CHAPTER XI.

IN THE LANTERN LIGHT.

An account of the marriage, written by an effusive correspondent, was published in a newspaper at the State Capital; and a few days later the same journal contained an editorial bearing upon the subject, taking the populistic party to task for its lamentable want of sense in legislation. The State press took the matter up, and then the "paragrapher" had his season of merry-making. "We have always heard it declared," said one, "that marriage is a plunge in the dark, but a preacher over at Old Ebenezer proves that it is all a joke." And this from another one: "'What do you think of young Parson Bostic?' was asked of Banker McElwin. 'I didn't think he was loaded,' the financier replied." It was said that a great batch of this drivel was cut out, credited and sent to McElwin, and Lyman accused Warren, but he denied it, though not with convincing grace.

One evening a picnic was given on the lawn of a prominent citizen. It had been heralded as a moonlight event, but the moon was sullen and the light was shed from paper lanterns hung in the trees. There was to be no dancing and no forfeit games, for McElwin was still raw, and the master of the gathering on the lawn would not dare to throw sand on the spots where the rich man's prideful skin had been raked off. The entertainment was to consist of talk among the older ones, chatter among the slips of girls and striplings of men, with music for all.

"You will have to go to write it up," Warren said to Lyman.

"It won't be necessary to go," Lyman replied. "We can hold a pleasanter memory of such events if we don't really see them. I can write of it from a distance."

"Yes, but that isn't enterprise, and we want to prove to these people that we are enterprising. They must see you on the ground."

"All right."

"You will go, then?"

"That's what I meant when I said all right."

"And you didn't mean that you'd simply look over the fence and then come away?"

"No, I mean that I'll go and be a fool with the rest of them."

"That's all I ask. Here's an invitation. You'll have to show it at the gate."

"Why don't you go, Warren?"

"It would be absurd."

"Why? Your clothes might be worse."

"There are a good many observations that don't apply to clothes. The entertainment is to be given by the Hon. Mr. S. Boyd. One time, with great reluctance, he lifted a grinding heel off my head. I owe him five dollars."

"And it would be embarrassing to meet him, by invitation, on his own lawn."

"Yes. I'll pay him one of these days, but of course he doesn't know that."

"Probably he doesn't even suspect it," said Lyman.

"No. He's dull, and not inclined to be speculative."

"I should take him to be wildly adventurous."

"Why so?"

"He let you have five dollars."

"Oh, I see. But that's all right. He'll treat you well. Say, he may pass cigars with a gilt band around them. Put a few in your pocket for me."

"I might have a chance to sneak a whole box."

"Come, don't rub the lamp. Rub the ring and get two cigars. I'll sit up and wait for them. If Boyd asks you why I have been dodging him, tell him I'm not well."

The lawn was a spread of blue grass, beneath trees with low, hanging boughs, and through the misty light and moving shadows the house looked like a castle. The air was vibrant with the music of the "string" band, gathered from the livery stable and the barber shop; and mingled with the music as if it were a part of the sound, was the half sad scent of the crushed geranium. At the gate a black man, in a long coat buttoned to the ground, took Lyman's card of invitation. From groups of white came the laugh of youth, and from darker gatherings came the hum of talk. Lyman shook hands with nearly every one whom he met, laughing; and his good humor was an introduction to persons he had never seen before. He felt that he was a part of a joke which everyone was enjoying. The Hon. S. Boyd came forward and shook hands with him.

"I am delighted to welcome you to my grounds," said the great man, speaking as if he had invited Lyman to hunt in a forest of a thousand acres. "And your partner, will he be here?"

"No, he's not very well this evening," Lyman answered, walking slowly, arm-hooked with the great man.

"I am sorry to hear it. A man of wonderful energy, sir. Quite the sort of a man we need in Old Ebenezer. And I am glad to see that his paper is picking up. I was over at the State Capital the other day, and the Governor spoke of something taken from its columns."

"Mr. Warren remembers your kindness, sir," replied Lyman; "not only your words of encouragement, but the money you so generously advanced to him."

"A paltry sum, and really I had forgotten it."

"The sum was not large, but any debt is embarrassing until we pay it, and then we can look back upon it as a pleasure."

"Sound doctrine, Mr. Lyman. But there must be no embarrassment in this matter. So, if you please, you may tell Mr. Warren that I will take enough copies of the next edition to cancel the debt. Not enough to embarrass him, you understand. It would come to about one hundred copies, I believe. But let him make it two hundred, as I wish to send it out pretty largely, and I will send him five dollars in addition. Will you pardon me if I mix business with pleasure, and give you the money now?" He unhooked his arm.

"I shall be delighted to act as your messenger," Lyman replied.

