The Mystery of the Locks Part 11

Avoiding even a look at the church, which was a reminder of how much pleasure he had found in Davy's Bend, and how much misery he would probably find there in the future, he pa.s.sed out of the iron gate of The Locks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he hoped to walk until his body would call for rest at night, and permit him to sleep; a blessing that had been denied him of late more than before he knew Annie Benton, and when he thought that Davy's Bend contained people only fit to be avoided.

But he was glad that he had resolved never to see the girl again,--for her sake, not his own.

He had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, thinking of the strange fatality that had made duty painful throughout his entire life; and he walked toward the country because he believed the girl was in the direction of the town; probably seated in the church at that moment, watching the door for his approach. She was a comfort to him, therefore he must avoid her; but this had always been the case--he was accustomed to being warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a pleasant place.

There was something in store for her besides a life of hiding and fear, and an unknown grave at last, with a fict.i.tious name on the headboard; and he would not cross a path which led toward happiness for one he so much admired.

Thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but when he remembered how dull his life would be should her smile never come into it again, he could not help shuddering.

"But I have been so considerate of others," he said aloud, as he pursued his way, "that even the worms in my path impudently expected me to go round them, and seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at all if I did not. Let me not show a lack of consideration now that my heart is concerned."

Above his house, and so near the river that the water rippled at its base, was a rugged bluff, separated from the town by a deep and almost impa.s.sable ravine, and for this reason it was seldom visited; Allan Dorris had found it during his first month in the town, and he resolved to visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine and delightful air of the perfect summer day.

It occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making the difficult ascent, that he would like to build a house there, and live in it, where he would never be disturbed. But did he want solitude? There seemed to be some question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his downcast face. When he first came to Davy's Bend, he believed that the rewards of life were so unsatisfactory that all within his reach that he desired was his own company; but an experience of a month had satisfied him that solitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not know what he wanted. If he knew what it was his heart craved, he believed that it was beyond him, and un.o.btainable; and so his old habit of thinking was resumed, though he could never tell what it was all about. Everything he desired was impossible; that within his reach was distasteful--he could make no more of the jumble in his brain, and finally sat with a vacant stare on his face, thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gave him a headache but no conclusions.

Even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he thought he wanted while coming along the road, were not satisfactory now; and as he started to walk furiously up the hill, to tire himself, he met Annie Benton in the path he was following.

She had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came upon her, she was so intent on arranging them after some sort of a plan, that she was startled when he stood beside her.

"I was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of returning his greeting. "I intended sending you these."

Dorris could not help being amused that he had encountered the girl in a place where he had gone to avoid her, but there was evidence in his light laugh that he was glad of it; so he seated himself on a boulder beside the path, and asked what she had been thinking of him.

"That you were a very odd man," she answered frankly.

"That has always been a complaint against me," he said, with a tone of impatience. "I think I have never known any one who has not said, during the course of our acquaintance, that I was 'odd;' whatever is natural in me has been called 'odd' before. If I wanted bread, and was not satisfied with a stone, they called me 'odd.' The wishes of the horse that has a prejudice for being bridled on the left side are respected, but there is no consideration for a man who cannot be contented simply because it is his duty. I remember that we had a horse of this description in our family when I was a boy, and if he injured any one who failed to respect his wishes, the man was blamed, not the horse. But the people do not have equal charity for a man who is not content when circ.u.mstances seem to demand it of him, no difference what the circ.u.mstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his taste. So you were finding fault with me? I am not surprised at it, though; most people do."

The girl had seated herself near him, and was busily engaged in arranging the flowers until he inquired again,--

"So you were finding fault with me?"

"No," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to think of you as being different from any other person I have ever known. It was not a very serious charge to think of you as being different from the people in Davy's Bend."

There was something in that, for they were not the finest people in the world, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they pretended.

"No, it is not serious," he replied; "but I am sorry you are looking so well, for I am running away from you. It would be easier, were you less becoming. I am sorry you are not ugly."

There was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettier than ever.

"Running away from _me_?"

"Yes, from you," he answered.

She began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them while he watched her face. Dorris thought of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened to be moving.

"Why?" she asked at last.

"Because I am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "You should run away when you see me approach, for I am not a fit companion for you.

I have nothing to offer that you ought to accept; even my attentions are dangerous."

The bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, and looked at him.

"I suppose I should be very much frightened," she said, "but I am not. I am not at all afraid of you."

He laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she had made.

"I know nothing whatever about women," he said, "and I am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. I know men as well as I know myself, and know what to expect of them under given circ.u.mstances; but all those of your s.e.x I have ever known were as a sealed book. The men are always the same, but I never know what a woman will do. No two of them are alike; there is no rule by which you can judge them, except that they are always better than the men. I have never known this to fail, but beyond that I know nothing of your s.e.x. I say to you that I am dangerous; you reply that you are not afraid of me. But you ought to be; I am sure of that."

"If you desire it," she said, "I am sorry, but I feel perfectly safe in your company."

"It's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "If you were afraid of me, I would not be dangerous. I am not liable to pelt you with stones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our becoming friends."

"Is friendship so dangerous, then?"

"It _would_ be between you and me, because I am odd. Look at me."

She did as requested, with quiet confidence and dignity.

