FullReads

They tramped along in silence, this time the editor leading. Presently he stopped. “There’s a house–in there–among the trees,” he said, pointing. “Whose is it?”

The stranger shook his head dubiously. Although apparently unaffected by any sentimental consideration of his father’s misfortune, the spectacle of the blackened ruins of the homestead had evidently shaken his preconceived plans. “It wasn’t there in MY time,” he said musingly.

“But it IS there in OUR time,” responded the editor briskly, “and I propose to go there. From what you have told me of your father–even if his house were still standing–our chances of getting supper and a bed from him would be doubtful! I suppose,” he continued as they moved on together, “you left him in anger–five years ago?”

“Ye-es.”

“Did he say anything as you left?”

“I don’t remember anything particular that he SAID.”

“Well, what did he DO?”

“Shot at me from the window!”

“Ah!” said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own, and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a sycamore, and recounted his good fortune.

“I didn’t,” he added, “say anything about your father. You can make inquiries yourself later.”

“I reckon there won’t be much need of that,” returned his companion. “You didn’t take much note o’ that man, did you?”

“Not much,” said the editor.

“Well, THAT’S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his.”

II.

The young editor was a little startled. The man he had just quitted certainly was not dangerous looking, and yet, remembering what his son had said, there WERE homicidal possibilities. “Look here,” he said quickly, “he’s not there NOW. Why don’t you seize the opportunity to slip into the house, make peace with your mother and sisters, and get them to intercede with your father when he returns?”

“Thar ain’t any mother; she died afore I left. My sister Almiry’s a little girl–though that’s four years ago and mebbee she’s growed. My brothers and me didn’t pull together much. But I was thinkin’ that mebbee YOU might go in thar for me first, and see how the land lays; then sorter tell ’em ’bout me in your takin’, chipper, easy way; make ’em laugh, and when you’ve squared ’em–I’ll be hangin’ round outside–you kin call ME in. Don’t you see?”

The young editor DID see. Ridiculous as the proposal would have seemed to him an hour ago, it now appeared practical, and even commended itself to his taste. His name was well known in the county and his mediation might be effective. Perhaps his vanity was slightly flattered by his companion’s faith in him; perhaps he was not free from a certain human curiosity to know the rest; perhaps he was more interested than he cared to confess in the helpless home-seeker beside him.

“But you must tell me something more of yourself, and your fortune and prospects. They’ll be sure to ask questions.”

“Mebbee they won’t. But you can say I’ve done well–made my pile over in Australia, and ain’t comin’ on THEM. Remember–say I ‘ain’t comin’ on them’!”

The editor nodded, and then, as if fearful of letting his present impulse cool, ran off towards the house.

It was large and respectable looking, and augured well for the present fortunes of the Wilkes’s. The editor had determined to attack the citadel on its weaker, feminine side, and when the front door was opened to his knock, asked to see Miss Almira Wilkes. The Irish servant showed him into a comfortable looking sitting-room, and in another moment with a quick rustle of skirts in the passage a very pretty girl impulsively entered. From the first flash of her keen blue eyes the editor–a fair student of the sex–conceived the idea that she had expected somebody else; from the second that she was an arrant flirt, and did not intend to be disappointed. This much was in his favor.