Kitabı oku: «Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888», sayfa 12

CHAPTER IV.
THREE-SISTERS

It is one town and not three contiguous villages as its name might suggest. Three blast-furnaces stood on the bank of the river below the town. These Colonel Hornberger had named for his daughters, Martha, Sarah, and Henrietta. So the town that grew up near them came to be known as Three-Sisters, and was often spoken of as Three-Girls.

On all sides of it mountains, through which there were three gaps, rise precipitously. Through one of the gaps Boomer Creek, a clear and rapid stream, given to sudden rises, runs into the river, which is picturesque and famous, and almost encircles the town. Through another gap the river glides to the village, and by still another pursues its journey towards the sea.

Beginning above the town, and running parallel to the river, the race conducts the water to the huge wheels in the bellows-house and at the saw-mill.

The railroad runs to the left of the village, crossing the flat on which it is built, while the river flows to the right.

A long wooden covered bridge spans the river and race, and the island between them, and connects Three-Sisters with Boomer Creek Valley, in which are many farms that are gradually encroaching on the forests.

Many of the streets and alleys in the town were given high-sounding titles, but nearly all have their nicknames. The street on which the proprietor dwells is called Big-bug Avenue. There are Goose Street and Backbiter's Alley. Harmony Lane is where the worst wranglers in the village live. And there is the Block-of-Blazes, standing at the head of Big-bug Avenue, yet giving it the cold shoulder, for not a door of the Block opens, not a window looks, except askance, upon the Avenue.

The people of Three-Sisters, in the days of this story, were laborious, frugal, and patient; they had few grievances. Strikes were unheard of, and no trouble was fermented, except by the tavern whiskey, which flowed freely on Saturday nights, when there were frequent fights among the men.

The women were given to gossip, but were honest. Scandal was rare among them, and they prided themselves on being good cooks and tidy housewives.

CHAPTER V.
THE QUEEN'S WEDDING

"Weddin's-day."

Lizzī's happy thoughts would play upon the word Wednesday, and the gentle breeze in the pines above her made sweet accompaniment to the tuneful repetition.

She sat where Gill had said he would meet her, in the pine-grove at the edge of which stood the church. She had dressed and left home early, apparently for a walk, but now when the church-bell rung the call for prayer she was at the trysting-place.

"My wedding-bell," she murmured as the mellow solemn tones fell quivering on the air. When they ceased the echo floated to her, a far-away sound almost silence. Clasping her hands, she bowed her head in thankfulness.

"The angels up in heaven ring my weddin'-bell too, and that means John and I will be happy."

There was in this muscular daughter of the forest (she was born in a cabin in the woods) a gentle womanliness that was charming. As the hour drew near when she would give up her maiden name and freedom, she thought Time surely ought to go more slowly. He had taken his ease from Sunday until now, though she, running ahead, had pulled him along; but now, when only one short hour of her maidenhood was left, the contrary old fellow would run.

She blushed when, all too soon, she saw her promised husband enter the grove; and when he took her hand it trembled.

"What, Lizzī, not scared by the dark?"

The pressure he gave her hand and the light laugh that followed his words corrected their impression, and the sharp pain they caused was soothed by the knowledge that he really understood.

"What if it had been some other man going through the grove?" he asked.

"Then my hand wouldn't have shook."

It was the coming of the bridegroom that made her heart beat more quickly and her hand unsteady.

Gill repaid her for the pretty compliment with a kiss. Then they approached the church, which was wrapped in darkness.

Jim Harker, sexton and squire, had put out the lights after prayer-meeting was dismissed, and closed the shutters. Inside the church he was waiting.

Lizzī hesitated when, in answer to Gill's knock, the door was thrown open and she saw that the church was dark.

"Go in, Lizzī," said Gill. "We'll have a light as soon as the door is shut. If the church was lit up, somebody would see us go in, and come to peep to see what we was doin'."

She stepped into the close darkness. Gill followed, and Jim shut the door. Lizzī gave a little start when she heard the click of the latch, and a shiver ran over her. She was not frightened, only realizing that the door of her maiden life was closed behind her.

Squire Harker lighted two candles, and Lizzī's eyes blinked in the yellow light but soon they were able to pierce the semi-darkness, and to her surprise she could discover no preacher. She had thought him part of the romance. To no plan of Gill's had she objected after consenting to a secret marriage, but she had never dreamed otherwise than that the ceremony would be performed by a clergyman. When she saw Squire Harker, she supposed, because he was sexton, Gill had taken him into confidence and he was present because of his duties at the church, putting out the lights and locking it up.