"You say you are not afraid of me; neither am I of you, and I intend to tell you what you can hardly suspect. I am in love with you to such an extent that I can think of nothing else; but I cannot offer you an honorable man's love, because I am not an honorable man, as that expression is used and accepted. I have been looking all my life for such a woman as you are, but now that I have found you, I respect you so much that I dare not attempt to win your favor; indeed, instead of that, I warn you against myself. Until I was thirty I looked into every face I met, expecting to find the one I sought; but I never found it, and finally gave up the search, forced to believe that such a one as I looked for did not exist. I have found out my mistake, but it is too late."

He jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, as if he intended to run away, and did walk a distance, but came back again, as if he had something else to say.

"I speak of this matter as I might tell a capable artist that I was infatuated with his picture, and could not resist the temptation to frequently admire it. I have no more reason to believe that there is a responsive feeling in your heart than I would have reason to believe that the picture I admired appreciated the compliment, but there is nothing wrong in what I have said to you, and it is a pleasure for me to say it; there can be no harm in telling a pretty, modest woman that you admire her--she deserves the compliment."

Annie Benton did not appear to be at all surprised at this avowal, and listened to it with the air of one who was being told of something commonplace.

"You do not make love like the lovers I have read about," she said, with an attempt at a smile, though she could not disguise the oddity of her position. "I do not know how to answer you."

"Then don't answer me at all," he replied. "I am not making love to you, for I have denied myself that privilege. I am not at liberty to make love to you, though I want to; therefore I ask the privilege of explaining why I shall avoid you in the future, and why I regret to do it. The first feeling I was ever conscious of was one of unrest; I was never satisfied with my home, or with those around me. If I thought I had a friend, I soon found him out, and was more dissatisfied than ever.

Of course this was very unreasonable and foolish; anyone would say that, and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explanation, I could not help it; I was born that way, nor can I help saying that I am satisfied with you. You suit me exactly, and I was never contented in my life until I sat in the old church and looked at you."

Though the girl continued to look at him without apparent surprise, her face was very pale, and she was breathing rapidly.

"You may regard what I have said as impudent," Dorris continued, "and think that while you are satisfactory to me, I would not be to you. I am not now, but I would give a great deal to convince you that I am the man you dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake under your pillow, providing you ever did such a ridiculous thing. It is not conceit for me to say that I believe I could compel you to respect me, therefore I regret that we have ever met at all, for I am not at liberty to woo you honorably; if you want to know why, I will tell you, for I would place my life in your hands without the slightest hesitation, and feel secure; but it is enough for the present to say that nothing could happen which would surprise me. I am in trouble; though I would rather tell you of it than have you surmise what it is, for I am not ashamed of it. I can convince you--or any one with equally good sense--that I am not nearly so bad as many who live in peace. Would you like to hear my history?"

"No," she replied; "for you would soon regret telling it to me, and I fear that you will discover some time that I am not worthy of the many kind things you have said about me. I am only a woman, and when you know me better you will find that I am not the one you have been looking for so long and so patiently."

"Excuse me if I contradict you in that," he said with as much grave earnestness as though he had been talking politics, and found it necessary to take issue with her. "You _are_ the one. Once there came to me in a dream a face which I have loved ever since. This was early in life, and during all the years which have brought me nothing but discontent and wretchedness, it has been my constant companion; the one little pleasure of my life. From the darkness that surrounded me, the face has always been looking at me; and whatever I have accomplished--I have accomplished nothing in Davy's Bend, but my life has been busy elsewhere--has been prompted by a desire to please this strange friend.

I have never been able to dismiss my trouble--I have had no more than my share, perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in the world to render us all unhappy--except to welcome the recollection of the dream; and although I have often admitted to myself that this communion with the unreal was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, it has afforded me a contentment that I failed to find in anything else; therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, and it grew stronger as I grew older, causing me many a heartache because there was nothing in life like it. Most men have dreams of greatness, but my only wish was to find the face that always came out of the shadows at my bidding."

He paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, where his dream seemed to realize before him, for he looked intently at it, and went on to describe it.

"It was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there was no expression in it that was not human; expressions of love, and pity, and forgiveness--you have them in your face now, and I believe they are not uncommon. I have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as I grew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory nature of life, I became more than ever convinced that I would feel entirely satisfied could my dream come true. At last I came to believe that it was impossible; that I was as unreasonable as the man who pined because his tears were not diamonds; but I could not give up the recollection of the face, to which I was always so true and devoted, and comforted myself with brooding over it, and regretting my misfortune. Instead of greatness or grandeur, I longed for the face, and it was the only one I ever loved."

Again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his fancy, but this time he seemed to be dismissing it forever, after a careful inspection to convince himself that the counterpart he had found on earth was exactly like it.

"Until I met you," he said, looking at Annie Benton again, "this sweetheart of my fancy lived in Heaven, Maid of Air. When you turned upon me that afternoon in the church, I almost exclaimed aloud: 'The face! My vision has come true!' Not a feature was missing, and your actions and your smile were precisely what I had seen so often in my fancy. Therefore you are not a stranger to me; I have loved you all my life, and instead of worshipping a vision in the future I shall worship you. Why don't you speak to me?"