CHAPTER XV
THE LANDING OF THE "PAUL REVERE"
The Paul Revere tied up at the landing shortly after two o'clock.
The usual crowd of onlookers thronged the bank, attention being
temporarily diverted from an important game of "horseshoes"
that was taking place in the sugar grove below Trentman's shanty.
Pitching horseshoes was the daily fair-weather pastime of the male
population of the town. At one time or another during the course
of the day, practically every man in the place came down to the
grove to shy horseshoes at the stationary but amazingly elusive
pegs. It was not an uncommon thing for a merchant to close his place
of business for an hour or so in order to keep an engagement to
pitch horseshoes with some time-honoured adversary.
On this occasion a very notable match was in progress between "Judge"
Billings and Mr. Pennington Sawyer, the real estate agent. They
were the recognized champions. Both were accredited with the astonishing
feat of ringing eight out of ten casts at twenty paces; if either
was more than six inches away from the stake on any try the crowd
mutely attributed the miss to inhibitions of the night before. Not
only was the betting lively when these two experts met but all other
matches were abandoned during the classic clash.
The "Judge" did not owe his title to service on the bench
nor even at the bar of justice. It had been bestowed upon him by
a liberal-minded community because of his proficiency as a judge
of horse races, foot races, shooting matches, dog or rooster fights,
and other activities of a similar character. He was, above all things,
a good judge of whiskey. When not engaged in judging one thing or
another, he managed to eke out a comfortable though sometimes perilous
living by trading horses,--a profession which made him an almost
infallible judge of men, notwithstanding two or three instances
where he had erred with painful results to his person. Notably,
the prodigious thrashing Jake Miller had given him two days after
a certain trade, and an almost identical experience with Bud Shanks
who had given a perfectly sound mare and seventeen dollars to boot
for a racehorse that almost blew up with the heaves before Bud was
half-way home.
But, whatever his reputation may have been as a horse-trader, "Judge"
Billings was unaffectedly noble when it came to judging a contest
of any description. Far and wide he was known to be "as honest
as the day is long," proof of which may be obtained from his
publicly uttered contention that "nobody but a derned fool
would do anything crooked while a crowd was lookin' on, with more'n
half of 'em carryin' guns or some other weapon that can't be expected
to listen to argument."
He was Kenneth Gwynne's first client. In employing the young man
to defend a suit brought by Silas Kenwright, he ingenuously announced
that the plaintiff had a perfectly good case and that his only object
in fighting the claim was to see how near Silas could come to telling
the truth under oath. Mr. Kenwright was demanding twenty-five dollars
damages for slander. In the complaint Mr. Billings was charged with
having held Mr. Kenwright up to ridicule and contumely by asseverating
that said plaintiff was "a knock-kneed, cross-eyed, red-headed,
white-livered liar."
"The only chance we've got," he explained to Gwynne, "is
on the question of his liver. We can prove he's a liar,--in fact,
he admits that,--but, doggone it, he's as bow-legged as a barrel
hoop, he's wall-eyed, and what little hair he's got is as black
as the ace o' spades. I don't suppose the Court would listen to
a request to have him opened up to see what colour his liver is,--and
that's where he's got us. It ain't so much being called a liar that
riles him; he's used to that. It's being called knock-kneed and
cross-eyed. He don't mind the white-livered part so much, or the
way I spoke about his hair, 'cause one of 'em you can't see an'
the other could be dyed or sheared right down to the skin if the
worst came to the worst. If I'd only called him a lousy, ornery,
low-lived, sheep-stealing liar, this here suit never would have
been brought. But what did I do but up and hurt his feelings by
callin' him knock-kneed and cross-eyed. That comes of not stickin'
to the truth, Mr. Gwynne,--and it's a derned good lesson for me.
Honesty is the best policy, as the feller says. It'll probably cost
me forty or fifty dollars for being so slack with my veracity."
Kenneth's suggestion that an effort be made to settle the controversy
out of court had met with instant opposition.
"It ain't to be thought of," declared Mr. Billings firmly.