"I thank you, sir; you are very obliging. And now," he added, when he had given Lyman the money, "we'll go over to the grotto and get a lemonade and a cigar."

They went to a hollow pile of stones, where a negro stood ready to serve them. "Help yourself to the lemonade. It was deemed advisable to have nothing strong. A very old ladle, that, sir; it was the property of my grandfather. The cigars, Jacob, the gold band. Now, here's a cigar, sir, that I can recommend. Oh, don't stop at one. Here," he added, grabbing a handful, "put these in your pocket, for I am sure you'll not get any like them down town. Well, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, I'll slip off to look after my other guests."

Lyman walked about, joking and gathering the names of the joyous maidens, the heavy men, the light young fellows, and the dames who had come to enjoy their daughters' conquests and their own dignity. With a feeling of disappointment he wondered why the banker's family was not represented, and more than once he looked about sweepingly, believing that he had heard the loud voice of Zeb Sawyer. He mused that his work was done, that the company had transacted its business with him, and he turned aside to a quiet spot, to a seat behind a clump of shrubs, to smoke a cigar and to picture Warren's surprise and delight. The cigar burned out and he was about to go, when he heard the ripple of skirts on the soft grass. A woman came across the sward, and in the light of a neighboring lantern Lyman recognized Eva. She saw him and halted.

"Won't you please sit down," he said, rising.

"I—I—didn't know you were here," she replied, looking back.

"The fact that you came is proof enough of that," said he, with a quiet laugh.

"How shrewd you are," she replied.

"No, I am only considerate. But now that you are here, won't you please sit down. I am weary of senseless chatter, and I would like to talk to you."

"Oh, I couldn't refuse, after such a compliment as that. And, besides, I am tired."

She sat down; he continued to stand. She did not appear to notice it.

"I looked all over the ground, but could not find you," he said.

"Mamma and I did not come until just now. We live so near that we put off our coming until late."

"Did your father come?"

"No. Only mamma and I. Some of us had to come."

"Just you and your mother, and not Mr. Sawyer?"

"He didn't come with us. I don't know that he is here." For a few moments they were silent. "I am so tired of everything," she said.

"Tired of yourself?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why don't you do something? Did you ever think of that?"

"What would be the use of thinking of it? There's nothing for me to do."

"There is something for everyone to do. Why don't you take up some line of study?"

"I hate study. I can't put my mind on it."

"But you could read good books."

"I do, but I get tired. I must have been petted too much."

"Ah! A girl is beginning to be strong when she feels that way. I suppose you have been flattered all your life."

"Do I show it?"

"Yes. But not so much as you did."

"And do you know the reason?"

"I don't know, unless it is that you have been sobered by a joke."

"That has something to do with it. You have made me think. You don't regard me as a spoiled child; you seem to believe that I have a mind. And that, even if you were a field hand, would cause me to be interested in you. I would like to talk with you seriously, but you joke with me."

"To hear you in a serious mood would be as sweet as an anthem."

"You must not talk that way. I want your friendship."

"You shall have it."

"I need your help."

"You shall have it."

"I don't want to be wicked," she said, looking up at him, "but I beg of you not to sign that petition to the Court, until—"

"Until when?"

"Until Zeb Sawyer is—is—out of the way. People flatter me and praise me, but they don't know what I have suffered. And my father doesn't understand me. When you called Sawyer a coward I wanted to shout in the street."

"Still you consented to marry him."

"Yes, to live for a little longer in peace. But I know a tall rock over on the creek, and from the top of it is a long way to the cruel boulders below. They call it 'Lover's Leap,' and I have thought after awhile the name might be changed to 'Despair's Leap.' At night I have dreamed of that rock, and sometimes my dream would continue after I opened my eyes. Our engagement was for one year, and often I said to myself that I had but one year longer to live. At church I would pray, and I could hear the words, 'Children, obey your parents.' And then I would go home and pretend to be happy in that obedience."

"But you signed the petition."

"Yes, with a prayer that you would not sign it."

"And I won't."

"Not even if they should come with pistols?"

"Not if they should come with a mob and a rope."

She looked up at him, with her hands clasped in her lap. The light fell upon her face, and in its human loveliness was the divine spirit of sadness. Lyman looked upward at the fleece among the stars, the lace curtain of the night.

"With the strength accidentally dedicated to me by a body of men assembled to break the customs of a class opposed to them, I will hold you a prisoner, free from the grasp of a feelingless clown," he said. "I will protect you. And when you have really fallen in love, and believe that your happiness depends upon a man, I will sign the petition."

With the frankness of a child she sprung from the seat and grasped his hand: "Oh, you stand between me and the tall rock," she said. "Good night—God bless you."

She ran away. Lyman looked after her, with dim vision—her white gown spectral in the misty light.