TIE MAN WHO WAS SOME ONE ELSE.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1776, 14 June 1913, Page 28

TIE MAN WHO WAS SOME ONE ELSE.

A SHORT STORY.

This capital'little story of the transformation of a appeared some years ago in an American magazine flora the pen Ellis Parker Butler.

AFTER thinking of himself in a certain way .for', many years, tho first thing Henry Wilkins know ho discovered he was some ono else. It was a terrible sliock to him. Imagino it yourself. 'Supposo you had believed for many years that you were a ■young man, and had a pvcasanc smilo and nico manners; and day after day, and year after year, had always been contented and cheerful and kind-spoken, scattering sunshine. Then suppose you. / suddenly awoke to the fact that you were not this ■at all, but somo ono quite different. It would bo a terrible shock. That is what happened to Henry .Wilkins. Along about the time Henry was fortyfive and his eldest daughter was sixteen and his wife was forty, Henry bought a new cow. He really did not need another cow, but he was able to get,-it at a bargain, and there wa9 room enough for it in the cow-shed. If he had not bought the cow, he might nevei' hero ■known that he was some one else. * It was a. hot August day. The dust was ankle-deep in the road, tho sun was broiling hot, and the leaves on the trees ■drooped, as Henry walked along tho road, leading the cow home to his own pasture. It was a long wall*?, and especially long because the cow did not want to go with Henry. She lagged along, dragging back, and occasionally jerking back. She had a calf at her old home that she thoujrht she: ought not to desert. It was hard, tiresomo work for Henry. One of his Islioes was rubbing up a blister on his meel, too, and something he had eaten iad given him indigestion. He got the cow homo at last, and put jher in the pasture. It was three o'clock, and he had had no dinner, so he walked down to the kitchen, pulling the screen " door shut with a slam. As she heard the | door, his wife came running in from the front room. She was a worn-looking woman, and her dress was a faded calico, and in her eyes was a constant look of mingled hopefulness and apprehension. The fact was that she was an easily pleased-creature; but her eyes seemed to indicate that she was in constant expectation of something to make, her unhappy. "Bought a new cow, Henry?" she asked, hurrying to the hot stove, where his dinner was partly ready. "You look clear tired out." "Uh!" said Henry, gruffly, looking anywhere but at his wife. He pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table. Another chair interfered with his feet. Ho gave it a kick tnat sent it banging on its back. He looked at it with a Bcowl, and his wife picked it up and stood it against, the wall. . "Ain't my dinner never gom to be ready?" he asked snappishly. "Why can't you leave that chair alone and git my dinner for me? Or have I got to sit here all day a-waitin'?" Thero was nothing but apprehension in his wife's eyes now. She hurriedly lifted a pan off the stove, removing tho lid at f the same moment. "I'm sorry, Henry," she said, "but I ■do believe these beans• has, got scorcheda little." ' . Henry poked into them, with his knife, and made a sour month at them. "If I was pertendin' to keep house," he growled, "I'd tend to " He let his voice die away in hopeless, 'dejection. It cut and grated on his wife a nerve's as if she had been stabbed with a file: but she took a new grip on her hopefulness, and - . spoke""ch'c6rfully. "That looks"' like a go6d cow you got, she said. "Looks like she would be a good milker. You always was a. good one to pick out cows." " , . , , Henry bent round-backed over his plate, and frowned. - "Yes," lie said sneenngly, I bought a cow; an' if I bought a cow, it's bought, an' it won't do you no good to throw it '« up at me. I'm runnin' this place, an, when I want to buy cows, or anything else, ' I'll:buy them, an' I won't ask your