Gill seemed as much astounded as she that there was no preacher present, and asked rather sharply why he had gone. Squire Harker replied that the preacher had been detained at the other end of the circuit by quarterly meeting.

"It's too confounded bad!" said Gill, angrily.

"It's bad luck to put off a weddin'," said Lizzī, disappointed.

"I think so, too," Gill remarked, and then asked, as if the idea had just struck him:

"Why not be married by the Squire?"

Lizzī, dressed in her best, demurred. She thought a church-wedding should be conducted by a preacher.

"A marriage ceremony performed by a Justice of the Peace is as binding and respectable as any churchman's," Gill urged.

"It's common-like, though," Lizzī replied; "but I'd be married by a squire rather than put it off."

"You will have to do it then," Gill said, in a tone that did not conceal his chagrin at having to be wedded by a Justice of the Peace.

While Squire Harker was gone for his books, pen, ink, and paper, which were concealed in a thorn-bush near the church, Lizzī sat silent in a pew and wondered if the angels would make merry over a church-wedding conducted by a squire.

When Squire Harker thought he had allowed himself time enough to get to his office and back, he tapped at the church door. Gill shaded the candles and called to him to enter. He closed the door and made a hat-peg of the key, the black slouch effectually preventing any peeping through the keyhole.

He took a position behind the table on which he had placed the candles, and Gill and Lizzī stood before it. The candles threw their weird shadows on the walls and ceiling of the low lecture-room. The shadows deepened and faded, advanced and retreated, nodded and bowed in the uncertain light from the candles which seemed to struggle against their own consumption, yet were never quite able to master the eating fire that at intervals flashed greedily.

The Squire took up the church book and began to read the ceremony, but Lizzī stopped him.

"Not the preacher's way by a squire; take your own book."

So he opened a volume of legal forms and asked the question, "Are both parties of contracting age?"

Gill responded "Yes," and Lizzī said she was old enough to know her own mind.

The shadows stood still.

"Is there any person here present who knows any good reason why these two parties shall not be united in marriage? If so, let him speak now, or forever after hold his peace."

The candles spluttered, the flames leaped and flashed, and the shadows nodded and bowed and nodded.

"Join your right hands."

Gill took Lizzī's hand in his, and the Squire continued the ceremony, reading the form slowly, stumbling over the big words, but at last he pronounced them man and wife.

Then the shadows stood solemnly still, while Gill kissed Lizzī.

After congratulating the bride and groom, the Squire sat down to write the marriage certificate. Gill and Lizzī retired to a window and conversed in low tones. Presently, after a long while it seemed to the flustered Squire, he handed Lizzī her marriage certificate. It was written on legal-cap and tied with red tape. She received it joyfully and placed it in her bosom. There it lay, the legal testimonial of her purity, the proof of her honesty, should that ever be questioned.

The Squire gathered up the things he had brought with him, blew out the candles and left the church, going his way, while Gill and Lizzī went to her home.

CHAPTER VI.
BLIND BENNER'S JEALOUSY

Languid Indian Summer loitered among the great mountains. Her veil, caught on the peaks, draped gracefully in the ravines and hid the valleys beneath a gray sheen. Every evening the sun set in red wrath at this persistent half concealment of her beauty, and the big hand he reached out above the horizon, the broad fingers stretching to the zenith, freed the winds that they might tear off the gauze. But they yielded to her charm and became her lovers, fanning her cheek so gently that her gossamer veil was scarcely rustled. One morning she was gone, vanished with the night, and the winds dashed in furious pursuit of her. Ah, the jilt! She will come again next year, and the silly winds will forget her fickleness, paying court to her, while she dreamily crosses the mountains.

On a Sunday afternoon in this sweet after-thought summer-time, two weeks after Lizzī's wedding, Blind Benner and Hunch were half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of leaves on the top of Bald Mountain. Hunch was greatly distressed at not being able to quiet his friend's discontent, which was very evident as he turned his sightless eyes to the sky at one moment, and at the next rolled over and buried his face in the leaves.

"'Tain't no use in carryin' on thet way. Lizzī ain't here, an' thet's all there is 'bout it."

"There ain't no comfert in her bein' away," Blind Benner groaned.

