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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6fb03fb --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50270 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50270) diff --git a/old/50270-0.txt b/old/50270-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8304ab3..0000000 --- a/old/50270-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5338 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Delectable Mountains, by Arthur Colton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Delectable Mountains - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50270] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS - -By Arthur Colton - -Charles Scribner's Sons - -1901 - - - -DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF - -MY SISTER, MABEL COLTON - - - -|So they went up to the Mountains, to behold the Gardens, and Orchards, -the Vineyards, and Fountains of water.... Now there was on the tops of -these Mountains, Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the -high-way side. The Pilgrims therefore went to them, and leaning upon -their staves, (as is common with weary Pilgrims, when they stand to -talk with any by the way,) they asked, Whose delectable Mountains are -these?... When the Shepherds perceived that they were way-faring men, -they also put questions to them, as, Whence came you? and, How got you -into the way? and, By what means have you so persevered therein?... Then -said the Shepherds one to another, Let us here shew to the Pilgrims the -Gates of the Coelestial City, if they have skill to look through our -Perspective Glass.... Then they essayed to look, but... they could not -look steadily through the Glass; yet they thought they saw something -like the Gate. - -_The Pilgrim's Progress_. - - - -CONTENTS: - - 1. The Place of Abandoned Gods - 2. The Leather Hermit - 3. Black Pond Clearing - 4. Joppa - 5. The Elders' Seat - 6. The Romance of the Institute - 7. Nausicaa - 8. Sanderson of Back Meadows - 9. Two Roads that meet in Salem - 10. A Visible Judgment - 11. The Emigrant East - 12. Tobin's Monument - - - - -THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS - -|The hut was built two sides and the roof of sodded poles; the roof -had new clapboards of birch bark, but the rest had once belonged to a -charcoal burner; the front side was partly poled and partly open, the -back was the under-slope of a rock. For it stood by a cliff, one of the -many that show their lonely faces all over the Cattle Ridge, except that -this was more tumultuous than most, and full of caves made by the clumsy -leaning bowlders; and all about were slim young birch trees in white and -green, like the demoiselles at Camelot. Old pines stood above the cliff, -making a soft, sad noise in the wind. In one of the caves above the -leafage of the birches we kept the idols, especially Baal, whom we -thought the most energetic; and in front of the cave was the altar-stone -that served them all, a great flat rock and thick with moss, where ears -of com were sacrificed, or peas or turnips, the first-fruits of the -field; or of course, if you shot a chipmunk or a rabbit, you could -have a burnt offering of that kind. Also the altar-stone was a council -chamber and an outlook. - -It was all a secret place on the north side of the Cattle Ridge, with -cliffs above and cliffs below. Eastward half a mile lay the Cattle Ridge -Road, and beyond that the Ridge ran on indefinitely; southward, three -miles down, the road took you into Hagar; westward the Ridge, after all -its leagues of length and rigor of form, broke down hurriedly to the -Wyantenaug River, at a place called the Haunted Water, where stood -the Leather Hermit's hut and beyond which were Bazilloa Armitage's -bottom-lands and the Preston Plains railroad station. The road from -the station across the bridge came through Sanderson Hollow, where the -fields were all over cattle and lively horses, and met the Cattle Ridge -Road to Hagar. And last, if you looked north from the altar-stone, you -saw a long, downward sweep of woodland, and on and on miles and miles to -the meadows and ploughed lands toward Wimberton, with a glimpse of the -Wyantenaug far away to the left. Such were the surroundings of the place -of abandoned gods. No one but ourselves came there, unless possibly the -Hermit. If any one had come it was thought that Baal would pitch him -over the cliffs in some manner, mystically. We got down on our hands and -knees, and said, “O Baal!” He was painted green, on a shingle; but -his eyes were red. The place was reached from the Cattle Ridge Road by -trail, for the old wood-road below was grown up to blackberry brambles, -which made one scratched and bloody and out of patience, unless it were -blackberry time. - -And on the bank, where the trail drops into the climbing highway, there -Aaron and Silvia were sitting in the June afternoon, hand in hand, with -the filtered green light of the woods about them. We came up from Hagar, -the three of us, and found them. They were strangers, so far as we knew. -Strangers or townsmen, we never took the trail with any one in sight; -it was an item in the Vows. But we ranged up before them and stared -candidly. There was nothing against that. Her eyes were nice and blue, -and at the time they contained tears. Her cheeks were dimpled and pink, -her brown dress dusty, and her round straw hat cocked a bit over one -tearful blue eye. He seemed like one who had been growing fast of late. -His arms swung loosely as if fastened to his shoulders with strings. The -hand that held her small hand was too large for its wrist, the wrist too -large for the arm, the arm too long for the shoulder. He had the first -growth of a downy mustache, a feeble chin, a humorous eye, and wore a -broad-brimmed straw hat and a faded black coat, loose and flopping to -his knees. A carpet bag lay at his feet, only half full and fallen over -with an air of depression. He seemed depressed in the same way. - -“What's she crying for?” asked Moses Durfey, stolidly. - -Aaron peered around at her shyly. - -“She's scared to go home. I ain't, but I mote be 'fore I got there.” - -“What's your name?” - -“We-ell--” - -He hesitated. Then, with loud defiance: - -“It's Mr. and Mrs. Bees.” - -A red squirrel clambered down a low-hanging branch overhead, and -chattered sharply, scattering flakes of bark. Aaron, still holding -Silvia's hand, leaned back on the bank and looked up. All lines of -trouble faded quickly from his face. He smiled, so that his two front -teeth stood out startlingly, and held up a long forefinger. - -“Cherky little cuss, ain't he?” - -The squirrel became more excited. Aaron's finger seemed to draw him -like a loadstone. He slid down nearer and nearer, as far as the branch -allowed, to a foot or two away, chattering his teeth fearfully. We knew -that any one who could magnetize so flighty and malicious a person as a -red squirrel, must be a magician, however simple he might be otherwise. -Aaron snapped his finger and the squirrel fled. “We'd better be movin', -Silvy.” - -Silvia's tears flowed the faster, and the lines of trouble returned to -Aaron's face. - -“Why don't she want to go home?” persisted Moses, stolidly. - -We drew close beside them now and sat on the bank, Moses and I by Aaron, -Chub Leroy by Silvia. Chub was thoughtful. Silvia dried her eyes and -said with a gulp: - -“It's pa.” - -“That's it.” Aaron nodded and rubbed his sharp nose. “Old man Kincard, -it's him.” - -They both looked at us trustfully. Moses saw no light in the matter. - -“Who's he?” - -“He's my father-in-law. He ain't goin' to like it. He's a sneezer. What -he don't like generally gets out of the way. My snakes! He 'll put Silvy -up the chimney and me in the stove, and he 'll light the fire.” - -He chuckled and then relapsed into trouble. His emotions seemed to flit -across his face like sunbeams and shadows on a wall, leaving no trace -behind them, or each wiped out by the next. - -“Snakes! We might just as well sit here.” - -Silvia wept again. Moses's face admitted a certain surprise. - -“What'll he do that for?” - -While Aaron told their story, Silvia sometimes commented tearfully -on his left, Moses stolidly on his right, and the red squirrel with -excitement overhead; Chub and I were silent; the woods for the most part -kept still and listened too, with only a little sympathetic murmur of -leaves and tremble of sunbeam and shadow. - -The Kincard place, it seemed, lay five miles away, down the north side -till you cleared the woods, and then eastward among the foothills. Old -Kincard's first name was James. And directly across the road stood the -four-roomed house where the Bees family once lived. It was “rickety -now and rented to rats.” The Bees family had always been absent-minded, -given to dying off and leaving things lying around. In that way Aaron -had begun early to be an orphan and to live with the Kincards. He was -supposed to own the old house and the dooryard in front of it, but the -rats never paid their rent, unless they paid it to the old man or the -cat; and Mr. Kincard had a low opinion of Aaron, as being a Bees, and -because he was built lengthwise instead of sidewise and knew more about -foxes than cows. It seemed to Aaron that a fox was in himself a more -interesting person; that this raising more potatoes than you could eat, -more tobacco than you could smoke, this making butter and cheese and -taking them to Wimberton weekly, and buying little except mortgages -and bank accounts, somewhere involved a mistake. A mortgage was an -arrangement by which you established strained relations with a neighbor, -a bank account something that made you suspicious of the bank. Now in -the woods one dealt for direct usefulness, comfort, and freedom of mind. -If a man liked to collect mortgages rather than fox-skins, it was the -virtue of the woods to teach tolerance; but Mr. Kincard's opinion of -Aaron was low and active. There was that difference between a Kincard -and a Bees point of view. - -Aaron and Silvia grew up a few years apart on the old spread-out farm, -with the wooded mountainside heaving on the south and stretching east -and west. It was a neighborhood of few neighbors, and no village within -many miles, and the old man was not talkative commonly, though he'd open -up sometimes. Aaron and Silvia had always classed themselves together in -subdued opposition to their grim ruler of destiny. To each other they -called him “the old man,” and expressed by it a reverential but opposed -state of mind. To Aaron the undoubted parts of life were the -mountain-side of his pleasures and the level fields of his toil. -Wimberton was but a troubled glimpse now and then, an improbable memory -of more people and houses than seemed natural. Silvia tended to see -things first through Aaron's eyes, though she kept a basal judgment of -her own in reserve. - -“He always licked us together since we was little,” said Aaron, looking -at Silvia with softly reminiscent eye. “It was two licks to me for -Silvy's one. That was square enough, and the old man thought so. When he -got set in a habit he'd never change. It was two to me for Silvy's one.” - -Aaron told him, but a week now gone, that himself and Silvia would wish -to be married, and he seemed surprised. In fact he came at Aaron with -the hoe-handle, but could not catch him, any more than a lonesome -rabbit. Then he opened up astonishingly, and told Aaron of his low -opinion of him, which was more spread-out and full of details than you'd -expect. He wasn't going to give Aaron any such “holt on him as that,” - with a guaranty deed, whatever that was, on eternity to loaf in, and he -set him the end of the week to clear out, to go elsewhere forever. To -Aaron's mind that was an absurd proposal. He wasn't going to do any -such foolishness. The rather he sold his collection of skins to a farmer -named Shore, and one morning borrowed a carpet bag and came over the -Cattle Ridge hand in hand with Silvia. - -From Preston Plains they hired a team, drove over the line into York -State, and were married. The farmer named Shore laid that out for them. -He had a back score of trouble with the old man. - -“And Silvy's got a cat,” added Aaron, “and she catches rats to please -herself. Silvy thinks she ought to catch rats to be obligin'. Folks that -live up these trees don't act that way. No more did Shore.” - -Here Aaron looked shrewd and wise. - -“I wish Sammy was here,” murmured Silvia, lovingly. - -“First-rate cat,” Aaron admitted. “Now, we didn't marry to oblige each -other. Each of us obliged himself. Hey?” - -Silvia opened her eyes wide. The idea seemed a little complicated. They -clasped hands the tighter. - -“Now,” said Aaron, “Silvy's scared. I ain't, but I mote be when I got -there.” - -A blue-jay flew shrieking down the road. Aaron looked after it with a -quick change of interest. - -“See him! Yes, sir. You can tell his meanness the way he hollers. Musses -folks' eggs.” - -Aaron no longer surprised us now, nor did Silvia. We accepted them. -We had standards of character and conduct, of wisdom and of things -possible, but they were not set for us by the pulpit, the statute book, -or the market-place. We had often gone forth on expeditions into the -mystical beyond, always with a certain purpose to achieve there, and at -some point it had been necessary to come home and face the punishment, -if there were any, to have supper, and go to bed. Home could not be left -permanently and another existence arranged, any more than the feet could -be taken from the earth permanently. It had been found impractical. -Aaron and Silvia were like ourselves. They might conceive of living away -from the farmhouse under the mountain-side a few days. They shrank from -facing old Kincard with his hoe-handle or horse-whip, but one must -go back eventually. We recognized that their adventure was bold and -peculiar; we judged the price likely to be appalling; we gave them -frank admiration for both. None of us had ever run away to be definitely -married, or suffered from a hoe-handle or a horse-whip, and yet all -these were things to be conceived of and sympathized with. - -“I knew a blue-jay,” went on Aaron, thoughtfully, “that lived near the -end of Shore's land, and he never appeared to like anything agreeable. -He used to hang around other folks' nests and holler till they were -distracted.” - -Silvia's snuffling caught his ear, and once more the rapid change passed -over his face. - -“We-ell,” he said, “the old man'll be lively, that's sure. I'd stay -in the woods, if it was me, but women”--with a large air of -observation--“have to have houses.”. - -“We've got a house,” broke in Chub, suddenly. We exchanged looks -furtively. - -“They'll have to take the Vows,” I objected. “We've took 'em,” said -Aaron. “Parson--” - -“You'll have to solemn swear,” said Moses. “Will you solemn swear?” - -“I guess so.” - -“And if you tell, you hope you drop dead.” - -The blue-jay flew up the road again, shrieking scornfully. The red -squirrel trembled and chattered his teeth on the branch overhead. All -else in the woods was silent while Aaron and Silvia took the Vows. - -And so we brought them, in excitement and content, to the place of the -abandoned gods. Baal lurked far back in his cave, the cliff looked down -with lonely forehead, the distant prospect was smooth and smoky. Neither -the gods nor the face of the world offered any promise or threat. But -Aaron and Silvia seemed to believe in the kindness of not human things. -Silvia fell to chattering, laughing, in unforeboding relief from sudden -and near-by evil. - -Aaron had a surprising number of silver dollars, due to Shore and the -fox-skins, by means of which we should bring them supplies from Hagar; -and so we left them to the whispering gossip of leaves, the lonely -cliff, the lurking Baal, and the smooth, smoky prospect. - -No doubt there were times to Aaron and Silvia of trembling awe, -dumb delight, conversations not to the point, so that it seemed more -successful merely to sit hand in hand and let the moon speak for them, -pouring light down silvery gulfs out of the abundant glory within her. -There could be seen, too, the dawn, as pink as Silvia's cheeks, but, -after all, not so interesting. A hermit-thrush sang of things holy at -dawn, far down the woodland, while the birch leaves trembled delicately -and the breeze was the sigh of a world in love; and of things quietly -infinite at sunset in the growth of rosy gloom. - -“It's nice,” Silvia might whisper, leaning to Aaron. - -“That's a hermit-thrush down there, Silvy. He opens his mouth, and oh! -Kingdom's comin'.” - -“Yes.” - -“Little brown chap with a scared eye. You don't ever see him hardly.” - -“You don't want to, do you, Aaron?” after a long silence. - -“Don't know as you do.” - -There would be a tendency, at least, to look at things that way, -and talk duskily as the dusk came on, and we would leave them on the -altar-stone to take the trail below. - -But early in the afternoon it would be lively enough, except that Silvia -had a prejudice against Baal, which might have been dangerous if Baal -had minded it; but he did her no harm. She referred to Elijah and those -prophets of Baal, and we admitted he had been downed that time, for it -took him when he was not ready, and generally he was low in his luck -ever since. But we had chosen him first for an exiled dignity, who must -needs have a deadly dislike for the other dignity who had once conquered -him vaingloriously, and so must be in opposition to much that we -opposed, such as Sunday-school lessons, sermons, and limitations of -liberty. It might be that our reasonings were not so concrete and -determined, but the sense of opposition was strong. We put it to Silvia -that she ought to respect people's feelings, and she was reasonable -enough. - -Old Kincard, it seemed, was an interesting and opinionated heathen, and -Silvia had not experienced sermons and Sunday-schools. That explained -much. But she had read the Bible, which her mother had owned, before -she died; and we could follow her there, knowing it to be a book of -naturally strong points, as respects David for instance, Joseph, and -parts of Revelation. - -Aaron did not care for books, and had no prejudice toward any being -or supposition that might find place in the woods. The altar-stone was -common to many gods and councils, and we offered it to Silvia, to use as -she liked. I judge she used it mostly to sit there with Aaron, and hear -the hermit-thrush, or watch the thick moonlight pour down the scoop of -the mountain. - -That stretch of the Wyantenaug which is called the Haunted Water is -quiet and of slow current, by reason of its depth, and dark in color, by -reason of the steep fall of the Cattle Ridge and the pines which crowd -from it to the water's edge. The Leather Hermit's hut stood up from the -water in the dusk of the pines. - -He came to the valley in times within the memories of many who would -speak if they were asked, but long enough ago to have become a settled -fact; and if any did not like him, neither did they like the Wyantenaug -to flood the bottom-lands in spring. The pines and the cliffs belonged -to the Sandersons, who cared little enough for either phenomenon. - -We often met him on the Cattle Ridge, saw him pass glowering through the -thicket with shaggy gray beard and streaming hair. Sometimes he wore -a horse-blanket over his leathern vestment. He was apt to be there -Sundays, wandering about, and maybe trying to make out in what respect -he differed from Elijah the Tishbite; and although we knew this, and -knew it was in him to cut up roughly if he found out about Baal, being -a prophet himself both in his looks and his way of acting, still he went -to and fro for the most part on the other side of the crest, where he -had a trail of his own; and you could not see the altar-stone from -the top of the cliff, but had to climb down till you came to a jam of -bowlders directly over it. - -We did not know how long he may have stood there, glowering down on us. -The smoke of the sacrifice was beginning to curl up. Baal was -backed against a stone, looking off into anywhere and taking things -indifferently. Silvia sat aside, twirled her hat scornfully, and said we -were “silly.” Aaron chewed a birch twig, and was very calm. - -We got down on our hands and knees, and said, “O Baal!” - -And the Hermit's voice broke over us in thunder and a sound as of -falling mountains. It was Sunday, June 26, 1875. - -He denounced us under the heads of “idolaters, gone after the -abornination of the Assyrians; babes and sucklings, old in sin, setting -up strange gods in secret places; idle mockers of holy things, like the -little children of Bethel, whereby they were cursed of the prophet and -swallowed of she-bears”; three headings with subdivisions. - -Then he came down thumping on the left. Silvia shrieked and clung to -Aaron, and we fled to the right and hid in the rocks. He fell upon Baal, -cast him on the altar-fire, stamping both to extinction, and shouted: - -“I know you, Aaron Bees and Silvia Kincard!” - -“N-no, you don't,” stammered Aaron. “It's Mrs. Bees.” - -The Hermit stood still and glared on them. - -“Why are you here, Aaron and Silvia Bees?” - -Aaron recovered himself, and fell to chewing his birch twig. - -“We-ell, you see, it's the old man.” - -“What of him?” - -“He'd lick us with a hoe-handle, wouldn't he? And maybe he'd throw -us out, after all. What'd be the use? Might as well stay away,” Aaron -finished, grumbling. “Save the hoe.” - -The Hermit's glare relaxed. Some recollection of former times may have -passed through his rifted mind, or the scent of a new denunciation drawn -it away from the abornination of Assyria, who lay split and smoking -in the ashes. He leaped from the altar-stone, and vanished under the -leafage of the birches. We listened to him crashing and plunging, -chanting something incoherent and tuneless, down the mountain, till the -sound died away. - -Alas, Baal-Peor! Even to this day there are twinges of shame, misgivings -of conscience, that we had fled in fear and given him over to his enemy, -to be trampled on, destroyed and split through his green jacket and red -eye. He never again stood gazing off into anywhere, snuffing the fumes -of sacrifice and remembering Babylon. The look of things has changed -since then. We have doubted Baal, and-found some restraints of liberty -more grateful than tyrannous. But it is plain that in his last defeat -Baal-Peor did not have a fair chance. - -Concerning the Hermit's progress from this point, I can only draw upon -guesses and after report. He struck slantingwise down the mountain, left -the woods about at the Kincard place, and crossed the fields. - -Old Kincard sat in his doorway smoking his pipe, thick-set, -deep-chested, long-armed, with square, rough-shaven jaws, and steel-blue -eyes looking out of a face like a carved cliff for length and edge. The -Hermit stood suddenly before and denounced him under two heads--as a -heathen unsoftened in heart, and for setting up the altar of lucre and -pride against the will of the Lord that the children of men should marry -and multiply. Old Kincard took his pipe from his mouth. - -“Where might them marriers and multipliers be just now?” - -The Hermit pointed to the most westward cliff in sight from the doorway. - -“If you have not in mind to repent, James Kincard, I shall know it.” - -“Maybe you'd put them ideas of yours again?” - -The Hermit restated his position accurately on the subject of heathen -hearts and the altar of lucre. - -“Ain't no mistake about that, Hermit? We-ell, now--” - -The Hermit shook his head sternly, and strode away. Old Kincard gave a -subterranean chuckle, such as a volcano might give purposing eruptions, -and fixed his eyes on the western cliff, five miles away, a grayish spot -in the darker woods. - -Alas, Baal-Peor! - -Yet he was never indeed a wood-god. He was always remembering how fine -it had been in Babylon. He had not cared for these later devotions. He -had been bored and weary. Since he was gone, split and dead, perhaps it -was better so. He should have a funeral pyre. - -“And,” said Chub Leroy, “we'll keep his ashes in an urn. That's the way -they always did with people's ashes.” - -We came up the Cattle Ridge Road Monday afternoon, talking of these -things. Chub carried the urn, which had once been a pickle-jar. Life -still was full of hope and ideas. The Hermit must be laid low in his -arrogance. Apollo, now, had strong points. Consider the pythoness -and the oracle. The Hermit couldn't prophesy in the same class with a -pythoness. The oracle might run, - - “He who dwells by the Haunted Water alone, - - He shall not remain, but shall perish.” - -We came then to the hut, but Silvia would have, nothing to do with -Baal's funeral, so that she and Aaron wandered away among the birches, -that were no older than they, young birches, slim and white, coloring -the sunlight pale green with their leaves. And we went up to the -altar-stone, and made ready the funeral, and set the urn to receive the -ashes, decently, in order. The pyre was built four-square, of chosen -sticks. We did not try to fit Baal together much; we laid him on as he -came. And when the birch bark was curling up and the pitchy black smoke -of it was pouring upward, we fell on our faces and cried: “Alas, Baal! -Woe's me, Baal!” - -It was a good ceremony. For when you are doing a ceremony, it depends on -how much your feelings are worked up, of course, and very few, if any, -of those we had done--and they were many--had ever reached such a point -of efficiency as the funeral of Baal-Peor. Moses howled mournfully, -as if it were in some tooth that his sorrow lay. The thought of that -impressiveness and luxury of feeling lay mellow in our minds long after. -“Alas, Baal!” - -Somebody snorted near by. We looked up. Over our heads, thrust out -beyond the edge of the bowlders, was a strange old face, with heavy -brows and jaws and grizzled hair. - -The face was distorted, the jaws working. It disappeared, and we sat up, -gasping at one another across the funeral pyre, where the black smoke -was rolling up faster and faster. - -In a moment the face came out on the altar-stone, and looked at us with -level brows. - -“What ye doin'?” - -“My goodness!” gasped Moses. “You aren't another hermit?” - -“What ye doin'?” - -Chub recovered himself. - -“It's Baal's funeral.” - -“Just so.” - -He sat down on a stone and wiped his face, which was heated. He carried -a notable stick in his hand. “Baal! We-ell, what ailed him?” - -“Are you Silvia's old man?” asked Chub. - -“Just so--er--what ailed Baal?” - -Then we told him--seeing Baal was dead and the Vows would have to be -taken over again--we told him about Baal, and about the Leather Hermit, -because he seemed touched by it, and worked his face and blinked his -sharp hard eyes uncannily. Some hidden vein of grim ideas was coming to -a white heat within him, like a suppressed molten stratum beneath the -earth, unsuspected on its surface, that suddenly heaves and cracks the -faces of stone cliffs. He gave way at last, and his laughter was the -rending tumult of an earthquake. - -Aaron and Silvia came up through the woods hastily to the altar-stone. - -“I say,” cried Chub. “Are you going to lick them? It's two to Aaron for -one to Silvia.” - -“Been marryin' and multiplying have ye?” - -He suppressed the earthquake, but still seemed mainly interested in -Baal's funeral. - -Aaron said, “She's Mrs. Bees, anyhow.” - -“Just so. Baal's dead. That hermit's some lively.” - -“We'll get an oracle on him,” said Moses. “What you going to do to Aaron -and Silvia?” - -Here Silvia cast herself on the old man suddenly and wept on his -shoulder. One often noticed how girls would start up and cry on a -person. - -Maybe the earthquake had brought up subsoils and mellowed things; at -least Kincard made no motion to lick some one, though he looked bored, -as any fellow might. - -“Oh, we-ell, I don't know--er--what's that oracle?” - - “He who dwells hy the Haunted Water alone, - - He shall not remain, but shall perish.” - -“It's going to be like that,” said Chub. “Won't it fetch him, don't you -think?” - -“It ought to,” said the old man, working his jaw. “It ought to.” - -The black smoke had ceased, and flames were crackling and dancing all -over the funeral pyre. The clearer smoke floated up against the face of -the lonesome cliff. Aaron and Silvia clasped hands unfrightened. The -old man now and then rumbled subterraneously in his throat. Peace was -everywhere, and presently Baal-Peor was ashes. - - - - -THE LEATHER HERMIT - -|To know the Wyantenaug thoroughly is to be wise in rivers; which if any -one doubts, let him follow it from its springs to the sea--a possible -fortnight--and consider then how he is a changed man with respect to -rivers. Not that by any means it is the epitome of rivers. It is no -spendthrift flood-stream to be whirling over the bottom-lands in April -and scarcely able to wet its middle stones in August, but a shrewd and -honest river, a canny river flowing among a canny folk, a companionable -river, loving both laughter and sentiment, with a taste for the -varieties of life and a fine vein of humor. Observe how it dances and -sputters down the rapids--not really losing its temper, but pretending -to be nervous--dives into that sloping pass where the rocks hang high -and drip forever, runs through it like a sleuth-hound, darkly and -savagely, and saunters out into the sunlight, as who should say in a -guileless manner, “You don't happen to know where I'm going?” Then -it wanders about the valley, spreads out comfortably and lies quiet a -space, “But it really makes no difference, you know”; and after that -gives a chuckle, rounds a bunch of hills and goes scampering off, quite -taken up with a new idea. And so in many ways it is an entertaining and -friendly river, with a liking for a joke and a pretty notion of dramatic -effect. - -But, of all times and places, I think it most beautiful in the twilight -and along that stretch, called of late the Haunted Water, opposite the -village of Preston Plains. The Cattle Ridge with its long heaving spine -comes down on the valley from the east, seeming to have it very much in -mind to walk over and do something to Preston Plains three miles beyond; -but it thought better of that long ago. The Wyantenaug goes close -beneath it in sheer bravado: “You try to cross me and you get jolly -wet”; for the Wyantenaug is very deep and broad just here. The Cattle -Ridge, therefore, merely wrinkles its craggy brows with a puzzled air, -and Preston Plains is untroubled save of its own inhabitants. As to that -matter the people of the village of Hagar have opinions. The valley -road goes on the other side of the river--naturally, for there are the -pastures, the feeding cattle, the corn-fields, and farmhouses--and the -Cattle Ridge side is steep, and threaded by a footpath only, for a mile -or more, up to Hants Corby's place. Hants Corby's is not much of a place -either. - -In old times the footpath was seldom used, except by the Leather Hermit. -No boy in Hagar would go that way for his life, though we often went up -and down on the river, and saw the Leather Hermit fishing. The minister -in Hagar visited him once or twice, and probably went by the footpath. -I remember distinctly how he shook his head and said that the Hermit -sought salvation at any rate by a narrow way, and how the miller's wife -remonstrated with him for seeming to take the Hermit seriously. - -“You don't mean to say he ain't crazy,” she said, in anxious defence of -standard reason. - -“Oh, I suppose so, yes.” - -The minister sighed and rubbed his chin uneasily, and Mrs. Mather -recovered her ordinary state of mind, which was a state of suppressed -complaint. - -I was saying that the footpath was seldom used. Hants Corby would have -used it--for he was too shiftless to be afraid--if the river had run -the other way. As it was, he preferred to drift down in his boat and -row back when he had to. He found that easier, being very shiftless. The -Hermit himself went on the river, except in the spring when the current -below was too strong. - -The opinions of the Leather Hermit may be shown in this way. If you came -on him, no matter suddenly, and asked whose land that was across the -river, he would answer promptly, “The devil's”; whereas it belonged -to Bazilloa Armitage, a pillar of the church in Preston Plains, who -quarrelled zealously with the other pillars; so that, as one sees, the -Leather Hermit was not in sympathy with the church in Preston Plains. - -The people of the valley differed about him according to humor, and he -used strong language regarding the people of the valley according -to opportunity, especially regarding Bazilloa Armitage. He denounced -Bazilloa Armitage publicly in Preston Plains as a hypocrite, a -backbiter, and a man with a muck rake--with other language stronger -still. Bazilloa Armitage felt hurt, for he was, in fact, rather close, -and exceedingly respectable. Besides it is painful to be damned by a man -who means exactly what he says. - -To speak particularly, this was in the year 1875; for the next year we -camped near the spot, and Hants Corby tried to frighten us into seeing -the Hermit's ghost. Bazilloa Armitage was denounced in June, and Hants -Corby on the second Friday in August, as Hants and the Hermit fished -near each other on the river. The Hermit denounced him under three -heads--sluggard, scoffer, and beast wallowing in the sty of his own -lustful contentment. On Saturday the Hermit rowed up to Hants Corby's -place in the rain and denounced him again. - -Sunday morning the Hermit rose early, turned his back on the Wyantenaug, -and climbed the cliff, onward and up through the pines. The prophets of -old went into high places when they prayed; and it was an idea of his -that those who would walk in the rugged path after them could do no -better. Possibly the day was an anniversary, for it was of an August -day many years gone--before ever a charcoal pit was built on the Cattle -Ridge--that the Hermit first appeared on the Wyantenaug, with his -leather clothes in a bundle on his back, and perhaps another and -invisible burden beneath it. A third burden he took up immediately, that -of denouncing the sins of Wyantenaug Valley, as I have said. - -All that Sabbath day the river went its way, and late in the afternoon -the sunlight stretched a thin finger beneath the hemlocks almost to the -Hermit's door. Across the river the two children of Bazilloa Armitage, -boy and girl, came down to the water's edge. The boy pulled a pole -and line out of some mysterious place in the bank. The little girl sat -primly on the grass, mindful of her white pinafore. - -“You better look out, Cis,” he said. “Any fish you catch on Sunday -is devils. You don't touch him. You cut the line and let him dry till -Monday.” - -“Oh, Tad!” gasped the little girl, “won't the Leather Hermit tell?” - -“Well,” said Tad, sturdily, “father said he'd get even, if it took -a month of Sundays, and that's six Sundays by this time. There ain't -anything bothers the Hermit like catching the fish on Sundays, specially -if you catch a lot of 'em. Blamed old fool!” grumbled Tad. - -“Oh, Tad,” gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, “that's -swearing.” - -But Tad did not mind. “There's Hants Corby,” he exclaimed; “he's going -to fish, too.” - -Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the -children, and grinned sociably. - -“He daren't touch his boat to-day,” he said in a husky whisper. “He'll -raise jinks in a minute. You wait.” - -“Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?” - -“Trout,” returned Hants, decisively, “is devils any time.” - -Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather -Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with -an angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in -Hagar--and it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of -Hagar. - -Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut. - -“Him,” he remarked, “he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him -alone particular. That ain't reasonable.” - -“Father says he's a fernatic,” ventured Tad. “What's a fernatic, Hants?” - -“Ah,” said Hants, thoughtfully, “that's a rattlin' good word.” - -Time dragged on, and yet no denouncing voice came from the further -shore. The door of the hut was a darker hole in the shade of the -hemlocks. Hants Corby proposed going over to investigate. - -“If he ain't there, we'll carry off his boat.” - -Tad fell into Hants's boat quite absorbed in the greatness of the -thought. It was not a good thing generally to follow Hants Corby, who -was an irresponsible person, apt to take much trouble to arrange a bad -joke and shiftlessly slip out from under the consequences. If he left -you in a trap, he thought that a part of the joke, as I remember very -well. - -“A-a-a-ow!” wailed Cissy Armitage from the bank; for it dawned on her -that something tremendous was going forward, in which Tad was likely -to be suddenly obliterated. She sat on the bank with her stubby shoes -hanging over, staring with great frightened blue eyes, till she saw -them at last draw silently away from the further shore--and behold, the -Hermit's boat was in tow. Then she knew that there was no one in the -world so brave or so grandly wicked as Tad. - -Cissy Armitage used to have fluffy yellow hair and scratches on her -shins. She was a sunny little soul generally, but she had a way of -imagining how badly other people felt, which interfered with her -happiness, and was not always accurate. Tad seldom felt so badly as she -thought he did. Tad thought he could imagine most things better on the -whole, but when it came to imagining how badly other people felt, -he admitted that she did it very well. Therefore when she set about -imagining how the Hermit felt, on the other side of the river, with no -boat to come across in, to where people were cosy and comfortable, where -they sang the Doxology and put the kittens to bed, she quite forgot that -the Hermit had always before had a boat, that he never yet had taken -advantage of it to make the acquaintance of the Doxology or the kittens, -and imagined him feeling very badly indeed. - -Bazilloa Armitage held family prayers at six o'clock on Sunday -afternoons; and all through them Cissy considered the Hermit. - -“I sink in deep waters,” read Bazilloa Armitage with a rising -inflection. “The billows go over my head, all his waves go over me, -Selah,” and Cissy in her mind saw the Hermit sitting on the further -shore, feeling very badly, calling Tad an “evil generation,” and saying: -“The billows go over my head, Selah,” because he had no boat. She -thought that one must feel desperately in order to say: “Selah, -the billows go over me.” And while Bazilloa Armitage prayed for the -President, Congress, the Governor, and other people who were in trouble, -she plotted diligently how it might be avoided that the Hermit should -feel so badly as to say “Selah,” or call Tad an “evil generation”; how -she might get the boat back, in order that the Hermit should feel better -and let bygones be; and how it might be done secretly, in order that Tad -should not make a bear of himself. Afterwards she walked out of the back -door in her sturdy fashion, and no one paid her any attention. - -The Hermit muttered in the dusk of his doorway. - -Leather clothes are stiff after a rain and bad for the temper; moreover, -other things than disordered visions of the heavens rolling away as a -scroll and the imperative duty of denouncing some one were present in -his clouded brain,--half memories, breaking through clouds, of a time -when he had not as yet begun to companion daily with judgment to come, -nor had those black spots begun to dance before his eyes, which black -spots were evidently the sins of the world. He muttered and shifted his -position uneasily. - -There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. -It stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in -front. There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, -rolled after it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears. - -The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; -he shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar -enough to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: “It is written, 'Thou -shalt have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes.” - He stared with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples -chuckled, sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to -steal in upon him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He -made an angry motion to thrust it away, and muttered: “Judgment to -come--judgment to come.” He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, -and then two infinite things came together in his shattered brain with a -crash, leaving him stunned and still. - -There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence, -too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, “Judgment to -come!” would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was--no--well, -there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and -rolled after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. -He dressed hides across a bench. The other men did not take much -interest in judgment to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under -his bench. After that the child rolled its doll down the steps again, -and bumped after it pitifully. - -The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if -it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely -was true--whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the steps -he could not tell, but he thought, “Presently I shall forget one of the -two.” - -The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills -beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa -Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter -sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds, -stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and -the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of -the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in -white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, -the light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for -judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north--that -was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that--could not be -anything--it was false--unless--unless it rolled down the steps. And -then once more the two infinite things came together with a crash. He -leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over his -head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning. - -Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and -adjusted her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was -embarrassing. - -“I--I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I--I feel bad.” - -She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time -the only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. -She thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined. - -“I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I--want to go home.” - -The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She -twisted her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her -throat, and she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how -badly she felt--unless she said “Selah.” It was strong language, but she -ventured it at last. - -“I feel awful bad. The--the billows go over my head, Selah!” Then she -wished that she had let “Selah” quite alone. - -The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and -dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep -forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and -decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily. - -“What is your name?” he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks -who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not -know her name, having seen her often enough,--and this gave her courage. -“Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home.” - -“No!” shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that -the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. “That isn't -the name.” Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing. -Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and -was much worse than “The billows go over me, Selah.” On the whole there -seemed to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and -there hesitated diffidently. - -“I want to go home. I--I want you to row me.” - -There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his -knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but -almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars -and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the -old willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's -ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down. -Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and -saw him sitting with his head down. - -Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants -Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from -shore. The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope -wound around his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there -with a purpose. If that purpose was to discover which of two things -were true--judgment to come, or the child that rolled its doll down -the steps--every one is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or -failure. There was a copy-book, such as children use, found in his -hut. On the cover was written, “The Book of Judgment.” It contained -the record of his denunciations, with other odd things. The people of -Wyantenaug Valley still differ, according to humor; but any one of them -will give his or her opinion, if you ask it. - - - - -BLACK POND CLEARING - -|In those days I knew Hamilton only by the light in the south; for in -Hagar men said, “That light in the south is Hamilton,” as they would -say, “The sunrise in the east, the sunset in the west, the aurora in the -north,” illuminations that were native in their places. Hamilton was a -yellow glimmer on clear nights, and on cloudy nights a larger glow. It -crouched low in the sky, pale, secret, enticing. - -Also I knew that Hamilton was twenty miles away, like Sheridan's ride. -How great and full of palaces and splendors that must be which shone so -far! How golden its streets, and jewelled its gates, like the Celestial -City, which is described in Revelations and “The Progress” in an -unmistakable manner, if not as one would wish in the matter of some -details. Yet to speak justly, “The Progress” was considered a passable -good story, though not up to the “Arabian Nights”; and Revelations had -its points, though any one could see the writer was mixed in his mind, -and upset probably by the oddness of his adventures, and rather stumped -how to relate them plainly. - -But this story does not include the city of Hamilton, although touching -on the lights in the south. It left its mark upon me and cast a shadow -over many things that did not seem connected with it, being a kind of -introduction for me to what might be called the Greater Melancholies. - -There are four roads that meet in Hagar: the Cattle Ridge, the Salem, -the Windless Mountain, and the Red Rock. The Salem is broad, level, -and straight; the Windless sweeps around the mountain, deep through -the pines, the jungle of other woods, and the gorge of the falling Mill -Stream; the Red Rock is a high, clean hill road, open and bare; the -Cattle Ridge Road comes down from highest of all, from far up on the -windy brows of the Ridge, and dips and courtesies all the way into -Hagar. Some time I would like to make more plain the nature and -influence of the Four Roads. But the adventure began on the Cattle Ridge -Road with a wide-armed chestnut tree, where certain red squirrels lived -who were lively and had thin tails. I went out over the road on a long -limb with Moses Durfey and Chub Leroy, seeing Mr. Cummings driving a -load of hay down from the Cattle Ridge: it seemed desirable to drop on -the hay when it passed beneath. Mr. Cummings was sleepy. He sat nodding -far down in front, while we lit softly on the crest and slid over -behind. - -And next you are to know that Chub Leroy's feet came down thump on the -head of a monstrous man, half buried in the hay, who sat up and looked -around, vast, shaggy, black-bearded, smoking a corncob pipe, composed, -and quite ragged in his clothes. - -“Humph!” he said mildly, and rubbed his head. - -After a few moments looking us over, he pointed with his thumb through -the hay at Mr. Cummings, and leaned toward us and winked. - -“Same as me,” he whispered, and shook all over his fatness, silently, -with the laughter and pleasure he was having inside. - -It is a good thing in this world to have adventures, and it is only a -matter of looking around a bit in country or city. For each fellow -his quest is waiting at the street corner, or hides in the edge of the -woods, peering out of green shadows. On all highways it is to be met -with and is seldom far to seek--though no harm if it were--because the -world is populous with men and animals, and no moment like another. It -may be, if you drop on a hay-load, you will have a row with the driver, -or you will thump on the head such a free traveller as ours, vast, -shaggy, primeval, pipe-smoking, of wonderful fatness. - -He seemed a sleepy, contented man, not in point of fact minding thumps -on the head. The hay-cart rolled on gently in the dust. Mr. Cummings -drowsed in front, unaware, and the Free Traveller drowsed behind, -smoking listlessly. The rest of us grew sleepy too and liked everything. -For it was odd but pleasant in a way to look down from the secrecy of -the hay on familiar things, on the village dooryards and the tops of -hats. We seemed to fall into silent league with the Free Traveller, to -be interested in things, but not anxious, observing the hats of labor -and ambition, careless of appearance, primitive, easy, seeing little -importance in where the cart might go, because anywhere was good enough. - -Instead of turning east at the cross-roads, Mr. Cummings drove drowsily -ahead on the Windless Road, although the Cummings place is east on the -Salem; so that the hay was plainly going to the little pasture barn, -three miles off, all one to us, and better for the Free Traveller, as it -appeared after. But he was not interested then, being in a fair way to -sleep. We lay deep in the hay and looked up at the blue of the sky and -the white of the creeping clouds, till the pine trees closed suddenly -over the road, the cliffs of Windless Mountain on one side and the Mill -Stream on the other, deep under its bank. A strong south wind came under -the pines, skirting the corner of the mountain, hissed through the pine -needles, and rumpled the hay. - -And there was a great smoke and blaze about us. “Humph!” said the Free -Traveller. - -He went off the back of the hay-cart into the middle of the road, and we -too fell off immediately, each in his own way, on the pine needles. -Mr. Cummings came up over the top of the load with a tumult of mixed -language, and the horses ran away. - -The great load sped down the green avenue smoking, crackling, blazing, -taking with it Mr. Cummings to unknown results, and leaving the Free -Traveller sitting up in the middle of the road and looking after it -mildly. He heaved himself up puffing. “There!” he said. “There goes my -pipe.” - -“It's all your fault,” shouted Moses Durfey. “You shouldn't smoke on -hay-loads.” - -“Maybe Mr. Cummings is a deader,” said Chub Leroy, thoughtfully. - -The Free Traveller rubbed his leg. - -“You're same as me. If he ain't dead he'll come back with a strap and -lam some of us. That ain't me. I'm going to light out.” - -He slid under the rail and down the bank to the stream, handling himself -wonderfully for so weighty a man; for he seemed to accommodate himself -to obstacles like a jellyfish, and somehow to get around them. So he was -over the bowlders and across the stream, which there divides Windless -Mountain from the Great South Woods. - -We were indignant that he should leave us to be “lammed” for his -carelessness. We shouted after, and Moses Durfey said he was a “chump.” - -“You might come along,” retorted the Free Traveller with an injured -manner. “What's hindering? I lugs nobody. I lets folks alone.” - -He was at the wood's edge by this time, where a dim green path went in, -looked over his shoulder a moment, and then disappeared. We scrambled -down the bank and over the bowlders, for it was not desirable to wait -for Mr. Cummings, and Hagar itself would be no refuge. Hagar was a place -where criticisms were made, while the green woods have never a comment -on any folly, but are good comrades to all who have the temper to like -them. We caught up with him by dint of running and followed silently. -It grew dusky with the lateness of the afternoon, the pale green light -turning dark, and we were solemn and rather low in our minds. The Free -Traveller seemed to grow more vast in outline. Being short of wind he -wheezed and moaned and what with his swaying as he walked, and his great -humpy shoulders and all, he looked less and less like a man, and more -and more like a Thing. Sometimes a tree would creak suddenly near at -hand, and I fancied there were other people in the woods, whispering and -all going the way we went, to see what would come to us in the end. - -So it went on till we came on a little clearing, between the forest and -a swamp. A black pond, tinted a bit with the sunset, lay below along -the edge of the swamp; and we knew mainly where we were, for there was -a highway somewhere beyond the swamp, connecting the valleys of the -Wyantenaug and the Pilgrim. But none the less for the highway it seemed -a lonely place, fit for congregations of ghosts. The pond was unknown to -me, and it looked very still and oily. The forest seemed to crowd about -and overhang the clearing. On the western side was a heap of caverned -bowlders, and a fire burned in front with three persons sitting beside -it. - -The Free Traveller slid along the wood's edge noiselessly but without -hesitation, and coming to the fire was greeted. One of those who sat -there was a tall old man with very light blue eyes and prominent, his -beard white and long. As we came to know, he was called the “Prophet.” - He said: - -“How do, Humpy?” so that we knew the Free Traveller was called Humpy, -either for the shape of his shoulders or for the word he used to express -himself. There was a younger man, with a retreating chin, and a necktie, -but no collar, and there was a silent woman with a shawl over her head. - -“These are friends o' mine,” said the Free Traveller to the older man. -“Make you acquainted. That's Showman Bobby, and that's the Prophet.” - -A vast chuckle of mirth started then from deep within him and surged -through his throat,--such a laugh as would naturally come from a whale -or some creature of a past age, whose midriff was boundless. - -“Ho!” he said. “Bloke with a hay-load lit under him. Ho, Ho!” - -“Gen'leman,” said the Prophet with a fluent wave of his hand. “Friends -of Humpy's. That's enough. Any grub, Humpy?” - -The Free Traveller brought out a round loaf and some meat done up in -a newspaper. He might have carried a number of such things about him -without making any great difference in his contour. The Prophet did not -ask about the hay-load, or where the bread and meat came from. - -The daylight was fading now in the clearing, and presently a few thin -stars were out. It might have occurred to persons of better regulated -fancies than ours that they were due at supper long since with other -friends of staider qualities, and that now the wood-paths were too dark -to follow. Perhaps it did; but it could not have seemed a fair reason to -be troubled, that we were last seen in company with the Free Traveller, -so fat and friendly a man. I remember better that the Black Pond -reflected no stars, that the gleams from the fire played fearful games -along the wood's edge and the bowlders, and how, beyond the Black Pond, -the swamp and the close-cuddled hills, the lights of Hamilton crouched -low under the sky. Opposite us across the fire sat that woman who said -nothing, and her face was shadowed by her shawl. - -Showman Bobby and the Free Traveller went to sleep, Bobby on his face -and the Free Traveller accommodating himself. The Prophet sat up and -kept us company; for we asked him questions naturally, and he seemed -interested to answer, and was fluent and striking in his speech. They -were a runout Company and very low in their luck; and it seemed that -Bobby was the manager, a tumbler himself by profession and in that -way of life since childhood; and the Free Traveller was apt to be an -Australian giant now, but in earlier years had been given to footing -from place to place and living as he might. The Prophet called him a -skilful man at getting things out of women, partly by experience, and -partly by reason of his size and the mildness of his manners. As for the -Black Pond Clearing, it was well known to people of the road, even to -orange-men and pack-peddlers, being a hidden place with wood and water -and shelter in the caves from rain. - -“That light in the south is Hamilton,” said Chub Leroy. - -The Prophet started and looked anxiously across the fire, but the woman -did not move. Then he drew nearer us and spoke lower. - -“You look out,” he said. “She ain't right in her head. Bobby painted the -kid for a pappoose. It took the shakes and died queer. You'd better lie -down, Cass,” speaking across the fire to the woman, who turned her head -and stared at him directly. “You'd better lie down.” - -She drew back from the fire noiselessly and lay down, wrapping her shawl -about her head. - -“I ain't been a circus heeler all my time,” began the Prophet. “I been a -gentleman. Neither has Humpy, I reckon. When I met Bobby it was West and -he ran a dime museum. He took me in for being a gifted talker, and I -was that low in my luck. She and Bobby was married sometime, and she did -acts like the Circassian Beauty, and the Headless Woman, and the Child -of the Aztecs. Humpy's gifts lies in his size, and he's a powerful -strong man, too, more than you'd think, and he can get himself up for a -savage to look like a loose tornado. Look at him now. Ain't he a heap? -There was a three-eyed dog in the show that you could n't tell that the -extra eye was n't so hardly, and a snake that was any kind of a snake -according as you fixed him, his natural color being black. We came -East with Forepaugh's. Bobby bought a tent in Chicago, and we came to -Hamilton a fortnight ago. Now there's Hamilton that's a-shining off -there with its lights. And we run away from it in the night a week come -to-morrow, or next day, I forget. We left the tent and outfit which was -come down on by a Dutch grocer for debt, and Cassie's baby was dead -in the tent. Bobby painted him too thick. And there was a lot of folks -looking for us with sticks. Now, that was n't right. Think Bobby'd have -poisoned his own kid if he'd known better about painting him, a kid -that was a credit to the show! That's what they said. Think folks coming -round with sticks and a-howling blasphemous is going to help out any -family mourning! That ain't my idea. - -“Then a fellow says, 'I don't know anything about it,' he says, 'and I -don't want to, but I know you get out of here quick.' - -“And they drove us out of Hamilton that night ten miles in a covered -cart, and left us in the road. And the Dutch grocer got the outfit. I -reckon the circus and the city has buried the kid between 'em. Hey? -Sh! She's got a quirk. All I know is Fore-paugh's shook us as if we was -fleas.” - -The Prophet looked over to where Cassie lay, but she did not stir. -Anyway, if she heard, it was the Prophet's fault. “They're awful poor -company,” he said plaintively, “Bobby and Cass. She takes on terrible. -She's took a notion that baby ain't buried right. She thinks--well, I -don't know. Now that ain't my way of looking at things, but I did n't -own the outfit. It was Bobby's outfit, and the Dutch grocer got it.” - -He was silent for a moment. We could hear the Free Traveller asleep and -rumbling in his throat. - -“Where might you chaps come from?” asked the Prophet, suddenly. “Not -that it's my business. Maybe there might be a town over there? Hey? -Yes.” - -He grumbled in his beard a few moments more, and then lay down to sleep. -We drew together and whispered. The three men slept, and the woman said -nothing. - -It is seen that sometimes your most battered and world-worn of men is -the simplest in his way of looking at things. Or else it was because the -Prophet was a talker by nature, and Bobby and Cass such poor company, -that he fell into speech with us on such equal terms. I have set down -but little of what he said, only enough for the story of the Company, -and as I happen to recollect it. - -It should have been something earlier than nine o'clock when the Prophet -lay down to sleep, and half an hour later when we first noticed that -the woman, Cass, was sitting up. She had her back to us and was looking -toward the lights of Hamilton. There was no moon and the stars only -shone here and there between clouds that hurried across the sky, making -preparations for the storm that came in the morning. The fire burned -low, but there was no need of it for warmth. The outlines of the hills -could be seen. The swamp, the pond, and most of the clearing were dark -together. - -Presently she looked cautiously around, first at the three sleepers, and -then at us. She crept nearer slowly and crouched beside the dull fire, -throwing back her shawl. Her hair was black and straggled about her -face, and her eyes were black too, and glittering. The glow of the -embers, striking upward, made their sockets cavernous, but the eyes -stood out in the midst of the caverns. One knows well enough that -tragedies walk about and exchange agreeable phrases with each other. -Your tragedy is yours, and mine is mine, and in the meanwhile see to -it that we look sedate, and discuss anything, provided it is of no -importance to either. One does not choose to be an inscribed monument to -the fame of one's private affair. But Cassie had lost that instinct of -reserve, and her desolation looked out of her eyes with dreadful candor. -The lines of her face, the droop of her figure and even little motions -of the hand, signified but one thought. I suppose all ideas possible -to the world had become as one to her, so that three boys cowering away -from her seemed only a natural enough part of the same subject. It was -all one; namely, a baby painted brown, who died queerly in a side tent -in Hamilton Fair Grounds. - -We stared at her breathlessly. - -“You tell 'em I'm going,” she whispered. - -“Where?” asked Chub. - -“They ain't no right to--to--Who are you?” - -But this was only in passing. She did not wait to be answered. - -“You tell 'em I'm going.” - -“What for?” persisted Chub. - -“It's six days. Maybe they throwed him where the tin cans are. You tell -'em I'm going.” - -And she was gone. She must have slipped along the edge of the woods -where the shadows were densest. - -We listened a moment or two stupidly. Then we sprang up. It seems as if -the three men were on their feet at the same instant, wakened by some -common instinct or pressure of fear. It was a single sound of splashing -we heard off in the darkness. Bobby was gone, then the Free Traveller, -then the Prophet. We fell into hollows, over rocks and stumps, and came -to the pond. The reflection of a star or two glimmered there. The water -looked heavy, like melted lead, and any ripple that had been was gone, -or too slight to see. The Free Traveller and Bobby went in and waded -about. - -“Don't you step on her,” said Bobby, hoarsely. - -The bottom seemed to shelve steeply from the shore. They moved along -chest-deep, feeling with their feet, and we heard them whispering. The -Prophet sat down and whimpered softly. They waded a distance along the -shore, and back. They came close in, whispered together, and went out -again. - -“Here! I got it,” said the Free Traveller. They came out, carrying -something large and black, and laid it on the ground. - -“It ain't Cassie!” whimpered the Prophet. “It ain't Cassie, is it?” - -They all stood about it. The face was like a dim white patch on the -ground. - -“Hold your jaw,” said Bobby. “Hark!” - -There were voices in the woods above, and a crashing of the branches. -They were coming nearer and lights were twinkling far back in the -wood-path, where we had entered the clearing. I do not know what thought -it was--some instinct to flee and hide--that seized the outcasts. They -slid away into the darkness together, swiftly and without speaking. The -Free Traveller had Cassie's body on his shoulder, carrying it as a child -carries a rag doll. The darkness swallowed them at a gulp, and we -stood alone by the Black Pond. Several men came into the clearing with -lanterns, villagers from Hagar, Harvey Cummings, the minister, and -others, who swung their lanterns and shouted. - -Now, I suppose that Cassie lies buried to-day somewhere in the South -Woods, and it may be that no man alive knows where. For none of the -Company were ever seen again in that part of the country, nor have -been heard of anywhere now these many years. We can see the lights of -Hamilton from Hagar as of old, but we seldom think of the Celestial -City, or any palaces and splendors, but of the multitude of various -people who go to and fro, each carrying a story. - -The coming and going of aliens made little difference with Hagar. I -suppose it was more important there, that Harvey Cummings's hay-load -went up lawlessly in smoke and flame, and never came to the little -pasture barn on the Windless Mountain Road. - - - - -JOPPA - -|On Friday afternoon, the twenty-eighth of June, Deacon Crockett's -horse ran away. It was not a suitable thing, not at all what a settled -community had a right to expect of a horse with stubby legs and no mane -to speak of, who had grown old in the order of decent conduct. He ran -into Mrs. Cullom Sanderson's basket phaeton and spilled Mrs. Cullom on -the ground, which was taking a grave responsibility. It was done in the -midst of Hagar. Harvey Cummings jumped out of the way and said, “Deb -it!” There was no concealment about it. Everybody heard of it and said -it was astonishing. - -The name of the deacon's horse was Joppa. The deacon's father-in-law, -Captain David Brett, had an iron-gray named Borneo. Borneo and Joppa did -not agree, on account of Borneo's kicking Joppa in the ribs to show his -contempt. It was natural that he should have this contempt, being sleek -and spirited himself, with a nautical gait that every one admitted to be -taking; and Joppa did not think it unnatural in him to show it. Without -questioning the justice of Borneo's position, he disliked being kicked -in the ribs. - -Borneo had been eating grass by the roadside; Joppa stood harnessed in -front of the horse-block; Mrs. Crockett stood on the horse-block; Borneo -came around and kicked Joppa in the ribs; Joppa ran away; Mrs. Crockett -shrieked; Harvey Cummings said “Deb it!” and Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was -spilled. She weighed two hundred pounds and covered a deal of ground -when she was spilled. - -He crossed the bridge and tore along the Salem Road, his stubby legs -pattering under him, and a great fear in his soul of the shouting -village behind. Angelica and Willy Flint saw him coming. - -“It's a runaway!” shouted Angelica. - -Willy Flint continued swinging on the gate. He thought it his place to -be self-contained and accurate. - -“It's Joppa,” he said calmly. - -But Angelica did not care for appearances. She shied a clam-shell at -Joppa, said “Hi there!” and jumped around. - -Joppa swerved sharply, the deacon's buggy turned several sides up, -if that is possible, bobbed along behind, and then broke loose at the -thills. Joppa fled madly up the side road that leads to Scrabble Up and -Down, and disappeared over the crest of the hill, leaving Angelica and -Willy Flint to gloat over the wreck of the buggy. It gratified a number -of their instincts. - -The region called Scrabble Up and Down, as well as the road which leads -to it, is distinguished by innumerable small steep hills and hollows. -For the rest, it is a sandy and ill-populated district, and a lonely -road. Westward of it lies a wilderness of underbrush and stunted trees, -rising at last into exultant woods and billowing over the hills mile -upon mile to the valley of the Wyantenaug. The South Woods do not belong -to Scrabble Up and Down. They are put there to show Scrabble Up and Down -what it cannot do. - -The road winds around hillocks and down hollows in an aimless fashion; -and for that reason it is not possible to see much of it at a time. -When the villagers of Hagar reached the top of the first hill, Joppa -was nearly a mile away, his stubby legs rather tired, his spirit more -tranquil, and himself out of sight of the villagers of Hagar. He saw -no point in turning back. Hagar gave him but a dull and unideal -life, plodding between shafts before the austere and silent deacon, -unaccountably smacked with a whip, and in constant contrast with -Borneo's good looks. Joppa had not many ideas and little imagination. -He did not feel drawn to go back. Moreover he smelt something damp and -fresh in the direction of the woods which absorbed him. He stopped, -sniffed, and looked around. The fence was broken here and there, as -fences generally were in Scrabble Up and Down. The leaves were budding; -there was a shimmer of green on the distant woods; and presently Joppa -was wandering through the brush and scrub trees westward. The broken -shafts dragged quietly beside him. He lifted his head a little higher -than usual and had an odd feeling, as if he were enjoying himself. - -A tumult, row, or excitement of any kind was considered by the children -of Hagar a thing to be desired, assisted, and remembered gratefully. -Some of the elders were much of the same mind. Joppa's action was -therefore popular in Hagar, the more so that it was felt to be -incongruous; and, when by no search that Friday afternoon nor the -following Saturday could he be found, his reputation rose in leaps. He -had gone over the hill and vanished like a ghost, commonplace, homely, -plodding, downcast Joppa, known to Hagar in that fashion these dozen -or more years and suddenly become the loud talk of the day. The road -to Scrabble Up and Down and the roads far beyond were searched. Inquiry -spread to Salem and to Gilead. On Saturday night notices were posted -here and there by happy jokers relating to Joppa, one on the church door -of Hagar requesting the prayers of the congregation. Mr. Atherton Bell -thought the deacon's horse like “the deacon's one-hoss shay,” in that he -had lasted an extraordinary time intact, and then disintegrated. Joppa -had become a mystery, an excitement, a cause of wit. A definite addition -had been made to the hoarded stock of tradition and jest; the lives of -all seemed the richer. An atmosphere of deep and tranquil mirth pervaded -the village, a kind of mellow light of humor, in the focus of which -stood Deacon Crockett, and writhed. - -It was hoped that the minister would preach on Joppa. He preached on -“human insignificance,” and read of the war-horse, “Hast thou clothed -his neck with thunder?” but it was thought not to refer to Joppa. - -As for the children of Hagar, did they not dream of him, and hear him -thumping and blundering by in the winds of the dim night? They saw no -humor in him, nor in the deacon. Rather it was a serious mystery, and -they went about with the impression of it on their faces, having faith -that the outcome would be worthy of the promise. - -Harvey Cummings thought that the war-horse did not refer to Joppa, and -said so on the steps of the church. “There wan'd no thudder aboud him. -He was the meekest hoss in Hamilton County. He run away on accound of -his shyness.” - -Mr. Cummings had no palate to speak of, and his consonants were -uncertain. Mr. Atherton Bell threw out his chest, as an orator should, -put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and gazed at Mr. Cummings -with a kindling eye. - -“For a meek horse,” he said impressively, “he showed--a--great -resolution when he spilled Mrs. Cullom Sanderson. I declare to you, -Harvey, I give you my word, sir, I would not have missed seeing Mrs. -Cullom spilled for a government contract.” - -“Oh, indeed, Mr. Bell!” said Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, rustling past, -“clothed with thunder” and black silk. Mr. Atherton Bell recovered -himself slowly and moved to a greater distance from the church door. -He was a politician and a legislator, but he found diplomacy difficult. -Several others gathered around, desiring to hear the statesman. “Now -suppose, Harvey, suppose the deacon too should take a notion to run -away, knock over Mrs. Cullom, you know, and--a--disappear. Imagine it, -Harvey.” - -Mr. Cummings shook his head. - -“Can't do it.” - -Mr. Bell took off his hat and smiled expansively. - -“It's a pleasing thought, ha! He might be translated--a--Elijah, you -know. He might leave his mantle to--to me. Hitherto the deacon has -lacked dramatic interest. Contact between Mrs. Cullom and Deacon -Crockett would--” (here his hearers stirred appreciatively) “would have -dramatic interest--Ah, good morning, deacon, good morning, sir. We were -speaking of your loss. We--a--trust it will not be permanent.” - -The deacon moved on without answering. Mr. Atherton Bell's spirit fell -again, and he wiped his forehead nervously. - -It would be a painful thing if a man were suddenly to enter into full -sight of himself as others see him; it is a measure of distress even -to have a passing glimpse--not so much because he sees a worse man, but -because he sees a stranger. - -Deacon Crockett had never asked himself how others saw him. He was not a -flexible man. The grooves in which his life ran had been worn slowly -in a hard substance. Its purports and ends had always seemed to him -accurately measured and bounded. He exacted his rights, paid his dues, -and had no doubts about either; held his conscience before him as a -sword, dividing truth from falsehood. He stood by the faith of his -forefathers, gave up no jot or tittle of it; there were no hazy outlying -regions in that faith. - -When a man observes himself to be a well-defined thing in certain -relations with other well-defined things, has no more doubt of the -meaning of his presence on the earth than of the function of a cogwheel -in his watch, his footing seems singularly secure; the figure he makes -in his own eyes not only grows rigid with habit, but seems logically -exact to begin with. To doubt the function of the cog-wheel is to put in -question the watch, which is impossible and a sufficient demonstration. -Other men's opinions, if worth anything or considered at all, are -assumed to be respectful; and the assumption seems just. - -Why should he not feel impregnable in his personal dignity, who sees -himself sufficiently fulfilling his function in an ordered scheme, a -just man, elected to become perfect? Personal dignity is at least not a -vulgar ambition. It was the deacon's ambition, the thing which he wished -to characterize his life. - -The deacon walked down the path from the church. He walked quietly and -stiffly as usual, but the spirit within him was worse than angry; it -was confused. The whole neighborhood seemed to be laughing at him; his -fingers tingled at the thought. - -But that was not the source of his confusion. It was, strangely, that -there seemed to be no malice in the laughter, only a kind of amused -friendliness. An insult and a resentment can be understood by a man of -function, within his function; his resentment maintains his equilibrium. -But, quite the contrary, his neighbors seemed timidly to invite him into -the joke. Of all the hidden ways of laughter one comes last to that in -which he may walk and be amused with himself; although it is only there -that he is for the first time entirely comfortable in the world. Tim -Rae, the town drunkard, met him where the path across the Green joins -the road. It was Tim's habit to flee from the deacon's approach with -feeble subterfuges, not because the deacon ever lectured him, but -because the deacon's presence seemed to foreshorten his stature, and -gave him a chill in the stomach, where he preferred “something warm.” - Yet he ambled amiably across the road, and his air of good-fellowship -could not have been greater if they had met in a ditch on equal terms of -intoxication. - -“What think, deacon,” he gurgled. “I was dream-in' las' night, 'bout -Joppa comin' down my chimney, damned if he did n't.” - -The deacon stopped and faced him. - -“You may be drunk, sir,” he said slowly, “on Saturday night, and you may -curse on the Sabbath; but you _may not_ expect me to sympathize with -you--in either.” - -Then Tim Rae slunk away foreshortened of stature and cold in the -stomach. - -Monday morning was the first of May; and on May-day, unless the season -were backward and without early flowers, the children of Hagar would go -after ground-pine for the May-baskets, and trailing arbutus to fill them -with. They would hang the baskets on the door-handles of those who were -thought worthy, popular persons such as the minister and Sandy Campbell; -on Mr. Atherton Bell's door-handle on account of Bobby Bell, who was a -gentleman but not allowed to be out nights because of his inferior age. - -Ground-pine grows in many places, but early arbutus is a whimsical -flower, as shy as first love. It is nearly always to be found somewhere -in the South Woods. And the South Woods are to be reached, not by -Scrabble Up and Down, but along the Windless Mountain Road, across the -Mill Stream, and by cart-paths which know not their own minds. - -The deacon drove home from Gilead Monday afternoon, and saw the children -noisily jumping the Mill Stream where the line of bowlders dams up the -stream and makes deep quiet water above. Their voices, quarrelling and -laughing, fell on his ear with an unfamiliar sound. Somehow they seemed -significant, at least suggesting odd trains of thought. He found himself -imagining how it would seem to go Maying; and the incongruity of it -brought a sudden frown of mental pain and confusion to his forehead. And -so he drove into Hagar. - -But if he had followed the May-day revellers, as he had oddly imagined -himself doing, he would have gone by those winding cart-paths, fragrant -with early growth, and might have seen the children break from the woods -with shouts into a small opening above a sunken pond; he might even have -heard the voice of Angelica Flint rise in shrill excitement: - -“_Why, there's Joppa!_” - -Some minutes after six, the first shading of the twilight being in the -air, the villagers of Hagar, whose houses lay along the north and south -road, rose on one impulse and came forth into the street. And standing -by their gates and porches, they saw the children go by with lost -Joppa in their midst. Around his neck was a huge flopping wreath of -ground-pine and arbutus. The arbutus did not stay in very well, and -there was little of it--only bits stuck in here and there. Joppa hung -his head low, so that the wreath had to be held on. He did not seem -cheerful; in fact, the whole cortège had a subdued though important air, -as if oppressed by a great thought and conscious of ceremony. - -The minister and the other neighbors along the street came out and -followed. Some dozen or more at last stood on the brow of the slight -hill looking down to the deacon's house; and they too felt conscious of -something, of a ceremony, a suspense. - -Mr. Atherton Bell met the children and drove his buggy into the ditch, -stood up and gazed over the back of it with an absorbed look. - -“I feel curious how the deacon will take it,” said the minister. “I--I -feel anxious.” - -Mr. Atherton Bell said, it got him. He said something too about -“dramatic interest” and “a good betting chance he'll cut up rough”; but -no one answered him. - -The procession halted outside the deacon's gate. A tendency to giggle -on the part of certain girls was sternly suppressed by Angelica Flint. -Willy Flint led Joppa cautiously up the board walk and tied him to a -pillar of the porch; the company began to retreat irregularly. - -Suddenly the deacon, tall and black-coated, stood in the doorway, Mrs. -Crockett at his elbow pouring forth exclamations; and the retreat became -a flight. Little Nettie Paulus fell behind; she stood in the middle of -the road and wailed piteously. - -The deacon glared at Joppa and Joppa's grotesque necklace, looked after -the fleeing children and saw on the brow of the hill the group of his -fellow-townsmen. His forehead flushed and he hesitated. At last he took -the wreath awkwardly from Joppa's neck, went into the house and shut -the door. The wreath hung in his front window seven months, and fell to -pieces about the end of November. Joppa died long after of old age and -rheumatism. - - - - -THE ELDER' SEAT - -|Between the mill and the miller's house in Hagar the Mill Stream made -a broad pool with a yellow bottom of pebbles and sand. It was sometimes -called the Mediterranean. If you wished to cross the Mill Stream, there -was a plank below, which was good to jounce on also, though apt to tip -you into the water. The pool was shallow, about twenty feet across and -as long as you might care to go upstream,--as far as the clay bank, -anyway, where Chub Leroy built the city of Alexandria. Jeannette Paulus -walked all over Alexandria to catch a frog, and made a mess of it, -and did not catch the frog. That is the way of things in this world. -Alexandria fell in a moment, with all her palaces and towers. But there -were other cities, and commerce was lively on the Mediterranean. - -On the nearer side, against the gray, weatherbeaten flank of the -miller's house was a painted bench, for convenience of the morning sun -and afternoon shade; and I call it now the Elders' Seat, because Captain -David Brett and others were often to be seen sitting there in the sun -or shade. I remember the minister was there, and Job Mather, the miller, -whenever his grist ran low, so that he let his stem millstones cease -to grind. These were the three to whom the Elders' Seat seemed to us to -belong by right of continuance, because our short memories ran not to -the contrary. Captain David was well in his seventies, the miller not -far behind, and Mr. Royce already gray-haired. They sat and watched the -rise and fall of cities, the growth and decay of commerce, the tumult of -conquests, and the wreck of high ambition. They noticed that one thing -did not change nor cease, namely, the ripple of the stream; just as -if, in history, there really were a voice distinguishable that went -murmuring forever. - -After the fall of Alexandria Damascus was built, but inland, so that it -had to be reached by caravan; and Moses Durfey laid the foundations of -Byzantium where the pool narrowed into rushing water, and Venice was -planted low in a marshy place hard by the seven hills of Rome. But you -must know that Bobby Bell built the city of Rome absurdly, and filled it -with pot-holes to keep frogs in and floating black bugs, so that it -was impossible to hold it against the Carthaginians. There were wars in -those days. These were the main marts of trade, but there were quays -and fortresses elsewhere; and it should be told sometime how the Barbary -pirates came down. Rome was in a bad way, for Bobby had one aquarium in -the Campus Martius, and another where the Forum should have been. There -was nothing flourishing but the aqueducts. - -The three Elders would sit leaning forward, watching the changes of -fortune and event that went on from hour to hour by the Mediterranean. -The captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested his chin on his cane; -the miller's hands were on his knees, his large white face stolid, -his heavy lips seldom moving. He was a thinking man, the miller,--a -slow-moving, slow-speaking, persistent man, and a fatalist in his way of -thinking, though he used no such term; it was his notion of things. - -They talked of old history out of Gibbon and Grote and the Seven -Monarchies, and they talked of things that had happened to them as -men in the world; but the things which they thought of most often, in -watching the children and the Mill Stream, they said little about, for -these had not happened a thousand or two thousand years before, nor -twenty or thirty, but just sixty or seventy. And this was why they came -so often to the Elders' Seat, because something dim and happy seemed to -come up to them, like a mist, from the Mill Stream, where the children -quarrelled and contrived. - -“I'll tell ye what ailed Rome,” said Captain David. “She needed to be -keeled and scraped. She fouled her bottom!” - -The minister answered slowly: “No, she was rotten within. She lost the -faith in God and in man that keeps a people sound.” - -“Ho! Well, then she wa'n't handled right.” - -The miller rubbed his thumb slowly on the palm of his hand. “She was -grinded out,” he said. “She couldn't help it. Corn can't keep itself -from meal when the stones gets at it. No more a man can't keep his bones -from dust, nor a people, either, I'm thinking, when its time comes.” - -The minister shook his head. “I don't like that.” - -“I don't know as I do, either. And I don't know as that makes any -difference.” - -“Ho!” said the captain. “Bobby's got a new frog!” - -And Chub Leroy cried out in despair: “Look out, Bobby! You're stepping -on the Colosseum!” - -I would not pretend to say how long the Elders' Seat had stood there, or -how many years the Elders had come to it now and again; but I remember -that it seemed to us very permanent, in a world of shifting empires, -where Alexandria was suddenly walked upon and deserted, and Venice went -down the current in a rainy night, and was spoken of no more. We could -not remember when it had not stood in its place. It was a kind of -Olympus to us, or Delphi, where we went for oracles on shipping and -other matters. - -Afterward we grew up, and became too old to dabble and make beautiful -things of gray clay, except Chub Leroy, who is still doing something -of that kind, cutting and building with clay and stone. But the Elders' -Seat remained, and the Elders watched other children, as if nothing had -happened. Only, Captain David had trouble to keep his pipe in his mouth. -So that when the Elders' Seat took its first journey, it seemed very -difficult for us to understand,--even for those who were too old to -dabble in gray clay. - -It was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mill, past the drug -store, the Crocketts' house, where Captain David lived, and so on by -the crossroads, to the minister's, with the graveyard just beyond. I -remember how very yellow and dusty the road was in the summer of '86, so -that the clay bottom cracked off in flat pieces, which could be gathered -up; and then, if you climbed the wall with care enough, you could scale -them at woodchucks. August was sultry and still. The morning-glories -drooped on Captain David's porch, and the pigeons on the roof went to -sleep more than was natural. - -The minister and Job Mather sat, one afternoon, in the Elders' Seat; -for Captain David, he had not gone out through his gate those many days. -There was history enough in process on the Mediterranean. The Americans -and Carthaginians were preparing to have a battle, on account of docks -that ran too near together. The Elders discovered that they did not care -about it. - -The miller got to his feet, and lifted one end of the bench. “Come,” he -said gruffly. “Let's move it.” - -“Hey!” said the minister, looking troubled and a bit lost. Then his lips -trembled. “Yes, Job. That's so, Job. We'd better move it.” - -The children came up from the Mediterranean in a body, and stared. It -was much to them as if, in Greece, the gods had risen up and gone away, -for unknown reasons, taking Olympus with them. The old men went along -the yellow, dusty road with very shuffling steps, carrying the Elders' -Seat, one at each end, till they turned into Captain David's garden and -put it down against the porch. Mrs. Crockett came to the door, and held -up her hands in astonishment. Captain David was helped out. He was faded -and worn with pain. He settled himself in the Elders' Seat. It did not -seem possible to say anything. The captain smoked his pipe; the minister -rested his chin on his cane; the miller's hands were on his knees, his -large white face stolid and set. - -“I'm goin' to shell those peas to-morrow,” began the captain at last. -Then his voice broke, and a mist came into his eyes. - -“I bet ye the Americans are licking the Carthaginians.” - -On the contrary, the Americans and Carthaginians, with other nations, -were hanging over the picket fence, staring and bewildered. What was the -use of mere human wars, if primeval things could be suddenly changed? -The grass might take a notion to come up pink or the seas to run out at -the bottom, and that sort of thing would make a difference. - -The sun dropped low in the west, and presently Chub Leroy, who built the -city of Alexandria ten years before, came slowly along in the shadow -of the maples, and St. Agnes Macree was with him. She was old Caspar -Macree's granddaughter, and he was a charcoal-burner on the Cattle Ridge -long ago. They were surprised to see the Elders' Seat, and stopped a -moment. St. Agnes looked up at him and smiled softly, and Chub's eyes -kept saying, “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” all the time. Then they went on. - -“I remember--” said Captain David, and stopped short. - -“Eh! So do I,” said the minister. - -“You do! Well, Job, do you remember? Ain't it the remarkablest thing!” - -The miller's heavy face was changed with a slow, embarrassed smile. And -all these three sat a long time very still, while the sunlight slanted -among the morning-glories and the pigeons slept on the roof. - -There came a day in September when the minister and the miller were -alone again on the Elders' Seat, but Captain David lay in his bed near -the window. He slept a great deal, and babbled in his half dreams: -sometimes about ships and cordage, anchorage in harbors and whaling in -the south seas; and at times about some one named “Kitty.” I never heard -who Kitty was. He said something or other “wasn't right.” He took the -trouble and the end of things all in good part, and bore no grudge to -any one for it; it seemed only natural, like