by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN.
Two years have passed since the great flood in the river, which is stilltold about with wonder by those who witnessed it, and Tug Whittle is nowliving in the detached building at The Locks, which was occupied so longby Mrs. Wedge, that worthy lady having long since taken a room in themain house.
Little Ben, released from his hard work at Quade's, is growing steadilyworse, in spite of the kindness shown him by Mrs. Dorris and Mrs. Wedge.A victim of too much work is little Ben; but he is as mild and gentle asever, and spends his days, when he is able, in wandering about the yard,and keeping out of the way, for he cannot forget the time when everyhand was against him.
Mr. Whittle has become an industrious man during the two years, and isas devoted to Mrs. Dorris and her little child as it is possible for aman to be. The day after Tug's return to the Bend from his tramp to thelower country, he called on Mrs. Dorris, and related his story as herelated it to Silas Davy, and going into the little detached house afterits conclusion, he did not come out again for two days and nights; andit was supposed that he was making up for lost sleep. After hisappearance he was fed by Mrs. Wedge, and at once began to make himselfuseful around the place. In a little while they learned to trust him,and he soon took charge of everything, conducting himself so well thatthere was never any reason for regretting the trust reposed.
Allan Dorris had died possessed of several farms in the adjoiningneighborhood, and these Mr. Whittle worked to so much advantage, withthe aid of tenants on each, that in a financial way Mrs. Dorris got onvery well; for Mr. Whittle wanted nothing for himself except theprivilege of serving her as he did.
Very often he was absent from The Locks for weeks at a time, lookingafter the farm affairs, and he seldom visited his mistress except togive accounts of his stewardship, which were always satisfactory. He hadbeen heard to say that it was his fault that she was a widow; thereforehe did not care to see her except when it seemed to be necessary, forher modest grief gave him such pangs of remorse that he wanted to takethe musket, which he still retained in times of peace, and make awaywith himself. Therefore he spent much of his time in managing heraffairs, which called him out of town; and he became known as atremendous worker,--to rival his record as a loafer, Mr. Whittle himselfsaid; but Silas Davy knew, and even the people admitted it, that he wasgreatly devoted to his young mistress, and that he had no other aim inlife than to make her as comfortable as possible in her widowedcondition.
Occasionally he came to town, on an errand, after nightfall, andreturned to the country before day, as little Ben had done, and usuallythey only knew he had been around the house at all by something he hadleft for their surprise in the morning. If he found anything in thecountry he thought would please Mrs. Dorris or little Ben, he went totown with it after his day's work on the farm, and left his bed in thedetached house before day to return.
Besides the harm he had done Mrs. Dorris, the wrong he had done his sonwas on his mind a great deal, and he avoided the boy whenever it waspossible. He was ashamed to look into his face, though he was alwaysdoing something to please him. His rough experience on the farm hadforever ruined the boy's health, and his father was continuallyexpecting to be summoned from the field to attend his funeral.
Tug was still rugged and rough, and unsociable with those with whom hecame in contact in the field or on the road, but he loved those in TheLocks, from Mrs. Dorris down to the baby, with a devotion which made hima more famous character than he had ever been as a vagrant. He hadbecome scrupulously honest and truthful, as well as industrious; andthose who marvelled at the change were told by the wiser heads that Tughad something on his mind which he was trying to relieve by good works.
Silas Davy no longer had reason to regret that he was unable to buylittle Ben a suit of clothes, for little Ben was well clothed now, andcomfortably situated, except as to his cough; but in other respects theclerk had not changed for the better.
He was still employed at the hotel, and still heard the boardersthreaten to move to Ben's City; for Davy's Bend continued to go slowlydown the hill. He still heard Armsby boast of his fancy shots, and ofhis triumphs in the lodge; and, worst of all, he still heard patientMrs. Armsby complain of overwork, and knew that it was true.
He occasionally went to The Locks to see Mr. Whittle,--usually on Sundayevening, when that worthy was most likely to be at home,--and as we comeupon them now, to take a last look at them, it is Sunday evening, andTug and Silas are seated on a rude bench, in front of the detachedhouse, with little Ben between them.
"I have come to the conclusion, Mr. Davy,"--Tug is wonderfully politerecently, and no longer refers to his companion by his first name,--"Ihave come to the conclusion that there is only one way to get along; itis expressed in a word of four letters--work. Busy men do not commitgreat crimes, and they know more peace than those who are idle;therefore the best way to live is to behave yourself. I don't knowwhether I can behave myself enough from now on to do any good, or not;but I intend to try."
"I think you can, Tug," Davy replied. "You have been very useful duringthe past two years."
"But I have been very useless during the past forty and odd," Mr.Whittle continued, looking at little Ben as though he were evidence ofit. "I have changed my mind about everything, with one exception, withina few years,--except that I do not believe a certain person is good, Ihave no opinion now that I had a year ago,--but on this I will neverchange. My acquaintance with Dorris and his wife has taught me a goodmany things which I did not know before. His bravery taught me thatbravery comes of a clear conscience, and his wife's goodness anddevotion teach me to believe that a dead man is not so bad off, afterall. Did you know that she expects to meet her husband again?"
Tug waved his hand above his head, intended as an intimation that Mrs.Dorris expected to meet her husband in heaven, and looked at Silas verygravely, who only nodded his head.