"It's the first time she's missed comin'; an' yer know, Benner, she's mortil fond uv yer, an' she hed good reason fer stayin' er she'd ben here."

"Thet's more comfertin' talk, Hunch."

If the blind man could have seen the smile that broke out on his friend's face at this remark, he would have been amply repaid for it. There was moisture, too, in the dwarf's eyes. He was grateful to the friend who had said he comforted him. For a long time Blind Benner lay face downwards in the leaves, and Hunch sat beside him in silence, his untutored intelligence having caught the great secret of sympathy – unobtrusiveness.

Until this time Lizzī had always been their companion on these Sunday jaunts, but on this day she could not be found, and the two friends had gone off in a desperate sort of way, resisting the old habit, yet unable to break it.

Hunch openly declared that he loved no one but Blind Benner. The dwarf was unseemly, disagreeable. He felt that he was pitied by those who saw his deformity, and he loathed their compassion. In this list he did not include Lizzī, who said a kind thing about his back, and Bill Kellar, who was always making fun of it.

Lizzī once said:

"Hunch, don't mind about your back. You're so good to Blind Benner, that I know you're an angel, and the hump on your back is only your wings folded up."

He ever afterwards remembered her fondly, but he had no love for anyone except Blind Benner, who did not know how hideous among men the dwarf was.

Blind Benner's affection for Lizzī was the love of a mature man for the woman who alone has been able to work upon his heart the spell that enthralls it forever, yet it had no hope, and his only longing was to be near her, to hear her voice, sometimes to have her hand in his. A new element, one of pain, had entered into his life, and he groaned, for he was jealous and helpless. He had some way divined Lizzī's love for Gill, and the knowledge had revealed to him the nature of his own affection for the woman whom he never dared tell that he, the blind man, loved her with the love that would make her his wife. He lay fighting the new pain, and Haunch sat near him, ready with help such as he could give if it was asked for.

At last Blind Benner said:

"Hunch, do yer mind the time Lizzī told me what she looked like?"

"Mind ev'ry bit she said."

"Tell me it all over."

"She sed she wuz taller'n yer, Benner; and yer know'd thet. She told yer she hed a good figger; and there ain't no better in the mountins."

"Jist tell what she sed, Hunch."

"All right. She sed she wuz strong, an' could carry yer easy as a baby, an' could chop wood like a man; her daddy learned her how ter handle the axe, an' Levi learned her spellin' an' grammer."

"She talks mighty pretty, don't she, Hunch?" Blind Benner interrupted.

"Ain't no better talker, nowheres. An' her hands wuz perfect, she sed, on'y they wuz red from soapsuds, an' they didn't wear off in a week. Her hands wuz whitest Sundays."

"Oh! I mind how she laid one on my head when she sed thet," Benner again interrupted, "an' I sed it wuz yeller in feelin'; an' she wanted ter know why, an' I sed 'cause it felt warm an' soft like the sunlight, an' they say thet's yeller."

"Yes, an' I sed the furnace fire was red; but yer got techy an' sed thet wuz hot. Do yer mind thet, Benner – hot and scorchin', not soft an' warm? An' then when yer thought yer bed spoke too sharp ter me, yer made up fer it by sayin' colors wuz hard fer yer ter make out, jist as if a little thing like thet'd make me mad at yer, Benner."

"I ain't got no business speakin' sharp ter yer, Hunch, what's so kind ter me allers," and Blind Benner laid his head on his friend's knee. "Thet wuzn't all she sed."

"Nuh! she sed her feet wuz big."

"An' yer sed thet didn't make no diff'rence, fer her skirts hid 'em," and Blind Benner laughed. "But tell me what she sed 'bout her face."

"She sed it wuzn't very purty, an' wuz big an' round, an' almost filled up the lookin'-glass; thet Levi sed it wuz allers full moon at their house, fer her face wuz allers shinin' with good-natur'."

"An' I mind I sed it must be allers, fer her voice wuz allers glad an' sweet, sweeter'n a fiddle when Bill Kellar plays it."

"An' yer mind she sed her eyes wuz black, Benner, an' yer asked if they wuz purty, an' I sed 'mighty'; an' yer sed the 'dark is black, an' it wuzn't so bad ter live in the dark after all'?"

"Yes, I mind it, Hunch; but her eyes don't shine inter this dark;" and the blind man struck his chest, while a scowl passed over his face.

