CHAPTER VII
Martha wouldn't of took anything fur being around Miss Hampton, shesaid. Miss Hampton was kind of quiet and sweet and pale looking, andnobody ever thought of talking loud or raising any fuss when she wasaround. She had enough money of her own to run herself on, and she kep'to herself a good deal. She had come to that town from no one knowedwhere, years ago, and bought that place. Fur all of her being so gentleand easy and talking with one of them soft, drawly kind of voices,Martha says, no one had ever dared to ast her about herself, though theywas a lot of women in that town that was wishful to.
But Martha said she knowed what Miss Hampton's secret was, and shehadn't told no one, neither. Which she told me, and all the promising Idone about not telling would of made the cold chills run up your back,it was so solemn. Miss Hampton had been jilted years ago, Martha said,and the name of the jilter was David Armstrong. Well, he must of beena low down sort of man. Martha said if things was only fixed in thiscountry like they ought to be, she would of sent a night to find thatDavid Armstrong. And that would of ended up in a mortal combat, and thenight would have cleaved him.
"Yes," says I, "and then you would of married that there night, Isuppose."
She says she would of.
"Well," says I, "mebby you would of and mebby you wouldn't of. If hecleaved David Armstrong, that night would likely be arrested fur it."
Martha says if he was she would wait outside his dungeon keep fur yearsand years, till she was a old woman with gray in her hair, and every daythey would give lingering looks at each other through the window bars.And they would be happy thata-way. And she would get her a white doveand train it so it would fly up to that window and take in notes to him,and he would send notes back that-away, and they would both be awful sadand romanceful and contented doing that-a-way fur ever and ever.
Well, I never took no stock in them mournful ways of being happy. Icouldn't of riz up to being a night fur Martha. She expected too much ofone. I thought it over fur a little spell without saying anything, andI tried to make myself believe I would of liked all that dove business.But it wasn't no use pertending. I knowed I would get tired of it.
"Martha," I says, "mebby these here nights is all right, and mebby theyain't. I never seen one, and I don't know. And, mind you, I ain't sayinga word agin their way of acting. I can't say how I would of been myself,if I had been brung up like them. But it looks to me, from some of thethings you've said about 'em, they must have a dern fool streak in 'emsomewheres."
I was kind of jealous of them nights, I guess, or I wouldn't of run 'emdown that-a-way behind their backs. But the way she was always taking onover them was calkelated to make me see I wasn't knee-high to a duck inMartha's mind when one of them nights popped into her head. When I run'em down that-a-way, she says to the blind all things is blind, and if Ihad any chivalry into me myself I'd of seen they wasn't jest dern fools,but noble, and seen it easy. And she sighed, like she'd looked furbetter things from me. When I hearn her do that I felt sorry I hadn'tcome up to her expectances. So I says:
"Martha, it's no use pertending I could stay in one of them jails andkeep happy at it. I got to be outdoors. But I tell you what I can do,if it will make you feel any better. If I ever happen to run acrost thishere David Armstrong, and he is anywheres near my size, I'll lick himfur you. And if he's too hefty fur me to lick him fair," I says, "andI get a good chancet I will hit him with a piece of railroad iron furyou."
Of course, I knowed I would never find him. But what I said seemed tobrighten her up a little.
"But," says I, "if I went too fur with it, and was hung fur it, howwould you feel then, Martha?"
Well, sir, that didn't jar Martha none. She looked kind of dreamy andsaid mebby she would go and jine a convent and be a nun. And when shegot to be the head nun she would build a chapel over the tomb where Iwas buried in. And every year, on the day of the month I was hung on,she would lead all the other nuns into that chapel, and the organ wouldplay mournful, and each nun as passed would lay down a bunch of whiteroses onto my tomb. I reckon that orter made me feel good, but somehowit didn't.
So I changed the subject, and asts her why I ain't seen Miss Hamptonaround the place none. Martha says she has a bad sick headache and ain'tbeen outside the house fur four or five days. I asts her why she don'twait on her. But she don't want her to, Martha says. She's been stayingin the house ever since we been in town, and jest wants to be let alone.I thinks all that is kind of funny. And then I seen from the way Marthais answering my questions that she is holding back something she wouldlike to tell, but don't think she orter tell. I leaves her alone andpurty soon she says:
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
I tell her sometimes I think I don't believe in 'em, and sometimes Ithink I do, but anyhow I would hate to see one. I asts her why does sheast.
