Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

"Not the preacher's way by a squire; take your own book."

So he opened a volume of legal forms and asked the question, "Are both parties of contracting age?"

Gill responded "Yes," and Lizzī said she was old enough to know her own mind.

The shadows stood still.

"Is there any person here present who knows any good reason why these two parties shall not be united in marriage? If so, let him speak now, or forever after hold his peace."

The candles spluttered, the flames leaped and flashed, and the shadows nodded and bowed and nodded.

"Join your right hands."

Gill took Lizzī's hand in his, and the Squire continued the ceremony, reading the form slowly, stumbling over the big words, but at last he pronounced them man and wife.

Then the shadows stood solemnly still, while Gill kissed Lizzī.

After congratulating the bride and groom, the Squire sat down to write the marriage certificate. Gill and Lizzī retired to a window and conversed in low tones. Presently, after a long while it seemed to the flustered Squire, he handed Lizzī her marriage certificate. It was written on legal-cap and tied with red tape. She received it joyfully and placed it in her bosom. There it lay, the legal testimonial of her purity, the proof of her honesty, should that ever be questioned.

The Squire gathered up the things he had brought with him, blew out the candles and left the church, going his way, while Gill and Lizzī went to her home.

CHAPTER VI.

BLIND BENNER'S JEALOUSY

Languid Indian Summer loitered among the great mountains. Her veil, caught on the peaks, draped gracefully in the ravines and hid the valleys beneath a gray sheen. Every evening the sun set in red wrath at this persistent half concealment of her beauty, and the big hand he reached out above the horizon, the broad fingers stretching to the zenith, freed the winds that they might tear off the gauze. But they yielded to her charm and became her lovers, fanning her cheek so gently that her gossamer veil was scarcely rustled. One morning she was gone, vanished with the night, and the winds dashed in furious pursuit of her. Ah, the jilt! She will come again next year, and the silly winds will forget her fickleness, paying court to her, while she dreamily crosses the mountains.

On a Sunday afternoon in this sweet after-thought summer-time, two weeks after Lizzī's wedding, Blind Benner and Hunch were half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of leaves on the top of Bald Mountain. Hunch was greatly distressed at not being able to quiet his friend's discontent, which was very evident as he turned his sightless eyes to the sky at one moment, and at the next rolled over and buried his face in the leaves.

"'Tain't no use in carryin' on thet way. Lizzī ain't here, an' thet's all there is 'bout it."

"There ain't no comfert in her bein' away," Blind Benner groaned.

"It's the first time she's missed comin'; an' yer know, Benner, she's mortil fond uv yer, an' she hed good reason fer stayin' er she'd ben here."

"Thet's more comfertin' talk, Hunch."

If the blind man could have seen the smile that broke out on his friend's face at this remark, he would have been amply repaid for it. There was moisture, too, in the dwarf's eyes. He was grateful to the friend who had said he comforted him. For a long time Blind Benner lay face downwards in the leaves, and Hunch sat beside him in silence, his untutored intelligence having caught the great secret of sympathy – unobtrusiveness.

Until this time Lizzī had always been their companion on these Sunday jaunts, but on this day she could not be found, and the two friends had gone off in a desperate sort of way, resisting the old habit, yet unable to break it.

Hunch openly declared that he loved no one but Blind Benner. The dwarf was unseemly, disagreeable. He felt that he was pitied by those who saw his deformity, and he loathed their compassion. In this list he did not include Lizzī, who said a kind thing about his back, and Bill Kellar, who was always making fun of it.

Lizzī once said:

"Hunch, don't mind about your back. You're so good to Blind Benner, that I know you're an angel, and the hump on your back is only your wings folded up."

He ever afterwards remembered her fondly, but he had no love for anyone except Blind Benner, who did not know how hideous among men the dwarf was.

Blind Benner's affection for Lizzī was the love of a mature man for the woman who alone has been able to work upon his heart the spell that enthralls it forever, yet it had no hope, and his only longing was to be near her, to hear her voice, sometimes to have her hand in his. A new element, one of pain, had entered into his life, and he groaned, for he was jealous and helpless. He had some way divined Lizzī's love for Gill, and the knowledge had revealed to him the nature of his own affection for the woman whom he never dared tell that he, the blind man, loved her with the love that would make her his wife. He lay fighting the new pain, and Haunch sat near him, ready with help such as he could give if it was asked for.

