Part 10

"So _that_ was your motive," she said, with stinging, withering emphasis. "You clutched Mr. Fairman as a miser might clutch his hoard if his house took fire. It wasn't to save his life; it wasn't for Aunt Sophy's sake; he was merely a money sack. Henry, if you hadn't confessed it yourself I wouldn't have believed you were such a mercenary wretch. No wonder you looked ashamed."

We had just reached the house, and I had no chance to clear my character before Marion ran upstairs and locked herself in her room, so I thought it politic to leave her in silence for a while. I was bristling with indignation, for while I hadn't pretended that my conduct was praiseworthy, I knew that I had not been cold-blooded and calculating enough to try to save Mr. Fairman from the motive she had suggested. Indeed, I saw that the explanation that I had formulated in response to Marion's insistent questions had no foundation in fact, except possibly a fragmentary impression that may have flashed across my mind for an instant during our imminent peril, yet I had been thick-headed enough to make it appear that I had been influenced by these considerations instead of confessing that I had invented them as an afterthought. I knew I should be able to make Marion see the matter in this light when she had been sufficiently long in seclusion; in the meantime, I went around to the rear of the house to find William Wedder and to settle my score with him.

I met him looking for me, dressed up in his best clothes and carrying his red bundle and stick.

"William," I said, in my most austere manner, "I haven't had a chance to tell you what I think of your con----"

"No, sir," he broke in, "and I'm not calculatin' to give you a chance. I'm off."

"You're--off!" I ejaculated, my anger suddenly displaced by dismay. "What--what's the matter?"

"Well, sir," answered William, his face broadening to a grin, "there's several reasons why I'd better be off. One is, I'd rather go than be sacked; then, old Waydean, he's took the notion that I dressed up his pig, and Joe Wrigley says he's gone to swear out a summons."

His manner was so coy, so engaging, so innocently virtuous and forbearing, that I could not refrain from an encouraging smile; somehow I seemed to know exactly how he felt--perhaps I, too, in some previous state of existence, had found it expedient to appear to know less than I did know.

"What became of the pig, William?" I asked, in a tone that conveyed, I fear, more sympathy than reproof.

"After you drove off so fast," he replied, "it turned onto the Stone Road, with old Waydean close behind, and that was the last I seen of them, but Joe Wrigley says they met a funeral near the Stone Road Cemetery, and there was a regular circus; after it was over I seen people drivin' past here lookin' as if they'd been at a Punch and Judy show."

I smiled appreciatively, feeling a softening toward William in view of the entertainment he had provided, but I saw it would be wiser for him to leave than to wait for Peter's revenge. There was one more point that puzzled me.

"How did you fasten those boots on the pig?" I asked.

There was a momentary triumphant gleam in his eyes, then they opened wide with innocent frankness as he spoke. "Joe Wrigley says there was a wad of graftin' wax in each one, and the longer they were on the tighter they'd stick. Joe says----"

"William," I interrupted, "why do you keep saying that Joe Wrigley says this and Joe Wrigley says that, when you----"

One eyelid slowly curtained an eye. "You see, Mr. Carton," he said, in a half-whisper, "if you don't know nothin' but what Joe says, you don't know enough for evidence, nor too much for your own good, and if that old sinner makes law trouble you can't swear to anythin' but hearsay. Joe says it's like a sort of judgment on him, for it'll take as long to get the feathers and wax off that pig as it'll take new feathers to grow on them chickens. He says there ain't but three ways of gettin' that kind of wax off: bilin' in kerosene, freezin' in a ice-cream freezer, or leavin' it to nature and the habits of pigs."

"Well, William," I said regretfully, "I suppose you had better go, but I'll have to get another man to do the work, for I'll have the farm on my hands in a few days. Peter has signed the agreement to sell."

"Jee--rus'lem!" he exclaimed. "It'll be a bigger circus than I counted on when----"

"When what?" I asked, as he suddenly checked himself.

"I was thinkin' about the new well up at the barn," he replied, with sudden gravity. "I haven't got down to water yet, but it ain't far off, and Joe Wrigley says he'll come over to-morrow and finish it for you. Well, I must be goin'--good-by for the present. Mebbe I'll come back when this blows over."