Hunch did not reply, and there was a moment of silence, broken by Benner, who said fiercely:

"Ef I hed the use uv my eyes, Gill wouldn't git her; I'd cut him out."

"Ef it would help yer, Benner, I'd cut his eyes out, an' take the chances uv gittin' away," Hunch said in a low, determined tone.

Blind Benner smiled and replied:

"No, thet wouldn't do no good. It would on'y put the light out uv Lizzī's heart an' make her blinder'n me. No, there ain't no hope fer me. Gill's goin' ter git her because I can't ask fer her. But he'll never love her no more'n I do."

"Benner," said Hunch, cheerfully, "mebbe yer kin hev yer eyes fixed. I've got some money, saved it, an' I'll give it ter yer, ev'ry cent: an' when yer well, yer kin pay me back."

"Yer mighty kind, Hunch," Blind Benner said, putting his arm around the dwarf's neck, "but there ain't no cure fer me. I've jist got to go 'long gropin' an' wishin' I'd hed eyes like Gill's."

"There ain't no tellin'. Do yer know, Benner, I wuz layin' in bed th'other night, an' I thought the wall wuz lookin' at me, with a great big eye. I ain't easy skeered, yer know, an' I set up ter git a better look, an' what do you think it wuz? The lookin'-glass hangin' there; an' thinks I, mebbe ef Benner hed lookin'-glasses in his eyes, he could see too. Let's try to get them put in, Benner. Twon't cost much." The dwarf spoke very earnestly, and a moisture filled his friend's eyes.

"'Tain't no use, Hunch; there wuz a doctor in the city where Bill Kellar come from, thet sed I wuz stone-blind; an' couldn't never see. My daddy took me ter him long 'fore I knowed yer. Anyhow, Hunch, how yer goin' ter git lookin'-glasses inter a feller's head."

"Well, I think yer kin, an' I'm goin' ter ask Bill Kellar. What he don't know's hard ter find out."

"Come, Hunch, let's go ter the Block, mebbe Lizzī'll be there. 'Tain't nice up here without her, an' I ain't comin' no more, 'less she's along."

"Ain't yer tired, Benner?"

"Yes, I am, Hunch. Tireder then I've ever ben in my life."

"Git on my back an' I'll carry yer."

"I ain't tired in my legs, Hunch. I kin walk."

Taking Blind Benner's hand, Hunch led him down into the deepening shadow of the valley.

CHAPTER VII.
BILL KELLAR

"He is coaxing again, that violin-loving devil."

New Year's Eve had come, and Bill Kellar sat before a log-fire in his sitting-room, glad that he had given his violin into Lizzī's charge the night of her birthday ball. Since then he had not seen it, though his fingers had often itched for the strings, and his arm longed for the bow.

"He is there, the red salamander; and already his tempting has ceased. Now he commands. Soon he will threaten. Well, let him; I will not give up this time."

Bill looked resolutely into the fire, as if resolved to stare the tempter out of countenance. He ran his thin hand through his long hair, and seemed quite satisfied with his powers of resistance.

"Lord! what is that?" he cried suddenly, and started to his feet. For a while he was motionless, gazing at the flames leaping up the chimney. Presently he muttered, "Sure as I live, the devil wears a mask, and a queer one. The eyes are curiously long with curving corners, and set up and down in his face. The nose is long, with a high bridge. The chin is turned up, and has fiddle-screws through it. The devil holds a violin-bow in one hand, and in the other a scourge of fiddle-strings. Something has happened to my fiddle, my dear old violin."

He covered his face with his hands, and wept convulsively.

"I thought my fiddle would be as safe in Lizzī's keeping as her honor."

His clock struck ten.

"I will have to go." The resolution formed, he removed his hands from his face, and dried his tears on a bandanna handkerchief. Then he continued the soliloquy.

"I meant to fight it out this time, and let Satan go without his New Year's dance. I could have sat here until morning and shaken with chills-and-fever until my teeth dropped out; but I can't stand this uncertainty about the fate of my violin. This suspense would make me mad – madder far than the noises of the city would have done; madder than crazy Lear; crazier far than that lunatic Bill Kellar has ever been."

"Yes, you soul-thief, redder than the flames around you. I will go to see the waif, my child that I abandoned for fear of you and your shivers; and if it is well with the darling, you know you will get your annual Harvest dance. For I must needs caress the baby, and to the music of its glad laugh you will kick your cloven hoof, you superannuated old fiend. What have I done that you must select me for your soloist on the violin?"

