CHAPTER X.
[AT GORHAM].
Mrs. Martha Herkimer, with her husband, travelling at their leisure in "Noo Hampshire," the country of her girlhood, was a happy woman. He was constantly with her, had few letters to write, and no men to talk business with. He seemed to have laid business aside, would read his newspaper beside her of a morning, and drive with her in the afternoon, to admire the scenery--"objects of interest," the American says, meaning everything the residents plume themselves upon, from the Falls of Niagara, should they possess them, to the new school-house at the Five-mile Cross Roads.
It felt like a renewal of the honeymoon, or those delightful "latter rains," spoken of in scripture, when the thirsty earth, long parched and chapped with drought, drinks in once more the life-restoring moisture, and clothes itself anew with grass and verdure. He told her one day that his house had suspended payment and he was bankrupt, but as they were travelling with every comfort, and there seemed no lack of money, she accepted it as one of the inscrutable phenomena of the commercial world, which she had long given up attempting to understand. Her Ralph, she told herself, could have done nothing wrong. He was fonder of money, and harder and keener about acquiring it, she feared, than was perhaps, perfectly right. Her father had been a preacher of the old Puritan school, ministering to villagers in a sequestered valley, and warning them against worldliness and the race for wealth, the world of wealth being an unknown country there about. If Ralph had lost some of his gatherings now, it might be for his greater good perhaps in other ways. She saw many around her who had failed, and yet lived comfortably and respected afterwards, and she would not be sorry if such were to be the fate of her own good man. It would wean him from the hurry and worry of business, and let him stay more at home than theretofore, to his own good, very probably, and assuredly to her greater happiness.
They travelled about, by road and rail, from one summer hotel to another--there are many of them in the White Mountains--climbing mountains, sailing on ponds, and honeymooning it delightfully all day long, and now they were arriving at Gorham by the evening train, meaning to ascend Mount Washington, already distinguished by his snow-tipped summit, on the morrow. It was a purple evening, with the eastward slopes of the valley reddening in the afterglow, while cool blue shadows stole out of hollows to the westward, forerunners of the twilight. The people on the platform stood in bright relief as the train drew up at the station, and Martha's eye took them all in as she alighted.
"What?" she cried, "General Considine! you here?" She felt a bump between her shoulders from the wallet of Ralph close behind her, as though he stumbled. "Ralph!" and she turned round, but Ralph was gone--gone back for something left behind no doubt. "General," and she ran up to him and took his hand, while Considine looked disturbed, and said nothing.
"What have you been about, general? Nobody has seen you, nobody knew you were away; and one of your friends--you know who--is far from pleased, I can tell you. But say!--your arm in a sling? Oh, general, you have not been fighting, at your time of day, I do hope. When I was a girl we always said a Southern man must have been fighting if he was tied up any way. What have you been doing? A hunting accident?"
"Madam," Considine began, clearing his throat, and looking tall and sternly in the good woman's face, who was regarding him with such friendly eyes. He coughed again, his face softened, and showed signs of discomposure. How could he speak as he felt to this good soul about her own husband, and tell her he was a murderer? He would have liked to get away from her without saying anything; but she had mentioned "a friend," the friend to whom he was at that moment hastening back to apologize for, or at least to explain, his absence. He would like to know beforehand what the friend was saying, and for that, self-control and reticence, combined if necessary with invention, were needed. He coughed again. Martha's last words, "hunting accident," still hanging on his ear, came to his tongue-tip of itself.
"Yes. Hunting accident--gun accident, that is. Thought I was killed. Insensible. A gang of tramps found me, and robbed me--they wore my own clothes before my eyes, the rascals--and saved my life. And now that they have cashed the cheque they made me give them in payment of the treatment, they have discharged me cured. But what do the Miss Stanleys say?"
"Matildy was mighty huffy at first. 'You should have called to explain, or sent a note to apologize,' she said. But when you went on doing neither, she grew down hearted like,--took it to heart serious, I do believe, though she has never owned up as much to anybody. But, if once she makes sure you are in the land of the livin', see if you don't catch it, that's all. I guess I shouldn't like to be you, when you call to explain, unless you can make the narrative real thrillin'. But how was it, general? You must come up to the hotel with us and see Ralph--I don't see where that man's run to--and tell us all about them tramps. Do, now, general, like a dear."
"Impossible, Mrs. Herkimer. I go to Montreal by this very train. Good-bye."