The Mystery of the Locks Part 15

Jane Benton, old Thompson's maiden sister, was as good as anybody, though no one urged the point as steadily as she did herself. Had the President walked into Jane Benton's presence, she would have believed that he had heard of her (although there was no reason that she should entertain that opinion) and had called to pay his respects; and instead of being timid in so great a presence, she would have expected him to be timid in hers.

There were people who cared to distinguish themselves: very well, let them do it; but Jane Benton did not have that ambition, though she had the ability, and could have easily made a name for herself which would have gone thundering down the ages. Let other people distinguish themselves and pay the price; Jane Benton was distinguished naturally--effort was not necessary in her case. If the people did not acknowledge it, it was their loss, not hers.

The Ancient Maiden was a book-worm, and devoured everything she heard of; but only with a determination to tear it to pieces, for of course no one could hope to amuse or instruct a lady of forty-five, who not only knew everything worth knowing already, but who had taught school in her younger days on the strength of a certificate ranging from ninety-eight to ninety-nine. This certificate had been issued by three learned men, each one of whom knew absolutely everything; and it was agreed by them that Jane Benton should have had an even hundred but for the circ.u.mstance that her "hand write" was a little crooked. This fault had since been remedied, and the Ancient Maiden still retained the certificate, and the recollection of the conclusion by the three learned men, as an evidence that, so far as education was concerned, she lacked nothing whatever.

When she consented to favor a book by looking through it, there was unutterable disgust on her features as she possessed herself of the contents, since she felt nothing but contempt for the upstarts who attempted to amuse or instruct so great a woman as Jane Benton. And her patience was usually rewarded.

Thompson! Annie! Ring the bells, and run here! The ignorant pretender has been found out! A turned letter in the book! A that for a which! A will for a shall! A would for a should! Hurrah! Announce it to the people! Another pretender found out! Lock the book up! It is worthless!

Jane Benton's greatness, so long in doubt, is vindicated!

But while there is not a perfect book in existence now, there is likely to be one, providing Jane Benton lives three or four hundred years longer, for the thought has often occurred to her that she ought to do something for the race, although it does not deserve such a kindness, as a pattern for all future writers. She has done nothing in forty-five years; but she has been busy during that time, no doubt, in preparing for a book which will not only astonish the living, but cause the dead to crawl out of their graves, and feel ashamed of themselves. Let the people go on in their mad ignorance; Jane Benton is preparing to point out their errors, and in the course of the present century--certainly not later than toward the close of the next one--a new prophet will appear in such robes of splendid perfection that even the earth will acknowledge its imperfections, and creep off into oblivion.

But notwithstanding her rather remarkable conceit, Jane Benton was a useful woman. For fifteen years she had "pottered around," as old Thompson said, and made her brother's home a pleasant one. Since she could not set the world on fire, she said she did not want to, and at least knew her own home perfectly, and had it under thorough control.

When old Thompson needed anything, and ransacked the house until he concluded that it had been burned up, his sister Jane could put her hand on the article immediately; and perhaps Jane Benton's genius, in which she had so much confidence, was a genius for attempting only what she could do well; for whatever her intentions were, she had certainly accomplished nothing, except to distinguish her brother's house as the neatest and cleanest in Davy's Bend.

Notwithstanding her lofty ambitions, and her marvellous capacity in higher walks, she was jealous of what she had really accomplished; and the servant girl who promised to be industrious and generally satisfactory around old Thompson's house was soon presented with her walking papers, for Jane Benton believed that she was the only woman alive who knew the secret of handling dishes without breaking them, or of sweeping a carpet without ruining it; therefore a servant who threatened to become a rival was soon sent away, and a less thrifty one procured, who afforded the mistress opportunity of regretting that the girls of recent years knew nothing, and stubbornly refused to learn. Old Thompson had been heard to say once, after his sister had ordered the cook to leave in an hour, that he would finally be called upon to send his daughter Annie away, for no other reason than that she was useful, and careful, and industrious, and sensible; but the Ancient Maiden had good sense, in spite of her eccentricities, and dearly loved her pretty niece; and it is probable that old Thompson only made the remark in fun.