"Where are you going to?" I called after him, as he hurried off.

His legs moved faster, as if he feared pursuit, but there was no response until he reached the gate, then he turned and shouted: "To see--Uncle--Benny!"

It is painfully humiliating to stand before a locked door and try to convince a silent person inside that you have high ideals, noble impulses, virtuous aspirations and an unvarying regard for the truth; it is yet more painful if you are the victim of a train of circumstantial evidence that has biassed the mind of the listener; you are at a further disadvantage if that person is the one who knows your failings better than you do yourself, but there is yet hope if, with all your faults, she loves you still.

I pleaded and reasoned with Marion in a high, unnatural and despairingly mellifluous voice; without avail. Then it occurred to me that I was on the wrong tack, and in a tone of hoarse despair I said I was a brute. This had been effective before, and I listened breathlessly; there was a faint monosyllabic response, but whether of assent or dissent I could not determine. With added anguish I declared that I was and that she needn't say I wasn't; that it would be better for her if I were dead. There was a whole sentence in reply, the gist of it being that she hadn't said I wasn't. This was encouraging, so I sought to create a diversion by telling her that William had gone; this item was coldly received. Then, like an inspiration, came the thought that I had still to tell her how we had been bidding against each other.

"Marion," I called out excitedly, "I know the man who tried to buy the place."

"Who is he?"

"Open the door, and I'll tell you."

"No; I can hear."

"He's a perfect brute." I moved away with a heavy tread. It was an excellent move; the door opened and Marion ran after me.

"What's his name?" she demanded.

"He's a man," I replied, with unreproving, sad forgiveness, "who thought he would try to please his wife by making her a present of the place."

"Good gracious! Was it that wretched Griggs?"

"No,--his name is--Henry Carton."

Now I had expected the announcement to create a sensation, but I was totally unprepared for the effect it produced. Instead of being appalled to learn that she had thrown away sixteen hundred dollars unnecessarily, she forgave me with every appearance of being delighted to hear the news. An interval followed, during which I didn't care particularly how this blissful state of affairs had come to pass, but I gathered by degrees that it was because I had quite innocently proved that I was not a mercenary wretch and that I could by no possibility have saved Mr. Fairman's life from any sordid motive. There are probably few men more deserving of praise, but I shall not repeat Marion's expressions of affection and respect, in case they should appear extravagant. I bore her appreciation with my usual modesty, and when she wondered how she could have behaved so, I said it wasn't any wonder at all, and that I was almost sure I wasn't as good as she said. She declared indignantly that I was far better, and when I tried to add that I had acted like a brute she put her hand over my mouth and threatened to get angry again if I used that word about myself, saying that I had acted like an angel, and how could I ever forgive her? I assured her that there was nothing to forgive, but if there was I forgave her freely, and I did so with such fervor and unselfishness that she almost melted into tears again. Then with the greatest delicacy I suggested that I was grieved that she had been obliged to pay so much more for the farm than if I hadn't been so stupid, but she only said indifferently, "Bother the money--I've got you!"

Still, I grudged that sixteen hundred dollars, and I thought she ought to show more concern, but I dreaded a return of her suspicion that I was mercenary, so I bothered the money also and remarked that I had her. Then we both made the happy discovery that we had Paul, and Marion reminded me that I had the farm and enough money to stock it, yet in spite of all these blessings it rankled in my mind that when the papers were signed Peter Waydean would have that sixteen hundred dollars above the worth of the farm.

XII

THE EXIT OF WILLIAM WEDDER

The morning after Aunt Sophy's wedding I slept late, more exhausted by the excitement of the day than I had been aware of, yet in that dreamy state of half-wakefulness before sunrise, I was dimly conscious of hearing the sound of Joe Wrigley's pick and shovel, as he worked at the unfinished well. I remembered that I must go to the city and arrange with Marion's agent for the transfer of the property, and also be ready, in my rôle of Uncle Benny, to receive William Wedder, if he should call at the _Observer_ office as he had threatened. I was drowsily exulting in William's discomfiture on finding that I was Uncle Benny, when a loud shouting from the direction of the barn awakened me; a moment later I heard hurried clumping footsteps and the sound of hammering at the back door. My first impression was that the earth had caved in and buried Joe Wrigley and that he had come to me for help, but when I hurried into a few essential garments and reached the back door I was relieved to find that Joe was there; pale, breathless, agitated, but unburied.

