The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Annie Dorris went over to the sleeping boy, and, after kissing him, as had been requested, picked him up, and laid him down on a lounge which stood in the room.

"There was always something fierce and mysterious about my husband," Mrs. Dorris said, after a time; "but both attracted me to him. I could not help it. A hundred times he has offered to tell me his story, but I did not care to hear it; so that now I know nothing about him except that he was the most worthy gentleman I ever knew, and combined all those qualities which my heart craved. I knew when we were first married that some such result as this was probable, but I could not resist him; and I do not regret it now. Three months of such happiness as I have known will repay me for future years of loneliness, and his kindness and consideration are sweet memories, which console me even now while my grief is so fresh. He was manly and honorable with me in every way; and the fault, if there has been a fault, was my own. I am sure that he was a better man because of his misfortune. I believe now that trouble purifies men, and makes them better; and the more I studied him the more I was convinced that there were few like him; that a trifling thing had ruined his life, and that there were hundreds of men, less honorable, who were more fortunate. Even now I do not care to know more of him than I already know. I fear that this is a fault; but I knew him better than anyone else in the world, and his manner was so pathetic at times, and his love for me always so pronounced, that, though I am now a young woman, I expect to spend my life in doing honor to a noble memory."

There was something so womanly in her manner that Silas was convinced that she would live only to honor the memory of his friend. There was inexpressible sadness in her face, but there was also strength, and capacity, and love, and honor.

"I am the one person whose good opinion he cared for," she said again; "and I forget everything except his love for me, and his manliness in everything. It is nothing to me what he was away from here. A single atom in the human sea, he may have committed a wrong while attempting to do right, and came here a penitent, trying to right it; but as I knew him he was worthy of any woman's profoundest admiration, and he shall receive it from me as long as I live. The stream of life leads upwards to heaven against a strong current, and, knowing myself, I do not wonder that occasionally the people forget, and float down with the tide. He has told me that he had but one apology to make to any one,—to me, for not finding me sooner. This was a pretty and an undeserved compliment; but it was evident that in his own mind he did not feel that he had wronged anyone, and I feel so. I have no idle regrets, and do not blame you and Tug. On the contrary, I thank you both for your thoughtful care. When Tug returns, as I am sure he will, bring him here. Who has not wounded their best friends in trying to befriend them? Though you two have grievously wounded me, I recognize the goodness of your motives, and feel grateful."

She got up at this, and started toward the door, motioning Silas to follow. From the dark hall she stepped through the door which Dorris had never entered alive; but he had been carried there dead. A dim light burned near the door, and there was something in the air—a taint not to be described, but to be remembered with dread—which made Silas think of a sepulchre.

On a raised platform, in the room to which the steps of poor Helen were always leading, stood a metallic burial case, with a movable lid showing the face under glass. The face was so natural that Silas thought it must have been preserved in some manner, for his friend seemed to be quietly sleeping, and he could not realize that he had been dead a week. Even before Silas had taken his hasty glance, Annie Dorris had knelt beside the inanimate clay of her husband, and he thought he had better go away—he could think of nothing else to do—and leave her. And this he did, only stopping at the door to see a picture which he never forgot,—the coffin, the sobbing woman, the dim light, and the gloomy hangings of the room.

On being awakened, little Ben shielded his face with his hands, as if expecting a blow, which was his usual greeting on opening his eyes, but, recognizing his friend, he contentedly followed him down the stairs, and out at the iron gate into the street. Davy was not a large man or a strong man, but little Ben found it difficult to follow him, and was compelled to ask his friend to stop and rest before they reached the hotel. When they finally reached the kitchen, they found it deserted, and Silas hastily placed meat and bread before the boy. This he devoured like a hungry wolf, and Davy wondered that such a little boy had so much room under his jacket.

"They don't feed you overly well at the farm, do they, Ben?" Silas inquired.

The boy had turned from the table, and was sitting with his hands clasped around his knees, and his bare feet on the upper round of the chair. After looking at his companion a moment, he thoughtfully shook his head.

"You work hard enough, heaven knows," Silas said again, in a tone which sounded like a strong man pitying some one less unfortunate, but there was little difference between the two, except age, for there was every reason to believe that should little Ben's cough get better, he would become such a man as Silas was.