At last Blind Benner said:

"Hunch, do yer mind the time Lizzī told me what she looked like?"

"Mind ev'ry bit she said."

"Tell me it all over."

"She sed she wuz taller'n yer, Benner; and yer know'd thet. She told yer she hed a good figger; and there ain't no better in the mountins."

"Jist tell what she sed, Hunch."

"All right. She sed she wuz strong, an' could carry yer easy as a baby, an' could chop wood like a man; her daddy learned her how ter handle the axe, an' Levi learned her spellin' an' grammer."

"She talks mighty pretty, don't she, Hunch?" Blind Benner interrupted.

"Ain't no better talker, nowheres. An' her hands wuz perfect, she sed, on'y they wuz red from soapsuds, an' they didn't wear off in a week. Her hands wuz whitest Sundays."

"Oh! I mind how she laid one on my head when she sed thet," Benner again interrupted, "an' I sed it wuz yeller in feelin'; an' she wanted ter know why, an' I sed 'cause it felt warm an' soft like the sunlight, an' they say thet's yeller."

"Yes, an' I sed the furnace fire was red; but yer got techy an' sed thet wuz hot. Do yer mind thet, Benner – hot and scorchin', not soft an' warm? An' then when yer thought yer bed spoke too sharp ter me, yer made up fer it by sayin' colors wuz hard fer yer ter make out, jist as if a little thing like thet'd make me mad at yer, Benner."

"I ain't got no business speakin' sharp ter yer, Hunch, what's so kind ter me allers," and Blind Benner laid his head on his friend's knee. "Thet wuzn't all she sed."

"Nuh! she sed her feet wuz big."

"An' yer sed thet didn't make no diff'rence, fer her skirts hid 'em," and Blind Benner laughed. "But tell me what she sed 'bout her face."

"She sed it wuzn't very purty, an' wuz big an' round, an' almost filled up the lookin'-glass; thet Levi sed it wuz allers full moon at their house, fer her face wuz allers shinin' with good-natur'."

"An' I mind I sed it must be allers, fer her voice wuz allers glad an' sweet, sweeter'n a fiddle when Bill Kellar plays it."

"An' yer mind she sed her eyes wuz black, Benner, an' yer asked if they wuz purty, an' I sed 'mighty'; an' yer sed the 'dark is black, an' it wuzn't so bad ter live in the dark after all'?"

"Yes, I mind it, Hunch; but her eyes don't shine inter this dark;" and the blind man struck his chest, while a scowl passed over his face.

Hunch did not reply, and there was a moment of silence, broken by Benner, who said fiercely:

"Ef I hed the use uv my eyes, Gill wouldn't git her; I'd cut him out."

"Ef it would help yer, Benner, I'd cut his eyes out, an' take the chances uv gittin' away," Hunch said in a low, determined tone.

Blind Benner smiled and replied:

"No, thet wouldn't do no good. It would on'y put the light out uv Lizzī's heart an' make her blinder'n me. No, there ain't no hope fer me. Gill's goin' ter git her because I can't ask fer her. But he'll never love her no more'n I do."

"Benner," said Hunch, cheerfully, "mebbe yer kin hev yer eyes fixed. I've got some money, saved it, an' I'll give it ter yer, ev'ry cent: an' when yer well, yer kin pay me back."

"Yer mighty kind, Hunch," Blind Benner said, putting his arm around the dwarf's neck, "but there ain't no cure fer me. I've jist got to go 'long gropin' an' wishin' I'd hed eyes like Gill's."

"There ain't no tellin'. Do yer know, Benner, I wuz layin' in bed th'other night, an' I thought the wall wuz lookin' at me, with a great big eye. I ain't easy skeered, yer know, an' I set up ter git a better look, an' what do you think it wuz? The lookin'-glass hangin' there; an' thinks I, mebbe ef Benner hed lookin'-glasses in his eyes, he could see too. Let's try to get them put in, Benner. Twon't cost much." The dwarf spoke very earnestly, and a moisture filled his friend's eyes.

"'Tain't no use, Hunch; there wuz a doctor in the city where Bill Kellar come from, thet sed I wuz stone-blind; an' couldn't never see. My daddy took me ter him long 'fore I knowed yer. Anyhow, Hunch, how yer goin' ter git lookin'-glasses inter a feller's head."