"Come quick--_ile_!" he gasped, and lumbered off. I followed.

When I reached the well Peter Waydean was lying prone on his face with his head hanging over the hole. At the sound of my voice he humped himself slowly and stood up, looking at me with an expression of utter misery.

Joe grabbed my arm and pointed to the well. "_Ile_," he repeated, in a hoarse croak--"smell."

I lay down and smelled; the reeking odor of kerosene oil arose upwards and I staggered to my feet, stunned by a sudden vision of great wealth.

Peter was the first to speak. "The farm's worth half a million," he said despairingly, "and I've sold it to that shark for fifty-one hundred."

"What shark?" I forced myself to ask.

"That land shark in the city," he said, turning away with a sudden stiffening of his frame. "But I'll not be robbed," he shouted, raising his clenched hand above his head in a fierce gesture--"he hasn't got the deed yet."

I watched him hurry over the adjoining field, a strange pitying impulse possessing me to run after him and tell him to take back the farm; then Joe attracted my attention.

"Jest as I struck that streak of clay," he said, pointing downwards, "I seen it get soppy like, but I thought it was water, for I took the smell to be from the ile on my hair, settled into contracted quarters like; then it began to bubble up faster, an' I scooped up a handful to taste, an' the next thing I knowed I was up here hollerin' for all I was worth. Old Peter, he come runnin' over the pasture field, an' I lit out for the house to call you."

In the well I could see a slight bubbling as the oil ran in, and the bottom was now covered with several inches of the fluid, which looked remarkably clear and of such fine quality that I didn't wonder Joe had mistaken it for water. I told him to stop work and cover the hole with boards, warning him not to tell anyone of the discovery. I don't know why I gave him the latter direction, but I had an instinct that it was the correct thing to do and was an evidence of presence of mind on my part. Then I went back to the house to break the news to Marion.

In my inmost heart I knew that the wealth was rightfully Peter's, though I was legally entitled to reap the benefit of the discovery, but something of the passionate greed that I had seen expressed in his distorted face stirred my soul, and I went upstairs to tell Marion, feeling, I imagine, like a fugitive bank cashier. But when I looked into her clear eyes I knew there was but one right course, and that was to release Peter from his agreement. Somehow I felt as if I had just escaped from prison when that was settled; never again do I wish to be burdened with even the thought of unworked-for riches.

I felt sorry for Peter when I hurried over to his house to tell him he could take back his farm without going to law. I regret to say that he did not receive me with open arms or fully appreciate my generosity; indeed, when I told him that we had employed the land agents to negotiate with him he declared that he never would have signed the agreement if he had known, but he became more amiable when he understood that Marion and I had been bidding against each other.

Now when I act nobly, I like the matter to be distinctly understood; therefore Peter's attitude was disappointing. There wasn't the slightest doubt but that he should have been so affected by my action as to thank me in a voice broken with emotion, begging me at the same time to accept the office of President of the Waydean Oil Company, and fifty per cent. of the capital stock. I did not try to make him see it in the proper light, for that would have been undignified as well as useless, and I was pressed for time, so I bade him a courteous but frigid good-morning. I knew better than to seek consolation from Marion by letting her know that I had expected gratitude, for such a course would have led to the scornful assertion that I had done nothing for which gratitude should be expected. So when she asked if he wasn't awfully grateful I answered in the negative, elevating my eyebrows in surprise. Marion at once asserted that Peter was a grasping hard-hearted man, and tried to show me how nobly I had behaved; a point of view that I protested against, with the result that I was praised to an extent that she has never since excelled.