"Why, dodgast it, you don't suppose I'm going to pay that feller
any money, do you? Not much! I'm willing enough to let him get a
judgment against me for any amount he wants, just fer the fun of
it, but, by gosh, when you begin to talk about me giving him money,
why, that's serious. I'm willing to pay you your ten dollars fee
and the court costs, but the only way Si Kenwright can ever collect
a penny from me will be after I'm dead and he sneaks in when nobody's
around and steals the coppers off my eyes."
This digression serves a simple purpose. It introduces a sporty
gentleman of unique integrity whose friendship for Kenneth Gwynne
flowered as time went on and ultimately bore such fruits as only
the most favoured of men may taste. In passing he may be described
as a pudgy, middle-aged individual, with mild blue eyes, an engaging
smile, cherubic cheeks, sandy hair, and a highly pitched, far-reaching
voice. He also had a bulbous nose resembling a large, ripe strawberry.
Before coming to rest alongside the wharf, the Paul Revere indulged
in a vast amount of noise. She whistled and coughed and sputtered
and gasped with all the spasmodic energy of a choking monster; her
bells kept up an incessant clangour; her wheel creaked and grovelled
on the bed of the river, churning the water into a yellowish, foaming
mass; her captain bellowed and barked, her crew yelped, her passengers
shouted; the flat boats and perogues moored along the bank, aroused
from their lassitude, began to romp gaily in the swirl of her crazy
backwash; ropes whined and rasped and groaned, the deck rattled
hollowly with the tread of heavy feet and the shifting of boxes
and barrels and crates; the gangplank came down with a crash,--and
so the mighty hundred and fifty ton leviathan of the Wabash came
to the end of her voyage!
There were a score of passengers on board, among them Barry Lapelle.
He kept well in the rear of the motley throng of voyagers, an elegant,
lordly figure, approached only in sartorial distinction by the far-famed
gambler, Sylvester Hornaday, who likewise held himself sardonically
aloof from the common horde, occupying a position well forward where,
it might aptly be said, he could count his sheep as they straggled
ashore.
From afar Barry had recognized Viola standing among the people at
the top of the bank, and his eager, hungry gaze had not left her.
She, too, had caught sight of him long before the boat was near
the landing. She waved her kerchief.
He lifted his hat and blew a kiss to her. A thrill of exultation
ran through him. He had not expected her to meet him at the landing.
Her mere presence there was evidence of a determination to defy
not only her mother but also to brave the storm of gossip that was
bound to attend this public demonstration of loyalty on her part,
for none knew so well as he how the townspeople looked upon their
attachment. A most satisfying promise for the future, he gloated;
here was the proof that she loved him, that her tantalizing outbursts
of temper were not to be taken seriously, that his power over her
was irresistible. There were times when he felt uncomfortably dubious
as to his hold upon her affections. She was whimsical, perverse,
maddening in her sudden transitions of mood. And she had threatened
more than once to have nothing more to do with him unless he mended
his ways! Now he smiled triumphantly as he gazed upon her. All that
pother about nothing! Henceforth he would pay no attention to her
whims; let her rail and fume and lecture as much as she liked, there
was nothing for him to be worried about. She would always come round
like a lamb,--and when she was his for keeps he would take a lot
of the nonsense out of her!
With few exceptions the passengers on board the Revere were strangers,--fortune-seekers,
rovers, land-buyers and prospectors from the east and south come
to this well-heralded region of promise, perhaps to stay, perhaps
to pass on. Three or four Lafayette men, home after a trip down
the river, crowded their way ashore, to be greeted by anxious wives.
The strangers were more leisurely in their movements. They straggled
ashore with their nondescript possessions and ambled off between
two batteries of frank, appraising eyes.
Judge Billings, shrewd calculator of human values, quite audibly
disclosed his belief that at least three of the newcomers would
have to be run out of town before they were a day older, possibly
astraddle of a rail.
One of these marked individuals was a tall, swart, bearded fellow
with black, shifty eyes and a scowling brow. His baggage consisted
of a buckskin sack slung across his shoulder and a small bundle
which he carried under his arm. He appeared to have no acquaintances
among the voyagers.