lief, neither. A man can't even eat his meals without von begin makin' objections to things. I'll buy forty cows, if I see fit, an' a man ought to be able to buy a cow with his own money without beiu' plagued to death at his meals over it. I'm tired of this eternal kickin' about everything I do. I wisht you'd shut up, an' keep sliut up." , ~ That was what Henry Wilkins said and how- he acted, and the odd thing was that liis : wife did not seem surprised to have such 'words and actions come from a man ■ always contented and cheerful, scattering sunshine day after day. She actually seemed used to it. She was, used to it. It was.the regular daily and hourly thing. , Thero was a step in the nest room, and Mrs.-Wilkins moved quickly to the door. She stepped into the next room, and thought she closed the door, but it swung open a crack. . "Pa in the kitchen?" Henry heard a fresh young voice ask. "Yes, he's there," he heard his wife gay; "but I guess you'd better not say anything about it now, Allie. Your pa ain't' hisself this afternoon." "But I've got to tell him - sometime, Ma,"' he heard Allie say, "and he ain't ever hisself any more. I'd never get to tell him jf I waited until he was." v He heard no more, for his wife closed tho door more securely; but what he had heard.only made him more'morose.' He slarnmed his knife on the table—he had eaten-everything in sight first, you may be sure—slammed bis chair into a corner, and slammed himself out of the kitchen. Ho walked to the barn, uttering incoherent, half-oaths under his breath, and then (iicked up a hoo and threw it the whole length of the barn,. It struck on the head, and the head broke off. Ho cursed the hoc, energetically. Henry seated himself on the barn stairs and'looked/gloomily at the opposite wall. He felt ab. that moment the full injustice of the world. Hero he, was always contented and- cheerful aud kind-spoken, a pleasant voung man; and thero was the world, and everything in the world, rearing up and nrovokinc him and being so— wTblamed unjust as,to make him appear cross and ugly-tempered. Ho was so mad nbout it that ho-yanked up a rake and slammed it after the hoe. It did not mend the hoo; it broke the rake. Ho went over and kicked tho rake, and tho handle flew up and struck him across the cheek. When Henry Wilkins went out of the barn he "was still scowling; but he was still Henry "Wilkins—still the good-natur-ed, pleasant young man, though he admitted to himself that he had reason to object to the way the world acted. That evening Allie spoke to him/ It was the day the "Weekly News" arrived, and-the one evening of the summer week when Henry did not go angrily to bed as soon as tho chores were don 6. Fridays he tat up a while and read the paper. He was sitting in his easy-chair when Allie glided over to him and put ono arm about his neck, No matter how cross Henry might be with others, there was ono tiling he-prided himself on: ho was always good and kind and a model father to Allie. So now he grunted and pushed • her arm roughly away. "•Vin't there nowhere to sit but atop ot me, I'd like to know?" he whined. "Seems like a man don't never Ret a minute's peaco to read his paper in this house. If vou want this chair, why don t you say so? I s'pose I no right to it if"anybc-dy else wants it." Ho was going on, but Allie spoke, She mustered all her courage for it, and then spoke straight out, like the brave girl she was. , . . . "Father," she said, ignoring his complaining words, "Sam Hyland wants to marry me. He's asked me, and he s asked ma. Both of us are willing, she said naively, "but I couldn't say anything to him, of course, without asking you first. Of course, we don't want to be married H"ht away-not for two years, when 1 jm eighteen. He's a good young man " "[f vou've got it all fixed—you an' . vour- ma en' your Sam-what you come ' to mo for? I ain't wuth takin' into i.cnuiit am I? I ain't nobody in this family you'vo got it all fixed up. bo