It was about ten o'clock when I took the train for the city, and for the first time I had leisure to think over the astounding discovery of oil. The short time which had elapsed since I had been awakened by Joe Wrigley had been so full of action that I had difficulty in persuading myself that I hadn't been dreaming, and the farther I got from Waydean, the more incredible appeared the evidence of my senses that I had seen and smelled oil bubbling up at the bottom of my fifteen-foot well.

The first thing I did when I got to the _Observer_ office was to consult the encyclopædia in regard to oil-wells. I do not think I ever received so much mental enlightenment from that useful compendium in such a short space of time, as during the few minutes I spent over the article on petroleum. William Wedder was not mentioned, but when I closed the book with a bang I knew that the ingenious old rogue had not only carried out his threat of making Peter the laughing-stock of the county, but had included me also. For a short time I was beside myself with rage, then an idea leaped into my mind that suggested delightful possibilities, and I hurried down to the front office to find out if William had called that morning.

I have been repeatedly questioned about how I spent the time between lunch and three o'clock, but I have two good reasons for evading a direct answer; one is, that I do not care to say, the other, that I cannot, like some people, tell a lie without provocation. Young Evans, at the Inquiry and Subscription wicket, knew that I told him as I went out at noon that if a smooth-shaven countrified-looking old man asked for Uncle Benny he was to be shown up to my room to await my return. Old Jamieson, the elevator man, knew that I entered by the side door about three o'clock, and that I was quite astonished to hear that a visible Uncle Benny had appeared and disappeared during my absence, and that he had been followed into my room by a smooth-shaven rural-looking old codger; that after an interval of loud conversation that could be heard above the rumbling of the presses in the basement, the latter emerged hastily, clattered down the stairs with something in one hand that looked like a human scalp, closely pursued by Uncle Benny, who was excitedly pulling his stovepipe hat down over his ears as he ran, and stopping as he descended the stairs to replace the huge prunella shoes that kept dropping off.

But it was Meldrum, the cartoonist, whose room was opposite mine, who told me most about this strange occurrence. "I thought there was a fire at first," he said, in relating the affair. "I got into the hall and saw the most remarkable looking old party sitting at your desk. Hairy as a gorilla--couldn't see a feature except his nose--smoked goggles--white hair to his shoulders--white beard down to his belt--long-skirted frock coat--pants turned up at the bottom, showing his spindle-shanks half way----"

"_Spindle_-shanks!"

"Yes--regular pipe-stems--and prunella shoes, by Jove!--the kind he wore in the ark--voice like a polar bear, and deaf as a door-post. Other chap got completely winded trying to make him hear."

"What was _he_ like?"

"Small, smooth-shaven, pink cheeks, blue eyes. Looked like Shem--voice away up in G."

"Could you hear what they said?"

Meldrum laughed derisively. "Hear?" he repeated. "_Hear!_ Great Scott! If the presses hadn't been running some idiot on the street would have pulled the fire-alarm, sure. When I saw them first Noah had his hand up to his ear and Shem was yelling into it: 'Will--yum Wed--der!'

"'I see,' growls Noah, 'William was your grandson, and he got married. Go ahead.'

"'No, no--' shouts Shem, 'that's my _name_. WILL......YUM WED......DER!'

"'You'll have to raise your voice,' says Noah, 'I'm a little hard of hearing.'

"Then Shem goes at it again, a fifth higher, and Noah catches on and asks him a lot of questions. Where he came from, what family, how he happened to leave home. Shem shouts that he isn't a hired man by birth, and that he left his family because his wife and daughter caught the whole-wheat-and-nut-food fever and tried to feed him on hygienic principles, so after building up his strength on unwholesome food for the summer, he's going back to his family to see if they've come to their senses."

"Do you mean to say, Meldrum, that you stood out in the hall and eavesdropped?"

