CHAPTER XII
A MAN'S ESTATE
When I became a man I put away childish things.
The next day was the Sabbath. I was twenty-one that day. Marjie and Isang in the choir, and most of the solo work fell to us. Dave Mead wasour tenor, and Bess Anderson at the organ sang alto. Dave was away thatday. His girl sweetheart up on Red Range was in her last illness then,and Dave was at her bedside. Poor Dave! he left Springvale that Fall,and he never came back. And although he has been honored and courted ofwomen, I have been told that in his luxurious bachelor apartments inHong Kong there is only one woman's picture, an old-fashioneddaguerreotype of a sweet girlish face, in an ebony frame.
Dr. Hemingway always planned the music to suit his own notions. What heasked for we gave. On this Sabbath morning there was no surprise when heannounced, "Our tenor being absent, we will omit the anthem, and I shallask brother Philip and sister Marjory to sing Number 549, 'Oh, for aCloser Walk with God.'"
He smiled benignly upon us. We were accustomed to his way, and we kneweverybody in that little congregation. And yet, somehow, a flutter wentthrough the company when we stood up together, as if everybody knew ourthoughts. We had stood side by side on Sabbath mornings and had sungfrom the same book since childhood, with never a thought ofembarrassment. It dawned on Springvale that day as a revelation whatMarjie meant to me. All the world, including our town, loves a lover,and it was suddenly clear to the town that the tall, broad-shoulderedyoung man who looked down at the sweet-browed little girl-woman besidehim as he looked at nobody else, whose hand touched hers as they turnedthe leaves, and who led her by the arm ever so gently down the stepsfrom the choir seats, was reading for himself
That old fair story Set round in glory Wherever life is found.
And Marjie, in spotless white, with her broad-brimmed hat set back fromher curl-shaded forehead, the tinted lights from the memorial windowwhich Amos Judson had placed there for his wife, falling like an aureoleabout her, who could keep from loving her?
"Her an' Phil Baronet's jist made fur one another," Cam Gentry declaredto a bunch of town gossips the next day.
"Now'd ye ever see a finer-lookin' couple?" broke in Grandpa Mead. "An'the way they sung that hymn yesterday--well, I just hope they'll repeatit over my remains." And Grandpa began to sing softly in his quaveringvoice:
Oh, for a closer walk with God, A cam and heavenli frame, A light toe shine upon tha road That leads me toe tha Lamb.
Everybody agreed with Cam except Judson. He was very cross with O'miethat morning. O'mie was clerk and manager for him now, as Judson himselfhad been for Irving Whately. He rubbed his hands and joined the group,smiling a trifle scornfully.
"Seems to me you're all gossiping pretty freely this morning. The youngman may be pretty well fixed some day. But he's young, he's young. Mrs.Whately's my partner, and I know their affairs very well, very well.She'll provide her daughter with a man, not a mere boy."
"Well, he was man enough to keep this here town from burnin' up, an' notellin' how many bloodsheds," Grandpa Mead piped in.
"He was man enough to find O'mie and save his life," Cam protested.
"Well, we'll leave it to Dr. Hemingway," Judson declared, as the gooddoctor entered the doorway. Judson paid liberally into the church fundand accounted that his wishes should weigh much with the good minister."We--these people here--were just coupling the name of Marjory Whatelywith that boy of Judge Baronet's. Now I know how Mrs. Whately iscircumstanced. She is peculiarly situated, and it seems foolish to evenrepeat such gossip about this young man, this very young man, Philip."
The minister smiled upon the group serenely. He knew the life-purpose ofevery member of it, and he could have said, as Kipling wrote of theHindoo people:
I have eaten your bread and salt, I have drunk your water and wine; The deaths ye died I have watched beside, And the lives ye led were mine.
"I never saw a finer young man and woman in my life," he said gently. "Iknow nothing of their intentions--as yet. They haven't been to me," hiseyes twinkled, "but they are good to look upon when they stand uptogether. Our opinions, however, will cut little figure in theiraffairs. Heaven bless them and all the boys and girls! How soon theygrow to be men and women."
The good man made his purchase and left the store.
"But he's a young man, a very boy yet," Amos Judson insisted, unable tohide his disappointment at the minister's answer.
