The dark corner

Front matter

Copyright))?

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

r ■

Chapter I

At dusk one evening, in the front room of an old-time country home, with big white pillars in front, set hack in a grove of red oak trees, surrounded by woods and fields and red hills, a ten-year-old boy sat writing at a desk. It was not a desk either, come to think of it; in the Thompson family it went by the name of *^the secretary.^’ It was of mahogany, one of these old tall combination arrangements, half book-case, half writing desk, and half — for the secretary was not like ordinary things, confined to two halves — a cabinet of great, heavy drawers. And broken knobs were on some of the drawers, some of the knobs now inside the drawers, where they had been for generations. One of the drawers was locked, had been locked for generations, and the key lost, so that to “get” into it the drawer just above had to be taken out. Inside of this drawer, besides the broken knobs, were some old dingy yellow books, bound in leather, some odd papers, bundles of letters with quaint-looking stamps on them, some carpet tacks, odd stockings, bits of “fiddle rawzum,” a few tintype pictures of grandmother when she wa!s a little girl, or of Uncle Joe and Aunt Ethel when they went to town one day to the county fair; also a box of old pills, two or three disintegrated door locks, some strings tangled with picture wire, old buttons, nails, tooth brushes, and a few other things. YouVe seen them. No one wanted any of these things; yet nobody thought of throwing them away, or would have dared do so if he had.

No, there was no secret drawer or blind receptacle in the secretary, containing hidden treasure or a lost mortgage or a purloined will, which affect the course of family history. There was no great mystery about it; at least none to be revealed in this story. It may have had its mysteries; it doubtless did, for it had been in its same place in the front room there before even Aunt Tildy could remember. Aunt Tildy had lived in the little log cabin in the back yard ever since she was a little girl ; now her hair was snowy white, and she could not walk without a cane. Yes, traditions clustered about the secretory, but the only real mystery which could not be easily solved was what was on top of it; for even standing upon the highest table in the room or upon the window ledge next to it, no one in this generation had ever been able to see over the quaintly carved and broken edge of the “top piece.” Greatgrandmother’s portrait, with a hundred cracks across the face, hung just to the left and above. As if with her dim, cracked eyes she were watching there day and night, she alone seemed to know for certain what was up there.

Here sat the ten-year- old boy in a big arm chair. With his feet resting on the round of the chair, his knees pushed up against the underside of the straight mahogany writing-board of the secretary, and his little chest, shoulders, and head bent far over above, he looked not unlike a great clamp clasping the edge of the writing-board. As he sat thus, a little dark-complexioned girl, a few years younger than he, with rosy cheeks, silken brown hair hanging in ringlets down upon her plump little shoulders, came and looked up into his face with a pair of big blue eyes and pleaded with him to come out into the yard and play.

“You said you was cornin’ wight after supper,” she said. “Now you sit’n down here witin’ in that old book again.”

He looked up at her and smiled, twisted one of the curls around his pen staff, revealing a red scar on the side of her left temple, and thought with a little feeling of regret of the time when he had accidentally burned her there with a hot poker, and of his mother’s

THE DABK COENEH S

saying the scar would be there always. He played fiirther with the curl by putting his lips to it and catching some of the hair between his teeth. Then, after first glancing over his shoulder to see if the man in the far corner of the room had his newspaper between himself and them, he reached over and was about to press his lips to hers, but she ran away. She stopped, though, in the doorway, and shaking the curls at him, said, ‘‘ain’t you cornin’ ?”

“All right,” he said. “Wait a little while longer. I’ll be there directly.”

She went back crestfallen. He went on writing with his big pen in his big book, dipping frequently into a big bottle of faded brown ink before him, pausing now and then, his inky forefinger pressed against the side of his big little nose, his big gray eyes fixed steadily upon the shelves in front, while his little brows were knit in what he thought was thought.

During one of these pauses let us peep upon his page and see what he has written :

“I have about come to the decision that this thing you call common sense is mighty scarce among women, they talk & talk about things what they don’t know nothing about, and the worst thing about them is nobody can’t tell them nothing about them. But Uncle Joe says boys will be boys and I reckin women will be women.”

Then after the pause — ^he puts stars where he pauses, — is this:

“And they ain’t no difference between women they are all alike even to little girls.”

Here are some more stars, probably representing the interruption made by the little girl with brown curls, for just underneath them is this :

“But there is one little girl which ain’t, that is, she is different now but there is no telling when they grow up. I won’t write what her name is cause I want to wait and see.”