Thompson Benton was too sensible a man to go hungry in antic.i.p.ation of improbable feasts in the future; therefore his sister Jane and his daughter Annie were well provided for; and were seated in a rather elegant room in a rather elegant house, on a certain wet afternoon in the spring of the year, busy with their work. The girl had been quiet and thoughtful all day, but finally she startled her aunt by inquiring,--

"Aunt Jane, were you ever in love?"

The Ancient Maiden dropped her work, and looked at the girl in indignation and astonishment.

"Annie," she sharply said, "what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?"

The Ancient Maiden was particularly severe on the men who attempted to write books, but the s.e.x in general was her abomination. Every man who paid court to a young woman, in Jane Benton's opinion, was a married man, with a large family of children; and though it sometimes turned out that those she accused of this offence were only twenty years old, or such a matter, she said that made no difference; they had married young, probably, and investigation would reveal that they had ten or twelve ragged children and a pale wife somewhere in poverty. Therefore the presumption of the girl in asking such a question caused her to repeat again, and with more indignation than before:--

"What do you mean by asking me such a question as that?"

Annie Benton was like her father in another particular; she was not afraid of Jane, for they both loved her; therefore she was not frightened at her indignation, but laughingly insisted on the question.

"But _were_ you ever in love?"

"Annie," her aunt replied, this time with an air of insulted dignity, "I shall speak to your father about this when he comes home to-night. The idea of a chit of a girl like you asking me if I have ever been in love!

You have known me all your life; have I ever _acted_ as though I were in love?"

"The question is easy to answer," the girl persisted. "Yes or no."

Seeing that the girl was not to be put off, Jane Benton pulled a needle out of her knitting--for Thompson Benton wore knit socks to keep peace in the family, since his sister believed that should he go down town wearing a pair of the flimsy kind he kept for sale, he would return in the evening only to fall dead in her arms--and picked her teeth with it while she reflected. And while about it, her manner softened so much that, when she went out of the room soon after, Annie believed there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. She remained away such a length of time that the girl feared she had really offended the worthy woman, and was preparing to go out and look for her, when she came back wiping her eyes with her ap.r.o.n, and carrying a great packet of letters, which she threw down on the table in front of Annie.

"There!" she said pettishly. "Since you are so curious, read them."

The girl was very much amused at the turn affairs had taken, and, after breaking the string which held the letters together, looked over several of them. They were dated in the year Annie was born, and one seemed to have been written on her birthday. They all referred to her aunt in the most loving and extravagant terms possible; and while thinking how funny it was that her wrinkled aunt should be referred to as dear little angel, the Ancient Maiden said,--

"In love! I was crazy! And I can't laugh about it yet, though it seems to be so amusing to you."

"It only amuses me because I know now that you are like other women,"

the girl replied quietly. "I think more of you than ever, now that I know you have been in love."

"Well, you ought to think a good deal of me, then," the Ancient Maiden said, "for I was so crazy after the writer of those letters that I couldn't sleep. Love him! I thought he was different from any other man who ever lived, and I wors.h.i.+pped him; I made a G.o.d of him, and would have followed him to the end of the earth."

There was more animation in Aunt Jane's voice than Annie had ever noticed before, and she waved the knitting needle at her niece as though she were to blame for getting her into a love mess.

"He knew every string leading to my heart," the excited maid continued, "and he had more control over me than I ever had over myself. It was a fortunate thing that he was an honorable man. Now you know it all, and I feel ashamed of myself."

Miss Jane applied herself to knitting again, though she missed a great many st.i.tches because of her excitement.

"But why didn't he marry you, since he loved you?" Annie inquired.