"You don't know how happy this makes me, Viola," exclaimed
Lapelle as he clasped the girl's hand in his. He was devouring her
with a bold, consuming gaze.
She reddened. "I told mother I was coming down to meet you,"
she explained, visibly embarrassed by the stares of those nearby.
"I--I wanted to see you the instant you arrived, Barry. Shall
we walk along slowly behind the rest?"
"What's happened?" he demanded suspiciously, his brow
darkening.
"Don't be impatient. Wait till they are a little ahead."
"'Gad, it sounds ominous. I thought you came down to meet me
because you love me and were--well, glad to see me."
"I am glad to see you. You didn't expect me to make an exhibition
of myself before all those people, did you?"
His face brightened. "Well, THAT sounds better." His mouth
went up at the corner in its habitual curl. "I'd give all I
possess if it was dark now, so that I could grab you and squeeze
the--"
"Sh! They will hear you," she whispered, drawing away
from him in confusion.
They held back until the throng had moved on a short distance. Then
she turned upon him with a dangerous light in her eyes.
"And what's more," she said in a low voice, "I don't
like to hear you say such things. They sound so cheap and low--and
vulgar, Barry. I--" "Oh, you're always jumping on me for
saying the things I really feel," he broke in. "You're
my girl, aren't you? Why shouldn't I tell you how I feel? What's
vulgar about my telling you I want to hold you in my arms and kiss
you? Why, I don't think of anything else, day or night. And what
do I get? You put me off,--yes, you do!--bringing up some silly
notion about--about--what is it?--propriety! Good Lord, Viola, that's
going back to the days of the Puritans,--whoever they were. They
just sat around and held hands,--and that's about all I've been
allowed to do with you. It's not right,--it's not natural, Viola.
People who are really in love with each other just simply can't
help kissing and--"
"I guess you were right when you said you were not expecting
me down to meet the boat, Barry," she interrupted, looking
straight before her.
"Well, didn't I tell you how happy it made me?"
"If you had thought there was any chance of me coming down
to meet you, you wouldn't have taken so much to drink," she
went on, a little catch in her voice.
Whereupon he protested vigorously that he had not tasted a drop,--except
one small dram the captain had given him early that morning when
he complained of a chill.
"Why, you're drunk right now," she said miserably. "Oh,
Barry, won't you ever--"
"Drunk? I'm as sober as the day I was born," he retorted,
squaring his shoulders. "Look at me,--look me in the eye, Viola.
Oh, well, if you WON'T look you won't, that's all. And if I'm as
drunk as you imagine I am I should think you'd be ashamed to be
seen in my company." She did not respond to this, so, with
a sneering laugh, he continued: "Suppose I have had a little
too much,--who's the cause of it? You! You drive me to it, you do.
The last couple of weeks you've been throwing up all my faults to
me, tormenting me till I'm nearly crazy with uncertainty. First
you say you'll have me, that you'll do anything I wish, and then,
just as I begin to feel that everything's all right, you up and
say you're not sure whether you care for me or not and you're going
to obey your mother in every--And, say, that reminds me. Unless
I am very much mistaken, I think I'll soon have a way to bring your
mother to time. She won't--"
He brought himself up with a jerk, realizing that his loose tongue
was running away with his wits. She was looking at him with startled,
inquiring eyes.
"What do you mean by that, Barry Lapelle?" she asked,
and he was quick to detect the uneasiness in her manner.
He affected a grin of derision. "I'm going to put my case in
the hands of Kenny Gwynne, the rising young barrister. With him
on our side, my dear, I guess we'll bring her to time. All he has
to do is to stand up to her and say he isn't going to put up with
any more nonsense, and she'll see the light of wisdom. If he thinks
it's all right for you to marry me, I guess that will end the matter.
He's the head of the family, isn't he?"
This hastily conceived explanation of his luckless remark succeeded
in deceiving her. She stared at him in distress.