As he talked, Bill looked steadily at the flames as if at the face of a person. When he had thus relieved his mind he took down his heavy coat, and nervously buttoned it round him. Snatching his hat, he jammed it over his eyes and opened the door. With one hand on the latch, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. The apparition had vanished.

"The devil is mighty eager for a dance, else my old eyes have been making a fool of me."

Leaving the door wide open, he returned to the fireplace. He waited a while, but did not see the face in the fire.

With a glad shout he suddenly ran to the door, and slammed it shut.

"I'm free, free!" he cried, clapping his hands gleefully.

Hanging his coat and hat on their pegs, he sat down before the fire, and congratulated himself on his liberty. But his cheerful mood did not last long. Soon he began to shiver, and in the fire beheld the devil return.

"Oh, Lord! he is back. I am still his slave. He has not removed the violin-mask. Yes, yes, I go to my child."

Bareheaded he plunged into the cold, which he did not mind, and the darkness, which he did not heed, for his way was marked by the light of the Three-Sister furnaces, reflected by the clouds.

Lizzī was at the window, listening to the gunshots – the farewell volleys to the old year, the welcoming salute to the new – when a cold, nervous hand was laid on her shoulder. She had not heard the door open, but as it was like any one of the boys to steal up behind her and say something humorous in her ear she sat still, and continued to watch for the flashes of the guns.

"Lizzī, what has happened to my fiddle?"

Recognizing Bill Kellar's voice, harsh as it was, she caught his hand in a hard grip and turned, not knowing whether she would face a lunatic or a drunken man, but afraid of neither.

He was not intoxicated nor seemingly crazy, only intensely eager. His eyes were not wild, but pathetically pleading as they met hers.

"Nothin', Bill," she replied gently. "It's just as you left it. I keep it in the cupboard, and Blind Benner dusts it often."

His fast walk, which had been a sort of run over the frozen road, had worn Bill out, and he almost swooned with joy when he heard the good news. As he gasped for breath his body swayed, and he would have fallen had she not supported him with her free hand – he still clung to the other – and helped him to a chair. While she stood beside him he kissed her hand frequently as he silently wept. She did not take it away nor forbid him to caress it. Understanding his emotion, she allowed it to express itself in the way it chose.

Presently he became less demonstrative and said:

"Now please give me the fiddle, Lizzī."

She opened the cupboard, and handed him the box. He was so nervous that he could not fit the key in the lock, and Lizzī did it for him. When the lock sprung open he eagerly raised the lid, and there lay, bright and unharmed, the violin that he loved as his life.

"The red devil wore that lying mask and forced me to come. He knew chills-and-fever had about lost their terrors for me, so instead of trying to force me that way, he threw me into an agony of suspense that drove me here. Very well, King of Liars, your dance this time will be short. Bill Kellar's nerves are too shaky and his brain too tired to fiddle long for you to-night."

While he talked he tuned the violin. When it was in chord he began playing a slow improvisation that calmed and rested him, but must have made Satan angry, judging from the sarcastic smile that settled on the fiddler's face.

He had not played longer than ten minutes when Blind Benner entered, and sat down at Lizzī's feet.

Soon the spirit of the violin began to gain the mastery, and Bill's playing became more rapid, his execution more emphatic. Then Blind Benner knew that the demon of the music had woven its spell over his master.

Rising, Blind Benner groped his way to the door and went out. Lizzī was rather lethargic, not fully sympathizing with the violinist, yet gradually yielding to the fascination of the music. Soon Benner came back, with Hunch, who had his cornet. Bill's gleaming eyes caught sight of it, and he rose, stamping his foot and shaking his head. Hunch gave him a look of inquiry, and held up the horn.

"Yes; don't blow it to-night, for I've got Old Nick in my power, and he must dance until I fall senseless, unable to play longer."

Hunch laid the horn on the table, and settled himself to see the end of the violinist's madness. Blind Benner stood reverently near his maestro, while Lizzī tried to hear the devil's hoof on the snow-covered roof.

Furiously Bill played out the old year, and in the new. Guns were popping all around in the semi-darkness. The horn and the goblin were silent. They had the power to break the spell of the music.

Suddenly the music ceased. Hunch caught the violin, and Lizzī seized in her strong arms the falling player, who otherwise would have struck his head on the bare floor as he sank into unconsciousness.