The very boy himself walked in at that instant. Judson turned a scowlingface at O'mie, who was chuckling among the calicoes, and frowned uponthe group as if to ward off any further talk. I nodded good-morning andwent to O'mie.
"Aunt Candace wants some Jane P. Coats's thread, number 50 white, twospools."
"That's J. & P. Coats, young man." Judson spoke more sharply than heneed to have done. "Goin' East to school doesn't always finish a boy;size an' learnin' don't count," and he giggled.
I was whistling softly, "Oh, for a Closer Walk with God," and I turnedand smiled down on the little man. I was head and shoulders above him.
"No, not always. I can still learn," I replied good-naturedly, and wentwhistling on my way to the courthouse.
I was in a good humor with all the world that morning. Out on "Rockport"in the purple twilight of the Sabbath evening I had slipped my mother'sring on Marjie's finger. I was on my way now for a long talk with myfather. I was twenty-one, a man in years, as I had been in spirit sincethe night the town was threatened by the Rebel raiders--aye, even sincethe day Irving Whately begged me to take care of Marjie. I had no timeto quarrel with the little widower.
"He's got the best of you, Judson," Cam declared. "No use to come,second hand, fur a girl like that when a handsome young feller like PhilBaronet, who's run things his own way in this town sence he was a littlefeller, 's got the inside track. Why, the young folks, agged on by someolder ones, 'ud jist natcherly mob anybody that 'ud git in Phil's way ofwhatever he wanted. Take my word, if he wants Marjie he kin have her;and likewise take it, he does want her."
"An' then," Grandpa spoke with mock persuasion, "Amos, ye know ye'vebeen married oncet. An' ye're not so young an' ye're a leetle bald. D'yejust notice Phil's hair, layin' in soft thick waves? Allers curled thatway sence he was a little feller."
Amos Judson went into an explosive combustion.
"I've treated my wife's memory and remains as good as a man ever did.She's got the biggest stone in the cemet'ry, an' I've put a memorialwindow in the church. An' what more could a man do? It's more than anyof you have done." Amos was too wrought up to reason.
"Well, I acknowledge," said Cam, "I've ben a leetle slack about gittin'a grave-stun up fur Dollie, seein' she's still livin', but I havethreatened her time an' agin to put a winder to her memory in the churchan' git her in shape to legalize it if she don't learn how to git me upa good meal. Darned poor cook my wife is."
"An' as for this boy," Judson broke in, not noticing Cam's joke, "as tohis looks," he stroked his slick light brown hair, "a little baldnessgives dignity, makes a man look like a man. Who'd want to have hair likea girl's? But Mrs. Whately's too wise not to do well by her daughter.She knows the value of a dollar, and a man makin' it himself."
"Well, why not set your cap fur the widder? You'd make a good father toher child, an' Phil would jest na'chelly be proud of you for adaddy-in-law." This from the stage driver, Dever, who had caught thespirit of the game in hand. "Anyhow you'd orter seen them two youngfolks meet when he first got back home, out there where the crowd of 'emhelt up the stage. Well, sir, she was the last to say 'howdy do.'Everybody was lookin' the other way then, 'cept me, and I didn't havesense enough. Well, sir, he jist took her hand like somethin' he'd beenreachin' fur about two year, an' they looked into each other's eyes,hungry like, an' a sort of joy such as any of us 'ud long to possesscome into them two young faces. I tell you, if you're goin' to gossipjist turn it onto Judson er me, but let them two alone."
Judson was too violently angry to be discreet.
br /> "It's all silly scand'lous foolishness, and I won't hear another word ofit," he shouted.
Just as he spoke, Marjie herself came in. Judson stepped forward in anofficious effort to serve her, and unable to restrain himself, he calledout to O'mie, "Put four yards of towelling, twelve and a half cents ayard, to Mrs. Whately's standing account."
It was not the words that offended, so much as the tone, the proprietarysound, the sense of obligation it seemed to put upon the purchaser,unrelieved by his bland smile and attempt at humor in his after remark,"We don't run accounts with everybody, but I guess we can trust you."
It cut Marjie's spirit. A flush mounted to her cheeks, as she took herpurchase and hurried out of the door and plump into my father, who waspassing just then.
Judge Baronet was a man of courtly manners. He gently caught Marjie'sarm to steady her.