"Because," she says, "because--but I hadn't ought to tell you."
"It's daylight," I says; "it's no use being scared to tell now."
"It ain't that," she says, "but it's a secret."
When she said it was a secret, I knowed she would tell. Martha likedhaving her friends help her to keep a secret.
"I think Miss Hampton has seen one," she says, finally, "and that herstaying indoors has something to do with that."
Then she tells me. The night of the day after we camped there, her andMiss Hampton was out fur a walk. We didn't have any show that night.They passed right by our camp, and they seen us there by the fire, allthree of us. But they was in the road in the dark, and we was all in thelight, so none of the three of us seen them. Miss Hampton was kind ofscared of us, first glance, fur she gasped and grabbed holt of Martha'sarm all of a sudden so tight she pinched it. Which it was very natcheralthat she would be startled, coming across three strange men all of asudden at night around a turn in the road. They went along home, andMartha went inside and lighted a lamp, but Miss Hampton lingered on theporch fur a minute. Jest as she lit the lamp Martha hearn another littlegasp, or kind of sigh, from Miss Hampton out there on the porch. Thenthey was the sound of her falling down. Martha ran out with the lamp,and she was laying there. She had fainted and keeled over. Martha saidjest in the minute she had left her alone on the porch was when MissHampton must of seen the ghost. Martha brung her to, and she was lookingpuzzled and wild-like both to oncet. Martha asts her what is the matter.
"Nothing," she says, rubbing her fingers over her forehead in a helplesskind of way, "nothing."
"You look like you had seen a ghost," Martha tells her.
Miss Hampton looks at Martha awful funny, and then she says mebby sheHAS seen a ghost, and goes along upstairs to bed. And since then sheain't been out of the house. She tells Martha it is a sick headache, butMartha says she knows it ain't. She thinks she is scared of something.
"Scared?" I says. "She wouldn't see no more ghosts in the daytime."
Martha says how do I know she wouldn't? She knows a lot about ghosts ofall kinds, Martha does.
Horses and dogs can see them easier than humans, even in the daytime,and it makes their hair stand up when they do. But some humans that havethe gift can see them in the daytime like an animal. And Martha asts mehow can I tell but Miss Hampton is like that?
"Well, then," I says, "she must be a witch. And if she is a witch why isshe scared of them a-tall?"
But Martha says if you have second sight you don't need to be a witch tosee them in the daytime.
Well, you can never tell about them ghosts. Some says one thing and somesays another. Old Mis' Primrose, in our town, she always believed in 'emfirm till her husband died. When he was dying they fixed it up he wasto come back and visit her. She told him he had to, and he promised. Andshe left the front door open fur him night after night fur nigh a year,in all kinds of weather; but Primrose never come. Mis' Primrose says henever lied to her, and he always done jest as she told him, and if hecould of come she knowed he would; and when he didn't she quit believingin ghosts. But they was others in our town said it didn't prov
e nothingat all. They said Primrose had really been lying to her all his life,because she was so bossy he had to lie to keep peace in the fambly,and she never ketched on. Well, if I was a ghost and had of been Mis'Primrose's husband when I was a human, I wouldn't of come back neither,even if she had of bully-ragged me into one of them death-bed promises.I guess Primrose figgered he had earnt a rest.
If they is ghosts, what comfort they can get out of coming back wherethey ain't wanted and scaring folks is more'n I can see. It's kind oflow down, I think, and foolish too. Them kind of ghosts is like thesehere overgrown smart alecs that scares kids. They think they are mightycute, but they ain't. They are jest foolish. A human, or a ghost either,that does things like that is jest simply got no principle to him. Ihearn a lot of talk about 'em, first and last, and I ain't ready to saythey ain't no ghosts, nor yet ready to say they is any. To say they isany is to say something that is too plumb unlikely. And too many peoplehas saw them fur me to say they ain't any. But if they is, or theyain't, so fur as I can see, it don't make much difference. Fur theynever do nothing, besides scaring you, except to rap on tables and tellfortunes, and such fool things. Which a human can do it all better andsave the expense of paying money to one of these here sperrit mediumsthat travels around and makes 'em perform. But all the same they hasbeen nights I has felt different about 'em myself, and less hasty to run'em down. Well, it don't do no good to speak harsh of no one, not even aghost or a ordinary dead man, and if I was to see a ghost, mebby I wouldbe all the scareder fur what I have jest wrote.