This was Jim Thompsor^. “James Carlton Thomp* son” it was in the big B.ibI? on the center-table in the parlor, but everywhere elsq it was “Jim.” Even on the torn and dirty fiy-leaf of ”^he book in which he wrote, amidst some much older writing — ^his father’s name and sundry memoranda — ^now scratched out, was written in a large, uneven, unformed hand, this sign:

‘^Jim Thompson

Strickly Private

The man what reads in this book ain’t a gentleman except the arthur.”

It must have been that some female member of the household, coming across the book in some of her dusting expeditions, had considered that the injimction did not apply to her, for a little lower down on the page, some scratched out name between, the “arthur” had made a short addendum reading, “and no lady neither.”

It was still early in the evening. The little girl with the brown curls came again, and this time looked at him with what she meant for reproach.

“I fought you was cornin’ to play. Mrs. Thompson says we can’t play but a little while longer. Then we have to wash our feet and go to bed. And you haven’t played with us at all to-night. Please come on, Jim. I go’n to wait wight here on this twimk till you shut up that old book and come on.”

Jim hastily threw down his i)en and shoved the book into the back of the secretary, and the next minute, to the delight of all the children, particularly the little girl, whom they called “Amy,” he was in the yard playing “I sp3r” with them.

Annie, Jim’s sister, two years older than he, was counting. After calling “All hid I” several times and getting no answer to her last call, she began stealing around among the shadows of the trees and the outhouses.

“I spy Joe behind the weU.” But Joe, running very fast, got “home” before Annie. Joe was a little sevenyear-old pickaninny. There was another negro boy, twelve years old, a fat, bow-legged boy of a “gingerbread brown,” whom the children all called “Ole Simon.” As Annie was looking the other way Ole Simon slipped out from imder the piazza steps and, running as fast as his fat duck legs would carry him, he slapped the tree, wliich was “home,” before Annie saw him.

All were accounted for except Amy and Jim. Annie peeped under the steps, then around the big tree just beyond the well-house, behind the hen-house, under the edge of the kitchen piazza; but she could find them nowhere. Venturing further from home, she was full thirty feet beyond the well, when, hearing a scampering behind her, she turned to find Jim letting Amy down from the shelf just under the eaves of the well-house.

“Run, Amy, run,” cried Jim. “That’s fine I Whoopee! That’s fine!”

“Home fee!” cried Amy in ecstasy.

But in his enthusiasm for Amy, Jim had forgotten to run himself. Annie espied him and touched the tree for him, so that he was “It.” Amy was disappointed, for now she had to hide for herself. When Jim put his face up to the tree and began to count, she looked about for a place to hide, finally slipping into a wooden box on the piazza. Soon afterwards, as she loosed her skirt from a nail on the edge of the box, the negro boy. Ole Simon, with a broad grin on his face hopped into the box with her.

“Now you git out o’ here,” she said.

Instinctively she shrank from him, and her eyes flashed in such a way that even if the negro boy could not see them there in the dark, he felt their effect. But he only grinned and said, “I ain’ gwi do it.”

“Git out, I tell you, you black nigger. This is my place. I was in here first.”

Jim would have heard her this time, but he was singing out at the top of his voice: “Five- ten-fifteentwenty,” and so on. Simon made an ugly face at her and sat down in the box with a sullen look.

“All hid?” cried Jim.

“Make Ole Simon git out o’ here. He ain’t got no business in here. I was in here first.”

Amy stood up in the box, while Simon crawled slowly out, making another face at her, and saying something to her which Jim could not hear. She began to cry.

^‘What’s the matter, Amy?” asked Jim, climbing up upon the piazza and lifting her out of the box. She drew her sleeve across her face.

“Ole Simon,” she began, but broke out into violent sobbing. Jim turned to the negro boy, who usually was £? great favorite with all the children, except Amy, and said hotly :

“What did you say to her, Simon ?”

“Oh, nothin’. Come on, Amy, I’ll give you de box. I never meant nothin’.”

“What did you say to her?” demanded Jim.

“Oh, nothin’, I tell yer. She knows I wuz jes funnin’.”

Here Amy, in the midst of her sobs and with her flushed little face covered with her sleeve, sobbed out:

“He — ^made — faces — at — me.”

“I never,” declared Simon stubbornly.

“What did he say to you?” asked Jim, looking angrily towards Simon.

“I never said nothin’ to her,” said Simon, going sullenly toward the well. Jim’s eyes followed him till he saw him sit down on the edge of the well platform. Then Jim turned again to Amy, and tenderly putting his arm around her waist, tried to soothe her.

“Don’t cry, Amy. He sha’n’t play with us any more.”

“He called me—”

She stopped again and sobbed.