"Eavesdropped! Old Wedder's voice sailed into my room as plainly as if he had the jim-jams. Come now, Carton, you know more about this thing than you pretend. He brought your name in several times, and if I'm not mistaken, he had some good joke on you about your farm. Every little while I'd hear Noah growl, 'That isn't funny.' At last I heard Shem fairly yell, '_That_ ain't funny, ain't it?'--then there was a shout from Noah and a mighty clatter. By the time I got out from behind my desk and into the hall again, all I could see was the top of Noah's stovepipe vanishing down the stairway. Jamieson is certain Shem had his wig. Come now, Carton, make a clean breast of it and tell me who these old parties were. I always thought you wrote the Uncle Benny papers, but perhaps I was mistaken."

"Meldrum," I said confidentially, "I'll tell you the honest truth, but I want you to keep it quiet. William Wedder was my hired man, and he was determined to see a real Uncle Benny, so to oblige him, I togged myself out for the part at the theatrical costumer's around the corner. I didn't expect--ha, ha, ha!--to take you in, though."

I made this explanation with calm sincerity, with child-like frankness, and I'm sure I don't know what prompted me to cast these pearls of truth before a fellow-journalist, but I did. What was the result? Meldrum sniffed at the gems suspiciously, then chuckled, assuring me as he jocularly slapped my back that he was delighted to know the facts of the case and that he would respect my confidence.

This is how the rumor originated that the real Uncle Benny was an aged and talented relative of mine, whom I kept in seclusion to restrain his bibulous propensities. It was perhaps as well that I was not aware of this at the time, or I certainly would have been discouraged from the practice of telling the undiluted truth.

XIII

THE FAIRY WELL

I need not dwell upon my return to Waydean that evening. It is still painful to recall my sensations as I stepped from the train, on finding that Joe Wrigley had so completely disregarded my instructions to tell no one of the discovery that the usually quiet country road between the station and Waydean swarmed with pedestrians returning from an inspection of William Wedder's handiwork. Had I been permitted, as I had hoped, to publicly expose the fraud, I could have risen to the occasion and perhaps found a certain solace in doing so; but to find that in my absence the prying eyes of my neighbors had found the ingenious mechanism by which William had manufactured a flowing well of refined petroleum, and had attributed it to me, was crushing. I could bear up under the facetious remarks of the people who complimented me on my success in taking such an excellent rise out of Peter, but when Andy Taylor rushed out of his house and clapped me on the back, I could only look at him in sorrowful reproach, at which his merriment increased. "Mr. Carton," he gasped, "it beats the way you done up that Griggs all hollow. I knew you'd get back on Peter, but I didn't know it'd be so--gosh--darn--rich. Oh Lordy, to see him when the loose dirt shifted and showed the blue end of the coal-oil barrel!"

"The coal-oil barrel?"

"Yes,--you'd ought to have laid a few boards of top of the heap, and it wouldn't have shifted with people trampin'. You must have let ten gallons run down that iron pipe--and how did you ever get it drove so far? I suppose that joke cost you as much as five dollars, but I'd say it was cheap at ten."

In vain I assured Andy that I was innocent; he only laughed the harder, reiterating his belief that I beat the Dutch and that I was a natural born play-actor; that the Griggs episode, charming as it had been, was discounted by my latest histrionic venture.

By the dim light of my lantern, Marion, Paul and I viewed the wreck of the Waydean Oil Well when I reached home. Our coal-oil barrel, exhumed from the loose earth that had covered it, had been rolled away from the edge of the hole, leaving the iron pipe exposed. The ground was packed hard with the trampling of many feet.

"I didn't think there could be such a crowd of people in the country, except at a funeral or an auction sale," said Marion indignantly. "I was just enraged to sit in the house and see them pass through the yard as if it were a common. I'll never forgive William Wedder--I wish I had never baked him a pie."

"I hope he'll have to live on hygienic wheat biscuits when he gets home," I responded. "I hope his wife has learned to cook them in two hundred ways, and whether they're mashed, stewed, fried, pied, creamed, puddinged or jellied, he'll have disappointment three times a day of finding that they are still the same old wheat biscuits. That'll be punishment enough for him, but it won't make Peter believe I didn't do this, and by this time he must have got Roper's letter cancelling the agreement."

"I suppose we'll have to give up the place in the end," said Marion, with a sigh.

"Don't let Paul hear," I said in a low tone, "or he'll make the dickens of a row."