Well, with all the talking back and forth we done about them ghosts wecouldn't agree. That afternoon it seemed like we couldn't agree aboutanything. I knowed we would be going away from there before long, and Isays to myself before I go I'm going to have that girl fur my girl, orelse know the reason why. No matter what I was talking about, that ideawas in the back of my head, and somehow it kind of made me want topick fusses with her, too. We was setting on a log, purty deep into thewoods, and there come a time when neither of us had said nothing furquite a spell. But after a while I says:
"Martha, we'll be going away from here in two, three days now."
She never said nothing.
"Will you be sorry?" I asts her.
She says she will be sorry.
"Well," I says, "WHY will you be sorry?"
I thought she would say because _I_ was going. And then I would befinding out whether she liked me a lot. But she says the reason she willbe sorry is because there will be no one new to talk to about thingsboth has read. I was considerable took down when she said that.
"Martha," I says, "it's more'n likely I won't never see you agin after Igo away."
She says that kind of parting comes between the best of friends.
I seen I wasn't getting along very fast, nor saying what I wanted tosay. I reckon one of them Sir Marmeluke fellers would of knowed what tosay. Or Doctor Kirby would. Or mebby even Looey would of said it betterthan I could. So I was kind of mad with myself, and I says, mean-like:
"If you don't care, of course, I don't care, neither."
She never answered that, so I gets up and makes like I am starting off.
"I was going to give you some of them there Injun feathers of mine toremember me by," I tells her, "but if you don't want 'em, there's plentyof others would be glad to take 'em."
But she says she would like to have them.
"Well," I says, "I will bring them to you tomorrow afternoon."
She says, "Thank you."
Finally I couldn't stand it no longer. I got brave all of a sudden, andbusted out: "Martha, I--I--I--"
But I got to stuttering, and my braveness stuttered itself away. And Ifinishes up by saying:
"I like you a hull lot, Martha." Which wasn't jest exactly what I hadplanned fur to say.
Martha, she says she kind of likes me, too.
"Martha," I says, "I like you more'n any girl I ever run acrost before."
She says, "Thank you," agin. The way she said it riled me up. She saidit like she didn't know what I meant, nor what I was trying to get outof me. But she did know all the time. I knowed she did. She knowed Iknowed it, too. Gosh-dern it, I says to myself, here I am wasting allthis time jest TALKING to her. The right thing to do come to me all ofa sudden, and like to took my breath away. But I done it. I grabbed herand I kissed her.
Twice. And then agin. Because the first was on the chin on account ofher jerking her head back. And the second one she didn't help me none.But the third time she helped me a little. And the ones after that shehelped me considerable.
Well, they ain't no use trying to talk about the rest of that afternoon.I couldn't rightly describe it if I wanted to. And I reckon it's none ofanybody's business.
Well, it makes you feel kind of funny. You want to go out and pick onsomebody about four sizes bigger'n you are and knock the socks off'nhim. It stands to reason others has felt that-a-way, but you don'tbelieve it. You want to tell people about it one minute. The next minuteyou have got chills and ague fur fear some one will guess it. And youthink the way you are about her is going to last fur always.
That evening, when I was cooking supper, I laughed every time I wasspoke to. When Looey and I was hitching up to drive down town to givethe show, one of the hosses stepped on his foot and I laughed at that,and there was purty nigh a fight. And I was handling some bottles andbroke one and cut my hand on a piece of glass. I held it out fur aminute dumb-like, with the blood and medicine dripping off of it, andall of a sudden I busted out laughing agin. The doctor asts if I amcrazy. And Looey says he has thought I was from the very first, and somenight him and the doctor will be killed whilst asleep. One of the thingswe have every night in the show is an Injun dance, and Looey and I singswhat the doctor calls the Siwash war chant, whirling round and roundeach other, and making licks at each other with our tommyhawks, andletting out sudden wild yips in the midst of that chant. That night Ilike to of killed Looey with that tommyhawk, I was feeling so good. Ifit had been a real one, instead of painted-up wood, I would of killedLooey, the lick I give him. The worst part of that was that, after theshow, when we got back to camp and the hosses was picketed out fur thenight, I had to tell Looey all about how I felt fur an explanation ofwhy I hit him.