an' be married—an' let me have a chance t' read this paper." . There were tears in Allies e.i es, but she kept them back. "But you are of account! she declared. You are my father. If you want us to bo married, we will be; but if you don't, we shouldn't think of such a thing. It-it would make me very unhappy, but we shouldn't, Father. If you don't like Sam " . . She let her hand elide about his neck a"ain. He pushed it sharply away. "Oh, stop!" he said moodily, looking at his paper with a scowl. "But, Father " ■ , Henry crushed his paper into a roll, and threw it into the far corner of the room.' He pushed Allie aside with his hand, and without another word stumped up the stairs to bed. Five minutes later lie came down madder, and discovered Allie on her knees beside her mother, with her head in the motherly lap, weeping, while the motherly Jiantl caressed the soft hair- gently. Henry went to the door. . . "Henry," cried Mrs. Wilkins in alarm, "where are you gqing?" He stopped and scowled at her. _ "'Henry, where are you going? lie mocked. '"Well, I'm coin' out t put that new cow in tho shed. I forgot her. You wouldn't have, but I did. how you know it, an I hope you're satisfied. You ain't if you don't know every step I take, it seems." , _ , "Oh, Henrv! exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins. gently, with love and regret and pleading; but he slammed the door and wont into the night. ... There are some cows that you can kick, but the new cow was not that kind, it seemed. Usually, if you kick a cow, she will either move over. sideways or move forward; but when Henrv walked up to the new cow and kicked her, sho turned iust enough to deliver a clean, doubleheeled kick at Henry s side., Three ribs were broken. ' He crawled moaning to the house on his hands and knees, and his wife and Allie helped him into bed, and Allie herself hitched up and drove for the doctor. Sam Hvland came over the next morning and did up tho chores, and again that evening. He continued to do them until Henry was himself again. No, not that, for he never was himself again. . There was one day when Mrs. Wilkins absolutely had to go to town, and Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Pendexter came in to sit in the next room in case Henry should need anything. When they looked " 6 was asleep, and they seemed likely to have an easy afternook When Henry opened his eyes ten minutes after they had looked at. him, ho heard their voices plainly. "Was such a nice young man, he heard Mrs. Pendexter say. "Yes, he was, said Mrs. Martin, decidedly. "There was never a nicer young man than what Henry Wilkins was; and that makes it seem so odd how lies changed. He ain't been hisself these ten years." „. , "No," said Mrs. Pendexter, he s some one else entirely. As I remember HenTy Wilkins, he was the kindest-hearted man, always cheerful an' contented. . It was Si pleasure" to know Henry Wilkins; an now look at that old sour-face in the bed there! I don't know a meaner-tem-pered, nastier-spoken, and nastier-acting man in the world. He's certainly some une else than Henry Wilkins. . "Yes," said Mrs. Martin; >'IH tell you who he is; he's nobody in tho world but old Sime Hoctee." , Mrs. Pendexter threw up her hands, v "Maria. Martin," she exclaimed, that a jus'iTwKo HuT;is! I'm."bkwed* if it ever struck' me till you itiefl turned it; but that's who lie is beyond all manner, of doubt—tho same screwed-up face, the same gray hair, an' the same mean ways an' ugly words. Old Sime Hodge. .I declare if he ain't!" _ To Henry in bed in a plaster iacket this was painful. For years he had been imagining he was himself, that he was the kind and pleasant Henrv Wilkins; and to learn in an instant that he was not .himself, but Old Sime Hodge! He ltf.rnc'd it suddenly, but he had plenty of time to think it over, and when a thought of that kind is given to a man flat on his back in bed, he is apt to think about it. He saw that it was true. Old Sime Hodge (I really can t call him Henry Wilkins any longer) lay/there and thought. He took the Henry Wilkins ho had imagined he was and compared him, item by item, with the Sime Hodge lying there in bed. He looked at his face in i tho mirror, and 1 saw that he was not young, and that he did not have a bright and smiling countenance: he was old, and his countenance was as crabbed as sour apples—undoubtedly old Sime Hodge. He thought of his manners, of his way of speaking to his wife and to other people; it' was' Sime Hodge. He considered his money ways and his bargaining ways, and all lie could make out of it was stingy, close-fisted Old Sime Hodge. It was tergreat, round, solid world dropped from under him into a bottomless abyss, leaving him floundering helplesslj' alonealone with himself, and that self no one but that sour reprobate, Qld Sime Hodge. It was pretty bad company to be in, and he knew it. Then slowly the world re. turned, and he saw on it Mrs. Wilkins and 'Allie Wilkins, and ho recognised that they were as they had always been; that Mrs. Wilkins was older and more careworn, but still the hard-working, willmg-to-bo-happv Mrs. Wilkins that sho had been the day he had married her; that Allie was still the innocent, sweet child she had been when she was a new baby. He saw that the world had the same kins and grain, the same trees and weather, the same success and -failure, the same day and night, and the same people. It was the same old world, but he w'as oimo Hcd»e. He put his arm over his face and wept real tears for tho lost Henry Wilkins. Ho cried weakly, like a child, at the fate of the- man who was some one else. ' .. . Old Sime had not been a very patient sort of patient. He had been a pretty ■rcod specimen'of the worst possible kind, and when Mrs. Wilkins returned: from town it was with a feeling that she was coming back to torment again. "llow has he been ?" she asked as soon as she was insido the door. "Well, I wouldn't want no quieter sick man," said Mrs. Pendexter "If he was any riviieter, I'd have sent for the doctor. I'd have been frightened." "Ho wasn't no trouble at all, Mrs. . Wilkins," said Mrs. .Martin. I m afraid he's sicker than what you hunk. Aot that I want to frighten you. Mrs. Wilkins threw off her hnt, and hurried into the room where old Sime lay in bed. As she reached tho bed. his hand reached out and found one of her hands, and a smile made its crooked, uneven way through the hard lines that, thought they'd owned the neighbourhood of old Sime's mouth. It was grand, that battle between, the smile and the hard lines. The smile pressed upward from the inside, like a whales back t breaking through the ice, and the hard lines resisted, yielded, cracked in unexpected places, broke into short lengths, and let the smile through. It was a raw-edged, imperfect smile, but it looked like heaven to Mrs. Wilkins. •Vnd all the timo old Sime was holding her hand! T!)ink of that! And when Hie smile'had worked its way through, he put up his other hand and pulled her face down and kissed her! It was a long timo before Mrs. Wilkins was convinced that old Sime was not going to die. A kiss and a smile and a pressure of the hand were not enough to kill old Sime. Sirs. Wilkins's husband soon discovered that. Old Sime plodded about the farm as soon as he was aide to be about, and sometimes, he exhibited extremely old Sime-ish traits; but he kept lii s eve on his memory of young Henry Wilkins, and whenever he let old Simp show himself he was truly contrite, lie accented Hie Inct that lie was noiv old Sime ffoilire, but lie hoped some dav to be himself again— to be Henry Wilkins. JTe studied young Henry Wilkins, and tried to be like him. lie studied young Henry's individual ' traits, and tried lo adopt them. He smiled a great deal. Whenever ha had

