Old Ebenezer Part 37

"I wish I could get up a thunder storm. I'd like for that girl to grab me and choke me half to death. Well, I've got to stir around."

Warren went away, and during all the evening Lyman sat picking a nervous quarrel with himself.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE HOME.

Lyman saw nothing of Warren the next day, but on the day following he strode into the room, whistling in tuneless good humor.

"It's all right," he said, as he sat down. "I went out there and found her at the churn. I said, 'Look here, you'll drive me mad if you don't let that churn alone--I mean with the charm of the position.' And then she blushed, and I would have grabbed a kiss, but she s.h.i.+ed to one side. She scolded me somewhat for coming so soon. She said that people would wonder what brought me out that way so often. I told her that if people had any sense they wouldn't wonder long--they would know that she had brought me there. Then I came out square-toed. I told her that I had discovered early in the action that I loved her, that I had waited long enough to be sure that it was not a pa.s.sing fancy, but a genuine case of love. I told her that her cousin Jerry might believe in waiting, but that I did not. Then how she did blush and shy. I looked away, to give her a chance to get herself together again, looked out into the field where the old man was at work, and peeped through a crack at the old lady thumping the carpet loom. I didn't wait too long, though; I didn't want the girl to have time to cool off completely, so I said, looking at her. 'I want you to marry me, you understand; with my prospects I could go throughout the country and pick up most any woman who is struck on writing verses and essays, but I don't want one of them--I want you, and I want your promise to tell that fellow Jerry to go to the deuce, as far as you are concerned; and I want you to promise to wait for me a week or two and then be my wife.' Then I thought of how tedious it would be to wait so long and I corrected my statement by telling her that we needn't wait at all. How she did flounce in surprise. She said she had no idea that I cared anything for her. But I stopped her right there. 'That ain't the question,' I said, 'do you care anything for me? That's the question.'

At this she hung her head and said that she didn't know, exactly, but that she would think about it. 'I don't want any thinking,' said I.

'What I want is for you to tell me right now.' Then she said something about that fool cousin. And I told her that I would shoot him on sight and look for him at that. I started to go away and she caught hold of me and said that if I promised not to shoot Jerry she would tell me the next day. 'You tell me now,' said I, 'or that fellow will be a corpse before morning.' Then she agreed that she thought she did love me a little. I told her that a little wouldn't satisfy me--I didn't want a breeze, I wanted a storm. She said I was hard to satisfy. She didn't think she could please me; she knew that she didn't amount to much in the eyes of town people. She had hoped so much to please me, and now she was grieved at her disappointment. She acknowledged that she was afraid to love me, and I told her that she needn't have any fear and that she might let herself out at once. And after a good deal of talk she did. I put her arms around my neck and made her squeeze me, and I called her a divine boa constrictor. She didn't exactly know what I meant, but it tickled her all the same. Then I went over into the field to consult the old man about the time I'd have to wait, and when I mentioned day after tomorrow he snorted. 'Young fellow,' said he, 'I like your pus.h.i.+ng ways, but I don't want to be crowded off the face of the earth. You wait awhile. I don't want folks to think that I am anxious to git rid of the best gal that ever lived.' He got next to me when he put it that way, and I agreed to wait a week or so. Yes, sir, it's all right, with the exception that I've got to wait. But I won't wait alone; I'll go out there every once in awhile and make her wait with me."

Lyman caught hold of him and they stood near the window, laughing, but the laughter had more the sound of soft music than of two men in a merry mood. They sat down in the twilight, and their cigars glowed like the eyes of a beast, far apart.

Warren's restlessness was worn away in part, and the next day and for days succeeding he went about his work, humming what he supposed to be a tune. Two weeks dragged along and the time for the marriage was approaching. Every day or so the young fellow would drive out into the country to argue with the old man. He had rented a cottage and had furnished it and he pleaded the crime of permitting it to stand there empty of the two hearts that yearned to inhabit it. The old man acknowledged the logic of the argument, but swore that he could not have it said that he was anxious to get rid of his girl; and Warren always agreed to this, at the time of its emphatic utterance, but when he had driven back to town, and put up his horse, a spirit of rebellion would arise and back he would go the next day to renew the contest.

One night when Lyman went home he found old man Staggs in the sitting-room waiting for him. "I've got something to tell you," said the old man.

Lyman's heart jumped. "Has she returned?" he asked.

"Has who returned?"

"Why, Mrs. McElwin and her daughter?"

"Oh, I reckon not."

"Then what did you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you that I won't drink any more."

"You told me that some time ago."

"Yes, but under different circ.u.mstances. When I told you, I was sick and wouldn't have touched a drop if a barrel full had been under my nose; but I tell you now when I am well. Do you know the reason why I am so strong in the faith now? Of course you don't, and that is what I am going to tell you. I was out in the stable this evening and I found a bottle of liquor. Blast me if I hadn't been wanting it all day. But what did I do? I went out and threw the bottle--and the liquor--as far as I could send it, and I heard it squash in the street. And now I want to ask you if that wasn't nerve."

Lyman summoned his patience and agreed that it was nerve, and the old man continued. "I told my wife about it, but she didn't believe me.

And now what I want you to do is to convince her that it is a fact.

You can do it with a clear conscience, for I will swear to it. The fact is there's going to be a reunion of the old home guard at Downer's grove, about fifteen miles from here, and I want to go. I went last year and--well, I fell, somewhat. But I wouldn't fall this time, and I want you to tell Tobithy and Annie to let me go."

"And what if you come home drunk?"

"Lyman," said the old man, puffing up, "I have always stood as your friend. I have got out of bed at night to argue in your behalf, and I didn't expect no sich treatment as this. If you want to stab me, why don't you out with your knife and pop it to me right under the ribs.