“Go on, Amy, I’ll fix him. You tell me what he called you.”

Then reassured, and soothed by Jim’s tender embrace, she finished her sentence, though she still sobbed between each word.

“He — called — me — ^poor — white — trash.”

Jim rushed toward Simon, who stood up and protested with a show of indignation, “I never done no sich er thing.”

But protestations or denials were not in order. Jim dealt him a blow square in the nose, and the broad, flat organ emitted blood while it assisted another organ just below to emit a loud bawl. But Ole Simon had a little game in him as well as blood and bawl. He was larger than Jim and stronger, though Jim was lither

THE BAEK CORNER 1

of body and more active, so that when Simon grabbed at him and they clinched, Jim tripped him and he fell, pulling Jim on top of him. Then tliey rolled over, kicking and scratching and tearing at each other, imtil Jim caught Simon around the neck with his left arm and began to pound vigorously with his right fist. But in a moment Jim himself yelled as he felt the negro’s teeth pinching him in the left side. This little bit of strategy added considerably to the fury of the fray. Jim loosed his hold around Simon’s neck, and, wrenching himself away, concluded that he, too, would introduce a new instrument of warfare, and proceeded to make a vigorous and most effective attack upon the enemy’s left flank with his right foot. This brought a wild yell from Simon, who grabbed a brickbat which lay near him, and slowly rose to his feet. J im stood coolly watching him and looking him in the eye, daring him.

^‘What’s this ? What’s this ?”

The boys looked up and saw the fiery eyes of Mrs. Thompson on the porch. Annie and Amy had run in fright into the house and told her.

“We wuz jes playin’,” said Simon, breathing very rapidly and looking frightened.

“No, we weren’t just playing,” spoke up Jim, also breathing rapidly, but looking more angrily at the negro. “He called Amy ‘Poor white trash,’ and 1 mashed his nose for him.”

“Naw you never nuther, an’ ef you did I bit you till you hollered.”

Jim glared at him and moved toward him. Things looked threatening again, but Mrs. Thompson ordered Jim to go into the house, and gave Simon to understand that she and his mother would attend to his case on the morrow.

“I’m ashamed of you that you cannot play without getting into a fight with negroes,” said Mrs. Thompson to Jim when they had got inside.

“Well, Mamma,” he replied, “you turned off Betsey ’cause she called Amy ‘white trash,’ and I ain’t goin’ to let any nigger call her that, or treat her mean. Amy’s as good as any girl in the world.”

His little face flushed deeply, and his gray eyes, for the first, time, became moist. His mother looked at him calmly for an instant, then stooped down and kissed him on the brow. He looked towards the little girl standing in the door, who just then turned and stepped back into the hall so he could not see her, for she was crying again; and this time she did not know why.

The next morning, as the autumn sun streamed through the tinted trees of the lawn, a man wearing a white hat, in a white-top wagon, with a white, bony horse, drove up to the front gate. The man, the wagon, the horse, the hat seemed much the worse for wear, much worn from a weary journey. It was Saturday morning, and Jim was sitting on the steps waiting for Amy, whom he had promised to take to gather nuts in the woods across the way. The man was a tall, thin man, very pale, slightly stooped, and he coughed violently several times as he slowly walked up to the steps and asked for Mrs. Thompson. That was the beginning of a day that Jim never forgot, and pages and pages about it are written in the big book which he kept in the secretary.

It was a quiet day. There was no noise, nor the pall of death, nor the excitement that usually attends dom^tic turnings. Few realized the meaning of that day. Jim did not till upward .through the years of his life it crept steadily and fatefully over him. It was the beginning of one of those quiet tragedies in life which extend through many, many years, and the culmination of which is attended with no demonstration save in heaven alone.

Jim had no conception of this, not even the vaguest suggestion of it. Yet in his little breast there was a strange feeling he was deeply conscious of. That afternoon he stood leaning against a tree with his forefinger pressed against the side of his nose and watched the white-top wagon with the white horse pass slowly down the hill beneath the spreading branches of the great oak trees which shaded the road. He saw the man get out at the end of the lawn, open the big green gate upon which he and Amy had used to swing, then get back into the wagon; and wagon and horse, and father and daughter moved on. Little Amy had gone.