coming to anchor at last. - -“When a man gets legs like mine,” he said, “it's time he took another -way of getting round. Something like a fish'd be my notion. Parson, a -man gets the other side of somewhere, he can jump round lively-like, -same as he was a boy, eh?” - -The minister murmured something about “our Heavenly Father,” and Captain -David said softly: “I guess he don't call us nothing but boys. He says, -'Shucks! it ain't natural for 'em to behave.' Don't ye think, parson? -Him, he might see an old man like me and tell him, 'Glad to see ye, -sonny'; same as Harrier in Doty's Slip. The boys come in after a year -out, or maybe three years, and old man Harrier, he says, 'Glad to see -ye, sonny'; and the boys gets terrible drunk. He kept a junk-shop, -Harrier.” - -The minister tried to answer, but could not make it out. - -“I saw a ship go down sudden-like. It was in '44. It was inside Cape -Cod. Something blowed her up inside. Me, I've took my time, I have. What -ye grumbling about, parson?” - -In the morning the shutters were closed, and all about the house was -still. The pigeons were cooing on the roof of the porch; and Captain -David was dead, without seeing any reason to grumble. Down at the mill -the miller watched his monotonous millstones grinding slowly. - -The Elders' Seat was moved once more after Captain David died, not -back to the Mediterranean, but further up the yellow road and into the -minister's yard, facing westward. From there the captain's white slab -could be seen through the cemetery gate. The two Elders occupied the -seat some years, and then went in through the gate. - -But the Elders' Seat and its journeys from place to place seemed to -have some curious meaning, hardly to be spelled. I imagine this far, at -least: that at a certain point it became to the two more natural, more -quiet and happy, to turn their eyes in the direction the captain had -gone than in the direction they had all come. It pleased them then to -move the Elders' Seat a little nearer to the gate. And when the late -hour came, it was rather a familiar matter. The minister went in to look -for his Master, and the miller according to his' notion of things. - - - - -THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE - -|Not quite two centuries of human life have gone quietly in Wimberton, -and for the most part it has been on Main and Chester Streets. Main -Street is a quarter of a mile long and three hundred feet wide, with -double roads, and between them a clean lawn shaded by old elms. Chester -Street is narrow and crowded with shops, and runs from the middle of -Main down-hill to the railway and the river. It is the business street -for Wimberton and the countryside of fifteen miles about. Main Street -is surrounded by old houses of honorable frontage, two churches, and the -Solley Institute, which used to be called “Solley's Folly” by frivolous -aliens. - -Mr. Solley, who owned the mines up the river and the foundries that have -been empty and silent these many years, founded it in 1840. At the time -I remember best the Institute had twenty-one trustees, lady patronesses, -matrons, and nurses; and three beneficiaries, or representatives of the -“aged, but not destitute, of Hamilton County.” That seemed odd to the -alien. - -Mr. Solley need not have been so rigid about the equipment and -requirements of admission, except that he had in mind an institution of -dignity. It stood at the head of Main Street, with wide piazzas like a -hotel. The aristocracy of old Wimberton used to meet there and pass the -summer afternoons. The young people gave balls in the great parlors, and -the three beneficiaries looked on, and found nothing to complain of in -the management. What matter if it were odd? True Wimberton folk never -called the Institute a folly, but only newcomers, before years of -residence made them endurable and able to understand Wimberton. Failure -is a lady of better manners than Success, who is forward, complacent, -taking herself with unpleasant seriousness. Imagine the Institute -swarming with people from all parts of the county, a staring success in -beneficence! - -Mr. Solley's idea was touched with delicacy. It was not a home for -Hamilton County poor, but for those who, merely lingering somewhat on -the slow descent, found it a lonely road. For there is a period in -life, of varying length, when, one's purposes having failed or been -unfulfilled, the world seems quite occupied by other people who are busy -with themselves. Life belongs at any one time to the generation which -is making the most of it. A beneficiary was in a certain position of -respectable humility. But I suppose it was not so much Mr. Solley's -discrimination as that in 1840 his own house was empty of all but a -few servants; and so out of his sense of loneliness grew his idea of a -society of the superannuated. That was the Solley Institute. - -It is not so difficult to recreate old Wimberton of seventy years back, -for the same houses stood on Main Street, and the familiar names were -then heard--Solley, Gore, Cutting, Gilbert, Cass, Savage. The elms were -smaller, with fewer lights under them at night, and gravel paths instead -of asphalt. - -One may even call up those who peopled the street, whom time has -disguised or hidden away completely. Lucia Gore has dimples,--instead of -those faded cheeks one remembers at the Institute,--and quick movements, -and a bewildering prettiness, in spite of the skirts that made women -look like decanters or tea-bells in 1830. She is coming down the gravel -sidewalk with a swift step, a singular fire and eagerness of manner, -more than one would suppose Miss Lucia to have once possessed. - -And there is the elder Solley, already with that worn, wintry old face -we know from his portrait at the Institute, and John Solley, the son, -both with high-rolled collars, tall hats, and stiff cravats. Women said -that John Solley was reckless, but one only notices that he is very -tall. - -“I'm glad to see you are in a hurry, too, my dear. We might hurry up the -wedding among us all,” says the elder Solley, with a grim smile and a -bow. “Ha! Glad to see you in a hurry;” and he passes on, leaving the two -together. Lucia flushes and seems to object. - -Is not that Mrs. Andrew Cutting in the front window of the gabled house -directly behind them? Then she is thinking how considerate it is, how -respectful to Main Street, that John and Lucia are to marry. - -The past springs up quickly, even to little details. Mrs. Cutting wears -a morning cap, has one finger on her cheek, and is wondering why John -looks amused and Lucia in a temper. “He will have to behave himself,” - thinks Mrs. Cutting. “Lucia is--dear me, Lucia is very decided. I don't -really know that John likes to behave himself.” And all these people of -1830 are clearly interested in their own affairs, and care little for -those who will look back at them, seventy years away. - -Love climbs trees in the Hesperides, day in and out, very busy with -their remarkable fruit, the dragon lying beneath with indifferent jaws. -Do we observe how recklessly the young man reaches out, and how slightly -he knows the nature of his footing? The branches of such apple trees as -bear golden fruit are notoriously brittle. He might drop into the lazy -throat of Fate by as easy an accident as the observer into figures of -speech, and the dragon care little about the matter. That indifference -of Fate is hard, for it seems an expense for no value received by any -one. We are advised to be as little melancholy as possible, and charge -it to profit and loss. - -It is well known that John Solley left Wimberton late one night in -October, 1830. In the morning the two big stuccoed houses of Gore and -Solley looked at each other across the street under the yellow arch of -leaves with that mysterious expression which they ever after seemed to -possess to the dwellers on Main Street. And the Gores' housemaid picked -up a glittering something from the fell of the bearskin rug on the -parlor floor. - -“Land! It's Miss Lucia's engagement ring. She's a careless girl!” - Plannah was a single woman of fifty, and spoke with strong moral -indignation. - -Some mornings later Mr. Solley came stiffly down his front steps, -crossed the street under the yellow elms, and went in between the white -pillars of the Gore house. Mr. Gore was a middle-aged man, chubby, -benevolent, gray-haired, deliberate. He sank back in his easy-chair in -fat astonishment. - -“Oh, dear me! I don't know.” - -Lucia was called. - -“Mr. Solley wishes to ask you--a--something.” - -“I wish to ask if my son has treated you badly,” said Mr. Solley, most -absurdly. - -“Not at all, Mr. Solley.” - -Lucia's eyes were suddenly hot and shining. - -“I beg your pardon, but if John is a scoundrel, you will do me a favor -by telling me so.” - -“Where is he? I shall do nothing of the kind.” - -“I am about to write to my son.” - -“And that's nothing to me,” she cried, and went swiftly out of the room. - -“Oh, I suppose he's only a fool,” said Mr. Solley, grimly. “I knew that. -Spirited girl, Gore, very. Good morning.” - -“Dear me!” said Mr. Gore, mildly, rubbing his glasses. “How quickly they -do things!” - -Elderly gentlemen whose wives are dead and children adventuring in the -Hesperides should take advice. Mrs. Cutting might have advised against -this paragraph in Mr. Solley's letter: - -“I have taken the trouble to inquire whether you have been acting as a -gentleman should. Inasmuch as Miss Lucia seemed to imply that the matter -no longer interests her, I presume she has followed her own will, which -is certainly a woman's right. With respect to the Michigan lands, I -inclose surveys. You will do well,” etc. - -But Mr. Solley had not for many years thought of the Hesperides as a -more difficult piece of property to survey than another. Men and women -followed their own wills there as elsewhere, and were quite right, so -long as they did business honorably. And Mr. Gore had been a managed and -advised man all his wedded life, and had not found, that it increased -his happiness. That advice had always tended to embark him on some -enterprise that was fatiguing. - -“A good woman, Letitia,” often ran Mr. Gore's reflections; and then, -with a sense of furtiveness, as if Letitia somewhere in the spiritual -universe might overhear his thought, “a little masterful--a--spirited, -very.” - -But it was hard for Wimberton people to have a secret shut up among -them. It was not respectful to Main Street, with John Solley fleeing -mysteriously in the night and coming no more to Wimberton, and Lucia -going about with her nose in the air, impossible to sympathize with. -Some months passed, and Lucia seemed more subdued, then very quiet -indeed, with a liking to sit by her father's side, to Mr. Gore's slight -uneasiness. She might wish him to do something. - -He knew no more than Wimberton what had happened to send John westward -and Lucia to sitting beside him in unused silence; but he differed from -Wimberton in thinking it perhaps not desirable to know. He would pat -her hand furtively, and polish his glasses, without seeming to alter the -situation. Once he asked timidly if it were not dull for her. - -“No, father.” - -“I've thought sometimes--sometimes--a--I don't remember what I was going -to say.” - -Lucia's head went down till it almost rested on his knee. - -“Father--do you know--where John is?” - -“Why--a--of course, Mr. Solley--” - -“No, no, father! No!” - -“Well, I might inquire around--a--somewhere.” - -“No! Oh, promise me you won't ask any one! Promise!” - -“Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Gore, very much confused. - -“It is no matter,” said Lucia, eagerly. - -Mr. Gore thought for several minutes, but no idea seemed to occur to -him, and it relieved him to give it up. - -Months have a way of making years by a rapid arithmetic, and years that -greet us with such little variety of expression are the more apt to -step behind with faint reproach and very swiftly. Mr. Solley founded -the Institute in 1840, and died. The Solley house stood empty, and Miss -Lucia Gore by that time was living alone, except for the elderly maiden, -Hannah. Looking at the old elms of Wimberton, grave and orderly, there -is much to be said for a vegetable life. There is no right dignity but -in the slow growths of time. - -The elms increased their girth; the railway crept up the river; the -young men went to Southern battle-fields, and some of them returned; -children of a second generation walked in the Hesperides; the Institute -was reduced to three beneficiaries; Main Street smelled of tar from the -asphalt sidewalks; Chester Street was prosperous. Banks failed in '73, -and “Miss Lucia has lost everything,” said Wimberton gossip. - -The Solley house was alternately rented and empty, the Gore house was -sold, Miss Lucia went up to the Institute, and gossip in Wimberton woke -again. - -“Of course the Institute is not like other places, but then--” - -“Miss Lucia was such a lady.” - -“But it's a charity, after all.” - -“Very sensible of Miss Lucia, I'm sure.” - -“She was engaged to old Institute Solley's son once, but it ended with a -bump.” - -“Then Miss Lucia goes to the Institute who might have gone to the Solley -house.” - -“Oh, that is what one doesn't know.” - -“Miss Lucia a beneficiary! But isn't that rather embarrassing?” - -“I wonder if she--” - -“My dear, it was centuries ago. One does n't think of love-affairs fifty -years old. They dry up.” - -“Respectable, and you pay a little.” - -“But a charity really.” - -That year the public library was built on Main and Gilbert Streets, the -great elm fell down in the Institute yard, Mrs. Andrew Cutting died -at ninety-eight, with good sense and composure, and here is a letter -written by Miss Lucia to Babbie Cutting. Babbie Cutting, I remember, had -eyes like a last-century romance, never fancy-free, and her dolls loved -and were melancholy, when we were children together under the elms in -Wimberton. The letter is written in thin, flowing lines on lavender -paper. - -_My dear Child_: I am afraid you thought that your question offended me, -but it did not, indeed. I was engaged to Mr. John Solley many years ago. -I think I had a very hasty temper then, which I think has quite wasted -away now, for I have been so much alone. But then I sometimes fell into -dreadful rages. Mr. Solley was a very bold man, not easily influenced or -troubled, who laughed at my little faults and whims more than I thought -he should. - -You seemed to ask what sudden and mysterious thing happened to us, but, -my dear, one's life is chiefly moved by trifles and little accidents and -whims. Mr. Solley came one night, and I fancied he had been neglecting -me, for I was very proud, more so than ordinary life permits women to -be. I remember that he stood with his hands behind him, smiling. He -looked so easy and strong, so impossible to disturb, and said, “You're -such a little spitfire, Lucia,” and I was so angry, it was like hot -flames all through my head. - -I cried, “How dare you speak to me so!” - -“I don't know,” he said, and laughed. “It seems perilous.” - -I tore his ring from my finger and threw it in his face. It struck his -forehead and fell to the floor without any sound. There was a tiny red -cut on his forehead. - -“That is your engagement ring,” he said. - -“Take it away. I want nothing more to do with you,” I cried--very -foolishly, for I did, and my anger was going off in fright. He turned -around and went from the house. The maid found the ring in the morning. -Mr. Solley had left Wimberton that night. Well, my dear, that is all. I -thought he would have come back. It seemed as if he might. I am so old -now that I do not mind talking, but I was proud then, and women are not -permitted to be very proud. Do your romances tell you that women are -foolish and men are sometimes hard on them? - -That is not good romance at all, but if you will come to see me again -I will tell you much better romances than mine that I have heard, for -other people's lives are interesting, even if mine has been quite dull. - -Will you put this letter away to remember me by? But do not think of me -as a complaining old woman, for I have had a long life of leisure and -many friends. I do not think any one who really cares for me will do so -the less for my living at the Institute, and only those we love are of -real importance to us. It is kind of you to visit me. - -_Your Affectionate Friend._ - -So half a century is put lightly aside; Miss Lucia has found it quite -dull; and here is the year 1885, when, as every one knows, John Solley -came back to Wimberton, a tall old man with a white mustache, heavy -brows, and deep eyes. Men thought it an honor to the town that the great -and rich Mr. Solley, so dignified a man, should return to spend his last -days in Wimberton. He would be its ornamental citizen, the proper leader -of its aristocracy. But Babbie Cutting thought of another function. What -matter for the melancholy waste of years, fifty leagues across? Love -should walk over it triumphant, unwearied, and find a fairer romance -at the end. Were there not written in the books words to that effect? -Babbie moved in a world of dreams, where knights were ever coming home -from distant places, or, at least, where every one found happiness after -great trouble. She looked up into Mr. Solley's eyes and thought them -romantic to a degree. When she heard he had never married the thing -seemed as good as proved. And the little old lady at the Institute with -the old-fashioned rolled curls above her ears--what a sequel! - -It was a white winter day. The elms looked so cold against the sky that -it was difficult to remember they had ever been green, or believe it was -in them to put forth leaves once more. The wind drove the sharp-edged -particles of snow directly in Babbie's face, and she put her head down, -covering her mouth with her furs. She turned in at the Solley house, -and found herself in the drawing-room, facing that tall, thin, -military-looking old man, and feeling out of breath and troubled what to -do first. But Mr. Solley was not a man to let any girl whatever be ill -at ease, and surely not one with cheeks and eyes and soft hair like -Babbie Cutting. Presently they were experienced friends. Babbie sat in -Mr. Solley's great chair and stretched her hands toward the fire. Mr. -Solley was persuaded to take up his cigar again. - -“I had not dared to hope,” he said, “that my native place would welcome -me so charmingly. I have made so many new friends, or rather they seemed -to be friends already, though unknown to me, that I seem to begin life -again. I seem to start it all over. I should have returned sooner.” - -“Oh, I'm sure you should have,” said Babbie, eagerly. “And do you know -who is living at the Institute now?” - -“The Institute? I had almost forgotten the Institute, and I am a -trustee, which is very neglectful of duty. Who is living at the -Institute now?” - -“Miss Lucia Gore.” - -Mr. Solley was silent, and looked at Babbie oddly under his white -eyebrows, so that her cheeks began to burn, and she was not a little -frightened, though quite determined and eager. - -“Miss Lucia lost all her money when the banks failed, and she sold the -Gore house, and got enough interest to pay her dues and a little more; -but it seems so sad for Miss Lucia, because people will patronize her, -not meaning to. But they 're so stupid--or, at least, it doesn't seem -like Miss Lucia.” - -“I did not know she was living,” said Mr. Solley, quietly. - -“Oh, how could you--be that way!” - -Mr. Solley looked steadily at Babbie, and it seemed to him as if her -face gave him a clue to something that he had groped for in the darkness -of late, as if some white mist were lifted from the river and he could -see up its vistas and smoky cataracts. How could he be that way? It is -every man's most personal and most unsolved enigma--how he came to be -that way, to be possible as he is. Up the river he saw a face somewhat -like Babbie's, somewhat more imperious, but with the same pathetic -eagerness and desire for abundance of life. How could young John Solley -become old John Solley? Looking into Babbie's eyes, he seemed able to -put the two men side by side. - -“At one time, Miss Barbara,” he said, “--you will forgive my saying -so,--I should have resented your reference. Now I am only thinking how -kind it is of you to forget that I am old.” - -Babbie did not quite understand, and felt troubled, and not sure of her -position. - -“Mr. Solley,” she said, “I--I have a letter from Miss Lucia. Do you -think I might show it to you?” - -“It concerns me?” - -“Y-yes.” - -He walked down the room and back again. - -“I don't know that you ought, but you have tempted me to wish that you -would. Thank you.” He put on his glasses and read it slowly. Babbie -thought he read it like a business letter. - -“He ought to turn pale or red,” she thought. “Oh, he oughtn't to wear -his spectacles on the end of his nose!” - -Mr. Solley handed back the letter. - -“Thank you, Miss Barbara,” he said, and began to talk of her -great-grandmother Cutting. - -Babbie blinked back her sudden tears. It was very different from -a romance, where the pages will always turn and tell you the story -willingly, where the hero always shows you exactly how he feels. She -thought she would like to cry somewhere else. She stood up to go. - -“I'm sorry I'm so silly,” she said, with a little gulp and trying to be -dignified. - -Mr. Solley looked amused, so far as that the wrinkles deepened about his -eyes. - -“Will you be a friend of mine?” he asked. - -“Yes,” said Babbie, plaintively, but she did not think she would. How -could she, and he so cold, so prosaic! She went out into the snow, which -was driving down Main Street from the Institute. It was four by the town -clock. - -They said in Wimberton that Mr. Solley left his house at seven o'clock -in the evening, and that Stephen, the gardener, held an umbrella in -front of him to keep off the storm all the way up the hill to the -Institute. And they said, too, that the lights were left burning in -the Solley house, and the fire on the hearth, and that the book he -was reading when Babbie went in lay open on the table. The fire burned -itself out. Stephen came in late, closed the book, and put out the -lights, and in the morning went about town saying that Mr. Solley was to -enter the Institute as a beneficiary. - -But it is a secret that on that snowy evening Mr. Solley and Miss Lucia -sat in the great east parlor of the Institute, with a lamp near by, -but darkness in all the distances about them. His hands were on his -gold-headed cane; Miss Lucia's rolls of white curls were very tidy over -her ears, and her fingers were knitting something placidly. She was -saying it was “quite impossible. One doesn't want to be absurd at -seventy-five.” - -“I suppose not,” said Mr. Solley. “I shouldn't mind it. What do you -think of the other plan?” - -“If you want my permission to be a beneficiary,” said Miss Lucia, with -her eyes twinkling, “I think it would be a proper humiliation for you. I -think you deserve it.” - -“It would be no humiliation.” - -“It was for me--some.” - -“It shall be so no more. I'll make them wish they were all old enough to -do the same--hem--confound them!” - -“Did you think of it that way, John?” - -Mr. Solley was silent for some moments. - -“Do you know, I have been a busy man,” he said at last, “but there was -nothing in it all that I care to think over now. And to-day, for the -first time, that seemed to me strange. It was shown to me--that is, I -saw it was strange. We have only a few years left, and you will let -me be somewhat near you while they pass. Isn't that enough? It seems a -little vague. Well, then, yes. I thought of it that way, as you say. Do -you mind my thinking of it that way?” - -Miss Lucia's eyes grew a little tearful, but she managed to hide it -by settling her glasses. Seventy-five years in a small town make the -opinions of one's neighbors part of the structure of existence. It was -bitter, the thought that Main Street tacitly patronized her. - -“Why, no, I don't mind.” - -She dropped her knitting and laughed suddenly. - -“I think, John,” she said, “that I missed marrying a very nice man.” - -Mr. Solley's glasses fell off with surprise. He put them on again and -chuckled to himself. - -“My father used to call me a--hem--a fool. He used to state things more -accurately than you did.” - -After all, there was no other institute like Wimberton's. The standards -of other places were no measure for our conduct, and the fact that such -things were not seen elsewhere was a flattering reason why they should -be seen in Wimberton; namely, only five beneficiaries, and one of them -a rich man and a trustee. It was singular, but it suited Wimberton to -be singular. One thing was plain to all, that if Mr. Solley was a -beneficiary, then to be a beneficiary was a dignified, well-bred, and -suitable thing. But one thing was not plain to all, why he chose to be -a beneficiary. Babbie Cutting went up to the Institute, and coming back, -wept for pure sentiment in her white-curtained room, with the picture on -the wall of Sir Lancelot riding down by the whirling river, the island, -and the gray-walled castle of Shalott. - -I remember well the great ball and reception that Mr. Solley gave at the -Institute to celebrate his entry, and how we all paid our respects -to the five beneficiaries, four old men, who were gracious, but -patronizing,--one with gold eye-glasses and gold-headed cane,--and Miss -Lucia, with the rolled curls over her ears. The Institute, from that -time on, looked down on Main Street with a different air, and never lost -its advantage. It seemed to many that the second Solley had refounded it -for one of those whims that are ornamental in the rich. Babbie Cutting -said to her heart, “He refounded it for Miss Lucia.” - -There was nowhere in Wimberton such dignified society as at the -Institute. Even so that the last visitor of all seemed only to come -by invitation, and to pay his respects with proper ceremony: “Sir, or -madam, I hope it is not an inconvenient time,” or similar phrase. - -“Oh, not at all. It seems very dark around.” - -“Will you take my arm? The path is steep and worn, and here is a small -matter of a river, as you see. I regret that the water is perhaps a -trifle cold. Yes, one hears so much talk about the other side that one -hardly knows what to think. There is no hurry. But at this point I say -good night and leave you. When you were young you often heard good night -said when the morning was at hand. May it be so. Good night.” - - - - -NAUSICAA - -|The Fourteenth Infantry, volunteers, were mustered out on the last day -of April. Sandy Cass and Kid Sadler came that night into the great city -of the river and the straits with their heads full of lurid visions -which they set about immediately to realize. Little Irish was with them, -and Bill Smith, who had had other names at other times. And Sandy woke -the next morning in a room that had no furniture but a bed, a washstand, -a cracked mirror, and a chair. He did not remember coming there. Some -one must have put him to bed. It was not Kid Sadler or Little Irish; -they were drunk early, with bad judgment. It must have been Bill Smith. -A hat with a frayed cord lay on the floor. “That's Bill's hat,” he said. -“He's got mine.” - -The gray morning filled the window, and carts rattled by in the street. -He rose and drank from the pitcher to clear the bitterness from his -mouth, and saw himself in the glass, haggard and holloweyed. It was a -clean-cut face, with straight, thin lips, straight eyebrows, and brown -hair. The lips were white and lines ran back from the eyes. Sandy did -not think he looked a credit to himself. - -“Some of it's yellow fever,” he reflected, “and some of it's jag. About -half and half. The squire can charge it to the yellow.” - -He wondered what new thing Squire Cass would find to say to his -“rascally nephew, that reprobate Ulysses.” Squire Cass was a red-faced -gentleman and substantial citizen of that calm New England town of -Wimberton, which Sandy knew very well and did not care for. It was too -calm. But it would be good for his constitution to go there now. He -wondered if his constitution would hold out for another night equally -joyful; “Maybe it might;” then how much of his eighty dollars' back pay -was blown in. He put on his clothes slowly, feeling through the pockets, -collected two half-dollars on the way, came to the last and stopped. - -“Must have missed one;” and began again. But that crumpled wad of bills -was gone altogether. “Well, if I ain't an orphan!” - -He remembered last a place with bright glass chandeliers, a gilt cupid -over the bar, a girl in a frowzy hat, laughing with large teeth, and Kid -Sadler singing that song he had made up and was so “doggone stuck on”: - - “Sandy Cass! A-alas! - - We 'll be shut up - - In the lockup - - If this here keeps on.” - -It got monotonous, that song. - - “Sandy Cass! A-alas! - - A comin' home, - - A bummin home--” - -He liked to make poetry, Kid Sadler. You would not have expected it, to -look at his sloppy mustache, long dry throat, and big hands. The poetry -was generally accurate. Sandy did not see any good in it, unless it was -accurate. - - “Little Irish is a Catholic, he come from I-er-land; - - He ain't a whole cathedral, nor a new brass band; - - He got religion in 'is joints from the hoonin of a shell, - - An 'is auburn hair's burned bricky red from leanin over - - hell'' - -That was accurate enough, though put in figures of speech, but the Kid -was still more accurate regarding Bill Smith: - - “Nobody knows who Bill Smith is, - - His kin nor yet his kith, - - An nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - - An neither does Bill Smith;” - -which was perfectly true. Anyhow the Kid could not have taken the wad, -nor Little Irish. It must have been Bill Smith. - -“It was Bill,” he decided. - -He did not make any special comments. Some thing or other happens to a -man every day. He went down-stairs, through a dim narrow hallway. - -“Hope there don't any one want something of me. I don't believe they 'll -get it.” - -There were sounds in the basement, but no one met him. In the street the -Ninth Avenue car rolled by, a block away. He saw a restaurant sign which -said fearlessly that a stew cost ten cents, went in and breakfasted for -fifteen, waited on by a thin, weary woman, who looked at his blue coat -and braided hat with half-roused interest. - -The cobble-stones on Sixth Avenue were shining and wet. Here and there -some one in the crowd turned to look after him. It might have been the -uniform, the loafer's slouch of the hat, taken with the face being young -and too white. - -The hands of the station clock stood at ten. He took a ticket to the -limit of eighty-five cents, heard dimly the name of a familiar junction; -and then the rumble of the train was under him for an hour. Bill Smith -had left him his pipe and tobacco. Bill had good points. Sandy was -inclined to think kindly of Bill's thoughtfulness, and envy him his -enterprise. The roar of the car-wheels sounded like Kid Sadler's voice, -hoarse and choky, “A-alas, a-alas!” - -It was eleven o'clock at the junction. The mist of the earlier morning -had become a slow drizzle. Trains jangled to and fro in the freight -yards. He took a road which led away from the brick warehouses, streets -of shady trees and lawns, and curved to the north, along the bank of a -cold, sleepy river. - -There was an unpainted, three-room house somewhere, where a fat woman -said “Good land!” and gave him a plate full of different things, on a -table covered with oil-cloth. He could not remember afterward what he -ate, or what the woman said further. He remembered the oil-cloth, which -had a yellow-feverish design of curved lines, that twisted snakily, and -came out of the cloth and ran across the plate. Then out in the gray -drizzle again. - -All the morning his brain had seemed to grow duller and duller, heavy -and sodden; but in the afternoon red lights began dancing in the -mist. It might have been five miles or twenty he had gone by dusk; the -distinction between miles and rods was not clear--they both consisted -of brown mud and gray mist. Sometimes it was a mile across the road. The -dusk, and then the dark, heaved, and pulsed through blood-red veins, and -peeled, and broke apart in brilliant cracks, as they used to do nights -in the field hospital. There seemed to be no hope or desire in him, -except in his feet, which moved on. The lights that travelled with him -got mixed with lights on each side of a village street, and his feet -walked in through a gate. They had no reason for it, except that the -gate stood open and was painted white. He pushed back the door of a -little garden tool-house beside the path, and lay down on the floor. -He could not make out which of a number of things were happening. The -Fourteenth Infantry appeared to be bucking a steep hill, with the smoke -rolling down over it; but on the other hand Kid Sadler was singing -hoarsely, but distinctly, “A-alas, a-alas!” and moreover, a dim light -shone through a white-curtained window somewhere between a rod and a -mile away, and glimmered down the wet path by the tool-house. Some one -said, “Some of it's jag and some of it's the yellow. About half and -half.” He might have been making the remark himself, except that he -appeared to be elsewhere. The rain kept up a thin whisper on the roof -of the tool-house. Gasps, shouts, thumping of feet, clash of rifle and -canteen. The hill was as steep as a wall. Little Irish said, “His legs -was too short to shtep on the back av his neck wid the shteepness av the -hill.” - -“A-alas! A comin' home.” - -“Oh, shut up, Kid!” - -“A-alas, a-alas!” The dark was split with red gashes, as it used to be -in the field hospital. The rain whispered on the roof and the wet path -glimmered like silk. - -It was the village of Zoar, which lies far back to the west of -Wyantenaug Valley, among low waves of hills, the house the old Hare -Place, and Miss Elizabeth Hare and Gracia lived there behind the white -gateway. - -That gateway had once been an ancient arch overhead, with a green wooden -ball topping it. Some one cut a face on the ball, that leered into the -street. It did not in the least resemble Miss Elizabeth, whose smile -was gentle and cool; but it was taken down from its station of half a -century; and Gracia cried secretly, because everything would needs be -disconsolate without an arch and a proper wooden ball on top of it, -under which knights and witch ladies might come and go, riding and -floating. It seemed to break down the old garden life. Odd flowers would -not hold conversations any more, tiger-lilies and peonies bother -each other, the tigers being snappish and the peonies fat, slow, and -irritating. Before Gracia's hair had abandoned yellow braids and become -mysterious, when she learned neat sewing and cross-stitch, she used to -set the tigers and peonies quarrelling to express her own feelings about -neat sewing and cross-stitch. Afterward she found the memory of that -wickedness too heavy, and confessed it to Miss Elizabeth, and added the -knights and witch ladies. Miss Elizabeth had said nothing, had seemed -disinclined to blame, and, going out into the garden, had walked to and -fro restlessly, stopping beside the tigers and peonies, and seeming to -look at the arched gateway with a certain wistfulness. - -Miss Elizabeth had now a dimly faded look, the charm of a still -November, where now and then an Indian summer steals over the chill. She -wore tiny white caps, and her hair was singularly smooth; while Gracia's -appeared rather to be blown back, pushed by the delicate fingers of a -breeze, that privately admired it, away from her eager face, with its -gray-blue eyes that looked at you as if they saw something else as well. -It kept you guessing about that other thing, and you got no further than -to wonder if it were not something, or some one, that you might be, -or might have been, if you had begun at it before life had become so -labelled and defined, so plastered over with maxims. - -The new gateway was still a doubtful quantity in Gracia's mind. It was -not justified. It had no connections, no consecrations; merely a white -gate against the greenery. - -It was the whiteness which caught Sandy Cass's dulled eyes, so that he -turned through, and lay down in the tool-house, and wondered which of a -number of incongruous things was really happening: Little Irish crying -plaintively that his legs were too short--“A-alas, a-alas!”--or the -whisper of the rain on the roof. - -Gracia lifted the white curtains, looked out, and saw the wet path -shining. - -“Is it raining, Gracia?” - -“It drizzles like anything, and the tool-house door is open, and, oh, -aunty! the path shines quite down to the gate.” - -“It generally shines in the rain, dear.” - -“Oh!” said Gracia, thoughtfully. She seemed to be examining a sudden -idea, and began the pretence of a whistle which afterward became a true -fact. - -“I wish it wouldn't be generally, don't you? I wish things would all be -specially.” - -“I wouldn't wi--I wouldn't whistle, if I were you,” said Miss Elizabeth, -gently. - -“Oh!” Gracia came suddenly with a ripple and coo of laughter, and -dropped on her knees by Miss Elizabeth. “You couldn't, you poor aunty, -if you tried. You never learned, did you?” - -Miss Elizabeth hesitated. - -“I once tried to learn--of your father. I used to think it sounded -cheerful. But my mother would n't allow it. What I really started to say -was, that I wouldn't, if I were you, I wouldn't wish so many things to -be other than they are. I used to wish for things to be different, and -then, you know, when they stay quite the same, it's such a number of -troubles.” - -Gracia clasped her fingers about one knee, studied the neatly built fire -and the blue and white tiles over it, and thought hard on the subject of -wishes. She thought that she had not wished things to be different, so -much as to remain the same as of old, when one wore yellow braids, and -could whistle with approval, and everything happened specially. Because -it is sad when you begin to suspect that the sun and moon and the -growths of spring do not care about you, but only act according to -habits they have fallen into, and that the shining paths, which seem -to lead from beyond the night, are common or accidental and not meant -specially. The elder romancers and the latest seers do insist together -that they are, that such highways indeed as the moon lays on the water -are translunary and come with purposes from a celestial city. The -romancers have a simple faith, and the seers an ingenious theory about -it. But the days and weeks argue differently. They had begun to trouble -the fealty that Gracia held of romance, and she had not met with the -theory of the seers. - -Sandy Cass went through experiences that night which cannot be written, -for there was no sequence in them, and they were translunary and -sub-earthly; some of them broken fragments of his life thrown up at him -out of a kind of smoky red pit, very much as it used to be in the field -hospital. His life seemed to fall easily into fragments. There had not -been much sequence in it, since he began running away from the house of -the squire at fifteen. It had ranged between the back and front doors of -the social structure these ten years. The squire used to storm, because -it came natural to him to speak violently; but privately he thought -Sandy no more than his own younger self, let loose instead of tied down. -He even envied Sandy. He wished he would come oftener to entertain him. -Sandy was a periodical novel continued in the next issue, an irregular -and barbarous Odyssey, in which the squire, comparing with his Pope's -translation, recognized Scylla and Charybdis, Cyclops and Circe, and -the interference of the quarrelling gods. But that night the story went -through the Land of Shadows and Red Dreams. Sandy came at last to the -further edge of the Land; beyond was the Desert of Dreamless Sleep; and -then something white and waving was before his eyes, and beyond was a -pale green shimmer. He heard a gruff voice: - -“Hm--Constitution, Miss Hare. That chap had a solid ancestry. He ought -to have had a relapse and died, and he 'll be out in a week.” - -Another voice said in an awed whisper: - -“He's like my Saint George!” - -“Hm--Legendary? This St. G. looks as if he'd made up with his devil. -Looks as if they'd been tolerably good friends.” - -A third voice remonstrated: - -“Doctor!” - -“Hm, hm--My nonsense, Miss Gracia, my nonsense.” - -The two ladies and the doctor went out. - -It was a long, low room, white, fragrant, and fresh. Soft white curtains -waved in open windows, and outside the late sunlight drifted shyly -through the pale green leaves of young maples. There were dainty things -about, touches of silk and lace, blue and white china on bureau and -dressing-table, a mirror framed with gilded pillars at the sides and a -painted Arcadia above. - -“Well, if I ain't an orphan!” grumbled Sandy, feebly. - -An elderly woman with a checked apron brought him soup in a bowl. She -was quite silent and soon went out. - -“It's pretty slick,” he thought, looking around. “I could n't have done -better if I'd been a widow.” - -The drifting quiet of the days that Sandy lay there pleased him for the -time. It felt like a cool poultice on a wound. The purity and fragility -of objects was interesting to look at, so long as he lay still and did -not move about among them. But he wondered how people could live -there right along. They must keep everything at a distance, with a -feather-duster between. He had an impression that china things always -broke, and white things became dirty. Then it occurred to him that there -might be some whose nature, without any worry to themselves, was to keep -things clean and not to knock them over, to touch things in a feathery -manner, so that they did not have to stay behind a duster. This subject -of speculation lasted him a day or two, and Miss Elizabeth and Gracia -began to interest him as beings with that special gift. He admired -any kind of capability. Miss Elizabeth he saw often, the woman in the -checked apron till he was tired of her. But Gracia was only now and then -a desirable and fleeting appearance in the doorway, saying: - -“Good morning, Saint George.” - -She never stayed to tell him why “Saint George.” It came to the point -that the notion of her yellow hair would stay by him an hour or more -afterward. He began to wake from his dozes, fancying he heard “Good -morning, Saint George,” and finally to watch the doorway and fidget. - -“This lying abed,” he concluded, “is played out.” He got up and hunted -about for his clothes. His knees and fingers trembled. The clothes hung -in the closet, cleaned and pressed, in the extraordinary neighborhood of -a white muslin dress. Sandy sat down heavily on the bed. Things seemed -to be whizzing and whimpering all about him. He waited for them to -settle, and pulled on his clothes gradually. At the end of an hour he -thought he might pass on parade, and crept out into the hall and down -the stairs. The sunlight was warm in the garden and on the porch, and -pale green among the leaves. Gracia sat against a pillar, clasping one -knee. Miss Elizabeth sewed; her work-basket was fitted up inside on an -intricate system. Gracia hailed him with enthusiasm, and Miss Elizabeth -remonstrated. He looked past Miss Elizabeth to find the yellow hair. - -“This lying abed,” he said feebly, “is played out.” - -Sitting in the sunlight, Sandy told his story gradually from day to day. -It was all his story, being made up of selections. He was skilful -from practice on the squire, but he saw the need of a new principle -of selection and combination. His style of narrative was his own. It -possessed gravity, candor, simplicity, an assumption that nothing could -be unreasonable or surprising which came in the course of events, that -all things and all men were acceptable. Gracia thought that simplicity -beautiful, that his speech was like the speech of Tanneguy du Bois, -and that he looked like Saint George in the picture which hung in her -room--a pale young warrior, such as painters once loved to draw, putting -in those keen faces a peculiar manhood, tempered and edged like a sword. -Sandy looked oddly like him, in the straight lines of brow and mouth. -Saint George is taking a swift easy stride over the dead dragon, a kind -of level-eyed daring and grave inquiry in his face, as if it were Sandy -himself, about to say, “You don't happen to have another dragon? This -one wasn't real gamy. I'd rather have an average alligator.” She laughed -with ripples and coos, and struggled with lumps in her throat, when -Sandy through simplicity fell into pathos. It bewildered her that the -funny things and pathetic things were so mixed up and run together, and -that he seemed to take no notice of either of them. But she grew -stern and indignant when Bill Smith, it was but probable, robbed the -unsuspecting sleep of his comrade. - -“You see,” said Sandy, apologetically, “Bill was restless, that was the -reason. It was his enterprise kept bothering him. Likely he wanted -it for something, and he could n't tell how much I might need without -waking me up to ask. And he couldn't do that, because that'd have been -ridiculous, would n't it? Of course, if he'd