occasion tosay that there was not a spark of it in his nature, though there wastemper written in every line of his countenance, and that he would havebeen an ugly man when once fully aroused was certain.
They walked on again, and the shadow followed, as if anxious to hearwhat they were saying.
"I can't account for it myself," Dorris continued, "but I enjoy yourcompany as much now as I did before we were married. It does me as muchgood to talk love to you; I suppose it must be because you deserve it.The fact that you are as careful to look well as you ever did may havesomething to do with it, but it is certainly the case. I have heard menabused a great deal for neglecting their wives after marriage, but itnever occurs to me to neglect you. I don't want to neglect you; I thinktoo much of you. If I should fail to be as considerate of you as you areof me, I know that I would no longer receive the full measure of yourconfidence and love, which is such a comfort to me, therefore it is myfirst ambition to be just and honest with you in everything. Theambition affords me a great deal of pleasure, too, for I am never sowell satisfied as when in your company. With you by my side, there isnothing else that I crave in this world or the next."
"O Allan! Nothing in the next?"
They had seated themselves on a rough seat in a sort of park on thehillside, and Dorris considered the matter.
"Well, if you go to heaven, I want to go. Of course you will go, for youare good enough, therefore I intend to do the best I can, so that, whenwe come to be judged, the Master will realize how much we love eachother, and conclude not to separate us. But I depend on you; He will letme in to please you--not because I deserve it."
"I know you do not think as I do about it," she answered, "but it ispossible that you have not investigated as I have. I am not a foolishgirl, but a serious woman, and have studied and thought a great deal,and I am certain there is something more than this life. I have nevermentioned the subject to you before, because I know that a great manycome to dislike religion because they hear so much of it from persons nobetter than themselves, but everything teaches us that we shall liveagain, and it worries me a great deal because you think lightly about amatter which seems so dreadfully serious. My mother's faith convinces meof it, though I cannot tell you why. I am not prepared, as she was, by along life of purity to receive the evidence; but promise me that youwill think about it, and not combat your own judgment."
"I have never thought about it much, and investigated but little," heanswered. "It has always been natural for me to think of the grave asthe end of everything, so far as I am concerned. But I have confidencein your intelligence and judgment; if you have investigated, andbelieve, that is enough for me; _I_ believe. Please do not worry aboutit any more; I will try very hard to remain with you."
He said it lightly, yet there was enough seriousness in his manner toconvince her that his love for her was honest, even if his religion wasnot.
"Religion is not natural with me: I feel no necessity for it or lack ofit," he said again. "But I have no objection to it; on the contrary, Ihave always liked the idea, but I lack the necessary faith. It would bepleasant for me to believe that, in the next country, a day's journeyremoved, good gifts might be found; but if I could not believe it, Icould not be reasonably blamed for my refusal to attempt the journey. Imight even regret that the accounts were not true; but I would notinsist that they _were_ true against my honest convictions, because I_hoped_ they were. I am religious enough in sentiment, but my brain isan inexorable skeptic. Nothing is more pleasing to me than the promiseof your faith. What a blessed hope it is, that after death you will livein a land of perpetual summer; and exist forever with your friends wherethere is only peace and content! I am sure I can never see as much ofyou as I want to in this life, and I cannot tell you how much I hope wewill be reunited beyond the grave, and live for
ever to love each other,even as we do now. I am willing to make any sacrifice necessary toensure this future; it would be a pleasure for me to make greatersacrifices than are required, according to common rumor, for they arenot at all exacting, except in the particular of faith; but that I lack,to a most alarming extent, though I cannot help it. You cannot havefaith because it is your duty any more than you can love because it isyour duty. I only regret that I cannot be religious as naturally as Ilove you, but I cannot, though I try because you want me to. I want tobelieve that men do not grow old and become a burden to themselves andthose around them; but I know differently, and while I hope that therewill be a resurrection, I know that those who have gone away on thejourney which begins with death send back no messenger, and that nothingis known of heaven except the declaration of pious people that theybelieve in it. I love to hear the laughter of children, but it does notconvince me that all the world is in a laughing mood, and that there areno tears. No one can find fault with your religion except that theycannot believe in it. Everything in nature teaches us that we willreturn to dust, and that we will be resurrected only as dust by the idlewinds. You don't mind that I speak freely?"
"No."