nothing els© to do, he would turn liis face up at the edges, and try to think smiling thoughts. When the cow stepped in the milk-pail he would say something soothing and pleasant to her. : If Mrs. Wilkins served him scorclicd beans, he would cheer up immediately and remark that the only way a man could tell what a good cook ho had in the house wns by getting once in a while something that was not just right. Often when things were going all right ho would forget about Henry "Wilkins and let the old Sime stick out; but as soon as anything happened to disturb him he was sweetness itself. Irritations and misfortunes, bad weather and bad cooking, indigestion and tight shoos, balky horses and troubles, were the things that spurred him to flights of good humour and kindness. They were reminders, as one might say. If lip stepped on a hoe and the handle flew up and hit him on the nose, lie would go in and kiss Mrs. Wilkins.' If a chicken took an idea it did not want to enter the coop, and he had to chaso it an hour, he would go in nnd tell Allie she could marry Sam Hyland. He grew so weary of old Simo that ho would not speak a word without taking five minutes to think it over first for fear ho might say a .word that would ofiend somo one. In order that inean thoughts might not creep into his mind, lie took to singing hymn-tunes continuously. You couldn't get him to say a word in disparagement of any living thing or person, and in order to be on the safe side, he took to saying • good thing 3 of every one and every thing, no matter how mean and obnoxious the persons or things might be. Oltl Sime was being put back into the grave; there was no doubt of that, and the man who had once been Henry Wilkins was mightily pleased. His face became smooth-and placid, and his eyes wero filled with sweet calmness; his tones were soft, and his words were gentle. In every possible way ho tried to bo like Henry Wilkins. Mrs. Wilkins was very much pleased too. Her life became smooth and tranquil. There was 110 fear of harsh, unldnd words from old Sime now. Two years after the cow had kicked him, old Sime gave Allie in marriage to Sam Hyland, and it was a happy day for every one. In the morning old Simo walked out to the pasture back of the house and leaned 011 the fence. For a long time he looked at the cow, and then he straightoned up and raised his arms high above his head and drew a deep breath. "Good-by, old Sime Hodge! he said aloud. "Not but what you had some good points, not but what wo nil have some good points; but good-by jest the same. I'm done with ye. I'm Henry Wilkins again, an' Ho my Wilkins I'll stay. I've had good an' plenty of bein some one else. I'm me, an' I'm goin' to stav me." He walked back to the. house a little uncomfortable in his good clothes, and made ready to welcome the guests. The wedding was at noon, and it went off nicely. Allie was a darling bride, and Sam Hyland was sufficiently embarrassed to please every woman in the room. It was a good wedding, and when the new Mrs. Hyland drove off, under a shower of rice, nil the women wept, and some of them went with Mrs. Wilkin to her room to - comfort her and dry her tears. The men went out to the barn to harness