waked me up to ask how -much I wanted, because he was going to take the rest with him, why, of -course, I'd been obliged to get up and hit him, to show how ridiculous -it was. Of course Bill saw that, and what could he do? Because there -wasn't any way he could tell, don't you see? So he left the pipe and -tobacco, and a dollar for luck, and lit out, being--a--restless.” - -And Gracia wondered at and gloried in the width of that charity, that -impersonal and untamed tolerance. - -Then Sandy took up the subject of Kid Sadler. He felt there was need of -more virtue and valor. He took Kid Sadler and decorated him. He fitted -him with picturesque detail. The Kid bothered him with his raucous -voice, froth-dripped mustache, lean throat, black mighty hands, and -smell of uncleanness. But Sandy chose him as a poet. It seemed a good -start. Gracia surprised him by looking startled and quite tearful, where -the poet says: - - “Nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - - An neither does Bill Smith;” - -which had seemed to Sandy only an accurate statement. - -But the Kid's poetry needed expurgation and amendment. Sandy did it -conscientiously, and spent hours searching for lines of similar rhyme, -which would not glance so directly into byways and alleys that were -surprising. - - “A comin' home, - - A roamin' home--” - -“I told the Kid,” he added critically, “roamin' wasn't a good rhyme, but -he thought it was a pathetic word.” - - “Oh, when I was a little boy 't was things I did n't know, - - An when I growed I knowed a lot of things that was n't so; - - An now I know a few things that's useful an selected: - - As how to put hard liquor where hard liquor is expected--” - -and so on, different verses, which the Kid called his “Sing Song.” - Sandy's judgment hung in doubt over this whether the lines were -objectionable. He tempered the taste of the working literary artist -for distinct flavor, and his own for that which is accurate, with the -cautions of a village library committee, and decided on, - - “An puts them things in moral verse to uses onexpected.” - -“I don't know what he meant by 'onexpected,'” Sandy commented with a -sense of helplessness, “but maybe he meant that he didn't know what he -did mean. Because poets,” getting more and more entangled, “poets are -that kind they can take a word and mean anything in the neighborhood, or -something that'll occur to 'em next week.” - -Gracia admired the Kid, though Miss Elizabeth thought she ought to refer -to him as Mr. Sadler, which seemed a pity. And she declared a violent -love for Little Irish, because “his auburn hair turned bricky red with -falling down a well,” and because he wished to climb hills by stepping -on the back of his neck. It was like Alice's Adventures, and especially -like the White Knight's scheme to be over a wall by putting his head on -top and standing on his head. - -After all humors and modifications, Sandy's story was a wild and strange -thing. It took new details from day to day, filling in the picture. -To Gracia's imagination it spread out beyond romance, full of glooms, -flashes, fascinations, dangers of cities, war and wilderness, and -in spite of Sandy's self-indifference, it was he who dominated the -pilgrimage, coloring it with his comment. The pilgrim appeared to be a -person to whom the Valley of the Shadow of Death was equally interesting -with Vanity Fair, and who entering the front gate of the Celestial City -with rejoicing would presently want to know whither the back gate would -take him. It seemed a pilgrimage to anywhere in search of everything, -but Gracia began to fancy it was meant to lead specially to the new -garden gate that opened so broadly on the street, and so dreamed the -fancy into belief. She saw Sandy in imagination coming out of the -pit-black night and lying down in the tool-house by the wet shining -path. The white gate was justified. - -Sandy's convalescence was not a finished thing, but he was beginning to -feel energy starting within him. Energy! He knew the feeling well. It -was something that snarled and clawed by fits. - -“I'm a wildcat,” he said to himself reflectively, “sitting on eggs. -Why don't he get off? Now,” as if addressing a speculative question for -instance to Kid Sadler, “he could n't expect to hatch anything, could -he?” - -It was such a question as the Kid would have been pleased with, and have -considered justly. “Has he got the eggs?” - -“I don't know. It's a mixed figure, Kid.” - -“Does he feel like he wanted to hatch 'em?” - -“What'd he do with 'em hatched? That's so, Kid.” - -“_Is_ he a wildcat?” - -“Yep.” - -“He is. Can a wildcat hatch eggs? No, he can't.” - -“A wildcat”--the Kid would have enjoyed following this figure--“ain't -an incubator. There ain't enough peacefulness in him. He'd make a yaller -mess of 'em an' take to the woods with the mess on his whiskers. It -stands to reason, don't it? He ain't in his own hole on a chickadee's -nest.” - -Sandy stood looking over the gate into the village street, which was -shaded to dimness by its maples, a still, warm, brooding street. - -“Like an incubator,” he thought, and heard Gracia calling from up the -path: - -“Saint George!” - -Sandy turned. She came down the path to the gate. - -“Aren't you going to fix the peony bed?” - -“Not,” said Sandy, “if you stay here by the gate.” - -Gracia looked away from him quickly into the street. - -“It's warm and quiet, isn't it? It's like--” - -Zoar was not to her like anything else. - -“Like an incubator,” said Sandy, gloomily, and Gracia looked up and -laughed. - -“Oh, I shouldn't have thought of that.” - -“Kid Sadler would have said it, if he'd been here.” - -“Would he?” - -“Just his kind of figure. And he'd be saying further it was time Sandy -Cass took to the woods.” - -He had an irritating spasm of desire to touch the slim white fingers -on the gate. Gracia moved her hands nervously. Sandy saw the fingers -tremble, and swore at himself under his breath. - -“Why, Saint George?” - -“Thinking he was a wildcat and he'd make a yel--a--Maybe thinking he -didn't look nat--I mean,” Sandy ended very lamely, “the Kid'd probably -use figures of speech and mean something that'd occur to him by and by.” - -“You're not well yet. You're not going so soon,” she said, speaking -quite low. - -Sandy meditated a number of lies, and concluded that he did not care for -any of them. He seemed to dislike them as a class. - -This kind of internal struggle was new and irritating. He had never -known two desires that would not compromise equably, or one of them -recognize its place and get out of the road. The savage restlessness in -his blood, old, well-known, expected, something in brain and bone, had -always carried its point and always would. He accounted for all things -in all men by reference to it, supposing them to feel restless, the -inner reason why a man did anything. But here now was another thing, -hopelessly fighting it, clinging, exasperating; somewhere within him it -was a kind of solemn-eyed sorrow that looked outward and backward over -his life, and behold, the same was a windy alkali desert that bore -nothing and was bitter in the mouth; and at the ends of his fingers -it came to a keen point, a desire to touch Gracia's hair and the slim -fingers on the gate. - -Gracia looked up and then away. - -“You're not well yet.” - -“You've been uncommonly good to me, and all--” - -“You mustn't speak of it that way. It spoils it.” It seemed to both as -if they were swaying nearer together, a languid, mystical atmosphere -thickening about them. Only there was the drawback with Sandy of an -inward monitor, with a hoarse voice like Kid Sadler's, who would be -talking to him in figures and proverbs. - -“Keep away from china an' lace; they break an' stain; this thing has -been observed. Likewise is love a bit o' moonlight, sonny, that's all, -an' a tempest, an' a sucked orange. Come out o' that, Sandy, break away; -for, in the words o' the prophet, 'It's no square game,' an' this here -girl, God bless her! but she plays too high, an' you can't call her, -Sandy, you ain't got the chips. Come away, come away.” - -“And that,” Sandy concluded the council, “is pretty accurate. I'm broke -this deal.” - -He stood up straight and looked at Gracia with eyes drawn and narrowed. - -She felt afraid and did not understand. - -“You don't know me. If you knew me, you'd know I have to go.” - -The wind rose in the afternoon, and blew gustily through street and -garden. The windows of Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room were closed. The -curtains hung in white, lifeless folds. But in Gracia's room above the -windows were open, and the white curtains shook with the wind. Delicate -and tremulous, they clung and moulded themselves one moment to the -casement, and then broke out, straining in the wind that tossed the -maple leaves and went up and away into the wild sky after the driving -clouds. - -Sandy turned north up the village street, walking irresolutely. It might -be thirty miles to Wimberton. The squire had sent him money. He could -reach the railroad and make Wimberton that night, but he did not seem to -care about it. - -Out of the village, he fell into the long marching stride, and the -motion set his blood tingling. Presently he felt better; some burden was -shaken off; he was foot-loose and free of the open road, looking to the -friction of event. At the end of five miles he remembered a saying of -Kid Sadler's, chuckled over it, and began humming other verses of the -“Sing Song,” so called by the outcast poet. - - “Oh, when I was a little boy, I laughed an then I cried, - - An ever since I done the same, more privately, inside. - - There's a joke between this world an me 'n it's tolerable grim, - - An God has got his end of it, an some of it's on him. - - - For he made a man with his left han, an the rest o' things - - with his right; - - An the right knew not what the left han did, for he hep - - it out o' sight. - - It's maybe a Wagner opery, it ain't no bedtime croon, - - When the highest note in the universe is a half note out - - o' tune'' - -“That appears to be pretty accurate,” he thought. “Wonder how the Kid -comes to know things.” - -He swung on enjoying the growth of vigor, the endless, open, travelled -road, and the wind blowing across his face. - - - - -SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS - -|Back Meadows lies three miles to the northwest of Hagar, rich -bottom-lands in Sanderson Hollow, and the Cattle Ridge shelters it on -the north. Five generations of Sandersons have added to the Sanderson -accumulation of this world's goods, without sensible interference on -the part of moths or rust or thieves that break through and steal. Cool, -quiet men, slow of speech and persistent of mood, they prospered -and lived well where other families, desiring too many things or not -desiring anything enough, found nothing at all desirable and drifted -away. The speculative traveller, hunting “abandoned farms,” or studying -the problem of the future of New England's outlying districts, who -should stand on the crest of the Cattle Ridge overlooking the sheltered -valley, would note it as an instance of the problem satisfactorily -solved and of a farm which, so far from abandonment, smiled over all its -comfortable expanse in the consciousness of past and certainty of future -occupancy. These were ready illustrations for his thesis, if he had one: -the smooth meadows, square stone walls and herds of fawn-colored cattle, -large bams and long stables of the famous Sanderson stud; also the -white gabled house among the maples with spreading ells on either side, -suggesting a position taken with foresight and carefully guarded and -secured--a house that, recognizing the uncertainties and drifting -currents of the world, had acted accordingly, and now could afford to -consider itself complacently. The soul of any individual Sanderson might -be required of him, and his wisdom relative to eternity be demonstrated -folly, but the policy of the Sanderson family had not so far been -considered altogether an individual matter. Even individually, if the -question of such inversion of terms ever occurred to a Sanderson, it -only led to the conclusion that it was strictly a Pickwickian usage, -and, in the ordinary course of language, the policy of building barns, -stowing away goods and reflecting complacently thereon, still came under -the head of wisdom. - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, sister of Israel Sanderson of the last generation -and married into a distant branch of the Sanderson family, carried her -materialism with an unconscious and eccentric frankness that prevented -the family from recognizing in her a peculiar development of its own -quality. When Israel's gentle wife passed from a world which she had -found too full of unanswered questions, it was Mrs. Cullom who plunged -bulkily into the chamber of the great mystery and stopped, gulping with -astonishment. - -“I just made her some blanc-mange,” she gasped. “Isn't that too bad! -Why, Israel!” - -Israel turned from the window and contemplated her gravely with his -hands clasped behind him. - -“I think you had better move down to the Meadows, Ellen,” he said. “If -you will contrive to say as little as possible to me about Marian, and -one or two other matters I will specify, we shall get along very well.” - -He went out with slow step and bent head, followed by Mrs. Cullom trying -vainly to find an idea on the subject suggested, which she was quite -positive she had somewhere about her. What Israel may have thought of -the thing that had whispered within his doors in an unknown tongue, and -had taken away what was his without receipt or equivalent exchange, it -were hard to say; equally hard even to say what he had thought of Marian -these twenty years. If her cloistral devotions and visionary moods -had seemed to him, in uninverted terms, folly, he had never said so. -Certainly he had liked her quiet, ladylike ways, and possibly respected -a difference of temperament inwardly as well as outwardly. At any rate, -tolerance was a consistent Sanderson policy and philosophy of life. - -There was a slight movement in the chamber, after the silence which -followed the departing footsteps of Israel and Mrs. Cullom. A small -person in pinafores crept stealthily from under the bed and peered -over the edge. It was a hard climb but he persisted, and at last -seated himself on it panting, with his elbows on his knees, gravely -considering. A few hours since, the silent lips had whispered, among -many things that came back to his memory in after years like a distant -chime of bells, only this that seemed of any immediate importance: “I -shall be far away to-night, Joe, but when you say your prayers I shall -hear.” The problem that puckered the small brow was whether prayers out -of regular hours were real prayers. Joe decided to risk it and, getting -on his knees, said over all the prayers he knew. Then he leaned over -and patted the thin, cold cheek (Joe and his mother always tacitly -understood each other), slid off the bed with a satisfied air, and -solemnly trotted out of the room. - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was a widow; “Which,” Israel remarked, “is a pity. -Cullom would have taken comfort in outliving you, Ellen.” - -“Well,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, -Israel. I've always respected his memory.” - -Israel, gravely regarding her, observed, “You'd better not try to train -Joe,” and departed, leaving her to struggle with the idea that -between Joe and Cullom's comfort Israel was getting very disconnected. -Disconnection of remark did not imply any changeableness in Israel's -temperament. He observed a silent sequence of character, and possibly -a sequence of thought of which he did not care to give evidence, on -matters which he found no profit in discussing. Twelve years later the -mystery again whispered within his doors, and he rose and followed it in -his usual deliberate and taciturn way, without disclosing any opinion on -the question of the inversion of terms. The story of each generation -is put away when its time comes with a more or less irrelevant epitaph, -whether or not its threads be gathered into a satisfactory finale. The -Spirit-of-things-moving-on is singularly indifferent to such matters. -Its only literary principle seems to be, to move on. The new Sanderson -of Back Meadows grew up a slight, thin-faced young fellow. The Sanderson -men were always slight of build, saving a certain breadth of shoulders. -A drooping mustache in course of time hid the only un-Sanderson feature, -a sensitive mouth. The cool gray eyes, slightly drawling speech, and -deliberate manner were all Sanderson, indicating “a chip of the old -block,” as Mr. Durfey remarked to the old Scotchman who kept the drag -store in Hagar. If the latter had doubts, he kept them to himself. - -The Sanderson stud sprang from a certain red mare, Martha, belonging -to Blake Sanderson of Revolutionary times. They were a thin-necked, -generally bad-tempered breed, with red veins across the eyes, of high -repute among “horsey” men. Blake Sanderson was said to have ridden the -red mare from Boston in some astonishingly quick time on some -mysterious errand connected with the evacuation of New York, whereby her -descendants were at one time known as the Courier breed; but as no one -seemed to know what the errand was, it was possibly not a patriotic one. -Three of these red, thinnecked mares and a stallion were on exhibition -at the Hamilton County Fair of '76. Notable men of the county were -there, mingled with turfmen of all shades of notoriety; several -immaculately groomed gentlemen, tall-hatted, long-coated, and saying -little, but pointed out with provincial awe as coming from New York and -worth watching; a few lean Kentuckians, the redness of whose noses was -in direct ratio with their knowledge of the business, and whose artistic -profanity had a mercantile value in expressing contempt for Yankee -horse-flesh. There was the Honorable Gerald and the some-say -Dishonorable Morgan Map, originally natives of Hagar, with young Jacob -Lorn between them undergoing astute initiation into the ways of the -world and its manner of furnishing amusement to young men of wealth; -both conversing affably with Gypsy John of not even doubtful reputation, -at present booming Canadian stock in favor of certain animals that -may or may not have seen Canada. Thither came the manager of the opera -troupe resident in Hamilton during the Fair, and the Diva, popularly -known as Mignon, a brown-haired woman with a quick Gallic smile and a -voice, “By gad, sir, that she can soak every note of it in tears, the -little scamp,” quoth Cassidy, observing from a distance. Cassidy was a -large fleshy man with a nickel shield under his coat. - - “A face to launch a thousand ships, - - And burn the topless towers of Ilium'' - -misquoted a tall, thin personage with an elongated face and sepulchral -voice. “The gods made you poetical, Mr. Cassidy. Do you find your gift -of sentiment of use on the force?” - -“Yes, sir,” shouted Cassidy, inadvertently touched on one of innumerable -hobbies and beginning to pound one hand excitedly with the fist of the -other. “In fine cases, sir, the ordinary detective slips up on just that -point. Now let me tell you, Mr. Mavering--” - -“Tell me whether that is not Mignon's 'mari.' What sort of a man is he?” - -“Mignon's what? Oh--Manager Scott. He isn't married, further than that -he's liable to rows on account of Mignon, who--has a face to upset -things as you justly observe, not to speak of a disposition according. -At least, I don't know but what they may be married. If they are, -they're liable to perpetuate more rows than anything else.” - -“'Does something smack, something grow to, has a kind of taste?”' - -“Eh?” said Cassidy, inquiringly. - -Sanderson, standing silently by, as silently turned and walked toward -the crowd drifting back and forth in front of the stables. Portly Judge -Carter of Gilead, beaming through gold-rimmed glasses, side-whiskered -and rubicund, stopped him to remark tremendously that he had issued an -injunction against the stallion going out of the state. “A matter of -local patriotism, Joe, eh?” - -“Hear, hear,” commented the Honorable Gerald Map. A crowd began to -gather anticipating a conference of notables. Sanderson extricated -himself and walked on, and two small boys eventually smacked each -other over the question whether Judge Carter was as great a man as Mr. -Sanderson. - -Mavering's eyes followed him speculatively. - -“What's the particular combination that troubles the manager's rest?” - -“Eh?” said Cassidy. “Oh, I don't know. Bob Sutton mostly. He's here -somewhere. Swell young fellow in a plush vest, fashionable proprietor of -thread mills.” - -The yellow, dusty road ran between the stables and a battle line of -sycamores and maples. Over the stables loomed the brick wall of the -theatre, and at the end of them a small green door for the private use -of exhibitors gave exit from the Fair Grounds. Sanderson stopped near a -group opposite it, where Mignon stood slapping her riding-boot with her -whip. - -“Mr. Sanderson,” said Mignon, liquidly, “how can I get out through that -door?” - -Sanderson considered and suggested opening it. - -“But it's locked! Ciel! It's locked!” - -Sanderson considered again. “Here's a key,” he said hopefully. - -“There!” shouted the plush vest. “I knew there'd be some solution. You -see, mademoiselle, what Ave admire in Sanderson is his readiness of -resource. Mademoiselle refused to melt down the fence with a smile or -climb over it on a high C, and we were quite in despair.” - -Outside the gate, in the paved courtyard between the theatre and the -hotel, Mignon lifted her big brown eyes which said so many things, -according to Cassidy, that were not so, and observed demurely, “If you -were to leave me that key, Mr. Sanderson, well, I should steal in here -after the performance tonight and ride away on the little red mare, -certainly.” - -Sanderson gravely held out the key, but Mignon drew back in sudden alarm -and clasped her hands tragically. - -“Oh, no! You would be on guard and, what! cut up? Yes. Ah, dreadfully! -You are so wise, Mr. Sanderson, and secret.” - -And Jack Mavering, following slowly after, chuckled sepulchrally to -himself. “Pretty cool try sting. Peace to the shades of Manager Scott. I -couldn't have done it better myself.” - -The Fair Grounds were as dark and lonely at eleven o'clock as if -the lighted street were not three hundred feet away with its gossipy -multitude going up and down seeking some new thing. The stands yawned -indifferently from a thousand vacant seats and the race-track had -forgotten its excitement. Horses stamped and rustled spectrally in their -stalls. The shadow under the maples was abysmal and the abyss gave forth -a murmur of dialogue, the sound of a silken voice. - -“Oh,” it sighed in mock despair, “but Americans, they are so very -impassive. Look! They make love in monosyllables. They have no passion, -no action. They pull their mustachios, say 'Damn!'--so, and it is -tragedy. They stroke their chins, so, very grave. They say 'It is not -bad, and it is comedy. Ah, please, Joe, be romantique!” - -“Why,” drawled the other voice, “I'll do whatever you like, except have -spasms.” - -“Indifferent! Bah! That's not romantique. How would I look in the house -of your fathers?” - -“You'd look like thunder.” - -“Would I?” The silken voice sank low and was quiet for a moment. “Well -then, listen. This shall you do. You shall give me that key and an order -to your man that I ride the little mare of a Sunday morning, which is -to-morrow, because she is the wind and because you are disagreeable. Is -it not so?” - -A ripple of low laughter by the green door, and “There then. You drive a -hard bargain in love, monsieur.” The door opened and she stepped with -a rustle of skirts into and through the paved courtyard, now unlit by -lamps at the theatre entrance, dark enough for the purposes of Manager -Scott, in an angle of the entrance pulling his mustache and speaking -after the manner described by Mignon as tragedy. - -In the valley of the Wyantenaug many stopped and listened breathlessly -by barn-yard and entry door to a voice that floated along the still air -of the Sabbath morning, now carolling like a bobolink, now fluting -like a wood-thrush, now hushed in the covert of arching trees, and now -pealing over the meadows by the river bank; others only heard a rush of -hoofs and saw a little red horse and its rider go by with the electric -stride of a trained racer. Each put his or her interpretation thereon, -elaborately detailed after the manner of the region, and approximated -the fact of Mignon and her purposes as nearly as might be expected. -Delight in the creation of jewelled sounds as an end in itself; delight -in the clear morning air of autumn valleys, the sight of burnished -leaves and hills in mad revelry of color; delight in following vagrant -fancies with loose rein, happy, wine-lipped elves that rise without -reason and know no law; delight in the thrill and speed of a sinewy -horse compact of nerves; however all these may have entered in the -purposes of Mignon, they are not likely to have entered the conjectures -of the inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley, such pleasures of the flesh. -Mignon let the mare choose her road, confining her own choice to odd -matters of going slow or fast or not at all, pausing by the river bank -to determine the key and imitate the quality of its low chuckle, and -such doings; all as incomprehensible to the little red mare as to the -inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley. - -The valley is broad with cup-shaped sides, save where the crowding of -the hills has thrust one forward to stand in embarrassed projection. -Some twenty miles above Hamilton rises Windless Mountain on the right, -guarding from the world the village of Hagar behind it. Northward -from Windless lie irregular hills, and between them and the long -westward-inclining tumulus of the Cattle Ridge a narrow gorge with a -tumbling brook comes down. Up this gorge goes a broad, well-kept road, -now bridging the brook, now slipping under shelving ledges, everywhere -carpeted with the needles of pines, secret with the shadows of pines, -spicy and strong with the scent of pines, till at the end of half a mile -it emerges from beneath the pines into Sanderson Hollow. The little red -mare shot from the gloom into the sunlight with a snort and shake of the -head that seemed to say: “Oh, my hoofs and fetlocks! Deliver me from a -woman who makes believe to herself she is n't going where she is, or if -she is that it's only accidental.” - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson ponderously made ready for church, not with a -mental preparation of which the minister would have approved unless -he had seen as clearly as Mrs. Cullom the necessity of denouncing in -unmeasured terms the iniquity of Susan. Susan was a maid who tried to -do anything that she was told, and bumped her head a great deal. Her -present iniquity lay in her fingers and consisted in tying and buttoning -Mrs. Cullom and putting her together generally so that she felt as if -she had fallen into her clothes from different directions. A ring at the -door-bell brought Mrs. Cullom down from heights of sputtering invective -like an exhausted sky-rocket, and she plumped into a chair whispering -feebly, “Goodness, Susan, who's that?” Susan vaguely disclaimed all -knowledge of “that.” - -“You might find out,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, the reaction precluding -anything but a general feeling of injury. Susan went down-stairs and -bumped her head on the chandelier, opened the door and bumped it on the -door. - -“Ouch,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Please, ma'am, Miss -Sanderson wants to know, who's that?” - -“Ah,” said the trim little lady in riding-habit, “will you so kindly ask -Miss Sanderson that I may speak to her?” - -But Mrs. Cullom was already descending the stairs, each step appearing -to Mignon to have the nature of a plunge. “My goodness, yes. Come in.” - Mignon carried her long skirt over the lintel. - -“I am quite grieved to intrude, mademoi--” Mrs. Cullom's matronly -proportions seemed to discountenance the diminutive, “a--madame. Mr. -Sanderson permitted me to ride one of his horses. He is so generous. -And the horse brought me here, oh, quite decisively,” and Mignon laughed -such a soft, magical laugh that Susan grinned in broad delight. “It is -such a famous place, this, is it not,--Back Meadows? I thought I might -be allowed to--to pay tribute to its fame.” - -Mrs. Cullom's cordiality was such that if, strictly speaking, two -hundred pounds can flutter, she may be said to have fluttered. She -plunged through two sombre-curtained parlors, Mignon drifting serenely -in the wake of her tumult. Something in the black, old colonial -furniture sent a feeling of cold gruesomeness into her sunny veins, and -she was glad when Mrs. Cullom declared it chilly and towed her into the -dining-room, where a warm light sifted through yellow windows of -modern setting high over a long, irregular sideboard, and mellowed the -portraits of departed Sandersons on the walls: honorables numerous of -colonial times (Blake, first of the horse-breeding Sandersons, booted -and spurred but with too much thinness of face and length of jaw for a -Squire Western type), all flanked by dames, with a child here and there, -above or below--all but the late Israel, whose loneliness in his gilt -frame seemed to have a certain harmony with his expression. - -“That was Joseph's father, my brother Israel,” said Mrs. Cullom, as -Mignon's eyes travelled curiously along and rested on the last. “Joseph -keeps his mother hung up in his den.” - -“Hung up? Den?” cried Mignon, with a recurrence of the gruesome feeling -of the parlors. “Oh, ciel! What does he keep there? Bones?” - -“Bones! Goodness no. Books.” - -Mrs. Cullom pushed open a door to the right and entered a long, low room -piled to the ceiling and littered with books, which, together with the -leathern chair and red-shaded lamp before the fireplace, gave a decided -air of studious repose, nothing suggesting a breeder of fancy stock. An -oil painting of a lady hung over the mantel, and near it some mediæval -Madonna, not unresembling the portrait in its pale cheeks, unworldly -eyes, and that faint monastic air of vigil and vision and strenuous -yearning of the soul to throw its dust aside. Nevertheless the face of -the lady was a sweet face, quiet and pure, such as from many a Madonna -of the Old World in tawdry regalia looks pityingly down over altar and -winking tapers, seeming to say with her tender eyes, “Is it very hard, -my dear, the living? Come apart then and rest awhile.” Mignon turned to -Mrs. Cullom. “You are dressed for going out, madame,” she said, looking -at that lady's well-to-do black silk. “Am I not detaining you?” - -“Oh, I was going to church. Goodness, are n't you going to church?” - A sudden thought struck her and she added severely: “And you've been -riding that wicked little mare on Sunday. And she might have thrown you, -and how'd you look pitched headfirst into heaven dressed so everybody ud -know you weren't going to church!” - -“Oh,” cried Mignon, “but I was good when I was a child. Yes! I went to -mass every day, and had a little prie-dieu, oh, so tiny!” - -“Mass!” gasped Mrs. Cullom. “Well, I declare. What's a pray-do?” - -Mignon surveyed her riding-skirt regretfully. “Would it not be -appropriate, madame? I should so like to go with you,” she said -plaintively. - -“Goodness! I'll risk it if you will. I'd like to see the woman who'd -tell me what to wear to church.” She plunged suddenly out of the room, -leaving Mignon thinking that she would not like to be the woman referred -to. She listened to the ponderous footsteps of Mrs. Cullom climbing -the stairs, and then sank into the leathern chair facing the picture. -Possibly the living and the dead faced each other on a point at issue; -they seemed to debate some matter gravely and gently, as is seldom done -where both are living. Possibly it was Mignon's dramatic instinct -which caused her to rise at last, gathering up her riding-skirt, at -the approaching footsteps of Mrs. Cullom, and bow with Gallic grace and -diminutive stateliness to the pure-faced lady with the spiritual eyes. -“C'est vrai, madame,” she said, and passed out with her small head in -the air. - -The congregation that day in the little church of the bended -weather-vane, where Hagar's cross-roads meet, heard certain ancient -hymns sung as never before in the church of the bended weather-vane. -“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,” pleaded the silken voice, like a visitant -invisible, floating from fluted pillar to fluted pillar, calling at -some unseen door, “Let me in! Ah, let me in!” Somewhat too much of -rose leaves and purple garments in the voice for that simple, steadfast -music. The spirit seemed pleading rather for gratification than -rest. The congregation stopped singing, save Mrs. Cullom, who flatted -comfortably on unnoticed. Deacon Crockett frowned ominously over his -glasses at a scandalous scene and a woman too conspicuous; Captain David -Brett showed all the places where he had no teeth; Mr. Royce looked down -from the pulpit troubled with strange thoughts, and Miss Hettie Royce -dropped her veil over her face, remembering her youth. - -How should Mignon know she was not expected to be on exhibition in that -curious place? Of course people should be silent and listen when an -artist sings. Mignon hardly remembered a time when she was not more or -less on exhibition. That volatile young lady cantered along the Windless -Mountain Road somewhat after twelve o'clock not in a very good humor. -She recognized the ill humor, considered ill humor a thing both -unpleasant and unnecessary and attributed it to an empty stomach; -dismounted before an orchard and swung herself over the wall reckless of -where her skirts went or where they did not. - -“Them apples is mine,” growled a gray-bearded person behind a barn-yard -fence. - -“Then why didn't you get them for me, pig?” returned Mignon sharply, -and departed with more than her small hands could conveniently carry, -leaving the gray-bearded person turning the question over dubiously in -his mind. - -It happened to have occurred to Sanderson that certain business of his -own pointed to Back Meadows that Sunday morning. The up-train on Sunday -does not leave till after eleven, and he took the valley road on the red -stallion of uncertain temper. The inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley heard -no more carolling voices, or fitful rush and clatter of hoofs. The red -stallion covered his miles with a steady stride and the rider kept his -emotions, aesthetic or otherwise, to himself. The twain swung into the -Hollow about eleven o'clock, and Sanderson presently found himself in -his leathern chair debating a question at issue with the lady of the -spiritual eyes. What passed between them is their own secret, quite -hopeless of discovery, with one end of it on the other side of the -“valley of the shadow,” and the other buried in close coverts of -Sanderson reserve. When the door-bell rang and Susan appearing bumped -her head against the casing and announced, “Mr. Joe, it's a red-haired -gentleman,” having no dramatic instinct, he passed into the dining-room -without salutation to the lady of the spiritual eyes. - -“How are you, Scott? Sit down,” he drawled placidly. - -“I suppose you know what I'm here for,” said the other, with evident -self-restraint. - -“Can't say I do,” returned Sanderson, cheerfully. “It needn't be -anything in particular, need it?” He sat down, stretched his legs under -the dining-room table and his arms on top of it. Manager Scott paced the -floor nervously. Suddenly he stooped, picked up something and flung it -on the table--a strip of thin gray veil. “You can save yourself a lie, -Mr. Sanderson.” - -Sanderson gravely regarded the delicate article which seemed to be put -forth both as an accusation and a proof of something. Then he leaned -forward and rang the bell. “I will overlook that implication for the -present, Mr. Scott,” he remarked. “If it's a bluff, it's a good one. I -take it it is n't. Susan, has any one been here this morning?” as that -maiden tumbled into the room in a general tangle of feet. - -“Yes, sir, and she's gone. My! She ain't comin' back to dinner! Lady -rode the little mare and she went to church with Miss Sanderson.” - -“Mademoiselle Mignon,” drawled Sanderson, turning to Manager Scott, -“asked permission to ride the mare this morning. I was not aware she -intended making an excursion to Back Meadows or I should have asked -permission to attend her. It seems she went to Hagar with my aunt and -proposes to ride back to Hamilton from there. It's my turn now, old man, -and I'd like to know what was the necessity of making your visit so very -tragic.” - -“Oh, I presume I'm an ass,” returned the other, with a noticeable -nervous twitching of the mouth and fingers, “and I presume I owe you an -apology. I shall probably shoot the man that comes between Mignon and -me, if he doesn't shoot first, which is all very asinine.” - -“Quite irrespective of what mademoiselle may think about it?” - -“Oh, quite.” - -“Well,” said Sanderson, after a pause, “I rather sympathize with your -way of looking at it. I shouldn't wonder if I had some of that primeval -brutality myself.” - -“Look here, Sanderson,” said the manager. “Without going into -humiliating details as to how I came by the fact, which I don't know -why you take so much pains to conceal, I know as well as you do that the -issue is between you and me.” - -“You don't mean to threaten, do you, Scott?” - -“Oh, no. I'm going back to Hamilton. I was looking for a row, and you -don't give me enough to go on.” - -“Can't do it just now, old man,” said Sanderson, gently, shaking hands -with him at the door. “I'll let you know when I can. In that case we 'll -have it out between us.” - -The manager strode off across the Hollow and down the Gorge to the -valley station, and Sanderson mounted and took the road to Hagar. He -passed the village about one. The red stallion thundered through the -pine avenues at the foot of Windless and swept around the curve into -Wyantenaug Valley, but it was not till within a few miles of Hamilton -that the speedy little mare, even bothered as she was by her rider's -infirmity of purpose, allowed herself to be overtaken. The road there -turned away from the river and went covered with crisp autumn leaves -through chestnut woods. Mignon looked up and laughed, and the two horses -fell sympathetically into a walk. - -“Don't you think you owe me an explanation?” asked Sanderson, in a low -tone. - -“Indeed, sir, I owe you nothing, not even for this ride. It was paid -for,” rippled the silken voice, and stopped suddenly in a little sob. -Sanderson turned quickly and bent over her. - -“By the living God,” he said solemnly, “I swear I love you. What barrier -is strong enough to face that?” - -“It is because you do not know me, that. Listen, Joe. I have not been -what you call good nor pure in the past and shall not in the future. No, -hush. I know what I am and what I shall be always. If I swore by -your living God that I loved you now, it would not mean that I should -to-morrow, and the next day, oh, not at all. There are no deeps in me, -nor what you call a faith or principle in life. Listen, Joe. That lady -whose portrait I saw is your guardian angel. Look, I reverence now. -To-morrow I shall mock both her and you. This that I speak now is only -a mood. The wind is now one thing and then quite another, Joe. It has no -centre and no soul. I am an artist, sir. I have moods but no character. -Morals! I have none. They go like the whiff of the breeze. Nothing that -I do lowers or lifts me. It passes through me and that is all. Do you -not understand?” which indeed was hard to do, for the brown eyes were -very soft and deep. - -“If any one else had told me this,” said Sanderson, between his teeth, -“man or woman, it would never have been said but once.” - -“It is harder for you than for me, for to-morrow I shall not care and -you, you will care perhaps a long time. You are fast like these hills. -Listen. Now, sir, this is our last ride together. We are a cavalier and -his lady. They are gallant and gay. They wear life and love and death -in their hair like flowers. They smile and will not let their hearts -be sad, for they say, 'It is cowardly to be sad: it is brave only to -smile.' Is it not so?” - -Sanderson's New England reserve fled far away, and he bent over her -hand. - -“It shall be as you say.” - -And to-morrow seemed far enough away, and an hour had its eternal value. -But the steady old hills could not understand that kind of chronology. - - - - -TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM - -|The Salem Road is a dusty road. Perhaps it is not really any dustier -than other roads, but it is straighter than most roads about Hagar. You -can see more of it at a time, and in that way you can see more dust. -Along this road one day many years ago came Dr. Wye of Salem in his -buggy, which leaned over on one side; and the dust was all over the -buggy-top, all over the big, gray, plodding horse, and all over the -doctor's hat and coat. He was tired and drowsy, but you would not have -suspected it; for he was a red-faced, sturdy man, with a beard cut -square, as if he never compromised with anything. He sat up straight and -solid, so as not to compromise with the tipping of the buggy. - -“Come, Billy,” said the doctor, “no nonsense, now.” - -He prided himself on being a strict man, who would put up with no -nonsense, but every one knew better. Billy, the gray horse, knew as well -as any one. - -“Come now, Billy, get along.” - -A tall, dusty, black-bearded man rose up beside the road, and Billy -stopped immediately. - -A large pack lay against the bank. - -“You ain't seen a yeller dog?” - -“No,” said the doctor, gruffly. He was provoked with Billy. “There -aren't any yellow dogs around here.” - -“He hadn't no tail,” persisted the stranger, wistfully. “And there were -a boy a-holdin' him. He chopped it off when he were little.” - -“Who chopped it off?” - -“Hey? He's a little cuss, but the dog's a good dog.” - -“Get up, Billy,” growled the doctor. “All boys are little cusses. I have -n't seen any yellow dog. Nonsense! I wonder he did n't ask if I'd seen -the tail.” - -But somehow the doctor could not get rid of the man's face, and he found -himself looking along the roadside for boys that were distinctly “little -cusses” and yellow dogs without tails, all the rest of the day. - -In the evening twilight he drove into Salem village. Very cool and -pleasant looked the little white house among the trees. Mother Wye -stood on the porch in her white apron and cap, watching for him. She -was flying signals of distress--if the word were not too strong--she was -even agitated. He tramped up the steps reassuringly. - -“Oh,” whispered Mother Wye, “you've no idea, Ned! There's a boy and a -dog, a very large dog, my dear, on the back steps.” - -“Well,” said the doctor, gallantly, “they've no business to be anywhere -frightening my little mother. We'll tell them to do something else.” The -doctor tramped sturdily around to the back steps, Mother Wye following -much comforted. - -The dog was actually a yellow dog without any tail to speak of--a large, -genial-looking dog, nevertheless; the boy, a black-eyed boy, very grave -and indifferent, with a face somewhat thin and long. “Without doubt,” - thought the doctor, “a little cuss. Hullo,” he said aloud, “I met a man -looking for you.” - -The boy scrutinized him with settled gravity. “He's not much account,” - he said calmly. “I'd rather stay here.” - -“Oh, you would!” grumbled the doctor. “Must think I want somebody around -all the time to frighten this lady. Nice folks you are, you and your -dog.” - -The boy turned quickly and took off his cap. “I beg your pardon, madam,” - he said with a smile that was singularly sudden and winning. The action -was so elderly and sedate, so very courtly, surprising, and incongruous, -that the doctor slapped his knee and laughed uproariously; and Mother -Wye went through an immediate revulsion, to feel herself permeated with -motherly desires. The boy went on unmoved. - -“He's an easy dog, ma'am. His name's Poison, but he never does -anything;”--which started the doctor off again. - -“They said you wanted a boy.” - -“Ah,” said the doctor, growing grave, “that's true; but you're not the -boy.” - -The boy seemed to think him plainly mistaken. “Stuff!” growled the -doctor, “I want a boy I can send all around the country. I know a dozen -boys that know the country, and that I know all about. I don't want you. -Besides,” he added, “he said you were a little cuss.” - -The boy paid no attention to the last remark. “I'll find it out. Other -boys are thick-headed.” - -“That's true,” the doctor admitted; “they are thick-headed.” Indeed -this young person's serenity and confidence quite staggered him. A new -diplomatic idea seemed to occur to the young person. He turned to Mother -Wye and said gravely: “Will you pull Poison's ear, ma'am, so he'll know -it's all right?” - -Mother Wye, with some trepidation, pulled Poison's ear, and Poison -wagged the whole back end of himself to make up for a tail, signifying -things that were amicable, while the doctor tugged at his beard and -objected to nonsense. - -“Well, young man, we'll see what you have to say for yourself. Tut! -tut! mother,”--to Mrs. Wye's murmur of remonstrance,--“we'll have no -nonsense. This is a practical matter;” and he tramped sturdily into the -house, followed by the serious boy, the amicable dog, and the appeased, -in fact the quite melted, Mother Wye. - -“Now, boy,” said the doctor, “what's your name?” - -“Jack.” - -“Jack what? Is that other fellow your father?” - -“I reckon maybe he is,” returned Jack, with a gloomy frown. “His name's -Baker. He peddles.” - -The doctor tugged at his beard and muttered that “at any rate there -appeared to be no nonsense about it. But he's looking for you,” he said. -“He'll take you away.” - -“He's looking for the dog,” said Jack, calmly. “He can't have him.” - -The East End Road, which circles the eastern end of the Cattle Ridge, -is not at all like the Salem Road. It is wilder and crookeder, to begin -with, but that is a superficial matter. It passes through thick woods, -dips into gullies, and changes continually, while along the Salem Road -there is just the smoky haze on the meadows and dust in the chalices -of the flowers; there too the distance blinks stupidly and speculation -comes to nothing. But the real point is this: the Salem Road leads -straight to Hagar and stops there; the East End Road goes over somewhere -among the northern hills and splits up into innumerable side roads, -roads that lead to doorways, roads that run into footpaths and dwindle -away in despair, roads of which it must be said with sorrow that there -was doubt in Salem whether they ever ended or led anywhere. Hence arose -the tale that all things which were strange and new, at least all things -which were to be feared, came into Salem over the East End Road; just as -in Hagar they came down from the Cattle Ridge and went away to the south -beyond Windless Mountain. - -Along this road, a month later than the last incident, came the -black-bearded peddler with his pack, whistling; and indeed his pack, -though large, seemed to weigh singularly little; also the peddler seemed -to be in a very peaceful frame of mind. And along this road too came the -plodding gray horse, with the serious boy driving, and the yellow dog -in the rear; all at a pace which slowly but surely overtook the peddler. -The peddler, reaching a quiet place where a bank of ferns bordered the -brushwood, sat down and waited, whistling. The dog, catching sight of -him, came forward with a rush, wagging the back end of himself; and -Billy, the gray horse, came gently to a standstill. - -“How goes it?” said the peddler, pausing a moment in his whistling. -“Pretty good?” - -“Mostly.” - -The peddler took a cigar-case from his pocket, a cigar wrapped in -tin-foil from the case, and lay back lazily among the ferns, putting his -long thin hands behind his head. “My notion was,” he murmured, -“that it would take a month, a month would be enough.” - -The serious boy said nothing, but sat with his chin on his fists looking -down the road meditatively. - -“My notion was,” went on the peddler, “that a doctor's boy, particularly -that doctor's boy, would get into all the best houses around--learn the -lay of things tolerably neat. That was my notion. Good notion, wasn't -it, Jack?” Jack muttered a subdued assent. The peddler glanced at him -critically. “For instance now, that big square house on the hill north -of Hagar.” - -Jack shook his head. “Nothing in it. Old man, name Map, rich enough, -furniture done up in cloth, valuables stored in Hamilton; clock or two -maybe; nothing in it.” - -“Ah,” said the other, “just so;” and again he glanced critically through -his half-closed eyes. “But there are others.” Again Jack muttered a -subdued assent. - -“Good?” - -“Good enough.” - -The apparent peddler smoked, quite at his ease among the ferns, and -seemed resolved that the boy should break the silence next. - -“Are you banking on this business, dad?” said the latter, finally. - -“Ah--why, no, Jack, not really. It's a sort of notion, I admit.” He -lifted one knee lazily over the other. “I'm not shoving you, Jack. State -the case.” A long silence followed, to which the conversation of the two -seemed well accustomed. - -“I never knew anything like that down there,” nodding in the direction -of Salem. “Those people.