"I have tried all my life to convince myself that I possessed the sparkof immortality, but my stubborn brain resists the attempt. All myreasoning convinces me that I live for the same reason that my horseexists. I am superior to the faithful animal only in intelligence, forin physical organization I am only an animal. When an animal dies, I seeits body dwindle away until there is nothing left; it becomes dustagain. I _hope_ that I may share a different fate, but I _believe_ thatI shall pass away in precisely the same manner. Understand me; I want tobe religious, but I cannot be. There are some people--I suppose thereare a great many, though I never knew but one personally--who ought tolive forever; they are too rare to die. You are one of them, but I fearyou will be lost to the world in the course of nature. You ought to bepreserved for the good you can accomplish by playing the organ. I neverbelieve in heaven so much as when I am in the back pews listening toyour music. There is more religion in the old organ when you are at thekeyboard than in all the people who listen to it put together; and Isometimes think that those who write the music and the songs areinspired, though when you know them, their personal characters do notencourage that impression."
She put her hand to his mouth as if to stop him, but he pushed it awaywith a laugh, and continued,--
"Let me finish, that you may know what I really am, and then I willnever mention the subject again. But don't think me worse than other menfor my unbelief; they nearly all think as I do, though only the bad onessay so. All good men rejoice that there is a pleasing hope in religion,and encourage it all they can, but only a few of them have your faith."
"All be well yet, Allan," the wife answered. "You have promised to tryand get rid of your unbelief, and I know that you will be honest in it.The Master whom I serve next to you--I fear I am becoming very wickedmyself, for you are more to me than everything else--"
"There it is again," Dorris said, looking at her, half laughing. "Thatexpression wasn't studied, I know, but it pleases me greatly. You arealways at it, though you have a right to now."
"He is more considerate than any of us imagine, and if He knows you didnot believe, He will also know that you could not, and did not intendany disrespect."
"There is something in that," he answered. "I loved you before I knewyou, though I did not believe you existed."
"But you _did_ find me. Is it not possible that you will find Him,though you do not believe He exists?"
"That is worth thinking about. The next time I take a long ride into thecountry I will think it over, if I can get you out of my mind longenough. One thing, however, is certain; I want to follow you, whereverthat leads me. Let me add, too, that in what I have said I intend nodisrespect. It would be impudent in me, a single pebble in the sandssurrounding the shores of eternity, to speak ill of a faith which isheld by so many thousands of intelligent and worthy people. I speakfreely to you, as my wife, my confidant, that you may know what I am."
"But you are leading, Allan, and I am following," she said. "You arekind enough to believe that my future is assured, but it is not unlessyou are saved. You can save both of us by saving yourself. If we were atthe judgment now, and you should be cast out, I would follow you. Imight be of some use to you even there."
"That's horrible to think about," he replied, rising to his feet; "butit pleases me. Anyway, little woman, we get along delightfully here; Ihope we will always be as well off as we are now. If the next worldaffords me as much pleasure as this one has during the past threemonths, I shall be more than satisfied. It is said that a man is veryhappy when he is in love, and I am growing more in love with my wifeevery day. I suppose it is because I never was in love before. I havehad extensive experience in everything else; I know a little ofeverything else. This may be the reason why my honeymoon lasts so long."
"When I met you that afternoon, out in the hills," she answered, "youwere such an expert at love-making that I was at first afraid of you. Ifever man made a desperate, cunning love to a woman, you made it to me;but I soon got over my timidity, and knew you were only desperately inearnest, which made me love you until I went mad. I had nothing to giveyou but myself, and that I gave so readily that I sometimes fear--whenyou are away from me; I never think of it at any other time--that youaccuse me for it."
"It so happened," he answered, "that you did exactly what I wanted youto do, though I am not surprised at it now, since discovering hownaturally you do a hundred things a day to please me. Accuse you?"
He laughed good-naturedly at the thought.
"Instead of that, it is the boast of my life that my sweetheart, myvision which came true, had so much confidence in me that she placedherself in my keeping without conditions or promises. You are the hope Ihave had all my life; you are the heaven I have coveted; and don'tsuppose that I find fault because the realization is better than thedream. When you go to heaven, and find that it is a better place thanyou imagined, you will not accuse the Master of a lack of proprietybecause he is more forgiving of your faults than you expected; nor do I.Dismiss that thought forever, to oblige me, and believe, instead, thatyour single fault turned out to be my greatest blessing. If I madedesperate love to you up in the hills, it was natural, for I had noprevious experience. I cannot remember that I ever was a young man; Iwas first a child, and then a man with grave responsibilities. But thefancy I told you about--the Maid of Air--I always loved it until I foundyou."
Putting her arm through his, they walked toward the town, and the shadowemerged from a clump of bushes within a few feet of where they had beensitting. The married lovers walked on, unconscious of the presence; andoccasionally the laugh of Mrs. Dorris came to the shadow on the wind,which caused it to listen anxiously, and creep on after them again.
