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Mystery of the Locks

<h1>THE Mystery of the Locks</h1> <h2>BY E. W. HOWE</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> <h3>THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS.</h3> Davy's Bend—a river town, a failing town, and an old town, on a dark night, with a misty rain falling, and the stars hiding from the dangerous streets and walks of the failing town down by the sluggish river which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like its institutions and its people, and as the light of the wretched day that has just closed hurried away from it a few hours since. The darkness is so intense that the people who look out of their windows are oppressed from staring at nothing, for the shadows are obliterated, and for all they know there may be great caverns in the streets, filled with water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their front steps. It occurs to one of them who opens the blind to his window a moment, and looks out (and who notices incidentally that the rays from his lamp seem afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crust will form somewhere above the town, up where there is light for the living, and turn the people of Davy's Bend into rocks as solid as those thousands of feet below, which thought affects him so much that he closes his blinds and shutters tighter than before, determined that his rooms shall become caves. The rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools in the road with untiring energy, where it joins other vagrant water, and creeps off at last into the gutter, into the rivulet, and into the river, where it joins the restless tide which is always hurrying away from Davy's Bend, and bubbles and foams with joy. The citizen who observed the intense blackness of the night comes to his window again, and notes the steady falling of the rain, and in his reverie pretends to regret that it is not possible for the water to come up until his house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid of living in a place where the nights are so dark and wet that he cannot sleep for thinking of them. When he returns to his chair, and attempts to read, the pattering rain is so persistent on the roof and at the windows that the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and he thinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, Davy's Bend would at last be as well off as Ben's City; and this possibility is so pleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town, and goes to bed. At the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its single light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station, where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits the place daily,—for only a few people want to go to Davy's Bend, and not many are left to move away,—so the agent mutters at the rain and the darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, of all the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business to call him out at night. There are no people in Davy's Bend who are overworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervous or fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of time in which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressingly active is Ben's City, located in the country below them, and which is admired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction. Fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; for just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certain that the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steam whistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hills with a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; the headlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around the building, and before he has had time to look about him, or express his surprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded, and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from Davy's Bend, like the river and the people. There is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height and weight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages put off, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering what disposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire into the station with his books under his arm. Evidently the stranger is not good natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in a voice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels have no representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in the rain all night to guard his property. The agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the stranger is welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, which arrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, after both men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no one pretends to defend Davy's Bend, so the agent readily assents to whatever the stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place, while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light. When the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger, the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth of whiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this during the course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner of the packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a man not satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,—the agent is sure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is a great deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in hand to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough to fight with very little provocation. His quick, restless eyes were always busy,—the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed of in a glance,—but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certain he becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods of importance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance. "There must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of one of the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "I have been agent here a good many years; but if that is not an excess, I never had hold of one. Now for the rest of them." The work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agent steps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into his pocket. "I am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door, on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but I go in this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way. "It's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but I guess you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel stands directly at the head of the street. It's a pity that the town does not afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that ends it. I intend to go away myself as soon as I can, for the company does not treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another man could not be found to do the work as I do it for the money." By this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be as dilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he says good night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shivering awhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him, floundering in the mud at every step. There is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them, and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which he judges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as the hotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sure to run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when he realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. After travelling in this manner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad that he takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walk again in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so much rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everything is turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place by way of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a lantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in long shadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they are making a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other of being jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or to lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seem to amuse them. Apparently they have no destination, for after one of their bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as down it; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the stranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comes up to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and, locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, and puts the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it. "Tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. There will be a sensation in Davy's Bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in a year." Believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him the information he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoy their joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries the lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised, was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion, and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. The fellow who had been addressed as Tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in a queer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions of merriment than ever, and changing their position so that they support themselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, and the other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as though a stranger in Davy's Bend is very funny indeed. "There will be a train going the other way in three hours,—for both the trains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to be seen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recovering himself, and with a show of seriousness. "You had better take it, and go back; really you had. Davy's Bend will never suit you. It don't suit anybody. The last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went, and we never expected to see another one. Look at these