Here," he added, turning toward Lyman and smoothing his s.h.i.+rt tight over his side, "stab me right here and I won't say a word; but, for the Lord's sake, don't question my honor. Let me tell you something: I am a poor man and in debt; I need clothes and sometimes I am out of tobacco, but I wouldn't touch a drop of whisky for money enough to dam the Mississippi river. That's me, Lyman, and you may wollop it about in your mouth and chew on it. It is no more than natural that I should want to join my old friends. Of course we were not actually in the army, but we would have been soldiers if we hadn't been captured and disarmed, and we have an affection for the old organization. There ain't many of us left and it is cruelty to keep us apart. And I can't go unless Tobithy lets me take the money. It won't require more than five dollars. Will you a.s.sure her that I'll come home sober?"

"I don't think I can do that, Uncle Jasper. Understand, now, I believe you think you'll keep sober, but the truth of it is you can't. Why, if you didn't drink, the old fellows wouldn't be your companions."

The "veteran" smoothed his s.h.i.+rt over his side. "Stab me," he said.

"Pop your knife under this rib--this one, right here. It will be a mercy to me if you do. When a man out-lives his word of honor, it's time to go and go violently. Pop it."

"Your drinking doesn't amount to much, Uncle Jasper. You don't drink viciously, but reminiscently. However, it is a crime to take money from those women--Hold on; I know you do all you can to earn a living; you work whenever anything comes up, but you haven't earned five dollars in--"

"I earned the money, but the scoundrel didn't pay me," the old fellow broke in. "I've got hundreds of dollars owin' to me, but the rascals laugh at me. I cured old Thompson's sick horse--worked with him all night, nearly, and he gave me a dollar. Haven't earned five dollars!

the devil! How can a man earn five dollars when a scoundrel pays him one dollar for fifteen dollars' worth of labor? The s.h.i.+rt ain't very thick. The knife will go in all right. Pop it." He smoothed his s.h.i.+rt and closed his eyes as if expecting the death blow.

"You didn't let me get through," said Lyman. "I was going to say that your drinking did no particular harm. To meet your old cronies and to warm up with them is about all that is left to you of real enjoyment.

Sooner or later we all live in the past, and there can be no very great evil in bringing the past near. So, now, if you will promise me to come home in as good condition as you can, I will give you five dollars."

The old fellow gulped, wheeled about to hide his eyes and leant forward with his face in his hands. Lyman slipped a bank note between his fingers and without saying a word went up stairs. At breakfast the next morning, which was the day of the reunion of the gallant home guard, old Jasper was full of life and hope, but that night when Lyman came home, he found him leaning on the gate, unable to find the latch.

"I'm all right," he said.

"I believe you are," Lyman replied.

"Am, for a fact. I promised to come in good shape. Here, all right."

Lyman managed to get him to bed without disturbing anyone, but later at night he heard the women las.h.i.+ng him with their tongues. He knew that there was justice in the las.h.i.+ng and he dreaded lest they should cut at him for abetting the crime, but they did not, for at breakfast they smiled at him, doubtless not having discovered his complicity.

The old man was heart-sick. "I want to see you," he said to Lyman, and leading him into the sitting-room, continued: "I have said it before, I know, but I want to say it now once for all that I'll never touch another drop as long as I live. Why, confound my old hide, don't I know exactly what it will do for me; and do you think I'll deliberately make a brute of myself? I won't, that's all. It's all right to bring the past back, that is, for a man who can do it, but it isn't for me, I tell you that. And I don't want to see those home guards any more. Why, if they had taken my advice, do you suppose they would have surrendered without firing a gun? They wouldn't. I argued with them and swore at them, but they stacked their guns; and then what could I do but surrender? That's neither here nor there, though--I'm never goin' to drink another drop. Oh, I've said it before--I know that, but it sticks, this time."

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

THERE CAME A CHECK.

Lyman's book met with a favor that no one had ventured to forecast. It did not touch the public's fad-nerve; it was too close to the soil for that. It was so simple, with an art so sly, with a humor that, like an essence, so quietly stole the senses, that the reviewers did not arise in resentment against it. They had expected nothing and were surprised to find much. Worn out with heavy volumes from the pens of the learned and the pretentious, they seemed to find in this little book a rest, a refuge for reverie, cooled with running water and sheltered by leaves from the burning sun. And at night, when the author lay down to rest and to muse upon himself, his heart did not beat with the exultant throb of victory--it was full of a melancholy grat.i.tude. One morning a letter startled him. It came from a great periodical and enclosed a check in payment for a serial story. It represented more money than he had ever hoped to possess; he called Warren, and handed him the piece of paper.

"I can hardly trust my eyes," he said. "What do you make of it?"

Warren flew into a fit of enthusiasm. "Five thousand dollars," he cried. "And it comes from the advertising the newspapers have been giving you. I want to tell you that advertising pays. Five thousand dollars, and it didn't take you more than six months to write the thing. Those fellows don't know whether it's good or not. All they know is that the newspapers have given your other story a send-off.

Talk about newspapers; the first thing you know we'll have money enough to paper the town. But this is all yours. No matter, I'm as much interested as if it were mine. Say, let me have this check a minute. I want to go across the street and show it to a fellow and tell him to go to--He spoke of this office one day as Poverty's Nest.

Let me take it over there."

"No," said Lyman, laughing, "but I'll tell you what you may do with it--take it over to the bank and deposit it in my name."

"But you'll have to come along and leave your signature."

"Is that the way they do? All right; but I don't want to see McElwin."

"That won't be necessary. But don't you think we'd better carry the check around town awhile before depositing it?"

"No, that would be silly."

"Silly! It would be business. You let me have it and I'll rake in fifty subscriptions before three o'clock. It's business."