"Well, I think yer kin, an' I'm goin' ter ask Bill Kellar. What he don't know's hard ter find out."

"Come, Hunch, let's go ter the Block, mebbe Lizzī'll be there. 'Tain't nice up here without her, an' I ain't comin' no more, 'less she's along."

"Ain't yer tired, Benner?"

"Yes, I am, Hunch. Tireder then I've ever ben in my life."

"Git on my back an' I'll carry yer."

"I ain't tired in my legs, Hunch. I kin walk."

Taking Blind Benner's hand, Hunch led him down into the deepening shadow of the valley.

CHAPTER VII.

BILL KELLAR

"He is coaxing again, that violin-loving devil."

New Year's Eve had come, and Bill Kellar sat before a log-fire in his sitting-room, glad that he had given his violin into Lizzī's charge the night of her birthday ball. Since then he had not seen it, though his fingers had often itched for the strings, and his arm longed for the bow.

"He is there, the red salamander; and already his tempting has ceased. Now he commands. Soon he will threaten. Well, let him; I will not give up this time."

Bill looked resolutely into the fire, as if resolved to stare the tempter out of countenance. He ran his thin hand through his long hair, and seemed quite satisfied with his powers of resistance.

"Lord! what is that?" he cried suddenly, and started to his feet. For a while he was motionless, gazing at the flames leaping up the chimney. Presently he muttered, "Sure as I live, the devil wears a mask, and a queer one. The eyes are curiously long with curving corners, and set up and down in his face. The nose is long, with a high bridge. The chin is turned up, and has fiddle-screws through it. The devil holds a violin-bow in one hand, and in the other a scourge of fiddle-strings. Something has happened to my fiddle, my dear old violin."

He covered his face with his hands, and wept convulsively.

"I thought my fiddle would be as safe in Lizzī's keeping as her honor."

His clock struck ten.

"I will have to go." The resolution formed, he removed his hands from his face, and dried his tears on a bandanna handkerchief. Then he continued the soliloquy.

"I meant to fight it out this time, and let Satan go without his New Year's dance. I could have sat here until morning and shaken with chills-and-fever until my teeth dropped out; but I can't stand this uncertainty about the fate of my violin. This suspense would make me mad – madder far than the noises of the city would have done; madder than crazy Lear; crazier far than that lunatic Bill Kellar has ever been."

"Yes, you soul-thief, redder than the flames around you. I will go to see the waif, my child that I abandoned for fear of you and your shivers; and if it is well with the darling, you know you will get your annual Harvest dance. For I must needs caress the baby, and to the music of its glad laugh you will kick your cloven hoof, you superannuated old fiend. What have I done that you must select me for your soloist on the violin?"

As he talked, Bill looked steadily at the flames as if at the face of a person. When he had thus relieved his mind he took down his heavy coat, and nervously buttoned it round him. Snatching his hat, he jammed it over his eyes and opened the door. With one hand on the latch, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. The apparition had vanished.

"The devil is mighty eager for a dance, else my old eyes have been making a fool of me."

Leaving the door wide open, he returned to the fireplace. He waited a while, but did not see the face in the fire.

With a glad shout he suddenly ran to the door, and slammed it shut.

"I'm free, free!" he cried, clapping his hands gleefully.

Hanging his coat and hat on their pegs, he sat down before the fire, and congratulated himself on his liberty. But his cheerful mood did not last long. Soon he began to shiver, and in the fire beheld the devil return.

"Oh, Lord! he is back. I am still his slave. He has not removed the violin-mask. Yes, yes, I go to my child."

Bareheaded he plunged into the cold, which he did not mind, and the darkness, which he did not heed, for his way was marked by the light of the Three-Sister furnaces, reflected by the clouds.

Lizzī was at the window, listening to the gunshots – the farewell volleys to the old year, the welcoming salute to the new – when a cold, nervous hand was laid on her shoulder. She had not heard the door open, but as it was like any one of the boys to steal up behind her and say something humorous in her ear she sat still, and continued to watch for the flashes of the guns.

"Lizzī, what has happened to my fiddle?"

Recognizing Bill Kellar's voice, harsh as it was, she caught his hand in a hard grip and turned, not knowing whether she would face a lunatic or a drunken man, but afraid of neither.

He was not intoxicated nor seemingly crazy, only intensely eager. His eyes were not wild, but pathetically pleading as they met hers.