--It's different.” - -“That's so,” assented the apparent peddler, critically. “I reckon it -is. We make a point not to be low. Polish is our strong point, Jack. -But we're not in society. We are not, in a way, on speaking terms with -society.” - -“It ain't that.” - -“Isn't,” corrected the other, gently. “Isn't, Jack. But I rather think -it is.” - -“Well,” said Jack, “it's different, and”--with gloomy decision--“it's -better.” - -The apparent peddler whistled no more, but lay back among the ferns and -gazed up at the drooping leaves overhead. The gray horse whisked at the -wood-gnats and looked around now and again inquiringly. The yellow dog -cocked his head on one side as if he had an opinion worth listening to -if it were only called for. - -“I suppose now,” said the apparent peddler, softly, “I suppose now -they're pretty cosy. I suppose they say prayers.” - -“You bet.”. - -“You mean that they do, Jack. I suppose,” he went on dreamily, “I -suppose the old lady has white hair and knits stockings.” - -“She does that,” said Jack, enthusiastically, “and pincushions and -mats.” - -“And pincushions and mats. That's so.” - -The lowing of cattle came up to them from hidden meadows below; for the -afternoon was drawing near its close and the cattle were uneasy. The -chimney and roof of a farmhouse were just visible through a break in the -sloping woods. The smoke that mounted from the chimney seemed to linger -lovingly over the roof, like a symbol of peace, blessing the hearth -from which it came. The sentimental outcast puffed his excellent cigar -meditatively, now and again taking it out to remark, “Pincushions and -mats!” indicating the constancy of his thoughts. - -The serious boy motioned in the direction of Salem. “I think I'll stay -there,” he said. “It's better.” - -“Reckon I know how you feel, Jack,--know how you feel. Give me my lowly -thatched cottage, and that sort of thing.” After a longer silence -still, he sat up and threw away his cigar. “Well, Jack, if you see your -way--a--if I were you, Jack,” he said slowly, “I wouldn't go half and -half; I'd go the whole bill. I'd turn on the hose and inquire for the -ten commandments, that's what I'd do.” He came and leaned lazily on -the carriage wheel. “That isn't very plain. It's like this. You don't -exactly abolish the old man; you just imagine him comfortably buried; -that's it, comfortably buried, with an epitaph,--flourishy, Jack, -flourishy, stating”--here his eyes roamed meditatively along Billy's -well-padded spine--“stating, in a general way, that he made a point of -polish.” - -The serious boy's lip trembled slightly. He seemed to be seeking some -method of expression. Finally he said: “I'll trade knives with you, dad. -It's six blades”; and the two silently exchanged knives. - -Then Billy, the gray horse, plodded down the hill through the woods, and -the apparent peddler plodded up. At one turn in the road can be seen the -white houses of Salem across the valley; and here he paused, leaning on -the single pole that guarded the edge. After a time he roused himself -again, swung his pack to his shoulder, and disappeared over the crest of -the hill whistling. - -The shadows deepened swiftly in the woods; they lengthened in the open -valley, filling the hollows, climbed the hill to Salem, and made dusky -Dr. Wye's little porch and his tiny office duskier still. The office -was so tiny that portly Judge Carter of Gilead seemed nearly to fill it, -leaving small space for the doctor. For this or some other reason -the doctor seemed uncomfortable, quite oppressed and borne down, and -remonstrating with the oppression. The judge was a man of some splendor, -with gold eye-glasses and cane. - -“There really is no doubt about it,” he was saying, with a magnificent -finger on the doctor's knee, “no doubt at all.” - -The conversation seemed to be most absorbing. The doctor pulled his -beard abstractedly and frowned. - -The serious boy drove by outside in the dusk, and after a while came up -from the bam. He sat down on the edge of the porch to think things over, -and the judge's voice rolled on oracularly. Jack hardly knew yet -what his thoughts were; and this was a state of mind that he was not -accustomed to put up with, because muddle-headedness was a thing that -he especially despised. “You don't exactly abolish the old man,” he kept -hearing the peddler say; “you just imagine him comfortably buried--with -an epitaph--flourishy--stating--” - -“Clever, very,” said the judge. “Merriwether was telling me--won't -catch him, too clever--Merri-wether says--remarkable--interesting scamp, -very.” The doctor growled some inaudible objection. - -“Why did he show himself!” exclaimed the judge. “Why, see here. Observe -the refined cleverness of it! It roused your interest, didn't it? It was -unique, amusing. Chances are ten to one you would n't have taken the boy -without it. Why, look here--” - -“Stuff!”--Here the doctor raised his voice angrily. “The boy ran away -from him, of course.” - -“Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the judge, soothingly. “But there are -other things--looks shady--consider the man is known. Dangerous, doctor, -dangerous, very. You ought to be careful.” Then the words were a mere -murmur. - -Jack sat still on the porch, with his chin on his hands. Overhead -the night-hawks called, and now and then one came down with a whiz of -swooping wings. Presently he heard the chairs scrape; he rose, slipped -around to the back porch and into the kitchen. - -The little bronze clock in the dining-room had just told its largest -stint of hours,--and very hard work it made of it. It was a great trial -to the clock to have to rouse itself and bluster so. It did not mind -telling time in a quiet way. But then, every profession has its trials. -It settled itself again to stare with round, astonished face at the -table in the centre of the room. - -Jack sat at the table by a dim lamp, the house dark and silent all -around him, writing a letter. He leaned his head down almost on a level -with the paper. - -“I herd him and you,” he wrote in a round hand with many blots. “I lied -and so did he I mean dad. I can lie good. Dad sed I must learn the ten -comandments. The ten comandments says diferent things. You neednt be -afrad. There dont anithing happen cep to me. I do love Mother Wye tru.” - The clock went on telling the time in the way that it liked to do, -tick-tick-tick. Overhead the doctor slept a troubled sleep, and in -Gilead Judge Carter slept a sound sleep of good digestion. - -Far off the Salem Road led westward straight to Hagar, and stopped, and -the moonlight lay over it all the way; but the East End Road led through -the shadows and deep night over among the northern hills, and split -up into many roads, some of which did not seem ever to end, or lead -anywhere. - -Jack dropped from the window skilfully, noiselessly, and slid away in -the moonlight. At the Corners he did not hesitate, but took the East End -Road. - - - - -A VISIBLE JUDGMENT - -|He bore the name of Adam Wick. There seemed to be something primitive -in his temperament to fit it. By primitive we mean of such times as may -have furnished single-eyed passions that did not argue. He was a small, -thin, stooping man, with a sharp nose and red-lidded eyes. Sarah Wick, -his daughter, was a dry-faced woman of thirty, and lived with him. - -His house stood on a hill looking over the village of Preston -Plains, which lay in a flat valley. In the middle of the village the -church-steeple shot up tapering and tall. - -It was a bickering community. The church was a centre of interest. The -outlines of the building were clean and shapely, but in detail it stood -for a variety of opinions. A raised tracery ran along the pseudo-classic -frieze of its front, representing a rope of flowers with little cupids -holding up the loops. They may have been cherubs. The community had -quarrelled about them long ago when the church was building, but that -subject had given way to other subjects. - -The choir gallery bulged over the rear seats, as if to dispute the -relative importance of the pulpit. That was nothing. But it needed -bracing. The committee decided against a single pillar, and erected two, -one of them in the middle of Adam Wick's pew. - -Adam looked at things simply. It seemed to his simplicity that the -community had conspired to do him injustice. The spirit of nonconformity -stirred within him. He went to the minister. - -“Andrew Hill, nor any other man, nor committeeman's got no rights in my -pew.” - -The minister was dignified. - -“The pew, Mr. Wick, belongs to the church.” - -“No such thing! I sat twenty-four years in that pew.” - -“But that, though very creditable--” - -“No such thing! I'll have no post in my pew, for Andrew Hill nor no -minister neither.” - -“Mr. Wick--” - -“You take that post out o' my pew.” - -He stumped out of the minister's green-latticed doorway and down the -gravel path. His eyes on either side of his sharp nose were like -those of an angry hawk, and his stooping shoulders, seen from behind, -resembled the huddled back of the hawk, caged and sullen. - -The minister watched him. Properly speaking, a primitive nature is an -unlimited monarchy where ego is king, but the minister's reflections did -not run in these terms. He did not even go so far as to wonder whether -such primitive natures did not render the current theory of a church -inaccurate. He went so far as to wonder what Adam Wick would do. - -One dark, windy night, near midnight, Adam Wick climbed in at the -vestibule window of the church, and chopped the pillar in two with an -axe. The wind wailed in the belfry over his head. The blinds strained, -as if hands were plucking at them from without. The sound of his blows -echoed in the cold, empty building, as if some personal devil were -enjoying the sacrilege. Adam was a simple-minded man; he realized that -he was having a good time himself. - -It was three days before the church was opened. What may have been -Adam's primitive thoughts, moving secretively among his townsmen? Then -a sudden rumor ran, a cry went up, of horror, of accusation, of the -lust of strife. Before the accusation Adam did not hesitate to make his -defiance perfect. The primitive mind was not in doubt. With a blink of -his red eyelids, he answered: - -“You tell Andrew Hill, don't you put another post in my pew.” - -A meeting was held; a majority voted enthusiastically to strike his name -from the rolls for unchristian behavior and to replace the pillar. A -minority declared him a wronged man. That was natural enough in Preston -Plains. But Adam Wick's actions at this point were thought original and -effective by every one. - -He sat silently through the proceedings in the pew with the hacked -pillar, his shoulders hunched, his sharp eyes restless. - -“Mr. Wick,” said the minister, sternly, “have you anything to say?” - -Adam rose. - -“I put fifty-six dollars into this meetin'-house. Any man deny that?” - -No man denied it. - -“Humph!” said Adam. - -He took the hymn-book from the rack, lifted the green cushion from the -seat, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out. - -No man spoke against it. - -“There's no further business before this meeting,” said Chairman Hill. - -It was a Sunday in August and nearly noon. From the side porch of Adam -Wick's house on the hill the clustered foliage of the village below was -the centre of the landscape. The steeple and ridgepole of the church -rose out of the centre of the foliage. - -The landscape could not be fancied without the steeple. The dumb -materials of the earth, as well as the men who walk upon it, acquire -habits. You could read on the flat face of the valley that it had grown -accustomed to Preston Plains steeple. - -On the side porch stood a long, high-backed bench. It was a close -imitation of the pews in the church below among the foliage, with the -long green cushion on the seat and a chair facing it with a hymn-book -on it. Adam sat motionless on the bench. His red-lidded eyes were fixed -intently on the steeple. - -A hen with a brood of downy yellow chickens pecked about the path. -A turkey strutted up and down. The air was sultry, oppressive. A low -murmur of thunder mingled with the sleepy noises of creaking crickets -and clucking hen. - -Adam Wick's bench and rule of Sabbath observance had been common talk in -Preston Plains. But it had grown too familiar, for subjects of dispute -ever gave way there to other subjects. Some one said it was pathetic. -The minority thought it a happy instance to throw in the face of -the bigoted majority, that they had driven from the church a man -of religious feeling. The minister had consulted Andrew Hill, that -thick-set man with the dry mouth and gray chin-beard. - -“Not take out that pillar!” said Andrew Hill. “Ah,” said the minister, -“I'm afraid that wouldn't do. It would seem like--” - -“I wouldn't move that pillar if the whole town was sidin' with him.” - -“Oh, now--” - -“Not while I'm alive. Adam Wick, he's obstinate.” Mr. Hill shut his -mouth grimly. - -“Religious! Humph! Maybe he is.” - -The minister moved away. They were a stiff-necked people, but after all -he felt himself to be one of them. It was his own race. He knew how -Andrew Hill felt, as if something somewhere within him were suddenly -clamped down and riveted. He understood Adam too, in his private pew on -the side porch, the hymn-book on the chair, his eyes on Preston Plains -steeple, fixed and glittering. He thought, “We don't claim to be -altogether lovely.” - -Adam was in his own eyes without question a just man suffering -injustice. His fathers in their Genesis and Exodus had so suffered, -faced stocks, pillory, the frowning edge of the wilderness, and -possessed their souls with the same grim congratulation. No generation -ever saw visions and sweat blood, and left a moderate-minded posterity. -Such martyrs were not surer that the God of Justice stood beside them -than Adam was sure of the injustice of that pillar in that pew, nor -more resolved that neither death nor hell should prevail against the -faithfulness of their protest. - -And the turkey strutted in the yard, the chickens hurried and peeped, -the thunder muttered at intervals as if the earth were breathing heavily -in its hot sleep. - -The church-bell rang for the end of the morning service. It floated up -from the distance, sweet and plaintive. - -Adam rose and carried the cushion, chair, and hymn-book into the house. - -The storm was rising, darkening. It crouched on the hills. It seemed to -gather its garments and gird its loins, to breathe heavily with crowded -hate, to strike with daggers of lightning right and left. - -Adam came out again and sat on the bench. The service being over, it was -no longer a pew. - -Carriages, one after another, drove out of the foliage below, and along -the five roads that ran out of Preston Plains between zigzag fences and -low stone walls. They were hurrying, but from that distance they seemed -to crawl. - -The Wick carriage came up the hill and through the gate--creaking -wheels, a shambling white horse, Sarah jerking the reins with monotonous -persistence. She stepped down and dusted off her cotton gloves. Adam -walked out to take the horse. - -“Wherefore do ye harden your hearts as the Egyptians and Pharaoh -hardened their hearts?” - -Adam seemed puzzled, blinked his eyes, seemed to study carefully the -contents of his own mind. - -“I do' know,” he said at last. - -“First Samuel, seven, six,” said Sarah. - -Adam led the horse away despondently. Halfway to the bam he stopped and -called out: - -“Did he preach at me?” - -“No.” - -The minister had chosen a text that Adam did not know, and made no -reference to him, although the text was a likely one. Adam felt both -slights in a dim way, and resented them. He came back to the house and -sat in the front room before the window. - -The valley was covered with a thick veil of gray rain. The black cloud -above it cracked every moment with sudden explosions, the echoes of them -tumbling clumsily among the hills. Preston Plains steeple faded away -and the foliage below it became a dim blot. A few drops struck the -window-pane at Adam's face, then a rush and tumult of rain. Dimmer still -the valley, but the lightning jabbed down into it incessantly, unseen -batteries playing attack and defence over Preston Plains steeple. - -It was a swift, sudden storm, come and gone like a burst of passion. The -imminent crack and crash of the thunder ceased, and only rumblings were -heard, mere memories, echoes, or as if the broken fragments of the -sky were rolling to and fro in some vast sea-wash. The valley and the -village trees came slowly into view. - -“Dinner's ready,” said Sarah, in the next room. - -She had a strident voice, and said dinner was ready as if she expected -Adam to dispute it. There was no answer from the window. - -“Pa! Aren't you comin'?” - -No answer. Sarah came to the door. - -“Pa!” - -His face was close to the rain-washed window-pane. Something rattled in -his throat. It seemed like a suppressed chuckle. He rested his chin on -his hand and clawed it with bony fingers. - -“Pa!” - -He turned on her sternly. - -“You needn't be shoutin' on the Lord's day. Meetin'-house steeple's -a-fire.” - -From Adam Wick's nothing could be seen but the slow column of smoke -rising and curling around the slender steeple. But under the foliage -Preston Plains was in tumult. - -By night the church was saved, but the belfry was a blackened ruin -within. The bell had fallen, through floor, cross-beams, and ceiling, -and smashed the front of the choir gallery, a mass of fallen pillar, -railing, and broken plaster on the floor. - -Andrew Hill called a meeting. Adam Wick came, entered his cluttered pew -and sat on the pillar that lay prostrate across it. He perched on it -like a hawk, with huddled back and red-lidded eyes blinking. It was the -sense of the meeting that modern ideas demanded the choir should sit -behind the minister. The ruined gallery must be removed. Adam Wick rose. - -“You've got no place in this meetin',” said Andrew Hill. “Set down.” - -Adam kept his place scornfully. - -“Can't I subscribe twenty dollars to this church?” The chairman stroked -his beard and a gleam of acrid humor lit his face for a moment. - -“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose you can.” - -And the eyes of all present looked on Adam Wick favorably. - -The minister rose to speak the last word of peace. - -“My friends, the Lord did it. He is righteous--” - -“That's my idea!” said Adam Wick, like a hawk on his fallen pillar, -red-lidded, complacent. “He did what was right.” - -The minister coughed, hesitated, and sat down. Andrew Hill glowered from -his chair. - -“There's no further business before this meetin'.” - - - - -THE EMIGRANT EAST - -|The old book-shop on Cripple Street in the city of Hamilton was walled -to its dusky ceiling with books. Books were stacked on the floor like -split wood, with alleys between. The long table down the centre was -piled with old magazines and the wrecks of paper-covered novels. -School arithmetics and dead theologies; Annuals in faded gilt, called -“Keepsake,” or “Friendship's Offering”; little leathern nubbins of books -from the last century, that yet seemed less antique than the Annuals -which counted no more than forty years--so southern and early-passing -was the youth of the Annual; Bohn's translations, the useful and -despised; gaudy, glittering prints of the poets and novelists; all were -crowded together without recognition of caste, in a common Bohemia. -Finding a book in that mystical chaos seemed to establish a right to it -of first discovery. The pretty girl, who sat in one of the dim windows -and kept the accounts, looked Oriental but not Jewish, and wore crimson -ribbons in her black hair and at her throat. She read one of the -Annuals, or gazed through the window at Cripple Street. A show-case -in the other window contained stamp collections, Hindoo, Chinese, and -Levantine coinage. - -Far back in the shop a daring explorer might come upon a third window, -gray, grimy, beyond which lay the unnamable backyards between Cripple -and Academy Streets. It could not be said to “open on” them, for it was -never opened, or “give a view” of them, being thick with gray dust. But -if one went up to it and looked carefully, there in the dim corner -might be seen an old man with a long faded black coat, rabbinical -beard, dusky, transparent skin, and Buddha eyes, blue, faint, far away, -self-abnegating, such as under the Bo-tree might have looked forth -in meek abstraction on the infinities and perceived the Eightfold -Principle. It was always possible to find Mr. Barria by steering for the -window. So appeared the old bookshop on Cripple Street, Mr. Barria, the -dealer, and his granddaughter, Janey. - -Nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull; for the hand of man, -working through generations, is the hand of nature, as surely as in -nature the oriole builds its nest or the rootlets seek their proper -soil. Cripple Street ran from Coronet to Main Street and its paving was -bad. There were a few tailors and bookbinders, a few silent, clapboarded -houses. - -But two doors from the corner on Coronet Street stood Station No. 4, of -the Fire Brigade, and Cripple Street was the nearest way to Main Street, -whither No. 4 was more likely to be called than elsewhere. So that, -though nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull, No. 4, Fire -Brigade, sometimes passed it, engine, ladder, and hose, in the splendor -of the supernatural, the stormy pageantry of the gods; and one Tommy -Durdo drove the engine. - -Durdo first came into Mr. Barria's shop in search of a paper-covered -novel with a title promising something wild and belligerent. It was a -rainy, dismal day, and Janey sat among the dust and refuse of forgotten -centuries. - -“My eyes!” he thought. “She's a peach.” - -He lost interest in any possible belligerent novel, gazed at her with -the candor of his youthfulness, and remarked, guilefully: - -“I bet you've seen me before now.” - -“You drive the engine,” said Janey, with shining eyes. - -“Why, this is my pie,” thought Durdo, and sat down by her on a pile -of old magazines. He was lank, muscular, with a wide mouth, lean jaws, -turn-up nose, and joyful eyes. The magazines contained variations on the -loves of Edwards, Eleanors, and other people, well-bred, unfortunate, -and possessed of sentiments. Durdo was not well-bred, and had not a -presentable sentiment in his recollection. He had faith in his average -luck, and went away from Mr. Barria's shop at last with a spot in the -tough texture of his soul that felt mellow. - -“J. Barria, bookdealer,” he read from the sign. “J! That's Janey, ain't -it? Hold on. She ain't the bookdealer. She ain't any ten-cent novel -either. She's a Rushy bound, two dollar and a half a copy, with -a dedication on the fly-leaf, which”--Tommy stopped suddenly and -reflected--“which it might be dedicated to Tommy.” - -It came near to being a sentiment. The possibility of such a thing -rising from within him seemed impressive. He walked back to No. 4 -thoughtfully, and thrust himself into a fight with Hamp Sharkey, in -which it was proved that Hamp was the better man. Tommy regained his -ordinary reckless cheerfulness. But when a man is in a state of mind -that it needs a stand-up and knock-down fight to introduce cheerfulness, -he cannot hope to conceal his state of mind. - -Cripple Street drowsed in the sunshine one August afternoon. A small boy -dug bricks out of the sidewalk with a stick. It seemed to emphasize the -indifferent calm that no one took that interest in Cripple Street to -come and stop him. The clangor of the fire-bells broke across the city. -For a moment the silence in Cripple Street seemed more deathly than -before. Then the doors of the tailors and bookbinders flew open. The -Fire Company came with leap and roar, ladder, engine, and hose, rattle -of wheels and thud of steam. Passing Mr. Barria's Durdo turned his head, -saw Janey in the door, and beamed on her. - -“Hooray,” he shouted. - -“It's Tommy's girl,” thundered Hamp Sharkey, from the top of his -jingling ladders. Fire Brigade No. 4 cheered, waved its helmet, wherever -it had a hand free, and in a moment was gone, leaving the drift of its -smoke in the air, the tremble of its passing, and Janey flushed and -thrilled. Hook and ladder and all had hailed her with honor as Tommy's -girl. A battalion of cavalry, with her lover at the head, dashing up to -salute, say, her battlemented or rose-embowered window--both terms occur -in the Annuals--and galloping away to the wars, might have been better -theoretically, but Janey was satisfied. She had no defence against such -battery. Power, daring, and danger were personified in Tommy. He had -brought them all to her feet. This it was to live and be a woman. She -turned back into the dim shop, her eyes shining. The backs of the dusty -books seemed to quiver and glow, even those containing arithmetic, -dead philosophies, and other cool abstractions, as if they forgot their -figures and rounded periods, and thought of the men who wrote them, how -these once were young. - -Durdo found it possible, by spending his off hours in Mr. Barria's shop, -to keep cheerful without fighting Hamp Sharkey. A row now and then with -a smaller man than Hamp was enough to satisfy the growing mellowness of -his soul. His off hours began at four. He passed them among the Annuals -and old magazines in a state of puzzled and flattered bliss. He fell so -far from nature as to read the Annuals where Janey directed, to conclude -that what was popularly called “fun” was vanity and dust in the mouth; -that from now on he would be decent, and that any corner or hole in the -ground which contained Janey and Tommy would suit him forever. No doubt -he was wrong there. - -Mr. Barria's memories of all that had befallen him within or without, in -the journey of this life, before his entry on the Path of Quietness, and -his consciousness of all external objects and occurrences since, were -clear enough, but only as little white clouds in the open sky are clear, -whose business it is to be far away and trouble us with no insistent -tempest. They never entered the inner circle of his meditation. They -appeared to be distant things. He had no sense of contact with them. -His abstractions had formed a series of concentric spheres about him. -In some outer sphere lay a knowledge of the value of books as bought and -sold, which enabled him to buy and sell them with indifferent profit, -but it entered his central absorption no more than the putting on and -off of his coat. - -He was not absorbed in books. He did not seem to care for them, beyond -the fourscore or more worn volumes that were piled about his table by -the gray window, many of them in tattered paper covers bearing German -imprints, some lately rebound by a Cripple Street bookbinder. He did not -care for history or geography, not even his own. He did not care where -he was born or when, where he was now, or how old. - -Once--whether forty years gone or four hundred, would have seemed to him -a question of the vaguest import--he had taught Arabic and Greek in a -university town, which looks off to mountains that in their turn look -off to the Adriatic Sea. There was a child, a smaller Julian Barria. -Somewhere about this time and place he began explorations in more -distant Eastern languages. The date was unnoted, obscure, traditional. -The interest in language soon disappeared. It was a period of wonder and -searching. After the moral fierceness of the Arab and Mohammedan, the -Hindoo's and Buddhist's calm negations and wide mental spaces first -interested him by contrast, then absorbed him. He began to practise the -discipline, the intense and quiet centring on one point, till the sense -of personality should slip away and he and that point be one. There was -no conviction or conversion, for the question never seemed put to him, -or to be of any value, whether one thing was true and another not true. -But the interest gradually changed to a personal issue. All that he now -heard and saw and spoke to, objects in rest or in motion, duties that -called for his performance, became not so much vaguer in outline as more -remote in position. In comparison with his other experiences they were -touched with a faint sense of unreality. The faces of other men were -changed in his eyes. He sometimes noticed and wondered, passingly, that -they seemed to see no change in him, or if any change, it was one that -drew them more than formerly to seek his sympathy. He observed himself -listening to intimate confessions with a feeling of patient benevolence -that cost him no effort, and seemed to him something not quite belonging -to him as a personal virtue, but which apparently satisfied and quieted -the troubled souls that sought him. - -About this later time--a reference to the histories would fix the date -at 1848--a civil war swept the land, and the University was closed. The -younger Julian Barria was involved in the fall of the revolutionists and -fled from the country. The late teacher of Greek and Arabic crossed -the ocean with him. It was a matter of mild indifference. He gave his -sympathy to all, gently and naturally, but felt no mental disturbance. -Neither did the change of scene affect him. Everywhere were earth -beneath and sky above, and if not it were no matter. Everywhere were -men and women and children, busy with a multitude of little things, -trembling, hurrying, crying out among anxieties. It was all one, clear -enough, but remote, touched with the same sense of unreality, and like -some sad old song familiar in childhood and still lingering in the -memory. - -The book-shop on Cripple Street at one time dealt also in newspapers and -cigars. They were more to the younger Barria's talent, more to his -taste the stirring talk of men who live in their own era and congregate -wherever there are newspapers and tobacco. Afterward he went away into -the West, seeking a larger field for his enterprise than Cripple Street, -and the newspaper and cigar business declined and passed away. The -show-case fell to other uses. The elder Barria sat by the square rear -window, and the gray dust gathered and dimmed it. Ten years flowed like -an unruffled stream; of their conventional divisions and succeeding -events he seemed but superficially conscious. Letters came now and -then from the West, announcing young Barria's journeys and schemes, his -marriage in the course of enterprise, finally his death. The last was in -a sprawling hand, and said: - -“Jules missus is ded to an thars a kid. Jules sez take her to the ol man -Jake when ye go est in the spring. I am Jake. He is wooly in his hed -sez he but he is a good man sez he. He got a soul like Mondays washin -on Tewsday mornin sez he spekin in figgers an menin you. Them was Jules -last word.” - -The large, bony person called Jake, slouch-hatted and rough-bearded, -brought the child in time, and departed, muttering embarrassment. She -stood among the Annuals and old magazines with a silver dollar from -Jake clasped in each hand, and a roll of fifty-dollar bills in her -tiny pocket, probably representing young Barria's estate and the end of -Jake's duties as executor. She might have been two or three years old. -That was not a matter of interest to Mr. Barria, in whose conception the -soul of every creature was, in a way, more ancient than the hills. - -She seemed to believe in his good intentions and came to him gravely. -She did not remember any mother, and for her own name it had apparently -been “chicken” when her father had wanted her, and “scat” when he did -not. Mr. Barria envied a mind so untrammelled with memories, and named -her Jhana, which means a state of mystical meditation, of fruitful -tranquillity, out of which are said to come six kinds of supernatural -wisdom and ten powers. The name sometimes appeared to him written -Dhyana, when his meditations ran in Sanskrit instead of Pali. Cripple -Street called her Janey, and avoided the question with a wisdom of -its own. It had grown used to Mr. Barria. Scholars came from near-by -universities to consult him, and letters from distant countries to Herr, -Monsieur, or Signor Doctor Julian Barria, but Cripple Street, if it -knew of the matter, had no stated theory to explain it and was little -curious. His hair and beard grew white and prophetic, his skin more -transparent. A second decade and half a third glided by, and Janey and -Tommy Durdo sat hand in hand among the Annuals. - -“You must ask him, Tommy,” Janey insisted, “because lovers always ask -parents.” - -“An' the parents is horty and they runs away hossback. Say, Janey, if -his whiskers gets horty, I 'll faint. Say, Janey, you got to go 'n ask -my ma if you can have me.” - -“Would she be haughty?” - -Janey always bubbled with pleasure, like a meadow spring, when Tommy -“got on a string,” as he called it, fell to jesting circumstantially. -“You bet. She'd trun you down. An' yet she's married second time, she -has,” he went on, thoughtfully, “an' she didn't ask my consent, not -either time. I would n't a given it the first, if she had, 'cause dad -was no good. I'd a been horty. I'd a told her he wa'n't worthy to come -into any family where I was comin', which he wa'n't.” - -“Oh, Tommy!” - -“Yep. Dad was more nuisance'n mosquitoes.” - -Mr. Barria came out of the distant retreat of his meditation slowly, and -looked up. It did not need all the subtle instinct of a pundit to read -the meaning of the two standing hand in hand before him. - -Tommy looked and felt as one asking favors of a spectre, and Mr. Barria -had fallen into a silent habit of understanding people. - -“Little Jhana iss a woman so soon?” he said softly. “She asks of her -birthright.” - -He rose and looked quietly, steadily at Tommy, who felt himself growing -smaller inside, till his shoes seemed enormous, even his scalp loose and -his skull empty. - -“Mr.--” - -“It's Tommy Durdo,” said Janey. - -“You will always remember to be a little kinder than seems necessary, -Mr. Durdo? It iss a good rule and very old.” - -“He didn't ask whether I was a burglar or a lunatic by profesh,” - grumbled Tommy, later. “Ain't a reasonable interest. He might a asked -which.” - -“Never mind,” said Janey. “I'll tell that.” - -There were four rooms over the shop, where the three lived in great -peace. Tommy never made out whether Mr. Barria thought him a burglar or -a lunatic. As regards Janey he felt more like a burglar, as regards Mr. -Barria more like a lunatic. He dodged him reverentially. Only at the -station, where his duties kept him for the most part, did he feel like -a natural person and a fireman. He confided in Hamp Sharkey, and brought -him to the shop and the little up-stairs sitting-room for the purpose -of illustration. Hamp's feelings resembled Tommy's. They fell into naïve -sympathy. Hamp admired Tommy for his cleverness, his limber tongue, -the reckless daring of his daily contact with Mr. Barria and Janey, two -mysteries, differing but both remote. She was not like the shop-girls on -Main Street. Hamp would carry away the memory of her shining eyes lifted -to Tommy's irregular, somewhat impish face, and growl secretly over his -mental bewilderment. Tommy admired Hamp for his height and breadth and -dull good-nature. - -On an afternoon in the early summer the fire-bells rang call after call. -Engine No. 4 went second. The freight houses by the harbor were burning, -and the tall furniture factory that backed them. About dusk the north -wall of the factory fell into the street with a roar and rattle of -flying bricks. - -The book-shop was dark in the centre. The two lamps in the front windows -were lit, and Mr. Barria's lamp in his hidden corner. - -It came upon Mr. Barria in his absorption that there had been a moment -before the sound of the trampling of heavy feet in the front of the -shop, and a sudden cry. The trampling continued and increased. He came -forward with his lamp. Men were crowding up the narrow stairs that began -in the opposite corner. One of them swung a lantern overhead. - -“'Twere a brick,” said some one in the dark centre of the shop. “Took -him over the ear. Dented him in like a plug hat.” - -“Where's some water?” - -“Knocked her over quicker 'n the brick.” - -“Sh! What's that?” - -“It's the old man.” - -The light of the lamp, lifted in Mr. Barria's hand, fell over his -head with its flowing white hair, rabbinical beard, and spectral face. -Three-men, one of them a policeman, drew back to one side of the shop, -looking startled and feebly embarrassed. On the other side the window -lamp shone on Janey, where she lay fallen among the old Annuals. - -He lifted her head and muttered: - -“Jhana, Jhana.” - -The three men slipped through the door; those above came down; a doctor -bustled in, satchel in hand, and after him several women; Janey was -carried up; the shop was empty, except for Mr. Barria sitting by his -lamp and muttering softly. - -“She could not find it, the peace that is about, and her little -happiness it would not stay beside her.” - -Presently the doctor spoke over him. - -“I think Mrs. Durdo should be taken to the hospital. St. James, you -know. It's not far.” - -“You think--” - -“She is approaching confinement, and the shock, you know.” - -“Whatever iss desirable, Herr Doctor. There iss no need, sir, of the -economy in respect to--to whatever iss desirable.” - -“Quite right, Mr. Barria. Quite right.” - -This was in June. Late in the fall Janey came back from St. James's -Hospital, pale, drooping, and alone. - -She sat in a black dress by the front window and kept the accounts as -before, gazed through the dim panes at Cripple Street, which was made -by nature to be dull, but read the Annuals no more, which was perhaps a -pity. - -Mr. Barria from the rear of the shop watched Janey, sitting among the -Annuals and looking out on Cripple Street. He had not entered on the -Path himself as a cure for sorrow and suffering; he had come to it from -another direction. Yet the first purpose of its system had been the -solution of these. It was written: - -“Sorrow and suffering will be overcome when this thirst for life is -quenched, which makes for continuance, and that desire of separateness -and hunger after selfhood are put aside. They will fall away as drops -from a lotus leaf.” - -And Janey was a type of them as they walk abroad. The measure of her -trouble was the measure of the yearning and attainment that had been -hers. - -“Desire not more then of yearning or attainment, of sight or touch, -of life in variety or abundance, but desire none at all, and turning -within, the dwelling you build there dwell in it, until both desire and -separateness shall in turn disappear.” - -He went forward and drew a chair beside her. - -“Little Jhana,” he said, “there wass once a woman and young who brought -her dead child to the wisest of men, and asked so of him, 'Do you know -one medicine that will be good for this child?' It was the custom then -for the patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the -doctors require, so that when she asked what herbs he would wish, and -he answered, 'Mustard-seed,' she promised with haste to bring it, for it -wass a common herb. 