The Mystery of the LocksHowe, E. W. (Edgar Watson)
General
The Mystery of the Locks
Howe, E. W. (Edgar Watson)
City and town life -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Mystery fiction; Nebraska -- Fiction
No one knew how the news came, but there seemed to be whispers in the
air that in the upper country the flood was even worse than at Davy's
Bend, which added to the general apprehension, and many believed that
the rainbow was about to prove faithless at last. Houses of a pattern
barely familiar to the people occasionally floated past the town in the
current, and in one of them rode a man who refused to leave his property
when the relief boats put off to him; for he said that he came from
hundreds of miles above, and that since the world seemed to be turning
into water, he preferred his strange craft to the crumbling hills. As he
floated away, stark mad from excitement, fear, and hunger, he called
back to the men to follow if they valued their lives; for a wave twenty
feet high was coming down the river, carrying the towns along the bluffs
with it.
Bridges which had been built across gullies in the highlands were seen
hurrying by every hour, and it seemed that the hill on which Davy's Bend
was built would shortly tremble, and start slowly down the river, at
last gratifying the ambition of the people to get away.
Among those distressed by the unfortunate condition of those living in
the bottoms were Allan Dorris and his wife, safe in their home above the
town. The people seemed so fearful that the rain would never cease that
they neglected to get sick, and Dr. Dorris would have greatly enjoyed
the uninterrupted days he was permitted to spend with his pretty wife
but for the distress around him.
The dripping from the eaves of The Locks at night--he thought of it
again--reminded him of the dripping from the coffin of a body packed in
ice, which he was commissioned to watch, and long before day he left his
bed and walked the floor. His wife soon joined him, and they looked out
of the window at the blank darkness.
"How it reminds me of the first night I came here," he said. "But what a
different man I am! Then I cursed my existence, and was so disturbed in
mind that night was a season of terror. I dreaded its approach as
heartily then as I now hail it as a season of repose, and every day I
have new reason to rejoice that I am alive. What a fortunate fellow I
am! I can sleep nine hours out of every night, and arise every morning
entirely refreshed, not a day older. I am content now to lie down at
night, and let the world wag, or quarrel, or do whatever it likes, for
the only part of it I care for is beside me. Sometimes I waken, and
forget you for a moment, when I wonder how I ever induced such sound
sleep to come to my eyes; but when I remember it all, I feel like
cheering, and go off into dreamland again with the comfort of a healthy
child. It is a wonderful change, and you are responsible for it all; you
have made one man entirely happy, if you have accomplished nothing
else."
As they stood by the window, he had his arms around her, and when she
looked up at him he kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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