Which it made Looey right low in his sperrits, and he shakes his headand says no good will come of it.
"Did you ever hear of Romeo and Joliet?" he says:
"Mebby," I says, "but what it was I hearn I can't remember. What aboutthem?"
"Well," he says, "they carried on the same as you. And now where arethey?"
"Well," I says, "where are they?"
"In the tomb," says Looey, very sad, like they was closte personalfriends of his'n. And he told me all about them and how Young Cobalt haddone fur them. But from what I could make out it all happened away backin the early days. And shucks!--I didn't care a dern, anyhow. I told himso.
"Well," he says, "It's been the history of the world that it bringstrouble." And he says to look at Damon and Pythias, and Othello and theMerchant of Venus. And he named about a hundred prominent couples likethat out of Shakespeare's works.
"But it ends happy sometimes," I says.
"Not when it is true love it don't," says Looey. "Look at Anthony andCleopatra."
"Yes," I says, sarcastic like, "I suppose they are in the tomb, too?"
"They are," says Looey, awful solemn.
"Yes," I says, "and so is Adam and Eve and Dan and Burrsheba and allthe rest of them old-timers. But I bet they had a good time while theylasted."
Looey shakes his head solemn and sighs and goes to sleep very mournful,like he has to give me up fur lost. But I can't sleep none myself.So purty soon I gets up and puts on my shoes and sneaks through thewood-lot and through the gap in the fence by the apple tree and intoMiss Hampton's yard.
It was a beauty of a moonlight night, that white and clear and clean youcould almost see to read by it, like all of everything had been scouredas bright as the b
ottom of a tin pan. And the shadders was soft andthick and velvety and laid kind of brownish-greeney on the grass. Iflopped down in the shadder of some lilac bushes and wondered which wasMartha's window. I knowed she would be in bed long ago, but---- Well, Iwas jest plumb foolish that night, and I couldn't of kept away fur anymoney. That moonlight had got into my head, it seemed like, and mademe drunk. But I would rather be looney that-a-way than to have as muchsense as King Solomon and all his adverbs. I was that looney that if Ihad knowed any poetry I would of said it out loud, right up toward thatwindow. I never knowed why poetry was made up before that night. But theonly poetry I could think of was about there was a man named Furgesonthat lived on Market Street, and he had a one-eyed Thomas cat thatcouldn't well be beat. Which it didn't seem to fit the case, so I didn'tsay her.
The porch of that house was part covered with vines, but they was kindof gaped apart at one corner. As I laid there in the shadder of thebushes I hearn a fluttering movement, light and gentle, on that porch.Then, all of a sudden, I seen some one standing on the edge of the porchwhere the vines was gaped apart, and the moonlight was falling ontothem. They must of come there awful soft and still. Whoever it wascouldn't see into the shadder where I laid, that is, if it was a humanand not a ghost. Fur my first thought was it might be one of them ghostsI had been running down so that very day, and mebby the same one MissHampton seen on that very same porch. I thought I was in fur it then,mebby, and I felt like some one had whispered to the back of my neckit ought to be scared. And I WAS scared clean up into my hair. I staredhard, fur I couldn't take my eyes away. Then purty soon I seen if it wasa ghost it must be a woman ghost. Fur it was dressed in light-colouredclothes that moved jest a little in the breeze, and the clothes was sonear the colour of the moonlight they seemed to kind of silver intoit. You would of said it had jest floated there, and was waiting fur tofloat away agin when the breeze blowed a little stronger, or the moondrawed it.
It didn't move fur ever so long. Then it leaned forward through the gapin the vines, and I seen the face real plain. It wasn't no ghost, it wasa lady. Then I knowed it must be Miss Hampton standing there. Away offthrough the trees our camp fire sent up jest a dull kind of a glow. Shewas standing there looking at that. I wondered why.