their horses for the return trip. But Mrs. Wilkins's husband, the mail who had been somo one else, dropped into a chair in the empty dining-room. The table was still littered with the remains of the wedding dinner, but in the kitchen tliero was a rattling of china and spoons, for two kindly neighbours had "pitched in" to help Mrs. Wilkins. Through the crack that the kitchen door always left when it was not shut carefully Mrs.. Wilkins's husband heard their voices. 1 . t "Such a change in a man in my life,' he heard Mrs. Pendexter say. "No; I never did, either," said Mrs,, Martin. "D' you remember when we was hero just about two year' ago, when ho had that cow break most all liis ribs, an' what we said «then ?"

"I certainly do," said Mrs. Pendexter. "That lie was, hair an' hide, nobody in the world but old'Sime Hodge. An' he was. Hp was just that old crpss-grained sinner. Them plates is ready to wipe." "Well, he certainly ain't old Sim© 110 more," said Mrs. Martin. Mrs. "VYilkins'a husband's breast swelled with pride. The words were incense.. "No, he ain't," siiid Mrs. Pendexter. "An' yet," said Mrs. Martin, "no mt.re he ain't Henry AVilkins."

"No, indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Pendex. ter; "not in the least. Two men couldn't be more different than him an' the Henry AVilkins as was. He's certainly some one else than either Sime or Henry sincc the

change came over him." "Yes," said Mrs. Martin, "an* I'll tell you who ho is. lie's nobody in this born world but old Gran'ma. Figgis, good old soul .that she was." Mrs. Pcndexter clapped her hands. "Maria 1 Martin," sho cried, "that's iust who he is! He's just that very potterin', inoffensive, gcod-intentioned soul!" In .the ! dining-room Gran'ma Figgis arose and put on his felt hat. With gentle, noiseless steps ho sitolo from the din-ing-room out at the front door. Like ft flash in the dark there came before his vision the 'young, hearty, cheerful Henry Wilkins that he had been, and the repressed, self-effaced, old Gran'ma Figgis that ho was now.

Now, ordinarily no man would like to be mistaken 5 for an old lady, however good; but it was evidence of the completeness of Henry Wilkins's transformation that lie accepted tho suggestion with positive content,