'And it must come,' he said, 'only from some house -where no child, no hussband, no wife, no parent, no friend hass died.' -Then she went in great hope, carrying the dead child; but everywhere -they said, 'I have lost,' and again, 'We have lost,' and one said, 'What -iss this you say; the living are few but the dead are many.' She found -so no house in that place from which she might take the mustard-seed. -Therefore she buried the child, and came, and she said, 'I have not -found it; they tell me the living are few and the dead many.' And he -showed her how that nothing endured at all, but changed and passed into -something else, and each wass but a changing part of a changing whole, -and how, if one thought more of the whole, one so ceased to be troubled -much of the parts, and sorrow would fade away quietly.” Janey stared at -him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. There was a certain comfort always -in Mr. Barria himself, however oddly he might talk. She dropped her head -on his knee and whispered: - -“I don't know about all that. I want Tommy and the baby.” - -He touched her hair with thin fingers gently. “Then I wonder, little -Jhana,” he said, looking to the magazines and Annuals, “if you have -found among these one, a poet of the English, who calls it to be better -to love and lose than not to love.” - -“I don't know. I don't remember.” - -He smoothed her hair again and went away. The winter passed and the -spring came with a scatter of sunshine and little showers. Janey still -sat by the window. If she had been able to generalize, to see that Tommy -and the baby represented hunger after life, and that this was the root -of sorrow, it would perhaps have still seemed to her that love and loss -were the better choice. Perhaps not. But she could not generalize. Her -thoughts were instincts, fancies, and little shining points of belief. -She could not see herself in any figure of speech; that she was one of a -multitude of discordant notes in the universe, whose business it was to -tune themselves to the key of a certain large music and disappear in its -harmony, where alone was constant happiness. It did not seem to mention -Tommy or the baby, and if not there was no point in it. - -Spring slipped away. Cripple Street was filled to the brim with bland -summer. Janey went every day to the cemetery with flowers. In September -she began to come back with flowers in her belt. - -It was a rainy, dismal day in October. Mr. Barria had a remote sense of -hearing Janey's laugh. It seemed to him there was a strange presence -in the shop. He peered out, and saw Hamp Sharkey outlined against the -window, large, slow-moving, and calm, a man who seemed to avoid all -troubles of the flesh by virtue of having enough flesh, and solid bone -beneath. Janey looked up at him and laughed. Around her were the old -Annuals, containing the loves of Edwards and Eleanors. - -Mr. Barria leaned back in his chair. Some untraced suggestion led him -to counting his years idly. He made them out to be nearly eighty. -They seemed suddenly to rest on his shoulders like a weight. If one -considered them at all, they were heavy, the years. And for this human -life, it was only intelligible in the abstract. Of its details there -were too many. - -The shop grew duskier, and the rain beat on the windows with an -incessant pattering, a multitude of tiny details, sounding accordingly -as one might listen. For either it would seem a cheerful, busy sound of -the kindly water, humble and precious and clean, needful in households, -pleasant in the fulness of rivers, comfortable, common, familiar; or it -was the low sigh of the driven rain, the melancholy iteration and murmur -of water circling like everything else its wheel of change, earth and -ocean and sky, earth and ocean and sky, and weary to go back to its -vague, elemental vapor, as before the worlds were shaped. - -Mr. Barria turned back to his volume, bound in gray paper with a German -imprint. To his ears the sound of the two voices talking became as -abstract as the rain. Hamp Sharkey's laugh was like the lowing of a -contented ox, and Janey's, as of old, like the ripple of a brook in a -meadow. - - - - -TOBIN'S MONUMENT - -|I was a student then and lived on the second floor of a brick dormitory -with foot-worn stones and sagging casements. The windows looked across -one end of the campus on ivy-covered walls of other buildings, on -a bronze statue whose head was bent to indicate that the person -represented had taken life seriously in his day. Near at hand was a -street of unacademic noises, horse-cars, shops, German bands, newsboys, -people who bought and sold without higher mathematics and seldom -mentioned Horatius Flaccus. - -But there were drifts and eddies of the street that would turn aside and -enter the dormitories commercially. Tobin was one of these. He came to -my door by preference, because of the large crack in the panel. For, -if one entered the dormitory commercially and knocked at the doors, one -never knew--it might be Horatius Flaccus, a volume of size and weight. -But with a crack in the panel one could stand outside at ease and -dignity, looking through it, and crying, “_M'las ca-andy!_ Peanuts!” - Then, if anything arrived, without doubt it arrived. A man might throw -what he chose at his own door. - -He was thin in the legs and shoulders, but round of face and marked -there with strange designs that were partly a native complexion; but, if -one is a candy boy, in constant company with newsboys, shiners, persons -who carry no such merchandise but are apt to wish for it violently, -one's complexion of course varies from day to day. - -“Say, but I hit _him!_ He bled on his clo's.” Tobin sometimes made this -comment, “him” meaning different persons. There was a vein of fresh -romance in him. Did not Sir Balin, or his like, smite Sir Lanceor, so -that the blood flowed over his hauberk, and afterward speak of it with -enthusiasm? - -It was a cold December day in the year 188-, when the snow whirled -without rest from morning chapel till the end of the day was signified -by the first splutter of gas-jets. Among the hills where I was born that -office was left to the sunsets and twilights, who had a manner of doing -it, a certain broad nobility, a courtesy and grace. “One of God's days -is over. This is our sister, the night.” The gas-jets were fretful, -coquettish, affected. “It is an outrage! One is simply turned on and -turned off!” Horatius Flaccus was social and intimate with me that day. -“_Exegi monumentum_,” he remarked. “You will find it not easy to forget -me.” - -Monuments! At the University we lived among commemorative buildings; -many a silent dusty room was dim with accumulation of thought; and there -men labored for what but to make a name? - -The statue outside represented one who took life seriously in his day, -now with the whirling snow about it, the gas-jet in front snapping -petulantly. “One is simply turned on and turned off!” - -“_Exegi monumentum_,” continued Horatius Flac-cus. “This is my work, and -it is good. I shall not all die, _non omnis moriar_.” It seemed natural -to feel so. But how honorably the sunsets and twilights used to go their -ways among the hills, contented and leaving not a wrack behind. - -It was a better attitude and conduct, that serene security of clouds in -their absolute death. “_Non omnis moriar_” was not only a boast, but a -complaint and a protest. - -Still, as to monuments, one would rather be memorialized by one's own -work than by the words of other men, or the indifferent labor of their -chisels. - -“_M'las ca-andy!_” - -“Come in, Tobin!” - -He opened the door and said, tentatively, “Peanuts.” - -He always spoke in a more confident tone of the candy than of the -peanuts. There was no good reason for his confidence in either. - -“Tobin,” I said, “you don't want a monument?” - -He kicked his feet together and murmured again, “Peanuts.” - -His shoes were cracked at the sides. The cracks were full of snow. - -The remark seemed to imply that he did not expect a monument, having no -confidence in his peanuts. As a rule they were soggy and half-baked. - -Tobin's life, I thought, was too full of the flux of things; candy -melted, peanuts decayed, complexion changed from day to day, his private -wars were but momentary matters. I understood him to have no artificial -desires. Death would be too simple an affair for comment. He would -think of no comment to make. Sunsets and twilights went out in silence; -Tobin's half of humanity nearly as dumb. It was the other half that was -fussy on the subject. - -“Your feet are wet, Tobin. Warm them. Your shoes are no good.” - -Tobin picked the easiest chair with good judgment, and balanced his feet -over the coals of the open stove, making no comment. - -“I won't buy your peanuts. They're sloppy. I might buy you another pair -of shoes. What do you think?” - -He looked at me, at the shoes, at the wet basket on his knees, but -nothing elaborate seemed to occur to him. He said: - -“A'right.” He had great mental directness. I had reached that point in -the progress of young philosophy where the avoidance of fussiness takes -the character of a broad doctrine: a certain Doric attitude was desired. -Tobin seemed to me to have that attitude. - -“If I give you the money, will you buy shoes or cigarettes?” - -“Shoes.” - -“Here, then. Got anything to say?” - -He put the bill into his pocket, and said: - -“Yep, I'll buy 'em.” - -His attitude was better than mine. The common wish to be thanked was -pure fussiness. - -“Well, look here. You bring me back the old ones.” - -Even that did not disturb him. The Doric attitude never questions other -men's indifferent whims. - -“A'right.” - -I heard him presently on the lower floor, crying, “_M'las ca-andy!_ -Peanuts.” - -“I shall be spoken of,” continued Horatius Flaccus, calmly, “by that -wild southern river, the Aufidus, and in many other places. I shall be -called a pioneer in my own line, _princeps Æolium carmen deduxisse_.” - -The night was closing down. The gas-light flickered on the half-hidden -face of the statue, so that its grave dignity seemed changed to a -shifty, mocking smile. - -I heard no more of Tobin for a month, and probably did not think of him. -There were Christmas holidays about, and that week which is called of -the Promenade, when one opens Horatius Flaccus only to wonder what might -have been the color of Lydia's hair, and to introduce comparisons that -are unfair to Lydia. - -It was late in January. Some one came and thumped on the cracked panel. -It was not Tobin, but a stout woman carrying Tobin's basket, who said in -an expressionless voice: - -“Oi! Them shoes.” - -“What?” - -“You give 'im some shoes.” - -“Tobin. That's so.” - -“I'm Missus Tobin.” - -She was dull-looking, round-eyed, gray-haired. She fumbled in the -basket, dropped something in wet paper on a chair, and seemed placidly -preparing to say more. It seemed to me that she had much of Tobin's -mental directness, the Doric attitude, the neglect of comment. I asked: -“How's Tobin?” - -“Oi! He's dead.” - -“I am very sorry, Mrs. Tobin. May I--” - -“Oi! Funeral's this afternoon. He could'n' be round. He was sick. Five -weeks three days.” - -She went out and down the stair, bumping back and forth between the wall -and the banister. - -On the misty afternoon of that day I stood on that corner where more than -elsewhere the city and the University meet; where hackmen and newsboys -congregate; where a gray brick hotel looks askance at the pillared -and vaulted entry of a recitation hall. The front of that hall is a -vainglorious thing. Those who understand, looking dimly with halfshut -eyes, may see it change to a mist, and in the mist appear a worn fence, -a grassless, trodden space, and four tall trees. - -The steps of the hall were deserted, except for newsboys playing tag -among the pillars. I asked one if he knew where Tobin lived. - -“He's havin' a funeral,” he said. - -“Where?” - -“10 Clark Street.” - -“Did you know him?” - -The others had gathered around. One of them said: - -“Tobin licked him.” - -The first seemed to think more than ordinary justice should be done a -person with a funeral, and admitted that Tobin had licked him. - -No. 10 Clark Street was a door between a clothing shop and a livery -stable. The stairway led up into darkness. On the third landing a door -stood open, showing a low room. A painted coffin rested on two chairs. -Three or four women sat about with their hands on their knees. One of -them was Mrs. Tobin. - -“Funeral's over,” she said, placidly. - -The clergyman from the mission had come and gone. They were waiting for -the city undertaker. But they seemed glad of an interruption and looked -at me with silent interest. - -“I want to ask you to tell me something about him, Mrs. Tobin.” - -Mrs. Tobin reflected. “There ain't nothin'.” - -“He never ate no candy,” said one of the women, after a pause. - -Mrs. Tobin sat stolidly. Two large tears appeared at length and rolled -slowly down. - -“It made him dreadful sick when he was little. That's why.” - -The third woman nodded thoughtfully. - -“He said folks was fools to eat candy. It was his stomach.” - -“Oi!” said Mrs. Tobin. - -I went no nearer the coffin than to see the common grayish pallor of the -face, and went home in the misty dusk. - -The forgotten wet bundle had fallen to the floor and become undone. - -By the cracks in the sides, the down-trodden heels, the marks of keen -experience, they were Tobin's old shoes, round-toed, leather-thonged, -stoical, severe. - -Mrs. Tobin had not commented. She had brought them merely, Tobin having -stated that they were mine. - -They remained with me six months, and were known to most men, who came -to idle or labor, as “Tobin's Monument.” They stood on a book-shelf, -with other monuments thought to be _aere perennius_, more enduring than -brass, and disappeared at the end of the year, when the janitor reigned -supreme. There seemed to be some far-off and final idea in the title, -some thesis which never got itself rightly stated. Horatius Flaccus was -kept on the shelf beside them in the notion that the statement should -somehow be worked out between them. And there was no definite result; -but I thought he grew more diffident with that companionship. - -“_Exegi monumentum_. I suppose there is no doubt about that,” he would -remark. “_Ære perennius_. It seems a trifle pushing, so to trespass on -the attention of posterity. I would rather talk of my Sabine farm.” - - - - -THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS - - - All honest things in the world we greet - - With welcome fair and free; - - A little love by the way is sweet, - - A friend, or two, or three; - - - Of the sun and moon and stars are glad, - - Of the waters of river and sea; - - We thank thee, Lord, for the years we've had, - - For the years that yet shall be. - - - These are our brothers, the winds of the airs; - - These are our sisters, the flowers. - - Be near us at evening and hear our.prayers., - - O God, in the late gray hours. - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Delectable Mountains, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - -***** This file should be named 50270-0.txt or 50270-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50270/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Delectable Mountains - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50270] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS - -By Arthur Colton - -Charles Scribner's Sons - -1901 - - - -DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF - -MY SISTER, MABEL COLTON - - - -|So they went up to the Mountains, to behold the Gardens, and Orchards, -the Vineyards, and Fountains of water.... Now there was on the tops of -these Mountains, Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the -high-way side. The Pilgrims therefore went to them, and leaning upon -their staves, (as is common with weary Pilgrims, when they stand to -talk with any by the way,) they asked, Whose delectable Mountains are -these?... When the Shepherds perceived that they were way-faring men, -they also put questions to them, as, Whence came you? and, How got you -into the way? and, By what means have you so persevered therein?... Then -said the Shepherds one to another, Let us here shew to the Pilgrims the -Gates of the Coelestial City, if they have skill to look through our -Perspective Glass.... Then they essayed to look, but... they could not -look steadily through the Glass; yet they thought they saw something -like the Gate. - -_The Pilgrim's Progress_. - - - -CONTENTS: - - 1. The Place of Abandoned Gods - 2. The Leather Hermit - 3. Black Pond Clearing - 4. Joppa - 5. The Elders' Seat - 6. The Romance of the Institute - 7. Nausicaa - 8. Sanderson of Back Meadows - 9. Two Roads that meet in Salem - 10. A Visible Judgment - 11. The Emigrant East - 12. Tobin's Monument - - - - -THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS - -|The hut was built two sides and the roof of sodded poles; the roof -had new clapboards of birch bark, but the rest had once belonged to a -charcoal burner; the front side was partly poled and partly open, the -back was the under-slope of a rock. For it stood by a cliff, one of the -many that show their lonely faces all over the Cattle Ridge, except that -this was more tumultuous than most, and full of caves made by the clumsy -leaning bowlders; and all about were slim young birch trees in white and -green, like the demoiselles at Camelot. Old pines stood above the cliff, -making a soft, sad noise in the wind. In one of the caves above the -leafage of the birches we kept the idols, especially Baal, whom we -thought the most energetic; and in front of the cave was the altar-stone -that served them all, a great flat rock and thick with moss, where ears -of com were sacrificed, or peas or turnips, the first-fruits of the -field; or of course, if you shot a chipmunk or a rabbit, you could -have a burnt offering of that kind. Also the altar-stone was a council -chamber and an outlook. - -It was all a secret place on the north side of the Cattle Ridge, with -cliffs above and cliffs below. Eastward half a mile lay the Cattle Ridge -Road, and beyond that the Ridge ran on indefinitely; southward, three -miles down, the road took you into Hagar; westward the Ridge, after all -its leagues of length and rigor of form, broke down hurriedly to the -Wyantenaug River, at a place called the Haunted Water, where stood -the Leather Hermit's hut and beyond which were Bazilloa Armitage's -bottom-lands and the Preston Plains railroad station. The road from -the station across the bridge came through Sanderson Hollow, where the -fields were all over cattle and lively horses, and met the Cattle Ridge -Road to Hagar. And last, if you looked north from the altar-stone, you -saw a long, downward sweep of woodland, and on and on miles and miles to -the meadows and ploughed lands toward Wimberton, with a glimpse of the -Wyantenaug far away to the left. Such were the surroundings of the place -of abandoned gods. No one but ourselves came there, unless possibly the -Hermit. If any one had come it was thought that Baal would pitch him -over the cliffs in some manner, mystically. We got down on our hands and -knees, and said, "O Baal!" He was painted green, on a shingle; but -his eyes were red. The place was reached from the Cattle Ridge Road by -trail, for the old wood-road below was grown up to blackberry brambles, -which made one scratched and bloody and out of patience, unless it were -blackberry time. - -And on the bank, where the trail drops into the climbing highway, there -Aaron and Silvia were sitting in the June afternoon, hand in hand, with -the filtered green light of the woods about them. We came up from Hagar, -the three of us, and found them. They were strangers, so far as we knew. -Strangers or townsmen, we never took the trail with any one in sight; -it was an item in the Vows. But we ranged up before them and stared -candidly. There was nothing against that. Her eyes were nice and blue, -and at the time they contained tears. Her cheeks were dimpled and pink, -her brown dress dusty, and her round straw hat cocked a bit over one -tearful blue eye. He seemed like one who had been growing fast of late. -His arms swung loosely as if fastened to his shoulders with strings. The -hand that held her small hand was too large for its wrist, the wrist too -large for the arm, the arm too long for the shoulder. He had the first -growth of a downy mustache, a feeble chin, a humorous eye, and wore a -broad-brimmed straw hat and a faded black coat, loose and flopping to -his knees. A carpet bag lay at his feet, only half full and fallen over -with an air of depression. He seemed depressed in the same way. - -"What's she crying for?" asked Moses Durfey, stolidly. - -Aaron peered around at her shyly. - -"She's scared to go home. I ain't, but I mote be 'fore I got there." - -"What's your name?" - -"We-ell--" - -He hesitated. Then, with loud defiance: - -"It's Mr. and Mrs. Bees." - -A red squirrel clambered down a low-hanging branch overhead, and -chattered sharply, scattering flakes of bark. Aaron, still holding -Silvia's hand, leaned back on the bank and looked up. All lines of -trouble faded quickly from his face. He smiled, so that his two front -teeth stood out startlingly, and held up a long forefinger. - -"Cherky little cuss, ain't he?" - -The squirrel became more excited. Aaron's finger seemed to draw him -like a loadstone. He slid down nearer and nearer, as far as the branch -allowed, to a foot or two away, chattering his teeth fearfully. We knew -that any one who could magnetize so flighty and malicious a person as a -red squirrel, must be a magician, however simple he might be otherwise. -Aaron snapped his finger and the squirrel fled. "We'd better be movin', -Silvy." - -Silvia's tears flowed the faster, and the lines of trouble returned to -Aaron's face. - -"Why don't she want to go home?" persisted Moses, stolidly. - -We drew close beside them now and sat on the bank, Moses and I by Aaron, -Chub Leroy by Silvia. Chub was thoughtful. Silvia dried her eyes and -said with a gulp: - -"It's pa." - -"That's it." Aaron nodded and rubbed his sharp nose. "Old man Kincard, -it's him." - -They both looked at us trustfully. Moses saw no light in the matter. - -"Who's he?" - -"He's my father-in-law. He ain't goin' to like it. He's a sneezer. What -he don't like generally gets out of the way. My snakes! He 'll put Silvy -up the chimney and me in the stove, and he 'll light the fire." - -He chuckled and then relapsed into trouble. His emotions seemed to flit -across his face like sunbeams and shadows on a wall, leaving no trace -behind them, or each wiped out by the next. - -"Snakes! We might just as well sit here." - -Silvia wept again. Moses's face admitted a certain surprise. - -"What'll he do that for?" - -While Aaron told their story, Silvia sometimes commented tearfully -on his left, Moses stolidly on his right, and the red squirrel with -excitement overhead; Chub and I were silent; the woods for the most part -kept still and listened too, with only a little sympathetic murmur of -leaves and tremble of sunbeam and shadow. - -The Kincard place, it seemed, lay five miles away, down the north side -till you cleared the woods, and then eastward among the foothills. Old -Kincard's first name was James. And directly across the road stood the -four-roomed house where the Bees family once lived. It was "rickety -now and rented to rats." The Bees family had always been absent-minded, -given to dying off and leaving things lying around. In that way Aaron -had begun early to be an orphan and to live with the Kincards. He was -supposed to own the old house and the dooryard in front of it, but the -rats never paid their rent, unless they paid it to the old man or the -cat; and Mr. Kincard had a low opinion of Aaron, as being a Bees, and -because he was built lengthwise instead of sidewise and knew more about -foxes than cows. It seemed to Aaron that a fox was in himself a more -interesting person; that this raising more potatoes than you could eat, -more tobacco than you could smoke, this making butter and cheese and -taking them to Wimberton weekly, and buying little except mortgages -and bank accounts, somewhere involved a mistake. A mortgage was an -arrangement by which you established strained relations with a neighbor, -a bank account something that made you suspicious of the bank. Now in -the woods one dealt for direct usefulness, comfort, and freedom of mind. -If a man liked to collect mortgages rather than fox-skins, it was the -virtue of the woods to teach tolerance; but Mr. Kincard's opinion of -Aaron was low and active. There was that difference between a Kincard -and a Bees point of view. - -Aaron and Silvia grew up a few years apart on the old spread-out farm, -with the wooded mountainside heaving on the south and stretching east -and west. It was a neighborhood of few neighbors, and no village within -many miles, and the old man was not talkative commonly, though he'd open -up sometimes. Aaron and Silvia had always classed themselves together in -subdued opposition to their grim ruler of destiny. To each other they -called him "the old man," and expressed by it a reverential but opposed -state of mind. To Aaron the undoubted parts of life were the -mountain-side of his pleasures and the level fields of his toil. -Wimberton was but a troubled glimpse now and then, an improbable memory -of more people and houses than seemed natural. Silvia tended to see -things first through Aaron's eyes, though she kept a basal judgment of -her own in reserve. - -"He always licked us together since we was little," said Aaron, looking -at Silvia with softly reminiscent eye. "It was two licks to me for -Silvy's one. That was square enough, and the old man thought so. When he -got set in a habit he'd never change. It was two to me for Silvy's one." - -Aaron told him, but a week now gone, that himself and Silvia would wish -to be married, and he seemed surprised. In fact he came at Aaron with -the hoe-handle, but could not catch him, any more than a lonesome -rabbit. Then he opened up astonishingly, and told Aaron of his low -opinion of him, which was more spread-out and full of details than you'd -expect. He wasn't going to give Aaron any such "holt on him as that," -with a guaranty deed, whatever that was, on eternity to loaf in, and he -set him the end of the week to clear out, to go elsewhere forever. To -Aaron's mind that was an absurd proposal. He wasn't going to do any -such foolishness. The rather he sold his collection of skins to a farmer -named Shore, and one morning borrowed a carpet bag and came over the -Cattle Ridge hand in hand with Silvia. - -From Preston Plains they hired a team, drove over the line into York -State, and were married. The farmer named Shore laid that out for them. -He had a back score of trouble with the old man. - -"And Silvy's got a cat," added Aaron, "and she catches rats to please -herself. Silvy thinks she ought to catch rats to be obligin'. Folks that -live up these trees don't act that way. No more did Shore." - -Here Aaron looked shrewd and wise. - -"I wish Sammy was here," murmured Silvia, lovingly. - -"First-rate cat," Aaron admitted. "Now, we didn't marry to oblige each -other. Each of us obliged himself. Hey?" - -Silvia opened her eyes wide. The idea seemed a little complicated. They -clasped hands the tighter. - -"Now," said Aaron, "Silvy's scared. I ain't, but I mote be when I got -there." - -A blue-jay flew shrieking down the road. Aaron looked after it with a -quick change of interest. - -"See him! Yes, sir. You can tell his meanness the way he hollers. Musses -folks' eggs." - -Aaron no longer surprised us now, nor did Silvia. We accepted them. -We had standards of character and conduct, of wisdom and of things -possible, but they were not set for us by the pulpit, the statute book, -or the market-place. We had often gone forth on expeditions into the -mystical beyond, always with a certain purpose to achieve there, and at -some point it had been necessary to come home and face the punishment, -if there were any, to have supper, and go to bed. Home could not be left -permanently and another existence arranged, any more than the feet could -be taken from the earth permanently. It had been found impractical. -Aaron and Silvia were like ourselves. They might conceive of living away -from the farmhouse under the mountain-side a few days. They shrank from -facing old Kincard with his hoe-handle or horse-whip, but one must -go back eventually. We recognized that their adventure was bold and -peculiar; we judged the price likely to be appalling; we gave them -frank admiration for both. None of us had ever run away to be definitely -married, or suffered from a hoe-handle or a horse-whip, and yet all -these were things to be conceived of and sympathized with. - -"I knew a blue-jay," went on Aaron, thoughtfully, "that lived near the -end of Shore's land, and he never appeared to like anything agreeable. -He used to hang around other folks' nests and holler till they were -distracted." - -Silvia's snuffling caught his ear, and once more the rapid change passed -over his face. - -"We-ell," he said, "the old man'll be lively, that's sure. I'd stay -in the woods, if it was me, but women"--with a large air of -observation--"have to have houses.". - -"We've got a house," broke in Chub, suddenly. We exchanged looks -furtively. - -"They'll have to take the Vows," I objected. "We've took 'em," said -Aaron. "Parson--" - -"You'll have to solemn swear," said Moses. "Will you solemn swear?" - -"I guess so." - -"And if you tell, you hope you drop dead." - -The blue-jay flew up the road again, shrieking scornfully. The red -squirrel trembled and chattered his teeth on the branch overhead. All -else in the woods was silent while Aaron and Silvia took the Vows. - -And so we brought them, in excitement and content, to the place of the -abandoned gods. Baal lurked far back in his cave, the cliff looked down -with lonely forehead, the distant prospect was smooth and smoky. Neither -the gods nor the face of the world offered any promise or threat. But -Aaron and Silvia seemed to believe in the kindness of not human things. -Silvia fell to chattering, laughing, in unforeboding relief from sudden -and near-by evil. - -Aaron had a surprising number of silver dollars, due to Shore and the -fox-skins, by means of which we should bring them supplies from Hagar; -and so we left them to the whispering gossip of leaves, the lonely -cliff, the lurking Baal, and the smooth, smoky prospect. - -No doubt there were times to Aaron and Silvia of trembling awe, -dumb delight, conversations not to the point, so that it seemed more -successful merely to sit hand in hand and let the moon speak for them, -pouring light down silvery gulfs out of the abundant glory within her. -There could be seen, too, the dawn, as pink as Silvia's cheeks, but, -after all, not so interesting. A hermit-thrush sang of things holy at -dawn, far down the woodland, while the birch leaves trembled delicately -and the breeze was the sigh of a world in love; and of things quietly -infinite at sunset in the growth of rosy gloom. - -"It's nice," Silvia might whisper, leaning to Aaron. - -"That's a hermit-thrush down there, Silvy. He opens his mouth, and oh! -Kingdom's comin'." - -"Yes." - -"Little brown chap with a scared eye. You don't ever see him hardly." - -"You don't want to, do you, Aaron?" after a long silence. - -"Don't know as you do." - -There would be a tendency, at least, to look at things that way, -and talk duskily as the dusk came on, and we would leave them on the -altar-stone to take the trail below. - -But early in the afternoon it would be lively enough, except that Silvia -had a prejudice against Baal, which might have been dangerous if Baal -had minded it; but he did her no harm. She referred to Elijah and those -prophets of Baal, and we admitted he had been downed that time, for it -took him when he was not ready, and generally he was low in his luck -ever since. But we had chosen him first for an exiled dignity, who must -needs have a deadly dislike for the other dignity who had once conquered -him vaingloriously, and so must be in opposition to much that we -opposed, such as Sunday-school lessons, sermons, and limitations of -liberty. It might be that our reasonings were not so concrete and -determined, but the sense of opposition was strong. We put it to Silvia -that she ought to respect people's feelings, and she was reasonable -enough. - -Old Kincard, it seemed, was an interesting and opinionated heathen, and -Silvia had not experienced sermons and Sunday-schools. That explained -much. But she had read the Bible, which her mother had owned, before -she died; and we could follow her there, knowing it to be a book of -naturally strong points, as respects David for instance, Joseph, and -parts of Revelation. - -Aaron did not care for books, and had no prejudice toward any being -or supposition that might find place in the woods. The altar-stone was -common to many gods and councils, and we offered it to Silvia, to use as -she liked. I judge she used it mostly to sit there with Aaron, and hear -the hermit-thrush, or watch the thick moonlight pour down the scoop of -the mountain. - -That stretch of the Wyantenaug which is called the Haunted Water is -quiet and of slow current, by reason of its depth, and dark in color, by -reason of the steep fall of the Cattle Ridge and the pines which crowd -from it to the water's edge. The Leather Hermit's hut stood up from the -water in the dusk of the pines. - -He came to the valley in times within the memories of many who would -speak if they were asked, but long enough ago to have become a settled -fact; and if any did not like him, neither did they like the Wyantenaug -to flood the bottom-lands in spring. The pines and the cliffs belonged -to the Sandersons, who cared little enough for either phenomenon. - -We often met him on the Cattle Ridge, saw him pass glowering through the -thicket with shaggy gray beard and streaming hair. Sometimes he wore -a horse-blanket over his leathern vestment. He was apt to be there -Sundays, wandering about, and maybe trying to make out in what respect -he differed from Elijah the Tishbite; and although we knew this, and -knew it was in him to cut up roughly if he found out about Baal, being -a prophet himself both in his looks and his way of acting, still he went -to and fro for the most part on the other side of the crest, where he -had a trail of his own; and you could not see the altar-stone from -the top of the cliff, but had to climb down till you came to a jam of -bowlders directly over it. - -We did not know how long he may have stood there, glowering down on us. -The smoke of the sacrifice was beginning to curl up. Baal was -backed against a stone, looking off into anywhere and taking things -indifferently. Silvia sat aside, twirled her hat scornfully, and said we -were "silly." Aaron chewed a birch twig, and was very calm. - -We got down on our hands and knees, and said, "O Baal!" - -And the Hermit's voice broke over us in thunder and a sound as of -falling mountains. It was Sunday, June 26, 1875. - -He denounced us under the heads of "idolaters, gone after the -abornination of the Assyrians; babes and sucklings, old in sin, setting -up strange gods in secret places; idle mockers of holy things, like the -little children of Bethel, whereby they were cursed of the prophet and -swallowed of she-bears"; three headings with subdivisions. - -Then he came down thumping on the left. Silvia shrieked and clung to -Aaron, and we fled to the right and hid in the rocks. He fell upon Baal, -cast him on the altar-fire, stamping both to extinction, and shouted: - -"I know you, Aaron Bees and Silvia Kincard!" - -"N-no, you don't," stammered Aaron. "It's Mrs. Bees." - -The Hermit stood still and glared on them. - -"Why are you here, Aaron and Silvia Bees?" - -Aaron recovered himself, and fell to chewing his birch twig. - -"We-ell, you see, it's the old man." - -"What of him?" - -"He'd lick us with a hoe-handle, wouldn't he? And maybe he'd throw -us out, after all. What'd be the use? Might as well stay away," Aaron -finished, grumbling. "Save the hoe." - -The Hermit's glare relaxed. Some recollection of former times may have -passed through his rifted mind, or the scent of a new denunciation drawn -it away from the abornination of Assyria, who lay split and smoking -in the ashes. He leaped from the altar-stone, and vanished under the -leafage of the birches. We listened to him crashing and plunging, -chanting something incoherent and tuneless, down the mountain, till the -sound died away. - -Alas, Baal-Peor! Even to this day there are twinges of shame, misgivings -of conscience, that we had fled in fear and given him over to his enemy, -to be trampled on, destroyed and split through his green jacket and red -eye. He never again stood gazing off into anywhere, snuffing the fumes -of sacrifice and remembering Babylon. The look of things has changed -since then. We have doubted Baal, and-found some restraints of liberty -more grateful than tyrannous. But it is plain that in his last defeat -Baal-Peor did not have a fair chance. - -Concerning the Hermit's progress from this point, I can only draw upon -guesses and after report. He struck slantingwise down the mountain, left -the woods about at the Kincard place, and crossed the fields. - -Old Kincard sat in his doorway smoking his pipe, thick-set, -deep-chested, long-armed, with square, rough-shaven jaws, and steel-blue -eyes looking out of a face like a carved cliff for length and edge. The -Hermit stood suddenly before and denounced him under two heads--as a -heathen unsoftened in heart, and for setting up the altar of lucre and -pride against the will of the Lord that the children of men should marry -and multiply. Old Kincard took his pipe from his mouth. - -"Where might them marriers and multipliers be just now?" - -The Hermit pointed to the most westward cliff in sight from the doorway. - -"If you have not in mind to repent, James Kincard, I shall know it." - -"Maybe you'd put them ideas of yours again?" - -The Hermit restated his position accurately on the subject of heathen -hearts and the altar of lucre. - -"Ain't no mistake about that, Hermit? We-ell, now--" - -The Hermit shook his head sternly, and strode away. Old Kincard gave a -subterranean chuckle, such as a volcano might give purposing eruptions, -and fixed his eyes on the western cliff, five miles away, a grayish spot -in the darker woods. - -Alas, Baal-Peor! - -Yet he was never indeed a wood-god. He was always remembering how fine -it had been in Babylon. He had not cared for these later devotions. He -had been bored and weary. Since he was gone, split and dead, perhaps it -was better so. He should have a funeral pyre. - -"And," said Chub Leroy, "we'll keep his ashes in an urn. That's the way -they always did with people's ashes." - -We came up the Cattle Ridge Road Monday afternoon, talking of these -things. Chub carried the urn, which had once been a pickle-jar. Life -still was full of hope and ideas. The Hermit must be laid low in his -arrogance. Apollo, now, had strong points. Consider the pythoness -and the oracle. The Hermit couldn't prophesy in the same class with a -pythoness. The oracle might run, - - "He who dwells by the Haunted Water alone, - - He shall not remain, but shall perish." - -We came then to the hut, but Silvia would have, nothing to do with -Baal's funeral, so that she and Aaron wandered away among the birches, -that were no older than they, young birches, slim and white, coloring -the sunlight pale green with their leaves. And we went up to the -altar-stone, and made ready the funeral, and set the urn to receive the -ashes, decently, in order. The pyre was built four-square, of chosen -sticks. We did not try to fit Baal together much; we laid him on as he -came. And when the birch bark was curling up and the pitchy black smoke -of it was pouring upward, we fell on our faces and cried: "Alas, Baal! -Woe's me, Baal!" - -It was a good ceremony. For when you are doing a ceremony, it depends on -how much your feelings are worked up, of course, and very few, if any, -of those we had done--and they were many--had ever reached such a point -of efficiency as the funeral of Baal-Peor. Moses howled mournfully, -as if it were in some tooth that his sorrow lay. The thought of that -impressiveness and luxury of feeling lay mellow in our minds long after. -"Alas, Baal!" - -Somebody snorted near by. We looked up. Over our heads, thrust out -beyond the edge of the bowlders, was a strange old face, with heavy -brows and jaws and grizzled hair. - -The face was distorted, the jaws working. It disappeared, and we sat up, -gasping at one another across the funeral pyre, where the black smoke -was rolling up faster and faster. - -In a moment the face came out on the altar-stone, and looked at us with -level brows. - -"What ye doin'?" - -"My goodness!" gasped Moses. "You aren't another hermit?" - -"What ye doin'?" - -Chub recovered himself. - -"It's Baal's funeral." - -"Just so." - -He sat down on a stone and wiped his face, which was heated. He carried -a notable stick in his hand. "Baal! We-ell, what ailed him?" - -"Are you Silvia's old man?" asked Chub. - -"Just so--er--what ailed Baal?" - -Then we told him--seeing Baal was dead and the Vows would have to be -taken over again--we told him about Baal, and about the Leather Hermit, -because he seemed touched by it, and worked his face and blinked his -sharp hard eyes uncannily. Some hidden vein of grim ideas was coming to -a white heat within him, like a suppressed molten stratum beneath the -earth, unsuspected on its surface, that suddenly heaves and cracks the -faces of stone cliffs. He gave way at last, and his laughter was the -rending tumult of an earthquake. - -Aaron and Silvia came up through the woods hastily to the altar-stone. - -"I say," cried Chub. "Are you going to lick them? It's two to Aaron for -one to Silvia." - -"Been marryin' and multiplying have ye?" - -He suppressed the earthquake, but still seemed mainly interested in -Baal's funeral. - -Aaron said, "She's Mrs. Bees, anyhow." - -"Just so. Baal's dead. That hermit's some lively." - -"We'll get an oracle on him," said Moses. "What you going to do to Aaron -and Silvia?" - -Here Silvia cast herself on the old man suddenly and wept on his -shoulder. One often noticed how girls would start up and cry on a -person. - -Maybe the earthquake had brought up subsoils and mellowed things; at -least Kincard made no motion to lick some one, though he looked bored, -as any fellow might. - -"Oh, we-ell, I don't know--er--what's that oracle?" - - "He who dwells hy the Haunted Water alone, - - He shall not remain, but shall perish." - -"It's going to be like that," said Chub. "Won't it fetch him, don't you -think?" - -"It ought to," said the old man, working his jaw. "It ought to." - -The black smoke had ceased, and flames were crackling and dancing all -over the funeral pyre. The clearer smoke floated up against the face of -the lonesome cliff. Aaron and Silvia clasped hands unfrightened. The -old man now and then rumbled subterraneously in his throat. Peace was -everywhere, and presently Baal-Peor was ashes. - - - - -THE LEATHER HERMIT - -|To know the Wyantenaug thoroughly is to be wise in rivers; which if any -one doubts, let him follow it from its springs to the sea--a possible -fortnight--and consider then how he is a changed man with respect to -rivers. Not that by any means it is the epitome of rivers. It is no -spendthrift flood-stream to be whirling over the bottom-lands in April -and scarcely able to wet its middle stones in August, but a shrewd and -honest river, a canny river flowing among a canny folk, a companionable -river, loving both laughter and sentiment, with a taste for the -varieties of life and a fine vein of humor. Observe how it dances and -sputters down the rapids--not really losing its temper, but pretending -to be nervous--dives into that sloping pass where the rocks hang high -and drip forever, runs through it like a sleuth-hound, darkly and -savagely, and saunters out into the sunlight, as who should say in a -guileless manner, "You don't happen to know where I'm going?" Then -it wanders about the valley, spreads out comfortably and lies quiet a -space, "But it really makes no difference, you know"; and after that -gives a chuckle, rounds a bunch of hills and goes scampering off, quite -taken up with a new idea. And so in many ways it is an entertaining and -friendly river, with a liking for a joke and a pretty notion of dramatic -effect. - -But, of all times and places, I think it most beautiful in the twilight -and along that stretch, called of late the Haunted Water, opposite the -village of Preston Plains. The Cattle Ridge with its long heaving spine -comes down on the valley from the east, seeming to have it very much in -mind to walk over and do something to Preston Plains three miles beyond; -but it thought better of that long ago. The Wyantenaug goes close -beneath it in sheer bravado: "You try to cross me and you get jolly -wet"; for the Wyantenaug is very deep and broad just here. The Cattle -Ridge, therefore, merely wrinkles its craggy brows with a puzzled air, -and Preston Plains is untroubled save of its own inhabitants. As to that -matter the people of the village of Hagar have opinions. The valley -road goes on the other side of the river--naturally, for there are the -pastures, the feeding cattle, the corn-fields, and farmhouses--and the -Cattle Ridge side is steep, and threaded by a footpath only, for a mile -or more, up to Hants Corby's place. Hants Corby's is not much of a place -either. - -In old times the footpath was seldom used, except by the Leather Hermit. -No boy in Hagar would go that way for his life, though we often went up -and down on the river, and saw the Leather Hermit fishing. The minister -in Hagar visited him once or twice, and probably went by the footpath. -I remember distinctly how he shook his head and said that the Hermit -sought salvation at any rate by a narrow way, and how the miller's wife -remonstrated with him for seeming to take the Hermit seriously. - -"You don't mean to say he ain't crazy," she said, in anxious defence of -standard reason. - -"Oh, I suppose so, yes." - -The minister sighed and rubbed his chin uneasily, and Mrs. Mather -recovered her ordinary state of mind, which was a state of suppressed -complaint. - -I was saying that the footpath was seldom used. Hants Corby would have -used it--for he was too shiftless to be afraid--if the river had run -the other way. As it was, he preferred to drift down in his boat and -row back when he had to. He found that easier, being very shiftless. The -Hermit himself went on the river, except in the spring when the current -below was too strong. - -The opinions of the Leather Hermit may be shown in this way. If you came -on him, no matter suddenly, and asked whose land that was across the -river, he would answer promptly, "The devil's"; whereas it belonged -to Bazilloa Armitage, a pillar of the church in Preston Plains, who -quarrelled zealously with the other pillars; so that, as one sees, the -Leather Hermit was not in sympathy with the church in Preston Plains. - -The people of the valley differed about him according to humor, and he -used strong language regarding the people of the valley according -to opportunity, especially regarding Bazilloa Armitage. He denounced -Bazilloa Armitage publicly in Preston Plains as a hypocrite, a -backbiter, and a man with a muck rake--with other language stronger -still. Bazilloa Armitage felt hurt, for he was, in fact, rather close, -and exceedingly respectable. Besides it is painful to be damned by a man -who means exactly what he says. - -To speak particularly, this was in the year 1875; for the next year we -camped near the spot, and Hants Corby tried to frighten us into seeing -the Hermit's ghost. Bazilloa Armitage was denounced in June, and Hants -Corby on the second Friday in August, as Hants and the Hermit fished -near each other on the river. The Hermit denounced him under three -heads--sluggard, scoffer, and beast wallowing in the sty of his own -lustful contentment. On Saturday the Hermit rowed up to Hants Corby's -place in the rain and denounced him again. - -Sunday morning the Hermit rose early, turned his back on the Wyantenaug, -and climbed the cliff, onward and up through the pines. The prophets of -old went into high places when they prayed; and it was an idea of his -that those who would walk in the rugged path after them could do no -better. Possibly the day was an anniversary, for it was of an August -day many years gone--before ever a charcoal pit was built on the Cattle -Ridge--that the Hermit first appeared on the Wyantenaug, with his -leather clothes in a bundle on his back, and perhaps another and -invisible burden beneath it. A third burden he took up immediately, that -of denouncing the sins of Wyantenaug Valley, as I have said. - -All that Sabbath day the river went its way, and late in the afternoon -the sunlight stretched a thin finger beneath the hemlocks almost to the -Hermit's door. Across the river the two children of Bazilloa Armitage, -boy and girl, came down to the water's edge. The boy pulled a pole -and line out of some mysterious place in the bank. The little girl sat -primly on the grass, mindful of her white pinafore. - -"You better look out, Cis," he said. "Any fish you catch on Sunday -is devils. You don't touch him. You cut the line and let him dry till -Monday." - -"Oh, Tad!" gasped the little girl, "won't the Leather Hermit tell?" - -"Well," said Tad, sturdily, "father said he'd get even, if it took -a month of Sundays, and that's six Sundays by this time. There ain't -anything bothers the Hermit like catching the fish on Sundays, specially -if you catch a lot of 'em. Blamed old fool!" grumbled Tad. - -"Oh, Tad," gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, "that's -swearing." - -But Tad did not mind. "There's Hants Corby," he exclaimed; "he's going -to fish, too." - -Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the -children, and grinned sociably. - -"He daren't touch his boat to-day," he said in a husky whisper. "He'll -raise jinks in a minute. You wait." - -"Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?" - -"Trout," returned Hants, decisively, "is devils any time." - -Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather -Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with -an angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in -Hagar--and it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of -Hagar. - -Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut. - -"Him," he remarked, "he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him -alone particular. That ain't reasonable." - -"Father says he's a fernatic," ventured Tad. "What's a fernatic, Hants?" - -"Ah," said Hants, thoughtfully, "that's a rattlin' good word." - -Time dragged on, and yet no denouncing voice came from the further -shore. The door of the hut was a darker hole in the shade of the -hemlocks. Hants Corby proposed going over to investigate. - -"If he ain't there, we'll carry off his boat." - -Tad fell into Hants's boat quite absorbed in the greatness of the -thought. It was not a good thing generally to follow Hants Corby, who -was an irresponsible person, apt to take much trouble to arrange a bad -joke and shiftlessly slip out from under the consequences. If he left -you in a trap, he thought that a part of the joke, as I remember very -well. - -"A-a-a-ow!" wailed Cissy Armitage from the bank; for it dawned on her -that something tremendous was going forward, in which Tad was likely -to be suddenly obliterated. She sat on the bank with her stubby shoes -hanging over, staring with great frightened blue eyes, till she saw -them at last draw silently away from the further shore--and behold, the -Hermit's boat was in tow. Then she knew that there was no one in the -world so brave or so grandly wicked as Tad. - -Cissy Armitage used to have fluffy yellow hair and scratches on her -shins. She was a sunny little soul generally, but she had a way of -imagining how badly other people felt, which interfered with her -happiness, and was not always accurate. Tad seldom felt so badly as she -thought he did. Tad thought he could imagine most things better on the -whole, but when it came to imagining how badly other people felt, -he admitted that she did it very well. Therefore when she set about -imagining how the Hermit felt, on the other side of the river, with no -boat to come across in, to where people were cosy and comfortable, where -they sang the Doxology and put the kittens to bed, she quite forgot that -the Hermit had always before had a boat, that he never yet had taken -advantage of it to make the acquaintance of the Doxology or the kittens, -and imagined him feeling very badly indeed. - -Bazilloa Armitage held family prayers at six o'clock on Sunday -afternoons; and all through them Cissy considered the Hermit. - -"I sink in deep waters," read Bazilloa Armitage with a rising -inflection. "The billows go over my head, all his waves go over me, -Selah," and Cissy in her mind saw the Hermit sitting on the further -shore, feeling very badly, calling Tad an "evil generation," and saying: -"The billows go over my head, Selah," because he had no boat. She -thought that one must feel desperately in order to say: "Selah, -the billows go over me." And while Bazilloa Armitage prayed for the -President, Congress, the Governor, and other people who were in trouble, -she plotted diligently how it might be avoided that the Hermit should -feel so badly as to say "Selah," or call Tad an "evil generation"; how -she might get the boat back, in order that the Hermit should feel better -and let bygones be; and how it might be done secretly, in order that Tad -should not make a bear of himself. Afterwards she walked out of the back -door in her sturdy fashion, and no one paid her any attention. - -The Hermit muttered in the dusk of his doorway. - -Leather clothes are stiff after a rain and bad for the temper; moreover, -other things than disordered visions of the heavens rolling away as a -scroll and the imperative duty of denouncing some one were present in -his clouded brain,--half memories, breaking through clouds, of a time -when he had not as yet begun to companion daily with judgment to come, -nor had those black spots begun to dance before his eyes, which black -spots were evidently the sins of the world. He muttered and shifted his -position uneasily. - -There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. -It stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in -front. There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, -rolled after it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears. - -The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; -he shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar -enough to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: "It is written, 'Thou -shalt have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes." -He stared with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples -chuckled, sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to -steal in upon him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He -made an angry motion to thrust it away, and muttered: "Judgment to -come--judgment to come." He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, -and then two infinite things came together in his shattered brain with a -crash, leaving him stunned and still. - -There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence, -too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, "Judgment to -come!" would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was--no--well, -there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and -rolled after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. -He dressed hides across a bench. The other men did not take much -interest in judgment to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under -his bench. After that the child rolled its doll down the steps again, -and bumped after it pitifully. - -The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if -it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely -was true--whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the steps -he could not tell, but he thought, "Presently I shall forget one of the -two." - -The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills -beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa -Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter -sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds, -stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and -the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of -the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in -white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, -the light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for -judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north--that -was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that--could not be -anything--it was false--unless--unless it rolled down the steps. And -then once more the two infinite things came together with a crash. He -leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over his -head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning. - -Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and -adjusted her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was -embarrassing. - -"I--I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I--I feel bad." - -She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time -the only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. -She thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined. - -"I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I--want to go home." - -The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She -twisted her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her -throat, and she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how -badly she felt--unless she said "Selah." It was strong language, but she -ventured it at last. - -"I feel awful bad. The--the billows go over my head, Selah!" Then she -wished that she had let "Selah" quite alone. - -The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and -dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep -forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and -decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily. - -"What is your name?" he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks -who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not -know her name, having seen her often enough,--and this gave her courage. -"Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home." - -"No!" shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that -the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. "That isn't -the name." Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing. -Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and -was much worse than "The billows go over me, Selah." On the whole there -seemed to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and -there hesitated diffidently. - -"I want to go home. I--I want you to row me." - -There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his -knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but -almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars -and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the -old willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's -ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down. -Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and -saw him sitting with his head down. - -Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants -Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from -shore. The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope -wound around his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there -with a purpose. If that purpose was to discover which of two things -were true--judgment to come, or the child that rolled its doll down -the steps--every one is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or -failure. There was a copy-book, such as children use, found in his -hut. On the cover was written, "The Book of Judgment." It contained -the record of his denunciations, with other odd things. The people of -Wyantenaug Valley still differ, according to humor; but any one of them -will give his or her opinion, if you ask it. - - - - -BLACK POND CLEARING - -|In those days I knew Hamilton only by the light in the south; for in -Hagar men said, "That light in the south is Hamilton," as they would -say, "The sunrise in the east, the sunset in the west, the aurora in the -north," illuminations that were native in their places. Hamilton was a -yellow glimmer on clear nights, and on cloudy nights a larger glow. It -crouched low in the sky, pale, secret, enticing. - -Also I knew that Hamilton was twenty miles away, like Sheridan's ride. -How great and full of palaces and splendors that must be which shone so -far! How golden its streets, and jewelled its gates, like the Celestial -City, which is described in Revelations and "The Progress" in an -unmistakable manner, if not as one would wish in the matter of some -details. Yet to speak justly, "The Progress" was considered a passable -good story, though not up to the "Arabian Nights"; and Revelations had -its points, though any one could see the writer was mixed in his mind, -and upset probably by the oddness of his adventures, and rather stumped -how to relate them plainly. - -But this story does not include the city of Hamilton, although touching -on the lights in the south. It left its mark upon me and cast a shadow -over many things that did not seem connected with it, being a kind of -introduction for me to what might be called the Greater Melancholies. - -There are four roads that meet in Hagar: the Cattle Ridge, the Salem, -the Windless Mountain, and the Red Rock. The Salem is broad, level, -and straight; the Windless sweeps around the mountain, deep through -the pines, the jungle of other woods, and the gorge of the falling Mill -Stream; the Red Rock is a high, clean hill road, open and bare; the -Cattle Ridge Road comes down from highest of all, from far up on the -windy brows of the Ridge, and dips and courtesies all the way into -Hagar. Some time I would like to make more plain the nature and -influence of the Four Roads. But the adventure began on the Cattle Ridge -Road with a wide-armed chestnut tree, where certain red squirrels lived -who were lively and had thin tails. I went out over the road on a long -limb with Moses Durfey and Chub Leroy, seeing Mr. Cummings driving a -load of hay down from the Cattle Ridge: it seemed desirable to drop on -the hay when it passed beneath. Mr. Cummings was sleepy. He sat nodding -far down in front, while we lit softly on the crest and slid over -behind. - -And next you are to know that Chub Leroy's feet came down thump on the -head of a monstrous man, half buried in the hay, who sat up and looked -around, vast, shaggy, black-bearded, smoking a corncob pipe, composed, -and quite ragged in his clothes. - -"Humph!" he said mildly, and rubbed his head. - -After a few moments looking us over, he pointed with his thumb through -the hay at Mr. Cummings, and leaned toward us and winked. - -"Same as me," he whispered, and shook all over his fatness, silently, -with the laughter and pleasure he was having inside. - -It is a good thing in this world to have adventures, and it is only a -matter of looking around a bit in country or city. For each fellow -his quest is waiting at the street corner, or hides in the edge of the -woods, peering out of green shadows. On all highways it is to be met -with and is seldom far to seek--though no harm if it were--because the -world is populous with men and animals, and no moment like another. It -may be, if you drop on a hay-load, you will have a row with the driver, -or you will thump on the head such a free traveller as ours, vast, -shaggy, primeval, pipe-smoking, of wonderful fatness. - -He seemed a sleepy, contented man, not in point of fact minding thumps -on the head. The hay-cart rolled on gently in the dust. Mr. Cummings -drowsed in front, unaware, and the Free Traveller drowsed behind, -smoking listlessly. The rest of us grew sleepy too and liked everything. -For it was odd but pleasant in a way to look down from the secrecy of -the hay on familiar things, on the village dooryards and the tops of -hats. We seemed to fall into silent league with the Free Traveller, to -be interested in things, but not anxious, observing the hats of labor -and ambition, careless of appearance, primitive, easy, seeing little -importance in where the cart might go, because anywhere was good enough. - -Instead of turning east at the cross-roads, Mr. Cummings drove drowsily -ahead on the Windless Road, although the Cummings place is east on the -Salem; so that the hay was plainly going to the little pasture barn, -three miles off, all one to us, and better for the Free Traveller, as it -appeared after. But he was not interested then, being in a fair way to -sleep. We lay deep in the hay and looked up at the blue of the sky and -the white of the creeping clouds, till the pine trees closed suddenly -over the road, the cliffs of Windless Mountain on one side and the Mill -Stream on the other, deep under its bank. A strong south wind came under -the pines, skirting the corner of the mountain, hissed through the pine -needles, and rumpled the hay. - -And there was a great smoke and blaze about us. "Humph!" said the Free -Traveller. - -He went off the back of the hay-cart into the middle of the road, and we -too fell off immediately, each in his own way, on the pine needles. -Mr. Cummings came up over the top of the load with a tumult of mixed -language, and the horses ran away. - -The great load sped down the green avenue smoking, crackling, blazing, -taking with it Mr. Cummings to unknown results, and leaving the Free -Traveller sitting up in the middle of the road and looking after it -mildly. He heaved himself up puffing. "There!" he said. "There goes my -pipe." - -"It's all your fault," shouted Moses Durfey. "You shouldn't smoke on -hay-loads." - -"Maybe Mr. Cummings is a deader," said Chub Leroy, thoughtfully. - -The Free Traveller rubbed his leg. - -"You're same as me. If he ain't dead he'll come back with a strap and -lam some of us. That ain't me. I'm going to light out." - -He slid under the rail and down the bank to the stream, handling himself -wonderfully for so weighty a man; for he seemed to accommodate himself -to obstacles like a jellyfish, and somehow to get around them. So he was -over the bowlders and across the stream, which there divides Windless -Mountain from the Great South Woods. - -We were indignant that he should leave us to be "lammed" for his -carelessness. We shouted after, and Moses Durfey said he was a "chump." - -"You might come along," retorted the Free Traveller with an injured -manner. "What's hindering? I lugs nobody. I lets folks alone." - -He was at the wood's edge by this time, where a dim green path went in, -looked over his shoulder a moment, and then disappeared. We scrambled -down the bank and over the bowlders, for it was not desirable to wait -for Mr. Cummings, and Hagar itself would be no refuge. Hagar was a place -where criticisms were made, while the green woods have never a comment -on any folly, but are good comrades to all who have the temper to like -them. We caught up with him by dint of running and followed silently. -It grew dusky with the lateness of the afternoon, the pale green light -turning dark, and we were solemn and rather low in our minds. The Free -Traveller seemed to grow more vast in outline. Being short of wind he -wheezed and moaned and what with his swaying as he walked, and his great -humpy shoulders and all, he looked less and less like a man, and more -and more like a Thing. Sometimes a tree would creak suddenly near at -hand, and I fancied there were other people in the woods, whispering and -all going the way we went, to see what would come to us in the end. - -So it went on till we came on a little clearing, between the forest and -a swamp. A black pond, tinted a bit with the sunset, lay below along -the edge of the swamp; and we knew mainly where we were, for there was -a highway somewhere beyond the swamp, connecting the valleys of the -Wyantenaug and the Pilgrim. But none the less for the highway it seemed -a lonely place, fit for congregations of ghosts. The pond was unknown to -me, and it looked very still and oily. The forest seemed to crowd about -and overhang the clearing. On the western side was a heap of caverned -bowlders, and a fire burned in front with three persons sitting beside -it. - -The Free Traveller slid along the wood's edge noiselessly but without -hesitation, and coming to the fire was greeted. One of those who sat -there was a tall old man with very light blue eyes and prominent, his -beard white and long. As we came to know, he was called the "Prophet." -He said: - -"How do, Humpy?" so that we knew the Free Traveller was called Humpy, -either for the shape of his shoulders or for the word he used to express -himself. There was a younger man, with a retreating chin, and a necktie, -but no collar, and there was a silent woman with a shawl over her head. - -"These are friends o' mine," said the Free Traveller to the older man. -"Make you acquainted. That's Showman Bobby, and that's the Prophet." - -A vast chuckle of mirth started then from deep within him and surged -through his throat,--such a laugh as would naturally come from a whale -or some creature of a past age, whose midriff was boundless. - -"Ho!" he said. "Bloke with a hay-load lit under him. Ho, Ho!" - -"Gen'leman," said the Prophet with a fluent wave of his hand. "Friends -of Humpy's. That's enough. Any grub, Humpy?" - -The Free Traveller brought out a round loaf and some meat done up in -a newspaper. He might have carried a number of such things about him -without making any great difference in his contour. The Prophet did not -ask about the hay-load, or where the bread and meat came from. - -The daylight was fading now in the clearing, and presently a few thin -stars were out. It might have occurred to persons of better regulated -fancies than ours that they were due at supper long since with other -friends of staider qualities, and that now the wood-paths were too dark -to follow. Perhaps it did; but it could not have seemed a fair reason to -be troubled, that we were last seen in company with the Free Traveller, -so fat and friendly a man. I remember better that the Black Pond -reflected no stars, that the gleams from the fire played fearful games -along the wood's edge and the bowlders, and how, beyond the Black Pond, -the swamp and the close-cuddled hills, the lights of Hamilton crouched -low under the sky. Opposite us across the fire sat that woman who said -nothing, and her face was shadowed by her shawl. - -Showman Bobby and the Free Traveller went to sleep, Bobby on his face -and the Free Traveller accommodating himself. The Prophet sat up and -kept us company; for we asked him questions naturally, and he seemed -interested to answer, and was fluent and striking in his speech. They -were a runout Company and very low in their luck; and it seemed that -Bobby was the manager, a tumbler himself by profession and in that -way of life since childhood; and the Free Traveller was apt to be an -Australian giant now, but in earlier years had been given to footing -from place to place and living as he might. The Prophet called him a -skilful man at getting things out of women, partly by experience, and -partly by reason of his size and the mildness of his manners. As for the -Black Pond Clearing, it was well known to people of the road, even to -orange-men and pack-peddlers, being a hidden place with wood and water -and shelter in the caves from rain. - -"That light in the south is Hamilton," said Chub Leroy. - -The Prophet started and looked anxiously across the fire, but the woman -did not move. Then he drew nearer us and spoke lower. - -"You look out," he said. "She ain't right in her head. Bobby painted the -kid for a pappoose. It took the shakes and died queer. You'd better lie -down, Cass," speaking across the fire to the woman, who turned her head -and stared at him directly. "You'd better lie down." - -She drew back from the fire noiselessly and lay down, wrapping her shawl -about her head. - -"I ain't been a circus heeler all my time," began the Prophet. "I been a -gentleman. Neither has Humpy, I reckon. When I met Bobby it was West and -he ran a dime museum. He took me in for being a gifted talker, and I -was that low in my luck. She and Bobby was married sometime, and she did -acts like the Circassian Beauty, and the Headless Woman, and the Child -of the Aztecs. Humpy's gifts lies in his size, and he's a powerful -strong man, too, more than you'd think, and he can get himself up for a -savage to look like a loose tornado. Look at him now. Ain't he a heap? -There was a three-eyed dog in the show that you could n't tell that the -extra eye was n't so hardly, and a snake that was any kind of a snake -according as you fixed him, his natural color being black. We came -East with Forepaugh's. Bobby bought a tent in Chicago, and we came to -Hamilton a fortnight ago. Now there's Hamilton that's a-shining off -there with its lights. And we run away from it in the night a week come -to-morrow, or next day, I forget. We left the tent and outfit which was -come down on by a Dutch grocer for debt, and Cassie's baby was dead -in the tent. Bobby painted him too thick. And there was a lot of folks -looking for us with sticks. Now, that was n't right. Think Bobby'd have -poisoned his own kid if he'd known better about painting him, a kid -that was a credit to the show! That's what they said. Think folks coming -round with sticks and a-howling blasphemous is going to help out any -family mourning! That ain't my idea. - -"Then a fellow says, 'I don't know anything about it,' he says, 'and I -don't want to, but I know you get out of here quick.' - -"And they drove us out of Hamilton that night ten miles in a covered -cart, and left us in the road. And the Dutch grocer got the outfit. I -reckon the circus and the city has buried the kid between 'em. Hey? -Sh! She's got a quirk. All I know is Fore-paugh's shook us as if we was -fleas." - -The Prophet looked over to where Cassie lay, but she did not stir. -Anyway, if she heard, it was the Prophet's fault. "They're awful poor -company," he said plaintively, "Bobby and Cass. She takes on terrible. -She's took a notion that baby ain't buried right. She thinks--well, I -don't know. Now that ain't my way of looking at things, but I did n't -own the outfit. It was Bobby's outfit, and the Dutch grocer got it." - -He was silent for a moment. We could hear the Free Traveller asleep and -rumbling in his throat. - -"Where might you chaps come from?" asked the Prophet, suddenly. "Not -that it's my business. Maybe there might be a town over there? Hey? -Yes." - -He grumbled in his beard a few moments more, and then lay down to sleep. -We drew together and whispered. The three men slept, and the woman said -nothing. - -It is seen that sometimes your most battered and world-worn of men is -the simplest in his way of looking at things. Or else it was because the -Prophet was a talker by nature, and Bobby and Cass such poor company, -that he fell into speech with us on such equal terms. I have set down -but little of what he said, only enough for the story of the Company, -and as I happen to recollect it. - -It should have been something earlier than nine o'clock when the Prophet -lay down to sleep, and half an hour later when we first noticed that -the woman, Cass, was sitting up. She had her back to us and was looking -toward the lights of Hamilton. There was no moon and the stars only -shone here and there between clouds that hurried across the sky, making -preparations for the storm that came in the morning. The fire burned -low, but there was no need of it for warmth. The outlines of the hills -could be seen. The swamp, the pond, and most of the clearing were dark -together. - -Presently she looked cautiously around, first at the three sleepers, and -then at us. She crept nearer slowly and crouched beside the dull fire, -throwing back her shawl. Her hair was black and straggled about her -face, and her eyes were black too, and glittering. The glow of the -embers, striking upward, made their sockets cavernous, but the eyes -stood out in the midst of the caverns. One knows well enough that -tragedies walk about and exchange agreeable phrases with each other. -Your tragedy is yours, and mine is mine, and in the meanwhile see to -it that we look sedate, and discuss anything, provided it is of no -importance to either. One does not choose to be an inscribed monument to -the fame of one's private affair. But Cassie had lost that instinct of -reserve, and her desolation looked out of her eyes with dreadful candor. -The lines of her face, the droop of her figure and even little motions -of the hand, signified but one thought. I suppose all ideas possible -to the world had become as one to her, so that three boys cowering away -from her seemed only a natural enough part of the same subject. It was -all one; namely, a baby painted brown, who died queerly in a side tent -in Hamilton Fair Grounds. - -We stared at her breathlessly. - -"You tell 'em I'm going," she whispered. - -"Where?" asked Chub. - -"They ain't no right to--to--Who are you?" - -But this was only in passing. She did not wait to be answered. - -"You tell 'em I'm going." - -"What for?" persisted Chub. - -"It's six days. Maybe they throwed him where the tin cans are. You tell -'em I'm going." - -And she was gone. She must have slipped along the edge of the woods -where the shadows were densest. - -We listened a moment or two stupidly. Then we sprang up. It seems as if -the three men were on their feet at the same instant, wakened by some -common instinct or pressure of fear. It was a single sound of splashing -we heard off in the darkness. Bobby was gone, then the Free Traveller, -then the Prophet. We fell into hollows, over rocks and stumps, and came -to the pond. The reflection of a star or two glimmered there. The water -looked heavy, like melted lead, and any ripple that had been was gone, -or too slight to see. The Free Traveller and Bobby went in and waded -about. - -"Don't you step on her," said Bobby, hoarsely. - -The bottom seemed to shelve steeply from the shore. They moved along -chest-deep, feeling with their feet, and we heard them whispering. The -Prophet sat down and whimpered softly. They waded a distance along the -shore, and back. They came close in, whispered together, and went out -again. - -"Here! I got it," said the Free Traveller. They came out, carrying -something large and black, and laid it on the ground. - -"It ain't Cassie!" whimpered the Prophet. "It ain't Cassie, is it?" - -They all stood about it. The face was like a dim white patch on the -ground. - -"Hold your jaw," said Bobby. "Hark!" - -There were voices in the woods above, and a crashing of the branches. -They were coming nearer and lights were twinkling far back in the -wood-path, where we had entered the clearing. I do not know what thought -it was--some instinct to flee and hide--that seized the outcasts. They -slid away into the darkness together, swiftly and without speaking. The -Free Traveller had Cassie's body on his shoulder, carrying it as a child -carries a rag doll. The darkness swallowed them at a gulp, and we -stood alone by the Black Pond. Several men came into the clearing with -lanterns, villagers from Hagar, Harvey Cummings, the minister, and -others, who swung their lanterns and shouted. - -Now, I suppose that Cassie lies buried to-day somewhere in the South -Woods, and it may be that no man alive knows where. For none of the -Company were ever seen again in that part of the country, nor have -been heard of anywhere now these many years. We can see the lights of -Hamilton from Hagar as of old, but we seldom think of the Celestial -City, or any palaces and splendors, but of the multitude of various -people who go to and fro, each carrying a story. - -The coming and going of aliens made little difference with Hagar. I -suppose it was more important there, that Harvey Cummings's hay-load -went up lawlessly in smoke and flame, and never came to the little -pasture barn on the Windless Mountain Road. - - - - -JOPPA - -|On Friday afternoon, the twenty-eighth of June, Deacon Crockett's -horse ran away. It was not a suitable thing, not at all what a settled -community had a right to expect of a horse with stubby legs and no mane -to speak of, who had grown old in the order of decent conduct. He ran -into Mrs. Cullom Sanderson's basket phaeton and spilled Mrs. Cullom on -the ground, which was taking a grave responsibility. It was done in the -midst of Hagar. Harvey Cummings jumped out of the way and said, "Deb -it!" There was no concealment about it. Everybody heard of it and said -it was astonishing. - -The name of the deacon's horse was Joppa. The deacon's father-in-law, -Captain David Brett, had an iron-gray named Borneo. Borneo and Joppa did -not agree, on account of Borneo's kicking Joppa in the ribs to show his -contempt. It was natural that he should have this contempt, being sleek -and spirited himself, with a nautical gait that every one admitted to be -taking; and Joppa did not think it unnatural in him to show it. Without -questioning the justice of Borneo's position, he disliked being kicked -in the ribs. - -Borneo had been eating grass by the roadside; Joppa stood harnessed in -front of the horse-block; Mrs. Crockett stood on the horse-block; Borneo -came around and kicked Joppa in the ribs; Joppa ran away; Mrs. Crockett -shrieked; Harvey Cummings said "Deb it!" and Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was -spilled. She weighed two hundred pounds and covered a deal of ground -when she was spilled. - -He crossed the bridge and tore along the Salem Road, his stubby legs -pattering under him, and a great fear in his soul of the shouting -village behind. Angelica and Willy Flint saw him coming. - -"It's a runaway!" shouted Angelica. - -Willy Flint continued swinging on the gate. He thought it his place to -be self-contained and accurate. - -"It's Joppa," he said calmly. - -But Angelica did not care for appearances. She shied a clam-shell at -Joppa, said "Hi there!" and jumped around. - -Joppa swerved sharply, the deacon's buggy turned several sides up, -if that is possible, bobbed along behind, and then broke loose at the -thills. Joppa fled madly up the side road that leads to Scrabble Up and -Down, and disappeared over the crest of the hill, leaving Angelica and -Willy Flint to gloat over the wreck of the buggy. It gratified a number -of their instincts. - -The region called Scrabble Up and Down, as well as the road which leads -to it, is distinguished by innumerable small steep hills and hollows. -For the rest, it is a sandy and ill-populated district, and a lonely -road. Westward of it lies a wilderness of underbrush and stunted trees, -rising at last into exultant woods and billowing over the hills mile -upon mile to the valley of the Wyantenaug. The South Woods do not belong -to Scrabble Up and Down. They are put there to show Scrabble Up and Down -what it cannot do. - -The road winds around hillocks and down hollows in an aimless fashion; -and for that reason it is not possible to see much of it at a time. -When the villagers of Hagar reached the top of the first hill, Joppa -was nearly a mile away, his stubby legs rather tired, his spirit more -tranquil, and himself out of sight of the villagers of Hagar. He saw -no point in turning back. Hagar gave him but a dull and unideal -life, plodding between shafts before the austere and silent deacon, -unaccountably smacked with a whip, and in constant contrast with -Borneo's good looks. Joppa had not many ideas and little imagination. -He did not feel drawn to go back. Moreover he smelt something damp and -fresh in the direction of the woods which absorbed him. He stopped, -sniffed, and looked around. The fence was broken here and there, as -fences generally were in Scrabble Up and Down. The leaves were budding; -there was a shimmer of green on the distant woods; and presently Joppa -was wandering through the brush and scrub trees westward. The broken -shafts dragged quietly beside him. He lifted his head a little higher -than usual and had an odd feeling, as if he were enjoying himself. - -A tumult, row, or excitement of any kind was considered by the children -of Hagar a thing to be desired, assisted, and remembered gratefully. -Some of the elders were much of the same mind. Joppa's action was -therefore popular in Hagar, the more so that it was felt to be -incongruous; and, when by no search that Friday afternoon nor the -following Saturday could he be found, his reputation rose in leaps. He -had gone over the hill and vanished like a ghost, commonplace, homely, -plodding, downcast Joppa, known to Hagar in that fashion these dozen -or more years and suddenly become the loud talk of the day. The road -to Scrabble Up and Down and the roads far beyond were searched. Inquiry -spread to Salem and to Gilead. On Saturday night notices were posted -here and there by happy jokers relating to Joppa, one on the church door -of Hagar requesting the prayers of the congregation. Mr. Atherton Bell -thought the deacon's horse like "the deacon's one-hoss shay," in that he -had lasted an extraordinary time intact, and then disintegrated. Joppa -had become a mystery, an excitement, a cause of wit. A definite addition -had been made to the hoarded stock of tradition and jest; the lives of -all seemed the richer. An atmosphere of deep and tranquil mirth pervaded -the village, a kind of mellow light of humor, in the focus of which -stood Deacon Crockett, and writhed. - -It was hoped that the minister would preach on Joppa. He preached on -"human insignificance," and read of the war-horse, "Hast thou clothed -his neck with thunder?" but it was thought not to refer to Joppa. - -As for the children of Hagar, did they not dream of him, and hear him -thumping and blundering by in the winds of the dim night? They saw no -humor in him, nor in the deacon. Rather it was a serious mystery, and -they went about with the impression of it on their faces, having faith -that the outcome would be worthy of the promise. - -Harvey Cummings thought that the war-horse did not refer to Joppa, and -said so on the steps of the church. "There wan'd no thudder aboud him. -He was the meekest hoss in Hamilton County. He run away on accound of -his shyness." - -Mr. Cummings had no palate to speak of, and his consonants were -uncertain. Mr. Atherton Bell threw out his chest, as an orator should, -put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and gazed at Mr. Cummings -with a kindling eye. - -"For a meek horse," he said impressively, "he showed--a--great -resolution when he spilled Mrs. Cullom Sanderson. I declare to you, -Harvey, I give you my word, sir, I would not have missed seeing Mrs. -Cullom spilled for a government contract." - -"Oh, indeed, Mr. Bell!" said Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, rustling past, -"clothed with thunder" and black silk. Mr. Atherton Bell recovered -himself slowly and moved to a greater distance from the church door. -He was a politician and a legislator, but he found diplomacy difficult. -Several others gathered around, desiring to hear the statesman. "Now -suppose, Harvey, suppose the deacon too should take a notion to run -away, knock over Mrs. Cullom, you know, and--a--disappear. Imagine it, -Harvey." - -Mr. Cummings shook his head. - -"Can't do it." - -Mr. Bell took off his hat and smiled expansively. - -"It's a pleasing thought, ha! He might be translated--a--Elijah, you -know. He might leave his mantle to--to me. Hitherto the deacon has -lacked dramatic interest. Contact between Mrs. Cullom and Deacon -Crockett would--" (here his hearers stirred appreciatively) "would have -dramatic interest--Ah, good morning, deacon, good morning, sir. We were -speaking of your loss. We--a--trust it will not be permanent." - -The deacon moved on without answering. Mr. Atherton Bell's spirit fell -again, and he wiped his forehead nervously. - -It would be a painful thing if a man were suddenly to enter into full -sight of himself as others see him; it is a measure of distress even -to have a passing glimpse--not so much because he sees a worse man, but -because he sees a stranger. - -Deacon Crockett had never asked himself how others saw him. He was not a -flexible man. The grooves in which his life ran had been worn slowly -in a hard substance. Its purports and ends had always seemed to him -accurately measured and bounded. He exacted his rights, paid his dues, -and had no doubts about either; held his conscience before him as a -sword, dividing truth from falsehood. He stood by the faith of his -forefathers, gave up no jot or tittle of it; there were no hazy outlying -regions in that faith. - -When a man observes himself to be a well-defined thing in certain -relations with other well-defined things, has no more doubt of the -meaning of his presence on the earth than of the function of a cogwheel -in his watch, his footing seems singularly secure; the figure he makes -in his own eyes not only grows rigid with habit, but seems logically -exact to begin with. To doubt the function of the cog-wheel is to put in -question the watch, which is impossible and a sufficient demonstration. -Other men's opinions, if worth anything or considered at all, are -assumed to be respectful; and the assumption seems just. - -Why should he not feel impregnable in his personal dignity, who sees -himself sufficiently fulfilling his function in an ordered scheme, a -just man, elected to become perfect? Personal dignity is at least not a -vulgar ambition. It was the deacon's ambition, the thing which he wished -to characterize his life. - -The deacon walked down the path from the church. He walked quietly and -stiffly as usual, but the spirit within him was worse than angry; it -was confused. The whole neighborhood seemed to be laughing at him; his -fingers tingled at the thought. - -But that was not the source of his confusion. It was, strangely, that -there seemed to be no malice in the laughter, only a kind of amused -friendliness. An insult and a resentment can be understood by a man of -function, within his function; his resentment maintains his equilibrium. -But, quite the contrary, his neighbors seemed timidly to invite him into -the joke. Of all the hidden ways of laughter one comes last to that in -which he may walk and be amused with himself; although it is only there -that he is for the first time entirely comfortable in the world. Tim -Rae, the town drunkard, met him where the path across the Green joins -the road. It was Tim's habit to flee from the deacon's approach with -feeble subterfuges, not because the deacon ever lectured him, but -because the deacon's presence seemed to foreshorten his stature, and -gave him a chill in the stomach, where he preferred "something warm." -Yet he ambled amiably across the road, and his air of good-fellowship -could not have been greater if they had met in a ditch on equal terms of -intoxication. - -"What think, deacon," he gurgled. "I was dream-in' las' night, 'bout -Joppa comin' down my chimney, damned if he did n't." - -The deacon stopped and faced him. - -"You may be drunk, sir," he said slowly, "on Saturday night, and you may -curse on the Sabbath; but you _may not_ expect me to sympathize with -you--in either." - -Then Tim Rae slunk away foreshortened of stature and cold in the -stomach. - -Monday morning was the first of May; and on May-day, unless the season -were backward and without early flowers, the children of Hagar would go -after ground-pine for the May-baskets, and trailing arbutus to fill them -with. They would hang the baskets on the door-handles of those who were -thought worthy, popular persons such as the minister and Sandy Campbell; -on Mr. Atherton Bell's door-handle on account of Bobby Bell, who was a -gentleman but not allowed to be out nights because of his inferior age. - -Ground-pine grows in many places, but early arbutus is a whimsical -flower, as shy as first love. It is nearly always to be found somewhere -in the South Woods. And the South Woods are to be reached, not by -Scrabble Up and Down, but along the Windless Mountain Road, across the -Mill Stream, and by cart-paths which know not their own minds. - -The deacon drove home from Gilead Monday afternoon, and saw the children -noisily jumping the Mill Stream where the line of bowlders dams up the -stream and makes deep quiet water above. Their voices, quarrelling and -laughing, fell on his ear with an unfamiliar sound. Somehow they seemed -significant, at least suggesting odd trains of thought. He found himself -imagining how it would seem to go Maying; and the incongruity of it -brought a sudden frown of mental pain and confusion to his forehead. And -so he drove into Hagar. - -But if he had followed the May-day revellers, as he had oddly imagined -himself doing, he would have gone by those winding cart-paths, fragrant -with early growth, and might have seen the children break from the woods -with shouts into a small opening above a sunken pond; he might even have -heard the voice of Angelica Flint rise in shrill excitement: - -"_Why, there's Joppa!