Tiverton Tales | Page 6

warmer
because they had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome
company. So it was that, quite to her own surprise, she answered as
quickly as he spoke, and her reply also seemed an inevitable part of the

drama:--
"Walk right in. It's 'most dinner-time, an' I'll put on the pot." The two
stepped in before her, and they did not go away.
Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other
natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first, there
were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be
Enoch Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and she kept him a
week, splitting some pine knots that defied her and the boy who
ordinarily chopped her wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed
that she was "terrible tired seein' Rosie round in that gormin' kind of a
dress;" so she cut and fitted her a neat little gown from her own red
cashmere. That was the second reason. Then the neighbors heard of the
mysterious guest, and dropped in, to place and label him. At first,
following the lead of undiscouraged fancy, they declared that he must
be some of cousin Silas's connections from Omaha; but even before
Amelia had time to deny that, his ignorance of local tradition denied it
for him. He must have heard of this or that, by way of cousin Silas; but
he owned to nothing defining place or time, save that he had been in
the war--"all through it." He seemed to be a man quite weary of the past
and indifferent to the future. After a half hour's talk with him,
unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the pantry,
whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark jovially,
"Well, 'Melia, you ain't told us who your company is!"
"Mr. Willis," said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It
made a part of her new loyalty.
Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was
quite satisfied. She trusted him. He did say that Rosie's mother was
dead; for the last five years, he said, she had been out of her mind. At
that, Amelia's heart gave a fierce, amazing leap. It struck a note she
never knew, and wakened her to life and longing. She was glad Rosie's
mother had not made him too content. He went on a step or two into the
story of his life. His wife's last illness had eaten up the little place, and
after she went, he got no work. So, he tramped. He must go again.
Amelia's voice sounded sharp and thin, even to her, as she answered,--

"Go! I dunno what you want to do that for. Rosie's terrible contented
here."
His brown eyes turned upon her in a kindly glance.
"I've got to make a start somewhere," said he. "I've been thinkin' a
machine shop's the best thing. I shall have to depend on somethin'
better'n days' works."
Amelia flushed the painful red of emotion without beauty.
"I dunno what we're all comin' to," said she brokenly.
Then the tramp knew. He put his gnarled hand over one of hers. Rosie
looked up curiously from the speckled beans she was counting into a
bag, and then went on singing to herself an unformed, baby song.
"Folks'll talk," said Enoch gently. "They do now. A man an' woman
ain't never too old to be hauled up, an' made to answer for livin'. If I
was younger, an' had suthin' to depend on, you'd see; but I'm no good
now. The better part o' my life's gone."
Amelia flashed at him a pathetic look, half agony over her own lost
pride, and all a longing of maternal love.
"I don't want you should be younger," said she. And next week they
were married.
Comment ran races with itself, and brought up nowhere. The treasuries
of local speech were all too poor to clothe so wild a venture. It was
agreed that there's no fool like an old fool, and that folks who ride to
market may come home afoot. Everybody forgot that Amelia had had
no previous romance, and dismally pictured her as going through the
woods, and getting a crooked stick at last. Even the milder among her
judges were not content with prophesying the betrayal of her trust alone.
They argued from the tramp nature to inevitable results, and declared it
would be a mercy if she were not murdered in her bed. According to
the popular mind, a tramp is a distinct species, with latent tendencies
toward crime. It was recalled that a white woman had, in the old days,

married a comely Indian, whose first drink of fire-water,