"Good-morning, Marjie. How is your mother to-day?"
The little girl did not speak for a moment. Her eyes were full of tears.Presently she said, "May I come up to your office pretty soon? I wantto ask you something--something of our business matters."
"Yes, yes, come now," he replied, taking her bundle and putting himselfon the outer side of the walk. He had forgotten my appointment for themoment.
When they reached the courthouse he said: "Just run into my room there;I've got to catch Sheriff Karr before he gets away."
He opened the door of his private office, thrusting her gently inside,and hurried away. I turned to meet my father, and there was Marjie. Teardrops were on her long brown lashes, and her cheeks were flushed.
"Why, my little girl!" I exclaimed in surprise as she started to hurryaway.
"I didn't know you were in here; your father sent me in"--and then thetears came in earnest.
I couldn't stand for that.
"What is it, Marjie?" I had put her in my father's chair and was bendingover her, my face dangerously near her cheek.
"It's Amos Judson--Oh, Phil, I can't tell you. I was going to talk toyour father."
"All right," I said gayly. "Ask papa. It's the proper thing. He must beconsulted, of course. But as to Judson, don't worry. O'mie promised mejust this morning to sew him up in a sack and throw him off the cliffabove the Hermit's Cave into the river. O'mie says it's safe; he's solight he'll float."
Marjie smiled through her tears. A noise in the outer office reminded usthat some one was there, and that the outer door was half ajar. Then myfather came in. His face was kindly impenetrable.
"I had forgotten my son was here. Phil, take these papers over to thecounty attorney's office. I'll call you later." He turned me out andgave his attention to Marjie.
I loafed about the outer office until she and my father came out. He ledher to the doorway and down the steps with a courtesy he never forgottoward women. When we were alone in his private office I longed to askMarjie's errand, but I knew my father too well.
"You wanted to see me, Phil?" He was seated opposite to me, his eyeswere looking steadily into mine, and clear beyond them down into mysoul.
"Yes, Father," I replied; "I am a man now--twenty-one years and one dayover. And there are a few things, as a man, I want to know and to haveyou know."
He was sharpening a pencil carefully. "I'm listening," he said kindly.
"Well, Father--" I hesitated. It was so much harder to say than I hadthought it would be. I toyed with the tassel of the window cordconfusedly. "Father, you remember when you were twenty-one?"
"Yes, my son, I was just out of Harvard. And like you I had a father towhom I went to tell him I was in love, just as you are. When your ownson comes to you some day, help him a little."
I felt a weight lifted from my mind. It was good of him to open the way.
"Father, I have never seen any other girl like Marjie."
"No, there isn't any--for you. But how about her?"
"I think, I know she--does care. I think--" I was making poor work of itafter all his help. "Well, she said she did, anyhow." I blurted outdefiantly.
"The court accepts the evidence," he remarked, and then more seriouslyhe went on: "My son, I am happy in your joy. I may have been a littleslow. There was much harmless coupling of her name with youngTillhurst's while you were away. I did not give it much thought.Letters from Rockport were also giving you and Rachel Melrose someconsideration. Rachel is an only child and pretty well fixedfinancially."
"Oh, Father, I never gave her two thoughts."
"So the letters intimated, but added that the Melrose blood ispersistent, and that Rachel's mother was especially willing. She is of agood family, old friends of Candace's and mine. She will have money inher own right, is handsome and well educated. I thought you might besatisfied there."
"But I don't care for her money nor anybody else's. Nobody but Marjiewill ever suit me," I cried.
"So I saw when I looked at you two in church yesterday. It was arevelation, I admit; but I took in the situation at once." And then moreaffectionately he added: "I was very proud of you, Phil. You and Marjiemade a picture I shall keep. When you want my blessing, I have part ofit in the strong box in my safe. All I have of worldly goods will beyours, Phil, if you do it no dishonor; and as to my good-will, my son,you are my wife's child, my one priceless treasure. When by your ownefforts you can maintain a home, nor feel yourself dependent, then bringa bride to me. I shall do all I can to give you an opportunity. I hopeyou will not wait long. When Irving Whately lay dying at Chattanooga hetold me his hopes for Marjie and you. But he charged me not to tell youuntil you should of your own accord come to me. You have his blessing,too."