"Nothin', Bill," she replied gently. "It's just as you left it. I keep it in the cupboard, and Blind Benner dusts it often."

His fast walk, which had been a sort of run over the frozen road, had worn Bill out, and he almost swooned with joy when he heard the good news. As he gasped for breath his body swayed, and he would have fallen had she not supported him with her free hand – he still clung to the other – and helped him to a chair. While she stood beside him he kissed her hand frequently as he silently wept. She did not take it away nor forbid him to caress it. Understanding his emotion, she allowed it to express itself in the way it chose.

Presently he became less demonstrative and said:

"Now please give me the fiddle, Lizzī."

She opened the cupboard, and handed him the box. He was so nervous that he could not fit the key in the lock, and Lizzī did it for him. When the lock sprung open he eagerly raised the lid, and there lay, bright and unharmed, the violin that he loved as his life.

"The red devil wore that lying mask and forced me to come. He knew chills-and-fever had about lost their terrors for me, so instead of trying to force me that way, he threw me into an agony of suspense that drove me here. Very well, King of Liars, your dance this time will be short. Bill Kellar's nerves are too shaky and his brain too tired to fiddle long for you to-night."

While he talked he tuned the violin. When it was in chord he began playing a slow improvisation that calmed and rested him, but must have made Satan angry, judging from the sarcastic smile that settled on the fiddler's face.

He had not played longer than ten minutes when Blind Benner entered, and sat down at Lizzī's feet.

Soon the spirit of the violin began to gain the mastery, and Bill's playing became more rapid, his execution more emphatic. Then Blind Benner knew that the demon of the music had woven its spell over his master.

Rising, Blind Benner groped his way to the door and went out. Lizzī was rather lethargic, not fully sympathizing with the violinist, yet gradually yielding to the fascination of the music. Soon Benner came back, with Hunch, who had his cornet. Bill's gleaming eyes caught sight of it, and he rose, stamping his foot and shaking his head. Hunch gave him a look of inquiry, and held up the horn.

"Yes; don't blow it to-night, for I've got Old Nick in my power, and he must dance until I fall senseless, unable to play longer."

Hunch laid the horn on the table, and settled himself to see the end of the violinist's madness. Blind Benner stood reverently near his maestro, while Lizzī tried to hear the devil's hoof on the snow-covered roof.

Furiously Bill played out the old year, and in the new. Guns were popping all around in the semi-darkness. The horn and the goblin were silent. They had the power to break the spell of the music.

Suddenly the music ceased. Hunch caught the violin, and Lizzī seized in her strong arms the falling player, who otherwise would have struck his head on the bare floor as he sank into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER VIII.

FIRE

The snow was deep in the forest. It upholstered the gaunt branches of the giant trees; it clung tenaciously to the leafless twigs; it encrusted the millions of pine needles; it covered the rough mountain-sides: it piled up its crystals in the deep ravines, where the deer hid; it lay like a warm blanket over the wheat; it spread all over the land, a great white silence, through which the river and creek, spellbound, flowed without a murmur.

Thus it had lain for three months – December, January, February. The clouds, jealous of the sun and proud of their artistic skill in softening the face of Nature, grim and gaunt in her winter's sleep, came almost daily and sifted fresh snow upon that already fallen, which the winds and sun were in alliance to disfigure and soil.

March had just come. Each day the sun rose more confident of victory. Ere long he would succeed in making Nature look like an old wanton, her powdered face tear-streaked and unsightly.

On the last night of February the clock in Lizzī's room made one quick guess at the time, and brought her back from a flight of fancy. She was startled to see that it was one o'clock, and resumed the sewing that had lain neglected in her lap, while her thoughts roved.

She was sewing in secret, with the blind of the window down and her candle shaded. The garment she was fashioning was one of those almost shapeless infant robes that the inventive skill of dawning motherhood makes so diversely pretty and daintily ungraceful. She had begun to fold a plait in it, and paused to debate with herself on the size of the fold.

"If I was sure it would be a boy I'd make these pleats wider," she murmured.

From that her thoughts had wandered until she was recalled to her work by the striking of the clock. For another hour she worked diligently, then arose and put the sewing away where her mother would not be likely to find it. After that she blew out the candle and raised the blind for a last look that night at the store. The moonlight streamed into the window, dazzling her eyes accustomed to the candle-light. She shut them quickly in pain, and when she opened them a thrill of terror passed over her.