"She seems to _know_ it," Tug continued, "and why should I dispute her?How much more do I know than Annie Dorris? By what right do I say thatshe is wrong, and that I am right? She is good enough to receivemessages, but I am not; and it has occurred to me that I had better beguided by her. I have never been converted, or anything of that kind,but I have felt regret for my faults. I have done more than that. I havesaid aloud, as I worked in the fields, 'I'm sorry.' I have frequentlysaid that,--may be only to myself, but may be to the winds, which arealways hurrying no one knows where. Who knows where they may carry thesound when a wicked man says, sincerely, 'I'm sorry?'"
Sure enough, who knows? May it not be to heaven?
"I have heard her play hymns on the organ which I felt must be songs ofhope, the words of which promised mercy, for they sounded like it, andshe does not play them for amusement; I believe it is her offering forthe peace of Allan Dorris, and a prayer could not go farther into heaventhan her music. I have known her to go to the church with the littlebaby, and I should think that when the Lord hears the music, and looksdown and sees Annie Dorris and the child, He would forget a great dealwhen Dorris comes before Him."
Silas had heard the music, too, and he agreed that if it could have beenset to words, they would have been "Mercy! Mercy!"
"I am too old a crow to be sentimental," Tug said again, "but I havefelt so much better since I have been working and behaving myself that Iintend to keep it up, and try and wipe out a part of my former record.If I should go to sleep some night, and not waken in the morning asusual to go away to work, very good; but if I should waken in a strangeplace, I should like to meet Allan Dorris, and hear him say, 'Tug, Ihave reason to know that erring men who have ever tried to do rightreceive a great deal of consideration here; you have done much towardredeeming yourself.'"
Silas was very much surprised to hear his companion talk in this manner,and said something to that effect.
"I am surprised myself," Tug answered, "but the devotion of Annie Dorristo the memory of her husband has set me to thinking. The people bel
ievethat Allan Dorris was buried in The Locks' yard, by Thompson Benton, butI know that his iron coffin still stands in the room where you saw it. Ithink his clay feels grateful for the favor, for it has never beenoffensive like ordinary flesh. The lid has been shut down never to beopened again, but when I last looked under it, I saw little except whatyou might find in the road,--dust."
The chill of the evening air reminds them that it is time for little Bento go in, but the two men remain outside to look at the sunset.
"The people of this town," Mr. Whittle continued, after the boy haddisappeared, "are greatly amused over the statement that when an ostrichis pursued, it buries its head in the sand and imagines that it is hid.I tell you that we are a community of ostriches; I occasionally put ahead into the sand myself, and so do you and all the rest of them. Whenlittle Ben is near me, I try to cause him to forget the years Ineglected him, by being kind, but he never looks at me with his mildeyes that I do not fear he is thinking: You only have your head in thesand, and there is so much of you in sight that I remember Quade.Therefore I keep out of his way whenever I can. Do you think his coughis any better?"
"I am afraid not, Tug," Silas replied. "I was thinking to-day that it isgrowing steadily worse."
Tug looked toward the setting sun and the church, and the solemn tonesof the organ came to them; Annie Dorris was playing the hymn the wordsof which seemed to be "Mercy! Mercy!"
"Word will be sent to you some day," Tug said, as if the music hadsuggested it, "that little Ben is--" he paused, and shivered, dreadingto pronounce the word word--"worse. I wish you would get word to me someway, without letting any one know it; I want to go away somewhere. Thenyou can come out for me, and tell them on your return that I could notbe found. It is bad enough for me to look at him now; I could neverforget my sin toward him were I to see him dead. Of course you will gowith him to the cemetery, with Mrs. Dorris and Mrs. Wedge and Betty; andI would like to have the baby at poor Ben's funeral, for he thinks somuch of it, but it will be better for me to stay away, though I wantthem to think it accidental. When I return, you can show me the place,and on my way to and from the town I will stop there and think of thehymn which Mrs. Dorris plays so much."
The sun is going down, and it seems to pause on the hill to take a lastlook at the town. Perhaps it is tired of seeing it from day to day, andwill in future travel a new route, where objects of more interest may beseen. Anyway, it lingers on the hill, and looks at the ragged streetsand houses of the unfortunate town down by the river, which is alwayshurrying away, as if to warn the people below to avoid Davy's Bend,where there is little business, and no joy.
When its face is half obscured by the hill, the sun seems to rememberThe Locks, with whose history it has been familiar, and looks that way.So much shadow has gathered around it already from the woods across theriver that objects are no longer to be distinguished: nothing but thehuge outlines. At last the sun disappears behind the hill, but afriendly ray comes back, and looks toward The Locks until even thechurch steeple disappears; and Davy's Bend, and The Locks, with itssorrow and its step on the stair, are lost in the darkness.
_By the Same Author._
_THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN._
Howells pronounces it "this remarkable novel ... uncommonlyinteresting."
Mark Twain finds the style "simple, sincere, direct, and at the sametime so clear and so strong."
The _Springfield Republican_ finds in it "a distinct flavor of itsown ... the freshness and strangeness of the prairie life."
The _Chicago Inter-Ocean_ finds it "the most dramatic of our Americannovels ... a drama of direct appeal."
"There runs through the story a vein of pathos that is absolutelypitiful, and makes one think of 'The Mill on the Floss'.... It is astrong, stern, matter-of-fact book. Some of its pages stand out fromtheir sad background of reality like one of Salvato Rosa's pictures....Many of the situations are as dramatical as any of Bret Harte's."--_St.Joseph Gazette._
"Incomparably the best novel of the year, judged from any standard....There is a grace, a sympathetic and tender feeling, a delicious sense ofhumor, that make the book remarkable.--_Brooklyn Union._