Jim went into the house and began writing in his book, but the pen was scratchy, the ink was too pale, and his fingers had the cramp. He got his hat, took a book from the shelf, the first one his hand touched, and walked down to the spring. He drank some water out of the cracked gourd that hung on a forked stick beside the spring, then sat down on the grass, leaned up against the great poplai* tree which shaded the spring, and opened his book. He read about three pages, but for some reason he could not get interested in the book. It was Spencer’s Synthetic Philosophy. So he walked up the hill and out into the woods. Wandering a long time amongst the big trees, Spencer’s Synthetic Philosophy under his arm, he decided to make some visible record of the thoughts and feelings within him, some living testimonial to future generations, calling these big trees and the squirrels and pecker-woods and jay birds to witness. He sat down a long time and considered. At length he tore out one of the fly-leaves of the Synthetic Philosophy and wrote on it with a blunt pencil he took from his breeches pocket :

“I solemnly declare in the presence of this vast forest that I, James Carlton Thompson, age 10, do love Amy Cannon so help me God.”

With this inscription on it, the fly-leaf of the Synthetic Philosophy was carefully folded up. After nervously looking around in every direction to be sure there was nothing else in the presence save the vast forest, he concealed it in a hole in a large hickory tree. Then he walked around and around in the “vast forest” before going out, so as to confuse the minds of any chance observers. The testimonial was for future generations, not this one.

But that night in the big ledger was described the exact position of the sacred tree, which would now go down into history, alongside the Charter Oak, the Washington Elm, and the Appomattox Apple Tree; though in order that no other of the household should discover his secret, the big ledger was taken out of the secretary and kept in the bottom of his trunk underneath his clothes for the next three weeks.

Chapter II

“Professor Tilson is coming. Pa,” said little Alice King to her father one evening just after supper. This announcement caused something of a commotion in the family. Mr. King was reading the paper and Mrs. King was giving some directions to the cook.

“Run and light the lamp in the parlor,” said that lady to Alice. “Go to the door, Erank. Come here first, let me straighten your collar — there ! Button your coat — now — that’s right. Now, Son, see how nice you can bow when you mee^ him. Ask him into the parlor and say ^Excuse me. Professor, and allow me to go and tell Father’ — Wait ! say it over before you go. What are you going to say?”

“Excuse me. Mister, and let ”

“Excuse me. Professor/^ corrected his mother.

“Excuse me. Professor,” repeated the apt pupil in the polite art, “and let me go and tell Paw.”

“Go and tell Father” again corrected the careful mother.

“Go tell Father,” repeated the hoy. This was not exactly correct and the mother showed a slight disappointment, but she said, “All right, that will do, I suppose. Be sure you say it that way, now, when you get out there. Run ahead. He’s about to ring the bell. Wait!” — She whispered now — “Don’t be too quick. Let him ring the bell first. Now.”

The mother, father, and sister then took their positions behind the door and peeped through the crack upon the scene between the two heroes, their distinguished visitor and the promising young exponent of the King family.

Now, come with me. Ladies and Gentlemen, just a little way apart, and I will introduce you to Professor

Jefferson Marquinius Tilson. To be perfectly frank, though, it puzzles me to know where you have been all the time that you do not know him. I much fear me, you argpe yourselves unknown, but let us not parley; we are in the presence of greatness. He stands at the door waiting. He has on a blue Prince Albert coat, a vest cut low in front so that two large diamond studs can be seen on the bosom of his white shirt. They may be paste, but that matters not; they sparkle. Rather tall is he, though it is only on occasions that he assumes his full height. Who is he? Why, the professor of the school at Hollisville — no, not that either; if you had read the circulars or the advertising sections of the county and church papers, or if you had kept up with what is going on in the world, with who^s who in America, and who’s ‘Tt,” you would know that he is the President of the H. C. M. I.

H. C. M. I!

It is not possible you do not know what those illustrious characters stand for ? when there are 7 professors, 139 students, and 14 counties represented, each student wearing on the visor of his cap these letters wrought in gold ? Do you live so remote from civilization as not to be reached by mail that you have not received circulars and “commencement” invitations, each bearing two full-page pictures of the celebrated Jefferson Marquinius Tilson, one dressed as we have seen him, and the other in full military uniform with gold cords and tassels? But, perchance, you do not live in any of these 14 counties. You live, peradventure, in western Pennsylvania, and have in mind the famous Pushtown Institute. You have had time only for the perusal of the literature of that renowned institution, where there are students from 19 counties. Or do you live in Kansas, where your time has been absorbed with the literature of the far-famed Blowburg Military Academy ? Then, after all, you must have some information about the distinguished gentleman who has now stepped inside the hall with little Frank King. But I have introduced you. Get acquainted with him yourself. You may watch him, if you like, with the three members of the King family, through the crack of the door. You need not fear that you will not be able to get a good idea of him by merely looking at Him; for as Ed Oldham, who lives in Hollisville and who came to know the great man passing well, was wont to remark, ^^The biggest part of him is on the outside.”