"Oh, Barry, you--you surely can't be thinking of asking Kenneth
to intercede--"
"Why not? He doesn't see any reason why we shouldn't be married,
my dear. In fact, he told me so a few days ago. He--"
"I don't believe it," she cried.
"You don't?" he exclaimed sharply.
"No, I don't," she repeated.
"Has he been talking to you about me?" he demanded, an
ugly gleam flashing into his eyes.
"He has never said a word against you,--not one. But I don't
believe you when you say he told you that we ought to get married."
She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had turned her face away from
him.
"I'm a liar, am I?" he snarled.
"I--I don't believe he ever said it," she said stubbornly.
"Well,--you're right," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation.
"Not in so many words. But he did say to me that he had told
you he saw no reason why you shouldn't marry me if you wanted to.
Did he ever tell you that?"
She remembered only too well the aggravating encounter in the thicket
path.
"Yes, he did," she replied, lifting her head defiantly.
"And," she added, "I hated him for it. I hate him
more and more every time I think of it. He--he was perfectly abominable."
"Well, you're--you're damned complimentary," he grated,
his face expressing the utmost bewilderment.
She walked on for eight or ten paces before speaking again. Her
head was lowered. She knew that he was glaring at the wing of the
bonnet which shielded her whitening cheek. Suddenly she turned to
him.
"Barry, let's sit down on that log over there for a few minutes.
There is something I've got to say to you,--and I'm sorry. You must
not be angry with me. Won't you come over there with me,--and listen
to what I have to tell you?"
He hung back for a moment, his intuition grasping at something vague
and yet strangely definite.
"You--you are going to tell me it's all over between us, Viola?"
he ventured, going white to the lips. He was as sober now as though
he had never touched liquor in his life.
"Come and sit down," she said gently, even compassionately.
He followed her in silence to the log she had indicated, a few rods
back from the roadside at the edge of the clearing. He sat down
beside her and waited for her to speak, and as she remained speechless,
evidently in distress, his lips curled in a smile of reviving confidence.
He watched the quick rise and fall of her bosom, exulting in her
difficulty. Birds were piping among the fresh green twigs overhead.
The air was redolent of the soft fragrance of May: the smell of
the soil, the subtle perfume of unborn flowers, the tang of the
journeying breeze, the spice of sap-sweating trees. The radiance
of a warm, gracious sun lay soft upon the land.
At last she spoke, not tremulously as he had expected but with a
firmness that boded ill for his composure.
"Barry," she began, still staring straight ahead, "I
don't know just how to begin. It is awfully hard to--to say what
I feel I must say. Perhaps I should have waited till--well, till
you were home for a little while,--before doing what I have made
up my mind to do. But I thought it right to have it over with as
soon as possible."
She paused for a moment and then resolutely faced him. He saw the
pain in her dark, troubled eyes, and the shadow of an appealing
smile on her lips. His face hardened.
"So," she went on unflinchingly, "I came down to
the landing to meet you in case you were on the Paul Revere. I cannot
marry you, Barry. I--I don't love you as I should. I thought I did
but--but--well, that's all. I don't know what has happened to make
me see things so differently, but whatever it is I know now that
I was mistaken,--oh, so terribly mistaken. I know I am hurting you,
Barry,--and you have a right to despise me. I--I somehow hope you
will,--because I deserve it."
He smiled indulgently. "I hope you don't think I am taking
this seriously. This isn't the first time I've heard you take on
like--"
"But I mean it this time, Barry,--I do truly and honestly,"
she cried. "I know I've played hot and cold with you,--and
that's just the point. It proves that I never really cared for you
in--in that way--down in my soul, I mean. I am sure of it now. I
have been dreadfully unhappy about it,--because, Barry dear, I can't
bear to hurt you. We are not suited to each other. We think differently
about a great many things. We--"
"Look here," he exclaimed roughly, no longer able to disguise
his anger; "you've got to stop this everlasting--"
"Let go of my arm, Barry Lapelle!" she cried. "Don't
you dare lay your hand on me like that!"