She saw a great column of smoke rising from the roof of the store, and a little flame leaping up through it.

The next moment, an axe in her hand, she was on the street.

"Fire! Fire! The store's on fire!"

Her clear voice rang wild and sharp on the still night air. The echoes mocked her.

"Colonel Hornberger, get up!"

With her axe's handle she rattled fierce blows on the front door of the proprietor's house.

"Help! Help!"

The echoes hurled back her voice mockingly:

"Help! ha, ha!"

"He is dead," she thought, "and the echoes are making fun of me."

Cry after cry she uttered in her anguish, fierce alarm-notes that aroused the heavy sleepers and brought them to the windows, only to hastily throw on some clothes and rush to the rescue, for they all knew that Gill slept in the store and even then might be dead.

Oh! Lizzī's strength! No longer screaming in terror, no more exhausting her breath by calling for help, she dealt mighty blows with the axe against the door of the office, above which her husband slept. Giant strokes, rapid, unerring, concentrated, made effective by the skill of a woodman, the strength of despair and the agony of love. Against them the door could not stand. It fell in, cut off its hinges. A great volume of smoke rolled out and beat her back.

A closed door separated the office from the store and was a barrier to the flames which were raging in the store-room.

Drawing a full breath and bowing low, Lizzī plunged into the office and reached the stair door. Well she knew the way. The door was closed, and she was so unnerved with joy that for a moment she clung to the latch and listened to the flames roaring in the store. She could see them through the window which give light from the office to the rear of the store, and they fascinated her. The heat cracked the glass in the window, and a tongue of flame leaped towards the opening made by a falling pane.

This recalled Lizzī to a sense of the danger and the need for urgent action. She jerked the door open, breaking the latch, and sped up the stairs, chased by a volume of smoke. To her horror it filled the room, else it was in her eyes. Thank God! she had brought the axe. Staggering to the windows, she smashed them both and knocked the shutters open, giving vent to the smoke.

She could not see Gill, but she knew just where he lay. With an effort she reached the bed. Her mouth was firmly closed, but her strength was almost gone Her trembling hands touched him. He was motionless.

Then when her heart had almost stopped and she was falling in a swoon, the flames burst into the room, lighting up Gill's face upturned and white. Uttering a scream, she caught him up in her arms, became strong again in desperation, and leaped recklessly down the stairs. Tottering with her burden into the street; she sank unconscious at the feet of Cassi, who, hearing her cries, had come running, the first to answer her call.

There had not been so much smoke in Gill's room as Lizzī had imagined, and he soon recovered consciousness in the cold air.

There was no hope for the store, and no one remembered the office books. A little presence of mind and prompt action on the part of first-comers might have saved them, but every one was so excited over Lizzī's daring and remarkable strength in saving Gill from a horrible death that all else was forgotten. Some ran for the doctor and others tried to restore her to consciousness, Colonel Hornberger encouraging them.

"Never mind the store," he exclaimed. "The fire is only making away with the old stock and giving Gill and me an excuse for a trip to the city. But save that brave girl if possible."

He tore off his coat and threw it over Lizzī, who lay on an improvised couch of store boxes, hastily placed together by willing hands.

"Heavens, what a woman!"

He uttered the words impulsively as he gazed admiringly upon her.

Other men followed his example, and they stood shivering, while their coats covered Lizzī.

She lay still. The weird red light of the roaring flames could not even tint her face, so white and cold it was.

Over her bent the man whose life she had saved. His face was firm, his eyes were dry, his pulse was steady. His only speech, a question spoken in a low tone, sent a thrill through the crowd, in which were now a number of women.

"Will the doctor never come?" he asked.

Coatless and inefficient, the men stood at a respectful distance from Lizzī, over whom Cassi bent, speaking to her in fond tones, and their stern silence checked the gabble of the women, who knew not what to do to restore her to life, but had suggested many things that night avail.

A shriek, the quavering cry of old age, nor piercing, but heart-rending, broke from the lips of Lizzī's mother, as half clad, she pushed feebly her way through the yielding crowd and fell across her daughter's body.

Colonel Hornberger put his arm around her and lifted her away from the boxes.

"Here, Gret Reed, you take charge of Mrs. McAnay. Go with her to my house."