deserted houses in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middle of the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the night is so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, and pokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. This reminds them of their joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against it with their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they did before. Meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the two odd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting his condition, he says,— "It happens that I am looking for a place that suits nobody, and one that is generally avoided. If you will point out the way to the hotel, I will decide that question for myself to-morrow." The little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel is mentioned. "I never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, and starting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambled along like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "It is my business to be at the station when the train arrives, to look for passengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but it seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; so I thought I'd spend the time with Tug." The man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to making explanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the way he is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately, while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps he is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself. However this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keep up, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred to as Tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room is made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly to turn up on the right. Thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim light appears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, the stranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course in which they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river and the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it ended in the other with the station. Another street crosses here at right angles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to the left. When the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, the traveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it has been patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose for which it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down two steps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone is compelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to the rooms above. In its better days the room used as an office had probably been a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour. "I am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as he brings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examination because both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used when leaning against the wall. "I am sorry I was not at the station to meet you; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that I hope you will not mention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring to the proprietor sleeping above. The arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before him were to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting as clerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler and waiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of this fellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so he turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollecting that he himself had suddenly become very grave. "This is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing out a chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest; "but it is the best Davy affords. The hotel, though, is better than the town; you will find that out soon enough." A small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that the light is upon him. He may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged in some ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; but it is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face, which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on either side, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it will go hard with him. After looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, the stranger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him," whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "Davy" is a familiar way of referring to Davy's Bend, he notices that the man who has already been called Tug, and who has found a chair and is sitting bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. He also remarks that Tug is hideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which has once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that it glistens in the lamplight. He has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard, both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkward person; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idle examination, that one of Tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open, while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to be aiming at something. When Tug winks with the eye that is wide open, the one that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the example presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, so that the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking a tremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right. Tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of the stranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that the stranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye. Tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easily as in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resolute at one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. Although he is looking straight at him, Tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts are not always in Davy's Bend; and, while thinking that the stranger has important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from the kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf of bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler. Covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, he places the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help himself. The stranger declined, but he noticed that Tug, from his position against the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with first a long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend he walked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenous appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enough to strangle him. This convinced the stranger that the lunch was really prepared for Tug, and that there would have been disappointment had he accepted the clerk's invitation. "I don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself, and apparently enjoying the manner in which Tug was disposing of the cold meat, "but my name is Silas Davy. I am what is known as a good fellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. He discovered this town, or located it, or settled here first, or something of that kind, and once had a great deal of property; but, being a good fellow, he couldn't keep it. If you will give me your name, I will introduce you to my friend, Mr. Tug Whittle." "I don't care to know him," the guest replied, somewhat ill-humoredly, his restless eyes indicating that his thoughts had just returned from a journey out in the world somewhere, as they finally settled on Tug. "I don't like his looks." Tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the guest with his right eye, and, after swallowing his last mouthful, with an effort, pointed a finger at him, to intimate that he was about to speak. "Did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off the train to-night?" he inquired, in a deep bass voice, still pointing with his bony finger, and aiming along it with his little eye. The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, but at last said he was the only passenger for Davy's Bend. "I was expecting more of my wife's kin," Tug said, with an angry snort, taking down his finger to turn over the meat-bone, and using his eye to look for a place not yet attacked. "Come to think about it, though, they are not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach town on foot, in the morning. They are too poor to ride. I wish they were too sick to walk, damn them. Do you happen to know what the word ornery means?" The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply again, but finally shook his head, after some hesitation. "Well," the ugly fellow said, "if you stay here,—which I don't believe you will, for you look too much like a good one to remain here long,—I'll introduce you not only to the word but to the kin. After you have seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls you ornery." Finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclusion of this speech, Mr. Whittle went on with his eating, and was silent. "There are a great many people who do not like Tug's looks," the clerk went on to say, without noticing the interruption, and looking admiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why he was not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you are suspicious of him. I do not say it with reference to you, for you do not know him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of his mind. He knows too much to suit them, and they hate him." By this time Tug had wiped up everything before him, and after transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to his sleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside, and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness. "I suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at The Locks to-night," Silas Davy said. "And the windows! Lord, how the windows must rattle! I've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and windows at The Locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at it to-night, for I have never known it to be so oppressive and still before." "And the light," Tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger a moment, and directing it toward Davy. "Yes, the light, of course," Davy assented. "They say—I don't know who says it in particular, but everybody says it in general—that on a night like this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upper room, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sitting down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed. There is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those who visit the house are not permitted to enter it. I have never seen the light myself, but I have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and it was as silent on the inside as a tomb. The windows and shutters being noisy on quiet nights, I suppose they feel the need of a rest when the wind is blowing." The guest was paying a good deal of attention, and Davy went on talking. "The place has not been occupied in a great many years. The man who built it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in Davy's Bend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that he has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; I suppose it is not good enough for him now, for I am told that he is very proud. He has been trying to sell the place ever since, but Davy began going down hill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily ever since that nobody will take it. And I don't blame them, for it is nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, and respectable-looking, and well furnished." The guest's mind is evidently in Davy's Bend now, for he has been paying close attention to the clerk as he talks in a modest easy fashion, even neglecting his first ambition to stare Mr. Whittle out of countenance. It may be that he is in need of an establishment, and is looking out for one; but certainly he takes considerable interest in the place Silas Davy referred to as The Locks. "Who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted the clerk to inquire. The clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to that portion of the room where the counter was located, took from a nail a brass ring containing a number of keys of about the same size. "Here are the keys," Davy said, returning to his chair, and holding them up for inspection. "Number one admits you to the grounds through the iron gate; number two opens the front door; number three, any of the rooms leading off from the hall down stairs; number four, any of the rooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number five and number six, any of the other rooms. We are the agents, I believe, though am not certain; but anyway we keep the keys. The place came to be known as The Locks because of the number of keys that were given to those who applied to see it, and The Locks it has been ever since." The stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room awhile, thinking all the time so intently that it occurred to Tug that he was puzzled to decide whether his family would consent to live in a place which had the reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light. "I would like to see this house," he said, stopping in his walk finally, and addressing Davy. "I may become a purchaser. Will you show me the way to it, now?" Up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, Tug had occupied himself by aiming at the stranger, but as if the suggestion of a walk up to The Locks was pleasing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards the door. Silas Davy made no other reply than to put the ring containing the keys on his arm, and, putting out the light, the three men stepped out into the rain together. The Locks appear to be located towards the river; not down where the railway train stops to take people on who desire to get away from Davy's Bend, but higher up the street running at right angles in front of the hotel, for the men walk in that direction, Davy and Tug ahead carrying the lantern, with their arms locked together, and the stranger behind, who thinks the two men are a queer pair, for they seem to enjoy being out in the rain, and one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently but timidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the stranger recognizes as signifying pleasure. Occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on reaching a particularly bad place, and when he has passed it they go on again; up hill and down, toward the river, and when they stop at last, it is so dark that the stranger does not know that they have reached a stone wall with an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes entirely up to them. The lock turns heavily, and Tug condescends to hold the lantern while Silas applies both hands to the key. Upon the inside a long stone walk, leading toward the house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch is reached, where they are out of the rain. Silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his arm, and, once more calling upon Tug to hold the light, opens the door, and they all enter the wide hall. Considering that the house has not been occupied for eight years, it is in good condition. As they walk through the different rooms, Davy opening the doors from the bunch of keys on his arm, the stranger notices that they are decently furnished, everything being plain and substantial; and he hears for the first time, while standing in front of the door that is not to be opened, that an old lady and her grand-daughter live on the grounds in a detached building, who, when she sees fit, airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there for eight years, in the pay of the owner. This explains the good condition of everything, and they continue their investigation by the dim light of the lantern. There are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the attic, all of them furnished, from the kitchen to the parlor; and the stranger is so well pleased that he inquires the rent asked, and the purchase price. Silas Davy is not certain as to either, but promises that his proprietor will give full particulars in the morning. "I will take the house," the stranger finally says, after a lamp has been found and lighted, and seating himself in a chair as an intimation that he is ready for the two men to depart. "If I do not buy it I will rent it, and I will stay here to-night." Tug is willing to depart at once, but Silas lags behind, and seems to be ill at ease. "Have you any objection to giving me your name, that I may record it at the house?" he respectfully asks. "Oh, my name," the stranger returns. "Sure enough; I had forgotten that." It seems to have escaped him, for while Silas stands waiting, he studies for a long time, contracting his brow until he looks so fierce and savage that Tug, who has been aiming at him from the door, steps out into the hall to get out of the way. "You may register me as Allan Dorris," he said at last, getting up from his chair, and looking confused, "from Nowhere-in-Particular. It is not important where I am from, so long as I am responsible; and I will convince your proprietor of that in the morning. You will oblige me if you will step over to the quarters of the old lady you spoke of, and inform her that there is a new master at The Locks, and that he has taken possession. When you return I will show you out." "I neglected to mention," Silas says, after making a note of what the stranger has said on an envelope, "that you can open and close the gate from this room, and lock and unlock it. There is also a speaking-tube leading from this room, whereby you can converse with persons on the outside. I will call you up when I go out. It is located here, behind the door." The two men step over to examine it, and Tug creeps in to look too, and after sighting at it awhile returns to the hall. The apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of chains running over pulleys and disappearing through the floor, and a speaking-tube. Silas explains that when the lever is up the gate is open, and when it is down the gate is shut and locked. Both men try it, and conclude that, with a little oil, it will work very well, leaving it open so that the men may pass out. There being no further excuse for remaining, Silas and his ugly friend start down the stairs, the stranger holding the light at the top; and after they have passed out of the door and slammed it to work the spring lock, and tried it to see that it is locked, Allan Dorris returns to the room they have just left. The grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is kindling at the bottom, probably put there years before, judging by the dust; and the stranger lights this, intending to dry his wet clothing. While about it there is a whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it and replying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere to the effect that Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper, is delighted to hear that the house is to be occupied at last; that she will call upon the new master in the morning to pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements for the future; and, good night. The stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever down, which closes and locks the gate, and returns to the fire, which is burning brightly by this time. "Allan Dorris, from Nowhere-in-Particular," he mutters after he is seated, and while watching his steaming garments. There is an amused look on his face at first, as he repeats the name, but a frown soon takes its place, that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair, and looks at the fire. At length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets up and walks the floor, pausing occasionally to look curiously at the pictures on the walls, or at the carpet, or at the furniture. If he returns to his chair, the frown appears on his face again, and once more he walks to get rid of his thoughts. This is continued so long that the darkness finally gets tired of looking in at the windows, and hurries away at the approach of day. From time to time, as the light increases, he steps to the window and looks out; and when walking away, after a long look at Davy's Bend through the morning mist, he mutters:— "Allan Dorris, if you are from Nowhere-in-Particular, you are at home again." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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