He loosened his grip on her arm and drew back sulkily. "Ah,--I
didn't mean to hurt you and you know it. I wouldn't hurt you for
anything in the world. I'm sorry if I was rough with--"
"I don't blame you," she broke in, contritely. "I
guess it would serve me right if you beat me black and blue."
"What I was going to say," he growled, controlling himself
with difficulty, "is this: if you think I'm going to take this
as final, you're very much mistaken. You'll get over this, just
as you've gotten over your peevishness before. I've spoiled you,
that's the truth of the matter. I always give in to you--"
"I tell you I am in earnest," she cried hotly. "This
is for good and all,--and you make me furious when you talk like
that. I am doing my best to be kind and considerate, so you'd better
be careful, Barry Lapelle, not to say too much."
He looked into her flaming eyes for a moment and then muttered slowly,
wonderingly: "By heaven, Viola, I believe you DO mean it. You--you
are actually throwing me over,--giving me the mitten?"
"I can't help it, Barry," she insisted. "Something,--I
don't know what,--has come over me. Nothing seems to be the same
as it used to be. I only know that I cannot bear the thought of--why,
Barry dear, for the past three or four nights I've lain awake for
hours thinking of the awful consequences if we had succeeded in
making our escape that night, and had been married as we planned.
How terrible it would have been if I had found out too late that
I did not love you,--and we were tied to each other for life. For
your sake as well as my own, Barry. Can you imagine anything more
horrible than to be married to a woman who--who didn't love you?"
"Yes," he snapped, "I can. It's worse a thousand
times over not to be married to the girl you love,--and to see her
married to some one else. That would be hell,--hell, do you understand?"
She drew a little away from him. "But not the hell it would
be for me when I found out--too late. Won't you understand, Barry?
Can't you see how terrible it would be?"
"Say, when did you get this idea into your head?" he demanded
harshly. "What put it there? You were loving me hard enough
a while ago,--couldn't get along without me, you claimed. Now you're
singing another tune. Look here! Is--is there some one else?"
"You know there isn't," she cried indignantly. "Who
else could there be? Don't be foolish, Barry."
"By God, if some one else has cut me out, I'll--I'll--"
"There is no one else, I tell you! I don't love anybody,--I
swear it."
He eyed her narrowly. "Has Kenny Gwynne anything to do with
all this?"
She started. "Kenny? Why,--no,--of course not. What on earth
could he have to do with my loving or not loving you?"
"It would be just like him to turn you against me because he
thinks I'm not fit to--Say, if I find out that he's been sticking
his nose into my affairs, I'll make it so hot for him,--brother
or no brother,--that he'll wish he'd never been born. Wait a minute!
I'll tell you what I think of him while I'm about it--and you can
run and tell him as quick as you please. He's a G-- d---- snake
in the grass, that's what he is. He's a conceited, sanctimonious,
white-livered--"
"Stop that!" she cried, springing to her feet, white with
fury, her eyes blazing. "You are forgetting yourself, Barry
Lapelle. Not another word! How dare you speak like that about my
brother?"
He sat staring up at her in a sort of stupefaction.
"How dare you?" she repeated furiously.
He found his voice. "You weren't sticking up for him this time
last week," he sneered. "You were hating him like poison.
Has the old woman had a change of heart, too? Is she letting him
sit in her lap so's she can feed him with a spoon when he's hungry
and--"
"I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world,
Barry Lapelle," said she, her voice low with passion.
She whirled and walked rapidly away from him, her head in the air,
her hands clenched. Leaping to his feet, he started after her, calling:
"Wait a minute, Viola! Can't you see I'm almost out of my head
over what you've--Oh, well, go it! I'm not going to CRAWL after
you! But let me tell you one thing, my girl. You'll be talking out
of the other side of your mouth before you're much older. You'll
be down on your knees--"
"Don't you follow me another step!" she cried over her
shoulder.
He was not more than two yards behind her when she uttered this
withering command. He stopped short in his tracks.
"Well, this is a hell of a way to treat a gentleman!"
he shouted, hoarse with fury.