“My sister never let us know by any conscious sign that she had any regrets. There was a great spirit in her. She was a thoroughbred. She was a wonderful woman. But as the years passed, I think she tired of the strain of playing a part. Your father was getting on; his name was a good deal in the newspapers in those days. Then suddenly came the news of his marriage. You know all this. Your mother was a Maryland woman whom he met in Washington. Up to that time I think Margaret always thought he would come back to her. She had offers to marry repeatedly, but she stayed at home up there in the old house until our father and mother died. I always had the curse,—the Wanderlust. I sometimes wake up in the morning, even now, with a mad sort of hunger to be moving. I’ve put all my maps in the garret. The very sight of one makes me want to pack my trunk. But I’m getting old and I don’t want to be shipped home in a box.
“I’ll finish my story. I went away for a long trip late in the seventies, and when I got back my sister was about to be married,—to Ezra Dameron. He had lived here for a good many years. He was one of those psalm-singing fellows who build their lives on the church, and have a smile for everybody. I had never known him well—he is somewhat my senior—and was much older than my sister. He was a fairly presentable man in those days,—the old clothes and hatchet and nails came later. He had an established business and was an eminently respectable citizen. You know the rest of the story. My mind’s wandering to-night. I’m getting old and I don’t see anything very cheerful ahead and mighty little that’s pleasant behind. I’m a failure,—only, I hope, not a very conspicuous one. I never tried very hard. But at times I’ve had some fun.”
“You are hard on yourself. It’s a bad frame of mind to get into.”
“But the frame’s hung,—and the picture isn’t attractive. One of these days the wire will break and the whole thing will go to smash.” And the old man laughed at the conceit.
“My father told me once that you were the finest man he had ever known. I remember it very well. I was a kid at the time, playing one afternoon on the hillside over at Tippecanoe, where we lived. It was Fourth of July, the first one I remember much about. Father got out his sword for me to play with; he told me you had given it to him.”
“He hadn’t forgotten?” and Merriam smiled in a gentle, sweet way that made something very like tears come into Leighton’s eyes. “He hadn’t forgotten?” the old man repeated. “God! It was after Shiloh,—and that was yesterday!”
“He talked about you often. The war had meant a great deal to him. But I could never get him to talk to me about himself. I used to ask him for war stories, but he always put me off.”
“Most of the old fellows who really saw service felt that way, Morris. War isn’t funny. It’s what Sherman said it was! Now, I’ve said things to you, my boy, that I never meant to say to any one. I hope you won’t think hard of me for telling you of your father and my sister. But ever since I’ve known you, I’ve thought about it constantly,—your mother may know about Margaret Merriam. It was like your father to tell her. I have never seen your mother, but I hope that sometime I may know her. I may get over to commencement with you next year. They’ve put up a tablet for the Tippecanoe men who went to the war. And our names are in the big monument down here. It’s glory enough!”
“Yes, I hope you will go over to Tippecanoe with me sometime. Mother will be glad to see you.” He hesitated a moment, and added, the words coming slowly:
“My mother is the dearest woman in the world. She has made every sacrifice for me. I feel guilty these days about not having her here with me; but that will come later. You know I always go over to spend every other Sunday with her. If I prosper I’ll have a house here some day, so we can be together.”