In turning out of the path that led up into the hills, and coming intothe road, Dorris and his wife met Tug and Silas, who were loiteringabout, as usual; Tug in front, carrying the gun, and Silas laggingbehind.
"What now?" Dorris said good-naturedly, on coming up with them. "Whatare you up to to-night?"
"On a Wednesday night," Tug replied, putting the stock of the gun on theground, and turning his head to one side to get a square sight at thewoman, "the woods are full of rabbits. We are out looking for them."
"Why on Wednesday night?"
Tug removed his gaze from Mrs. Dorris to Silas.
"When do we find our game?" he inquired.
"On Wednesday; at night," the little man answered meekly.
"I don't know how it is, myself," Tug continued, this time taking a shotat Dorris; "but Wednesday it is. You are both looking mighty well."
They thanked him for his politeness, and added that they were feelingwell.
"They didn't think much of you when you came," he said, pointing afinger at Dorris, which looked like a pistol, "but they have changedtheir minds. Even Revere
nd Wilton says you will do; it's the first kindword he ever said of anybody. It came out--Silas, how did it come out?"
"Like a tooth," Silas answered, who had been standing by with his handsin his pockets.
"Like a _back_ tooth, you told me. Come now, didn't you say a backtooth?"
Silas muttered something which was accepted as an acknowledgment, andTug went on,--
"Why didn't you say so, then? Why do you want to put it on me in thepresence of the lady? But Reverend Wilton never said anything bad aboutyou, or anybody else; he's too lazy for that. I only wonder that hedidn't drop over from exhaustion when he said you'd do. Well, I shouldsay you _would_ do; eh, pretty girl?"
Annie Dorris made no other answer than to cling closer to her husband,and Tug regarded them with apparent pleasure.
"And there's Uncle Ponsonboy. Silas, what does Uncle Ponsonboy say?"
"He says that Mr. Dorris is a man of promise," Davy answered.
"Oh, _does_ he? Well, he's not the kind of a man of promise, UnclePonsonboy is, who has been promising to distinguish himself for fortyyears. Old Albert reminds me of a nephew of my wife's. I supported himfour years in idleness, but he was always boasting that he was able totake care of himself, and that _he_ asked favors of nobody. He used tofill up on my bread and meat, and lounge in front of my fire, anddeclare that he never knew solid content until he began to make his ownliving, although he did nothing except to write to his folks, and saythat they needn't worry about him,--_he_ was able to take care ofhimself. But the old lady holds out against you."
Tug swallowed a laugh with a great effort, apparently locking it up witha spring lock, for there was a click in his throat as he took aim atDorris again and continued, but not before his scalp had returned to itsplace after crawling over on his forehead to look at the smile,--
"I am glad of that, though. The old lady and I never agree on anything.I like the devil because she hates him. I shall be quite content in purgif she fails to like it."
Allan Dorris looked puzzled for a moment.
"Oh, purgatory," he said, finishing the abbreviation, and turning to hiswife, who laughed at the idea, "we were talking about that just beforeyou came up."
"Neither of you need worry about _that_," Tug said. "_You_ are allright. I am the devil's partner, and I know. But if you _should_ happendown there by any mischance, I will give you the best accommodations theplace affords. If there is an ice-box there, you shall have a room init; but no ice-water for the old lady. I insist on that condition."
They were very much amused at his odd talk, and promised that hisinstructions should be obeyed in case they became his guests.
"But why are you the devil's partner?" Dorris asked.
"He must have assistants, of course," Tug replied, "and I shall makeapplication to enter his service as soon as I arrive. I want to get evenwith Uncle Ponsonboy."
Tug locked up a laugh again with a sharp click of the lock, and hisscalp hurried back to its place on learning that it was a false alarm.
"I want to get a note from him to this effect: 'Dear Tug: For the sakeof old acquaintance, send me a drop of water.' Whereupon I will take myiron pen in hand, and reply: 'Uncle Ponsonboy: Drink your tears.' Then Iwill instruct one of my devilish assistants to lock him up, and neverlet him see the cheerful light of the fires again. As the door closes, Iwill say to him, as I now say to you,--Good-night."
Tug and Silas walked toward the hills, and Dorris and his wife towardthe town, but the shadow no longer followed them; it had disappeared.
In case the shadow came back that night to prowl around The Locks, andpeer in at the windows, it found a determined-looking man on guard,carrying a wicked-looking gun.
Had the eyes of the shadow followed the feet of the man, it would havenoted that they walked around the stone wall at regular intervals, andthat they stopped occasionally, as if listening; it would have seen themstrolling leisurely away at the first approach of dawn, carrying the gunand Tug's burly body with them.