How good he was to me! His hand grasped mine.
"Phil, let me say one thing; don't ever get too old to consult yourfather. It may save some losses and misunderstandings and heart-aches.And now, what else?"
"Father, when O'mie seemed to be dying, Le Claire told me something ofhis story one evening. He said you knew it."
My father looked grave.
"How does this concern you, Phil?"
"Only in this. I promised Le Claire I would see that O'mie's case wascared for if he lived and you never came back," I replied. "He is of agenow, and if he knows his rights he does not use them."
"Have you talked to O'mie of this?" he asked quickly.
"No, sir; I promised not to speak of it."
"Phil, did Le Claire suggest any property?"
"No, sir. Is there any?"
My father smiled. "You have a lawyer's nose," he said, "but fortunatelyyou can keep a still tongue. I'm taking care of O'mie's case right now.By the way," he went on after a short pause. "I sent you out on anerrand Saturday. That's another difficult case, a land claim I'm tryingto prove for a party. There are two claimants. Tell Mapleson is thecounsel for the other one. It's a really dangerous case in some ways.You were to go and spy out the land. What did you see? Anything except apretty girl?" My face was burning. "Oh, I understand. You found a placeout there to stand, and now you think you can move the world."
"I found something I want to speak of besides. Oh, well--I'm not ashamedof caring for Marjie."
"No, no, my boy. You are right. You found the best thing in the world. Ifound it myself once, by a moonlit sea, not on the summer prairie; butit is the same eternal blessing. Now go on."
"Well, father, you said the place was uninhabited. But it isn't.Somebody is about there now."
"Did you see any one, or is it just a wayside camp for movers going outon the trail?"
"I am not sure that I saw any one, and yet--"
"Tell me all you know, and all you suspect, and why you haveconclusions," he said gravely.
"I caught just a glimpse, a mere flirt of a red blanket with a whitecentre, the kind Jean Pahusca used to wear. It was between the corner ofthe house and the hazel-brush thicket, as if some one were making forthe timber."
"Did you follow it?"
"N--no, I could hardly say I saw anything; but thinking about itafterwards, I am sure somebody was getting out of sight."
"I see." My father looked straight at me. I knew his mind, and I blushedand pulled at the tassel of the window cord. "Be careful. The county hasto pay for curtain fixtures. What else?"
"Well, inside the cabin there were fresh ashes and a half-burned stickon the hearth. By a chair under the table I picked this up." I handedhim the bow of purple ribbon with the flashing pin.
"It must be movers, and as to that red flash of color, are you real sureit was not just a part of the rose-hued world out there?" He smiled ashe spoke.
"Father, that bow was on Lettie Conlow's head not an hour before it waslost out there. She found out where we were going, and she put outnorthwest on Tell Mapleson's pony. She may have taken the river path. Itis the shortest way. Why should she go out there?"
"Do some thinking for yourself. You are a man now, twenty-one, and oneday over. You can unravel this part." He sat with impenetrable face,waiting for me to speak.
"I do not know. Lettie Conlow has always been silly about--about theboys. All the young folks say she likes me, has always liked me."
"How much cause have you given her? Be sure your memory is clear." Myfather spoke sternly.
"Father," I stood before him now, "I am a man, as you say, and I havecome up through a boyhood no better nor worse than the other boys whomyou know here. We were a pretty decent gang even before you went away tothe War. After that we had to be men. But all these years, Father, therehas been only one girl for me. I never gave Lettie Conlow a ghost of areason for thinking I cared for her. But she is old Conlow's own child,and she has a bitter, jealous nature."
"Well, what took her to the--to the old cabin out there?"
"I do not know. She may have been hidden out there to spy what we--I wasdoing."
"Did she have on a red blanket too, Saturday afternoon?"
"Well, now I wonder--." My mind was in a whirl. Could she be in leagueagainst me? What did it mean? I sat down to think.
"Father, there's something I've never yet understood about this town," Iburst out impetuously. "If it is to have anything to do with my future Iought to know it. Father Le Claire would tell me only half his story.You know more of O'mie than you will tell me. And here is a jealous girlwhose father consented to give Marjie to a brutal Indian out of hatredfor her father; and it is his daughter who trails me over the prairiebecause I am with Marjie. Why not tell me now what you know?"