"Well, since you _must_ know, he found a girl who suited him better,"

the Ancient Maiden replied. "But before that girl came in the way, he _thought_ he loved me, and I was so well satisfied with his mistaken notion that I wors.h.i.+pped him. And if his old fat wife should die now, I'd marry him were he to ask me to. After you have lived as long as I have, you'll find out that fickleness is not such a great fault, after all. Why, sometimes it bothers me to have your father around, and a man can as easily tire of his wife or sweetheart as that!"

She snapped her fingers in such a manner that it sounded like the report of a toy pistol, and the girl looked at her in surprise.

"We're all fickle; you and I as well as the rest of them," she continued. "Had the wives of this country pleasant homes to go back to; were their fathers all rich men, for example, who would be glad to receive them, half of them--more than that, two thirds of them--would leave their husbands, as they ought to do; but a wife usually has no other home than that her husband has made for her, and she gets along the best she can. The men are no worse than the women; we are all fickle, fickle, fickle. As sure as we are all selfish, we are all fickle. If I were married to a rich man who treated me well, I would be more apt to love him than one who was poor, and who treated me badly; sometimes we forget our own fickleness in our selfishness. Look at the widowers; how gay they are! Look at the widows; how gay _they_ are! I have known men and women so long that I feel like saying fiddlesticks when I think of it."

"But father is a widower, Aunt Jane," the girl said, "and he is not gay."

"Well, he had to run away with his wife, to get her," the Ancient Maiden replied, after some hesitation. "There seems to be a good deal in love, after all, in cases where people make a sacrifice for it. These runaway matches, if the parties to it are sensible, somehow turn out well."

"Did father ever think any less of my mother because she ran away with him?" the girl asked.

"No," her aunt replied. "He thought more of her for it, I suppose.

Anyway, I never knew another man to be as fond of his wife as he was."

Annie Benton and the Ancient Maiden pursued their work in silence for a while, when the girl said,--

"I want to make a confession to you, too, Aunt Jane. I am in love with Allan Dorris."

"Don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vexation. "I have known it for six months. But it won't do you any good, for he is going away on the early train to-morrow morning. Your father told me so this morning, and he seemed glad of it. You haven't kept your secret from him, either."

To avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl walked over to the window, and looked out. Allan Dorris was pa.s.sing in the road, and she felt sure that he was walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her; perhaps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in which she lived. But she did not show herself, although he watched the house closely until he pa.s.sed out of sight.

"I supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning to her chair again. "I have always thought that any girl who is desperately in love cannot hide it; but I wanted to talk to you about it, and I am glad you told me what you did, for I can talk more freely after having heard it.

I have no one else to make a confidant of, and I am very much concerned about it. The matter is so serious with me that I am scared."

"Don't be scared, for pity's sake," the Ancient Maiden replied, with a show of her old spirit. "They all feel that way, but they soon get over it. When I was in love I wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but everything went on just as usual. I thought the people were watching me in alarm, fearing I would do something desperate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, and I _had_ to get over it, whether I wanted to or not. You will feel differently after he has been gone a week."

"The certainty that I will not is the reason I have spoken to you,"

Annie continued gravely. "Allan Dorris loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown me loved you before the other girl came in his way; and I love him as you have loved the writer of the letters all these years. You have never forgotten your lover; then why should you say that I will forget mine within a week? What would you advise me to do?"

"Ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding up her work with an unsteady hand. "No matter how I should advise you, I should finally come to believe that I had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. It is usually a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromising lovers turn out the best. I cannot advise you, Annie; I do not know."

Jane Benton imagined that Dorris was going away because Annie would not marry him; but the reverse was really the case,--he was going away for fear she would become his wife.

"My greatest fear is," the girl continued again, "that I do not feel as a woman should with reference to it. I would not dare to tell you how much concerned I am; I am almost afraid to admit it to myself. I am thoroughly convinced that his going away will blight my life, and that I shall always feel toward him as I do now; yet there are grave reasons why I should not become his wife. Do you think the women are better than the men?"