CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER
Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the sport of accident.
He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.
He was too much out of temper with the town to interest himself in what went on beneath his windows, and only longed for night, that he might leave it never to return. At last the day began to wane, the shadows fell longer across the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the tree-tops to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional wagon rolled heavily by, with field implements in it,—sign all that the hours of labor had drawn to a close. “I shall soon be off,” muttered he; “soon hastening away from a spot whose memory will be a nightmare to me.” In the gray half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found its way into so many hearts. What meaning have these little episodes of loneliness? What are the lessons they are meant to teach? Are they intended to attach us more closely to those we love, by showing how wearily life drags on in absence from them; or are they meant as seasons of repose, in which we may gain strength for fresh efforts?
Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say that crowds were hurrying to the lecture-room, and in a few minutes more Layton might steal away, and, reaching the outskirts of the town, gain the wagon that was to convey him to Lebanon.
“You 'll not forget this place, I reckon,” said he, as he assisted Layton to close and fasten up his carpet-bag. “You'll be proud, one of these days, to say, 'I was there some five-and-twenty, or maybe thirty, years back. There was only one what you 'd call a first-rate hotel in the town; it was kept by a certain Dan Heron, the man that made Bunkumville, who built Briggs Block and the Apollonicon. I knew him.' Yes, sir, I think I hear you sayin' it.”
“I half suspect you are mistaken, my friend,” said Layton, peevishly. “I live in the hope never to hear the name of this place again, as assuredly I am determined never to speak of it.”
“Well, you Britishers can't help envy, that's a fact,” said Heron, with a sigh that showed how deeply he felt this unhappy infirmity. “Take a glass of something to warm you, and let's be movin'. I'll see you safe through the town.”
Layton thankfully accepted his guidance, and, each taking a share of the luggage, they set forth into the street. Night was now fast falling, and they could move along without any danger of detection; but, besides this, there were few abroad, the unaccustomed attraction of the lecture-room having drawn nearly all in that direction. Little heeding the remarks by which Heron beguiled the way, Layton moved on, only occupied with the thought of how soon he would be miles away from this unloved spot, when his companion suddenly arrested his attention by grasping his arm, as he said, “There; did you hear that?”