My father sat looking thoughtfully at me. At last he spoke.
"I know nothing of girls' love affairs and jealousies," he said; "passthat now. I am O'mie's attorney and am trying to adjust his claims forhim as I can discover them. I cannot get hold of the case myself as Ishould like. If Le Claire were here I might find out something."
"Or nothing," I broke in. "It would depend on circumstances."
"You are right. He has never told me all he knows, but I know muchwithout his telling."
"Do you know how Jean Pahusca came to carry a knife for years with thename, 'Jean Le Claire,' cut in the blade? Do you know why the half-breedand the priest came to look so much alike, same square-cut forehead,same build, same gait, same proud way of throwing back the head? You'veonly to look at them to see all this, except that with a littleimagination the priest's face would fit a saint and Jean's is a verydevil's countenance."
"I do not know the exact answer to any of these questions. They arepoints for us to work out together now you are a man. Jean is in someway bound to Le Claire. If by blood ties, why does the priest not own,or entirely disown him? If not, why does the priest protect him?
"In some way, too, both are concerned with O'mie. Le Claire is eager toprotect the Irishman. I do not know where Jean is, but I believesometimes he is here in concealment. He and Tell Mapleson arecounselling together. I think he furnishes Tell with some booty, forTell is inordinately prosperous. I look at this from a lawyer's place.You have grown up with the crowd here, and you see as a young man fromthe social side, where personal motives count for much. Together we mustget this thing unravelled; and it may be in doing it some love mattersand some church matters may get mixed and need straightening. You mustkeep me informed of every thing you know." He paused a moment, thenadded: "I am glad you have let me know how it is with you, Phil. In yourlife I can live my own again. Children do so bless us. Be happy in yourlove, my boy. But be manly, too. There are some hard climbs before youyet. Learn to bear and wait. Yours is an open sunlit way to-day. If theshadows creep across it, be strong. They will lift again. Run home nowand tell Aunt Candace I'll be home at one o'clock. Tell her what youhave told me, too. She will be glad to know it."
"She does know it; she has known it ever since the night we came intoSpringvale in 1854."
My father turned to the door. Then he put his arms about me and kissedmy forehead. "You have your mother's face, Phil." How full of tendernesshis tones were!
In the office I saw Judson moving restlessly before the windows. He hadbeen waiting there for some time, and he frowned on me as I passed him.He was a man of small calibre. His one gift was that of money-getting.
By the careful management of the Whately store in the owner's absence hebegan to add to his own bank account. With the death of Mr. Whately hehad assumed control, refusing to allow any investigation of affairsuntil, to put it briefly, he was now in entire possession. Poor Mrs.Whately hardly knew what was her own, while her husband's former clerkwaxed pompous and well-to-do. Being a vain man, he thought the bestshould come to him in social affairs, and being a man of mediumintellect, he lacked self-control and tact.
This was the nature of the creature who strode into Judge Baronet'sprivate office, slamming the door behind him and presenting himselfunannounced. The windows front the street leading down to where thetrail crossed the river, and give a view of the glistening Neoshowinding down the valley. My father was standing by one of these windowswhen Judson fired himself into the room. John Baronet's mind was not onSpringvale, nor on the river. His thoughts were of his son and of herwho had borne him, the sweet-browed woman whose image was in thesacredest shrine of his heart.
Judson's advent was ill-timed, and his excessive lack of tact made thematter worse.
"Mr. Baronet," he began pompously enough, "I must see you on a verygrave matter, very grave indeed."
Judge Baronet gave him a chair and sat down across the table from him tolisten. Judson had grated harshly on his mood, but he was a man ofpoise.
"I'll be brief and blunt. That's what you lawyers want, ain't it?" Thelittle man giggled. "But I must advise this step at once as a necessary,a very necessary one."
My father waited. Judson hadn't the penetration to feel embarrassed.
"You see it's like this. If you'll just keep still a minute I can showyou, though I ain't no lawyer; I'm a man of affairs, a commercialist, asyou would say. A producer maybe is a better term. In short, I'm amoney-maker."
My father smiled. "I see," he remarked. "I'll keep still. Go on."