The Professor walks in, hears with becoming and impressive dignity Frank’s neat speech, hangs his hat — his silk hat — on the rack, places his cane, his goldheaded cane, in the rack, and takes a peep into the glass. Frank turns and goes to tell Paw — I stand corrected; I mean “Father” — but just at this moment the Professor notices something interesting in the looks of the dining-room door, and an idea occurs to him. Ideas frequently occur to the Professor. He lays a patronizing, benevolent hand upon the promising head of Frank, and observes, in a tone somewhat louder than absolutely necessary for the tender ears of the awestricken youth below him:

“Why, Frank, my boy, you deport yourself like a little man. You will be a man, too, after a while, and I hope when you are, you will be a great man.”

The Professor took pains just here that his pupil, and those other pupils close to the crack of the dining-room door, should have an opportunity of seeing a good example of a great man. Accordingly, he straightened himself up, buttoned the lowest button of his Prince Albert coat, and struck an attitude.

“Your father is a gi’eat man, too, Frank.”

With this, the great man meant by the little word “too” walked impressively into the parlor. Frank was smothered with congratulatory kisses wlien he reached the dining-room.

In a few minutes. Captain King came into the parlor and the two great men entered first into a conversation on the weather. After they had agreed that it was a pleasant night and both had expressed an opinion as to whether or not it would rain and whether or not if it were to rain it would help or hurt the crops, Tilson took from his pocket a letter which he handed Captain King to read. This letter was from Miss Hall, Tilson’s “confidential secretary,” and read as foUows:

THE BARK CORNER 13

^^Mr. Thompson came to see me to-night, and I know you are anxious to hear at once about him. He is rather tall and well proportioned. He looks young, and a good many, besides himself, think he is handsome. I judge by his conversation that he is much older than he looks, for he is very serious-minded and dignified. He has deep gray eyes, which at times are very penetrating, and he appears to look right through you when you talk to him. He has a very amiable expression in the mouth. I think there is more real expression in the mouth than in any other feature. He goes clean-shaven, and has a very interesting face.

^‘He talks a good deal. You asked me to notice es- I)ecially if he talks slowly, saying that no man of brains drawls out what lie has to say. Well, he does not exactly drawl, but he does speak very deliberately at times. At other times, though, he seems to talk very rapidly, as if he were in a desperate hurry. This is when he seems to be talking through you as well as looking through you.

^^He is very bright, I think, but I am afraid he knows it. He is a little bit conceited, some say; but I would not say so, exactly. I do fear, though, that he is somewhat impractical. Some of his ideas about school work are very theoretical. This may be because he has been teaching in the graded schools here. You remember you said the graded schools in all such towns as Glendale were very impractical. Still he may be all right when he gets into our ways.

^‘He is a pleasant man socially, and has an agreeable though a somewhat awkward address. I think he is a great reader and likes to talk about books. I believe he likes to be thought learned.

‘T have made careful inquiries about him from the people I know who know anything about him, and they all say he is an excellent young man, although I have heard one or two of the boys say he is somewhat of a crank. I asked him what was the least salary he would take, and he said he had not thought about that at all, but he finally said he would expect about $60 a month.”

14 THE HAKK COKNEH

Captain King, when he had read this letter, ran his eye carefully over it again. He turned it over, upside down, and sideways, inspecting the margins all around. He was looking for something which he could not understand the writer’s leaving out. He took up the envelope, felt inside of it, then opened it and looked inside. He glanced over the letter again, turned it over and upside down again. Finally, looking wi^ a puzzled expression at Tilson, he stroked his beard, scratched his nose, and opened his mouth.

“Is he a Bab-tis?”

He did not say “Baptist,” but “Bab-tis.”

“Well, I teU you,” began Tilson in an apologetic tone, drawing up his chair so as to get squarely in front of the chairman in a more confidential position, as if they had reached the real business of the evening. “You see, I have been thinking we ought to have one Methodist in the school, because we can then get the Methodists to send to us.”

Captain King gravely stroked his beard.

“I don’t like to see them get a foothold.”

“Do you think one out of seven will make much difterence?” replied Tilson, adding very quickly, “Of course, now, you know best; but you see, our school is bound to be Baptist. At the same time, 1 don’t want to miss getting students from Methodist families.”

Captain King continued stroking his beard, and slowly nodded.

“He’s a good man,” urged Tilson. “He graduated with honors and has a good reputation. It would sound mighty well to have his name on our circulars. The only thing is the pay. What do you think we ought to pay him should we decide to take him?”