"Well, now, I'm a widower that has provided handsome for my first wife'sremains. I've earned and paid for the right to forget her."
The great broad-shouldered, broad-minded man before the little boasterlooked down to hide his contempt.
"I've did my part handsome now, you'll admit; and being alone in theworld, with no one to enjoy my prosperity with me, I'm lonesome. That'sit, I'm lonesome. Ain't you sometimes?"
"Often," my father replied.
"Now I know'd it. We're in the same boat barring a great difference inages. Why, hang it, Judge, let's get married!" He giggled explosivelyand so failed to see the stern face of the man before him.
"I want a young woman, a pretty girl, I've a right to a pretty girl, Ithink. In fact, I want Marjory Whately. And what's more, I'm going tohave her. I've all but got the widder's consent now. She's underconsiderable obligation to me."
Across John Baronet's mind there swept a picture of the Chattanoogabattle field. The roar of cannon, the smoke of rifles, the awful chargeon charge, around him. And in the very heart of it all, Irvin
g Whatelywounded unto death, his hands grasping the Springvale flag, his voicegrowing faint.
"You will look after them, John? Phil promised to take care of Marjie.It makes this easier. I believe they will love each other, John. I hopethey may. When they do, give them my blessing. Good-bye." Across thisvision Judson's thin sharp voice was pouring out words.
"Now, Baronet, you see, to be plain, it's just this way. If I marryMarjory, folks'll say I'm doing it to get control of the widder's stock.It's small; but they'll say it."
"Why should it be small?" My father's voice was penetrating as aknife-thrust. Judson staggered at it a little.
"Business, you know, management you couldn't understand. She's no handat money matters."
"So it seems," my father said dryly.
"But you'd not understand it. To resume. Folks'll say I'm trying to getthe whole thing, when all I really want is the girl, the girl now.She'll not have much at best; and divided between her and her mother,there'll be little left for Mrs. Whately to go on livin' on, with Mrs.Judson's share taken out. Now, here's my point precisely, precisely. Youtake the widder yourself. You need a wife, and Mrs. Whately's stillgood-looking most ways. She was always a pretty, winsome-faced woman.
"You've got a plenty and getting more all the time. You could providehandsome for her the rest of her life. You'd enjoy a second wife, an'she'd be out of my way. You see it, don't you? I'll marry Marjie, an'you marry her mother, kind of double wedding. Whew! but we'd make a finecouple of grooms. What's in gray hair and baldness, anyhow? But there'sone thing I can't stand for. Gossip has begun to couple the name of yourboy with Miss Whately. Now he's just a very boy, only a year or twoolder'n she, and nowise able to take care of her properly, you'll admit;and it's silly. Besides, Conlow was telling me just an hour or more ago,that Phil and Lettie was old-time sweethearts. I've nothing to do withPhil's puppy love, however. I'm here to advise with you. Shall we clinchthe bargain now, or do you want to think about it a little while? Butdon't take long. It's a little sudden maybe to you. It's been on my mindsince the day I got that memorial window in an' Marjory sang 'LeadKindly Light,' standing there in the light of it. It was a service formy first wife sung by her that was to be my second, you might almostsay. Dr. Hemingway talked beautiful, too, just beautiful. But I've gotto go. Business don't bother you lawyers,"--he was growing very familiarnow,--"but us merchants has to keep a sharp eye to time. When shall Icall?" He rose briskly. "When shall I call?" he repeated.
My father rose up to his full height. His hands were clasped hard behindhis back. He did not lift his eyes to the expectant creature before him,and the foxy little widower did not dream how near to danger he was.With the self-control that was a part of John Baronet's character, hereplied in an even voice:
"You will come when I send for you."
That evening my father told me all that had taken place.
"You are a man now, and must stand up against this miserable cur. Butyou must proceed carefully. No hot-headed foolishness will do. He willmisjudge your motives and mine, and he can plant some ugly seeds alongyour way. Property is his god. He is daily defrauding the defenceless tosecure it. When I move against him it will be made to appear that I doit for your sake. Put yourself into the place where, of your ownwage-earning power, you can keep a wife in comfort, not luxury yet. Thatwill come later, maybe. And then I'll hang this dog with a rope of hisown braiding. But I'll wait for that until you come fully into a man'sestate, with the power to protect what you love."