_" - -Some minutes after six, the first shading of the twilight being in the -air, the villagers of Hagar, whose houses lay along the north and south -road, rose on one impulse and came forth into the street. And standing -by their gates and porches, they saw the children go by with lost -Joppa in their midst. Around his neck was a huge flopping wreath of -ground-pine and arbutus. The arbutus did not stay in very well, and -there was little of it--only bits stuck in here and there. Joppa hung -his head low, so that the wreath had to be held on. He did not seem -cheerful; in fact, the whole cortge had a subdued though important air, -as if oppressed by a great thought and conscious of ceremony. - -The minister and the other neighbors along the street came out and -followed. Some dozen or more at last stood on the brow of the slight -hill looking down to the deacon's house; and they too felt conscious of -something, of a ceremony, a suspense. - -Mr. Atherton Bell met the children and drove his buggy into the ditch, -stood up and gazed over the back of it with an absorbed look. - -"I feel curious how the deacon will take it," said the minister. "I--I -feel anxious." - -Mr. Atherton Bell said, it got him. He said something too about -"dramatic interest" and "a good betting chance he'll cut up rough"; but -no one answered him. - -The procession halted outside the deacon's gate. A tendency to giggle -on the part of certain girls was sternly suppressed by Angelica Flint. -Willy Flint led Joppa cautiously up the board walk and tied him to a -pillar of the porch; the company began to retreat irregularly. - -Suddenly the deacon, tall and black-coated, stood in the doorway, Mrs. -Crockett at his elbow pouring forth exclamations; and the retreat became -a flight. Little Nettie Paulus fell behind; she stood in the middle of -the road and wailed piteously. - -The deacon glared at Joppa and Joppa's grotesque necklace, looked after -the fleeing children and saw on the brow of the hill the group of his -fellow-townsmen. His forehead flushed and he hesitated. At last he took -the wreath awkwardly from Joppa's neck, went into the house and shut -the door. The wreath hung in his front window seven months, and fell to -pieces about the end of November. Joppa died long after of old age and -rheumatism. - - - - -THE ELDER' SEAT - -|Between the mill and the miller's house in Hagar the Mill Stream made -a broad pool with a yellow bottom of pebbles and sand. It was sometimes -called the Mediterranean. If you wished to cross the Mill Stream, there -was a plank below, which was good to jounce on also, though apt to tip -you into the water. The pool was shallow, about twenty feet across and -as long as you might care to go upstream,--as far as the clay bank, -anyway, where Chub Leroy built the city of Alexandria. Jeannette Paulus -walked all over Alexandria to catch a frog, and made a mess of it, -and did not catch the frog. That is the way of things in this world. -Alexandria fell in a moment, with all her palaces and towers. But there -were other cities, and commerce was lively on the Mediterranean. - -On the nearer side, against the gray, weatherbeaten flank of the -miller's house was a painted bench, for convenience of the morning sun -and afternoon shade; and I call it now the Elders' Seat, because Captain -David Brett and others were often to be seen sitting there in the sun -or shade. I remember the minister was there, and Job Mather, the miller, -whenever his grist ran low, so that he let his stem millstones cease -to grind. These were the three to whom the Elders' Seat seemed to us to -belong by right of continuance, because our short memories ran not to -the contrary. Captain David was well in his seventies, the miller not -far behind, and Mr. Royce already gray-haired. They sat and watched the -rise and fall of cities, the growth and decay of commerce, the tumult of -conquests, and the wreck of high ambition. They noticed that one thing -did not change nor cease, namely, the ripple of the stream; just as -if, in history, there really were a voice distinguishable that went -murmuring forever. - -After the fall of Alexandria Damascus was built, but inland, so that it -had to be reached by caravan; and Moses Durfey laid the foundations of -Byzantium where the pool narrowed into rushing water, and Venice was -planted low in a marshy place hard by the seven hills of Rome. But you -must know that Bobby Bell built the city of Rome absurdly, and filled it -with pot-holes to keep frogs in and floating black bugs, so that it -was impossible to hold it against the Carthaginians. There were wars in -those days. These were the main marts of trade, but there were quays -and fortresses elsewhere; and it should be told sometime how the Barbary -pirates came down. Rome was in a bad way, for Bobby had one aquarium in -the Campus Martius, and another where the Forum should have been. There -was nothing flourishing but the aqueducts. - -The three Elders would sit leaning forward, watching the changes of -fortune and event that went on from hour to hour by the Mediterranean. -The captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested his chin on his cane; -the miller's hands were on his knees, his large white face stolid, -his heavy lips seldom moving. He was a thinking man, the miller,--a -slow-moving, slow-speaking, persistent man, and a fatalist in his way of -thinking, though he used no such term; it was his notion of things. - -They talked of old history out of Gibbon and Grote and the Seven -Monarchies, and they talked of things that had happened to them as -men in the world; but the things which they thought of most often, in -watching the children and the Mill Stream, they said little about, for -these had not happened a thousand or two thousand years before, nor -twenty or thirty, but just sixty or seventy. And this was why they came -so often to the Elders' Seat, because something dim and happy seemed to -come up to them, like a mist, from the Mill Stream, where the children -quarrelled and contrived. - -"I'll tell ye what ailed Rome," said Captain David. "She needed to be -keeled and scraped. She fouled her bottom!" - -The minister answered slowly: "No, she was rotten within. She lost the -faith in God and in man that keeps a people sound." - -"Ho! Well, then she wa'n't handled right." - -The miller rubbed his thumb slowly on the palm of his hand. "She was -grinded out," he said. "She couldn't help it. Corn can't keep itself -from meal when the stones gets at it. No more a man can't keep his bones -from dust, nor a people, either, I'm thinking, when its time comes." - -The minister shook his head. "I don't like that." - -"I don't know as I do, either. And I don't know as that makes any -difference." - -"Ho!" said the captain. "Bobby's got a new frog!" - -And Chub Leroy cried out in despair: "Look out, Bobby! You're stepping -on the Colosseum!" - -I would not pretend to say how long the Elders' Seat had stood there, or -how many years the Elders had come to it now and again; but I remember -that it seemed to us very permanent, in a world of shifting empires, -where Alexandria was suddenly walked upon and deserted, and Venice went -down the current in a rainy night, and was spoken of no more. We could -not remember when it had not stood in its place. It was a kind of -Olympus to us, or Delphi, where we went for oracles on shipping and -other matters. - -Afterward we grew up, and became too old to dabble and make beautiful -things of gray clay, except Chub Leroy, who is still doing something -of that kind, cutting and building with clay and stone. But the Elders' -Seat remained, and the Elders watched other children, as if nothing had -happened. Only, Captain David had trouble to keep his pipe in his mouth. -So that when the Elders' Seat took its first journey, it seemed very -difficult for us to understand,--even for those who were too old to -dabble in gray clay. - -It was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mill, past the drug -store, the Crocketts' house, where Captain David lived, and so on by -the crossroads, to the minister's, with the graveyard just beyond. I -remember how very yellow and dusty the road was in the summer of '86, so -that the clay bottom cracked off in flat pieces, which could be gathered -up; and then, if you climbed the wall with care enough, you could scale -them at woodchucks. August was sultry and still. The morning-glories -drooped on Captain David's porch, and the pigeons on the roof went to -sleep more than was natural. - -The minister and Job Mather sat, one afternoon, in the Elders' Seat; -for Captain David, he had not gone out through his gate those many days. -There was history enough in process on the Mediterranean. The Americans -and Carthaginians were preparing to have a battle, on account of docks -that ran too near together. The Elders discovered that they did not care -about it. - -The miller got to his feet, and lifted one end of the bench. "Come," he -said gruffly. "Let's move it." - -"Hey!" said the minister, looking troubled and a bit lost. Then his lips -trembled. "Yes, Job. That's so, Job. We'd better move it." - -The children came up from the Mediterranean in a body, and stared. It -was much to them as if, in Greece, the gods had risen up and gone away, -for unknown reasons, taking Olympus with them. The old men went along -the yellow, dusty road with very shuffling steps, carrying the Elders' -Seat, one at each end, till they turned into Captain David's garden and -put it down against the porch. Mrs. Crockett came to the door, and held -up her hands in astonishment. Captain David was helped out. He was faded -and worn with pain. He settled himself in the Elders' Seat. It did not -seem possible to say anything. The captain smoked his pipe; the minister -rested his chin on his cane; the miller's hands were on his knees, his -large white face stolid and set. - -"I'm goin' to shell those peas to-morrow," began the captain at last. -Then his voice broke, and a mist came into his eyes. - -"I bet ye the Americans are licking the Carthaginians." - -On the contrary, the Americans and Carthaginians, with other nations, -were hanging over the picket fence, staring and bewildered. What was the -use of mere human wars, if primeval things could be suddenly changed? -The grass might take a notion to come up pink or the seas to run out at -the bottom, and that sort of thing would make a difference. - -The sun dropped low in the west, and presently Chub Leroy, who built the -city of Alexandria ten years before, came slowly along in the shadow -of the maples, and St. Agnes Macree was with him. She was old Caspar -Macree's granddaughter, and he was a charcoal-burner on the Cattle Ridge -long ago. They were surprised to see the Elders' Seat, and stopped a -moment. St. Agnes looked up at him and smiled softly, and Chub's eyes -kept saying, "Sweetheart, sweetheart," all the time. Then they went on. - -"I remember--" said Captain David, and stopped short. - -"Eh! So do I," said the minister. - -"You do! Well, Job, do you remember? Ain't it the remarkablest thing!" - -The miller's heavy face was changed with a slow, embarrassed smile. And -all these three sat a long time very still, while the sunlight slanted -among the morning-glories and the pigeons slept on the roof. - -There came a day in September when the minister and the miller were -alone again on the Elders' Seat, but Captain David lay in his bed near -the window. He slept a great deal, and babbled in his half dreams: -sometimes about ships and cordage, anchorage in harbors and whaling in -the south seas; and at times about some one named "Kitty." I never heard -who Kitty was. He said something or other "wasn't right." He took the -trouble and the end of things all in good part, and bore no grudge to -any one for it; it seemed only natural, like coming to anchor at last. - -"When a man gets legs like mine," he said, "it's time he took another -way of getting round. Something like a fish'd be my notion. Parson, a -man gets the other side of somewhere, he can jump round lively-like, -same as he was a boy, eh?" - -The minister murmured something about "our Heavenly Father," and Captain -David said softly: "I guess he don't call us nothing but boys. He says, -'Shucks! it ain't natural for 'em to behave.' Don't ye think, parson? -Him, he might see an old man like me and tell him, 'Glad to see ye, -sonny'; same as Harrier in Doty's Slip. The boys come in after a year -out, or maybe three years, and old man Harrier, he says, 'Glad to see -ye, sonny'; and the boys gets terrible drunk. He kept a junk-shop, -Harrier." - -The minister tried to answer, but could not make it out. - -"I saw a ship go down sudden-like. It was in '44. It was inside Cape -Cod. Something blowed her up inside. Me, I've took my time, I have. What -ye grumbling about, parson?" - -In the morning the shutters were closed, and all about the house was -still. The pigeons were cooing on the roof of the porch; and Captain -David was dead, without seeing any reason to grumble. Down at the mill -the miller watched his monotonous millstones grinding slowly. - -The Elders' Seat was moved once more after Captain David died, not -back to the Mediterranean, but further up the yellow road and into the -minister's yard, facing westward. From there the captain's white slab -could be seen through the cemetery gate. The two Elders occupied the -seat some years, and then went in through the gate. - -But the Elders' Seat and its journeys from place to place seemed to -have some curious meaning, hardly to be spelled. I imagine this far, at -least: that at a certain point it became to the two more natural, more -quiet and happy, to turn their eyes in the direction the captain had -gone than in the direction they had all come. It pleased them then to -move the Elders' Seat a little nearer to the gate. And when the late -hour came, it was rather a familiar matter. The minister went in to look -for his Master, and the miller according to his' notion of things. - - - - -THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE - -|Not quite two centuries of human life have gone quietly in Wimberton, -and for the most part it has been on Main and Chester Streets. Main -Street is a quarter of a mile long and three hundred feet wide, with -double roads, and between them a clean lawn shaded by old elms. Chester -Street is narrow and crowded with shops, and runs from the middle of -Main down-hill to the railway and the river. It is the business street -for Wimberton and the countryside of fifteen miles about. Main Street -is surrounded by old houses of honorable frontage, two churches, and the -Solley Institute, which used to be called "Solley's Folly" by frivolous -aliens. - -Mr. Solley, who owned the mines up the river and the foundries that have -been empty and silent these many years, founded it in 1840. At the time -I remember best the Institute had twenty-one trustees, lady patronesses, -matrons, and nurses; and three beneficiaries, or representatives of the -"aged, but not destitute, of Hamilton County." That seemed odd to the -alien. - -Mr. Solley need not have been so rigid about the equipment and -requirements of admission, except that he had in mind an institution of -dignity. It stood at the head of Main Street, with wide piazzas like a -hotel. The aristocracy of old Wimberton used to meet there and pass the -summer afternoons. The young people gave balls in the great parlors, and -the three beneficiaries looked on, and found nothing to complain of in -the management. What matter if it were odd? True Wimberton folk never -called the Institute a folly, but only newcomers, before years of -residence made them endurable and able to understand Wimberton. Failure -is a lady of better manners than Success, who is forward, complacent, -taking herself with unpleasant seriousness. Imagine the Institute -swarming with people from all parts of the county, a staring success in -beneficence! - -Mr. Solley's idea was touched with delicacy. It was not a home for -Hamilton County poor, but for those who, merely lingering somewhat on -the slow descent, found it a lonely road. For there is a period in -life, of varying length, when, one's purposes having failed or been -unfulfilled, the world seems quite occupied by other people who are busy -with themselves. Life belongs at any one time to the generation which -is making the most of it. A beneficiary was in a certain position of -respectable humility. But I suppose it was not so much Mr. Solley's -discrimination as that in 1840 his own house was empty of all but a -few servants; and so out of his sense of loneliness grew his idea of a -society of the superannuated. That was the Solley Institute. - -It is not so difficult to recreate old Wimberton of seventy years back, -for the same houses stood on Main Street, and the familiar names were -then heard--Solley, Gore, Cutting, Gilbert, Cass, Savage. The elms were -smaller, with fewer lights under them at night, and gravel paths instead -of asphalt. - -One may even call up those who peopled the street, whom time has -disguised or hidden away completely. Lucia Gore has dimples,--instead of -those faded cheeks one remembers at the Institute,--and quick movements, -and a bewildering prettiness, in spite of the skirts that made women -look like decanters or tea-bells in 1830. She is coming down the gravel -sidewalk with a swift step, a singular fire and eagerness of manner, -more than one would suppose Miss Lucia to have once possessed. - -And there is the elder Solley, already with that worn, wintry old face -we know from his portrait at the Institute, and John Solley, the son, -both with high-rolled collars, tall hats, and stiff cravats. Women said -that John Solley was reckless, but one only notices that he is very -tall. - -"I'm glad to see you are in a hurry, too, my dear. We might hurry up the -wedding among us all," says the elder Solley, with a grim smile and a -bow. "Ha! Glad to see you in a hurry;" and he passes on, leaving the two -together. Lucia flushes and seems to object. - -Is not that Mrs. Andrew Cutting in the front window of the gabled house -directly behind them? Then she is thinking how considerate it is, how -respectful to Main Street, that John and Lucia are to marry. - -The past springs up quickly, even to little details. Mrs. Cutting wears -a morning cap, has one finger on her cheek, and is wondering why John -looks amused and Lucia in a temper. "He will have to behave himself," -thinks Mrs. Cutting. "Lucia is--dear me, Lucia is very decided. I don't -really know that John likes to behave himself." And all these people of -1830 are clearly interested in their own affairs, and care little for -those who will look back at them, seventy years away. - -Love climbs trees in the Hesperides, day in and out, very busy with -their remarkable fruit, the dragon lying beneath with indifferent jaws. -Do we observe how recklessly the young man reaches out, and how slightly -he knows the nature of his footing? The branches of such apple trees as -bear golden fruit are notoriously brittle. He might drop into the lazy -throat of Fate by as easy an accident as the observer into figures of -speech, and the dragon care little about the matter. That indifference -of Fate is hard, for it seems an expense for no value received by any -one. We are advised to be as little melancholy as possible, and charge -it to profit and loss. - -It is well known that John Solley left Wimberton late one night in -October, 1830. In the morning the two big stuccoed houses of Gore and -Solley looked at each other across the street under the yellow arch of -leaves with that mysterious expression which they ever after seemed to -possess to the dwellers on Main Street. And the Gores' housemaid picked -up a glittering something from the fell of the bearskin rug on the -parlor floor. - -"Land! It's Miss Lucia's engagement ring. She's a careless girl!" -Plannah was a single woman of fifty, and spoke with strong moral -indignation. - -Some mornings later Mr. Solley came stiffly down his front steps, -crossed the street under the yellow elms, and went in between the white -pillars of the Gore house. Mr. Gore was a middle-aged man, chubby, -benevolent, gray-haired, deliberate. He sank back in his easy-chair in -fat astonishment. - -"Oh, dear me! I don't know." - -Lucia was called. - -"Mr. Solley wishes to ask you--a--something." - -"I wish to ask if my son has treated you badly," said Mr. Solley, most -absurdly. - -"Not at all, Mr. Solley." - -Lucia's eyes were suddenly hot and shining. - -"I beg your pardon, but if John is a scoundrel, you will do me a favor -by telling me so." - -"Where is he? I shall do nothing of the kind." - -"I am about to write to my son." - -"And that's nothing to me," she cried, and went swiftly out of the room. - -"Oh, I suppose he's only a fool," said Mr. Solley, grimly. "I knew that. -Spirited girl, Gore, very. Good morning." - -"Dear me!" said Mr. Gore, mildly, rubbing his glasses. "How quickly they -do things!" - -Elderly gentlemen whose wives are dead and children adventuring in the -Hesperides should take advice. Mrs. Cutting might have advised against -this paragraph in Mr. Solley's letter: - -"I have taken the trouble to inquire whether you have been acting as a -gentleman should. Inasmuch as Miss Lucia seemed to imply that the matter -no longer interests her, I presume she has followed her own will, which -is certainly a woman's right. With respect to the Michigan lands, I -inclose surveys. You will do well," etc. - -But Mr. Solley had not for many years thought of the Hesperides as a -more difficult piece of property to survey than another. Men and women -followed their own wills there as elsewhere, and were quite right, so -long as they did business honorably. And Mr. Gore had been a managed and -advised man all his wedded life, and had not found, that it increased -his happiness. That advice had always tended to embark him on some -enterprise that was fatiguing. - -"A good woman, Letitia," often ran Mr. Gore's reflections; and then, -with a sense of furtiveness, as if Letitia somewhere in the spiritual -universe might overhear his thought, "a little masterful--a--spirited, -very." - -But it was hard for Wimberton people to have a secret shut up among -them. It was not respectful to Main Street, with John Solley fleeing -mysteriously in the night and coming no more to Wimberton, and Lucia -going about with her nose in the air, impossible to sympathize with. -Some months passed, and Lucia seemed more subdued, then very quiet -indeed, with a liking to sit by her father's side, to Mr. Gore's slight -uneasiness. She might wish him to do something. - -He knew no more than Wimberton what had happened to send John westward -and Lucia to sitting beside him in unused silence; but he differed from -Wimberton in thinking it perhaps not desirable to know. He would pat -her hand furtively, and polish his glasses, without seeming to alter the -situation. Once he asked timidly if it were not dull for her. - -"No, father." - -"I've thought sometimes--sometimes--a--I don't remember what I was going -to say." - -Lucia's head went down till it almost rested on his knee. - -"Father--do you know--where John is?" - -"Why--a--of course, Mr. Solley--" - -"No, no, father! No!" - -"Well, I might inquire around--a--somewhere." - -"No! Oh, promise me you won't ask any one! Promise!" - -"Certainly, my dear," said Mr. Gore, very much confused. - -"It is no matter," said Lucia, eagerly. - -Mr. Gore thought for several minutes, but no idea seemed to occur to -him, and it relieved him to give it up. - -Months have a way of making years by a rapid arithmetic, and years that -greet us with such little variety of expression are the more apt to -step behind with faint reproach and very swiftly. Mr. Solley founded -the Institute in 1840, and died. The Solley house stood empty, and Miss -Lucia Gore by that time was living alone, except for the elderly maiden, -Hannah. Looking at the old elms of Wimberton, grave and orderly, there -is much to be said for a vegetable life. There is no right dignity but -in the slow growths of time. - -The elms increased their girth; the railway crept up the river; the -young men went to Southern battle-fields, and some of them returned; -children of a second generation walked in the Hesperides; the Institute -was reduced to three beneficiaries; Main Street smelled of tar from the -asphalt sidewalks; Chester Street was prosperous. Banks failed in '73, -and "Miss Lucia has lost everything," said Wimberton gossip. - -The Solley house was alternately rented and empty, the Gore house was -sold, Miss Lucia went up to the Institute, and gossip in Wimberton woke -again. - -"Of course the Institute is not like other places, but then--" - -"Miss Lucia was such a lady." - -"But it's a charity, after all." - -"Very sensible of Miss Lucia, I'm sure." - -"She was engaged to old Institute Solley's son once, but it ended with a -bump." - -"Then Miss Lucia goes to the Institute who might have gone to the Solley -house." - -"Oh, that is what one doesn't know." - -"Miss Lucia a beneficiary! But isn't that rather embarrassing?" - -"I wonder if she--" - -"My dear, it was centuries ago. One does n't think of love-affairs fifty -years old. They dry up." - -"Respectable, and you pay a little." - -"But a charity really." - -That year the public library was built on Main and Gilbert Streets, the -great elm fell down in the Institute yard, Mrs. Andrew Cutting died -at ninety-eight, with good sense and composure, and here is a letter -written by Miss Lucia to Babbie Cutting. Babbie Cutting, I remember, had -eyes like a last-century romance, never fancy-free, and her dolls loved -and were melancholy, when we were children together under the elms in -Wimberton. The letter is written in thin, flowing lines on lavender -paper. - -_My dear Child_: I am afraid you thought that your question offended me, -but it did not, indeed. I was engaged to Mr. John Solley many years ago. -I think I had a very hasty temper then, which I think has quite wasted -away now, for I have been so much alone. But then I sometimes fell into -dreadful rages. Mr. Solley was a very bold man, not easily influenced or -troubled, who laughed at my little faults and whims more than I thought -he should. - -You seemed to ask what sudden and mysterious thing happened to us, but, -my dear, one's life is chiefly moved by trifles and little accidents and -whims. Mr. Solley came one night, and I fancied he had been neglecting -me, for I was very proud, more so than ordinary life permits women to -be. I remember that he stood with his hands behind him, smiling. He -looked so easy and strong, so impossible to disturb, and said, "You're -such a little spitfire, Lucia," and I was so angry, it was like hot -flames all through my head. - -I cried, "How dare you speak to me so!" - -"I don't know," he said, and laughed. "It seems perilous." - -I tore his ring from my finger and threw it in his face. It struck his -forehead and fell to the floor without any sound. There was a tiny red -cut on his forehead. - -"That is your engagement ring," he said. - -"Take it away. I want nothing more to do with you," I cried--very -foolishly, for I did, and my anger was going off in fright. He turned -around and went from the house. The maid found the ring in the morning. -Mr. Solley had left Wimberton that night. Well, my dear, that is all. I -thought he would have come back. It seemed as if he might. I am so old -now that I do not mind talking, but I was proud then, and women are not -permitted to be very proud. Do your romances tell you that women are -foolish and men are sometimes hard on them? - -That is not good romance at all, but if you will come to see me again -I will tell you much better romances than mine that I have heard, for -other people's lives are interesting, even if mine has been quite dull. - -Will you put this letter away to remember me by? But do not think of me -as a complaining old woman, for I have had a long life of leisure and -many friends. I do not think any one who really cares for me will do so -the less for my living at the Institute, and only those we love are of -real importance to us. It is kind of you to visit me. - -_Your Affectionate Friend._ - -So half a century is put lightly aside; Miss Lucia has found it quite -dull; and here is the year 1885, when, as every one knows, John Solley -came back to Wimberton, a tall old man with a white mustache, heavy -brows, and deep eyes. Men thought it an honor to the town that the great -and rich Mr. Solley, so dignified a man, should return to spend his last -days in Wimberton. He would be its ornamental citizen, the proper leader -of its aristocracy. But Babbie Cutting thought of another function. What -matter for the melancholy waste of years, fifty leagues across? Love -should walk over it triumphant, unwearied, and find a fairer romance -at the end. Were there not written in the books words to that effect? -Babbie moved in a world of dreams, where knights were ever coming home -from distant places, or, at least, where every one found happiness after -great trouble. She looked up into Mr. Solley's eyes and thought them -romantic to a degree. When she heard he had never married the thing -seemed as good as proved. And the little old lady at the Institute with -the old-fashioned rolled curls above her ears--what a sequel! - -It was a white winter day. The elms looked so cold against the sky that -it was difficult to remember they had ever been green, or believe it was -in them to put forth leaves once more. The wind drove the sharp-edged -particles of snow directly in Babbie's face, and she put her head down, -covering her mouth with her furs. She turned in at the Solley house, -and found herself in the drawing-room, facing that tall, thin, -military-looking old man, and feeling out of breath and troubled what to -do first. But Mr. Solley was not a man to let any girl whatever be ill -at ease, and surely not one with cheeks and eyes and soft hair like -Babbie Cutting. Presently they were experienced friends. Babbie sat in -Mr. Solley's great chair and stretched her hands toward the fire. Mr. -Solley was persuaded to take up his cigar again. - -"I had not dared to hope," he said, "that my native place would welcome -me so charmingly. I have made so many new friends, or rather they seemed -to be friends already, though unknown to me, that I seem to begin life -again. I seem to start it all over. I should have returned sooner." - -"Oh, I'm sure you should have," said Babbie, eagerly. "And do you know -who is living at the Institute now?" - -"The Institute? I had almost forgotten the Institute, and I am a -trustee, which is very neglectful of duty. Who is living at the -Institute now?" - -"Miss Lucia Gore." - -Mr. Solley was silent, and looked at Babbie oddly under his white -eyebrows, so that her cheeks began to burn, and she was not a little -frightened, though quite determined and eager. - -"Miss Lucia lost all her money when the banks failed, and she sold the -Gore house, and got enough interest to pay her dues and a little more; -but it seems so sad for Miss Lucia, because people will patronize her, -not meaning to. But they 're so stupid--or, at least, it doesn't seem -like Miss Lucia." - -"I did not know she was living," said Mr. Solley, quietly. - -"Oh, how could you--be that way!" - -Mr. Solley looked steadily at Babbie, and it seemed to him as if her -face gave him a clue to something that he had groped for in the darkness -of late, as if some white mist were lifted from the river and he could -see up its vistas and smoky cataracts. How could he be that way? It is -every man's most personal and most unsolved enigma--how he came to be -that way, to be possible as he is. Up the river he saw a face somewhat -like Babbie's, somewhat more imperious, but with the same pathetic -eagerness and desire for abundance of life. How could young John Solley -become old John Solley? Looking into Babbie's eyes, he seemed able to -put the two men side by side. - -"At one time, Miss Barbara," he said, "--you will forgive my saying -so,--I should have resented your reference. Now I am only thinking how -kind it is of you to forget that I am old." - -Babbie did not quite understand, and felt troubled, and not sure of her -position. - -"Mr. Solley," she said, "I--I have a letter from Miss Lucia. Do you -think I might show it to you?" - -"It concerns me?" - -"Y-yes." - -He walked down the room and back again. - -"I don't know that you ought, but you have tempted me to wish that you -would. Thank you." He put on his glasses and read it slowly. Babbie -thought he read it like a business letter. - -"He ought to turn pale or red," she thought. "Oh, he oughtn't to wear -his spectacles on the end of his nose!" - -Mr. Solley handed back the letter. - -"Thank you, Miss Barbara," he said, and began to talk of her -great-grandmother Cutting. - -Babbie blinked back her sudden tears. It was very different from -a romance, where the pages will always turn and tell you the story -willingly, where the hero always shows you exactly how he feels. She -thought she would like to cry somewhere else. She stood up to go. - -"I'm sorry I'm so silly," she said, with a little gulp and trying to be -dignified. - -Mr. Solley looked amused, so far as that the wrinkles deepened about his -eyes. - -"Will you be a friend of mine?" he asked. - -"Yes," said Babbie, plaintively, but she did not think she would. How -could she, and he so cold, so prosaic! She went out into the snow, which -was driving down Main Street from the Institute. It was four by the town -clock. - -They said in Wimberton that Mr. Solley left his house at seven o'clock -in the evening, and that Stephen, the gardener, held an umbrella in -front of him to keep off the storm all the way up the hill to the -Institute. And they said, too, that the lights were left burning in -the Solley house, and the fire on the hearth, and that the book he -was reading when Babbie went in lay open on the table. The fire burned -itself out. Stephen came in late, closed the book, and put out the -lights, and in the morning went about town saying that Mr. Solley was to -enter the Institute as a beneficiary. - -But it is a secret that on that snowy evening Mr. Solley and Miss Lucia -sat in the great east parlor of the Institute, with a lamp near by, -but darkness in all the distances about them. His hands were on his -gold-headed cane; Miss Lucia's rolls of white curls were very tidy over -her ears, and her fingers were knitting something placidly. She was -saying it was "quite impossible. One doesn't want to be absurd at -seventy-five." - -"I suppose not," said Mr. Solley. "I shouldn't mind it. What do you -think of the other plan?" - -"If you want my permission to be a beneficiary," said Miss Lucia, with -her eyes twinkling, "I think it would be a proper humiliation for you. I -think you deserve it." - -"It would be no humiliation." - -"It was for me--some." - -"It shall be so no more. I'll make them wish they were all old enough to -do the same--hem--confound them!" - -"Did you think of it that way, John?" - -Mr. Solley was silent for some moments. - -"Do you know, I have been a busy man," he said at last, "but there was -nothing in it all that I care to think over now. And to-day, for the -first time, that seemed to me strange. It was shown to me--that is, I -saw it was strange. We have only a few years left, and you will let -me be somewhat near you while they pass. Isn't that enough? It seems a -little vague. Well, then, yes. I thought of it that way, as you say. Do -you mind my thinking of it that way?" - -Miss Lucia's eyes grew a little tearful, but she managed to hide it -by settling her glasses. Seventy-five years in a small town make the -opinions of one's neighbors part of the structure of existence. It was -bitter, the thought that Main Street tacitly patronized her. - -"Why, no, I don't mind." - -She dropped her knitting and laughed suddenly. - -"I think, John," she said, "that I missed marrying a very nice man." - -Mr. Solley's glasses fell off with surprise. He put them on again and -chuckled to himself. - -"My father used to call me a--hem--a fool. He used to state things more -accurately than you did." - -After all, there was no other institute like Wimberton's. The standards -of other places were no measure for our conduct, and the fact that such -things were not seen elsewhere was a flattering reason why they should -be seen in Wimberton; namely, only five beneficiaries, and one of them -a rich man and a trustee. It was singular, but it suited Wimberton to -be singular. One thing was plain to all, that if Mr. Solley was a -beneficiary, then to be a beneficiary was a dignified, well-bred, and -suitable thing. But one thing was not plain to all, why he chose to be -a beneficiary. Babbie Cutting went up to the Institute, and coming back, -wept for pure sentiment in her white-curtained room, with the picture on -the wall of Sir Lancelot riding down by the whirling river, the island, -and the gray-walled castle of Shalott. - -I remember well the great ball and reception that Mr. Solley gave at the -Institute to celebrate his entry, and how we all paid our respects -to the five beneficiaries, four old men, who were gracious, but -patronizing,--one with gold eye-glasses and gold-headed cane,--and Miss -Lucia, with the rolled curls over her ears. The Institute, from that -time on, looked down on Main Street with a different air, and never lost -its advantage. It seemed to many that the second Solley had refounded it -for one of those whims that are ornamental in the rich. Babbie Cutting -said to her heart, "He refounded it for Miss Lucia." - -There was nowhere in Wimberton such dignified society as at the -Institute. Even so that the last visitor of all seemed only to come -by invitation, and to pay his respects with proper ceremony: "Sir, or -madam, I hope it is not an inconvenient time," or similar phrase. - -"Oh, not at all. It seems very dark around." - -"Will you take my arm? The path is steep and worn, and here is a small -matter of a river, as you see. I regret that the water is perhaps a -trifle cold. Yes, one hears so much talk about the other side that one -hardly knows what to think. There is no hurry. But at this point I say -good night and leave you. When you were young you often heard good night -said when the morning was at hand. May it be so. Good night." - - - - -NAUSICAA - -|The Fourteenth Infantry, volunteers, were mustered out on the last day -of April. Sandy Cass and Kid Sadler came that night into the great city -of the river and the straits with their heads full of lurid visions -which they set about immediately to realize. Little Irish was with them, -and Bill Smith, who had had other names at other times. And Sandy woke -the next morning in a room that had no furniture but a bed, a washstand, -a cracked mirror, and a chair. He did not remember coming there. Some -one must have put him to bed. It was not Kid Sadler or Little Irish; -they were drunk early, with bad judgment. It must have been Bill Smith. -A hat with a frayed cord lay on the floor. "That's Bill's hat," he said. -"He's got mine." - -The gray morning filled the window, and carts rattled by in the street. -He rose and drank from the pitcher to clear the bitterness from his -mouth, and saw himself in the glass, haggard and holloweyed. It was a -clean-cut face, with straight, thin lips, straight eyebrows, and brown -hair. The lips were white and lines ran back from the eyes. Sandy did -not think he looked a credit to himself. - -"Some of it's yellow fever," he reflected, "and some of it's jag. About -half and half. The squire can charge it to the yellow." - -He wondered what new thing Squire Cass would find to say to his -"rascally nephew, that reprobate Ulysses." Squire Cass was a red-faced -gentleman and substantial citizen of that calm New England town of -Wimberton, which Sandy knew very well and did not care for. It was too -calm. But it would be good for his constitution to go there now. He -wondered if his constitution would hold out for another night equally -joyful; "Maybe it might;" then how much of his eighty dollars' back pay -was blown in. He put on his clothes slowly, feeling through the pockets, -collected two half-dollars on the way, came to the last and stopped. - -"Must have missed one;" and began again. But that crumpled wad of bills -was gone altogether. "Well, if I ain't an orphan!" - -He remembered last a place with bright glass chandeliers, a gilt cupid -over the bar, a girl in a frowzy hat, laughing with large teeth, and Kid -Sadler singing that song he had made up and was so "doggone stuck on": - - "Sandy Cass! A-alas! - - We 'll be shut up - - In the lockup - - If this here keeps on." - -It got monotonous, that song. - - "Sandy Cass! A-alas! - - A comin' home, - - A bummin home--" - -He liked to make poetry, Kid Sadler. You would not have expected it, to -look at his sloppy mustache, long dry throat, and big hands. The poetry -was generally accurate. Sandy did not see any good in it, unless it was -accurate. - - "Little Irish is a Catholic, he come from I-er-land; - - He ain't a whole cathedral, nor a new brass band; - - He got religion in 'is joints from the hoonin of a shell, - - An 'is auburn hair's burned bricky red from leanin over - - hell'' - -That was accurate enough, though put in figures of speech, but the Kid -was still more accurate regarding Bill Smith: - - "Nobody knows who Bill Smith is, - - His kin nor yet his kith, - - An nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - - An neither does Bill Smith;" - -which was perfectly true. Anyhow the Kid could not have taken the wad, -nor Little Irish. It must have been Bill Smith. - -"It was Bill," he decided. - -He did not make any special comments. Some thing or other happens to a -man every day. He went down-stairs, through a dim narrow hallway. - -"Hope there don't any one want something of me. I don't believe they 'll -get it." - -There were sounds in the basement, but no one met him. In the street the -Ninth Avenue car rolled by, a block away. He saw a restaurant sign which -said fearlessly that a stew cost ten cents, went in and breakfasted for -fifteen, waited on by a thin, weary woman, who looked at his blue coat -and braided hat with half-roused interest. - -The cobble-stones on Sixth Avenue were shining and wet. Here and there -some one in the crowd turned to look after him. It might have been the -uniform, the loafer's slouch of the hat, taken with the face being young -and too white. - -The hands of the station clock stood at ten. He took a ticket to the -limit of eighty-five cents, heard dimly the name of a familiar junction; -and then the rumble of the train was under him for an hour. Bill Smith -had left him his pipe and tobacco. Bill had good points. Sandy was -inclined to think kindly of Bill's thoughtfulness, and envy him his -enterprise. The roar of the car-wheels sounded like Kid Sadler's voice, -hoarse and choky, "A-alas, a-alas!" - -It was eleven o'clock at the junction. The mist of the earlier morning -had become a slow drizzle. Trains jangled to and fro in the freight -yards. He took a road which led away from the brick warehouses, streets -of shady trees and lawns, and curved to the north, along the bank of a -cold, sleepy river. - -There was an unpainted, three-room house somewhere, where a fat woman -said "Good land!" and gave him a plate full of different things, on a -table covered with oil-cloth. He could not remember afterward what he -ate, or what the woman said further. He remembered the oil-cloth, which -had a yellow-feverish design of curved lines, that twisted snakily, and -came out of the cloth and ran across the plate. Then out in the gray -drizzle again. - -All the morning his brain had seemed to grow duller and duller, heavy -and sodden; but in the afternoon red lights began dancing in the -mist. It might have been five miles or twenty he had gone by dusk; the -distinction between miles and rods was not clear--they both consisted -of brown mud and gray mist. Sometimes it was a mile across the road. The -dusk, and then the dark, heaved, and pulsed through blood-red veins, and -peeled, and broke apart in brilliant cracks, as they used to do nights -in the field hospital. There seemed to be no hope or desire in him, -except in his feet, which moved on. The lights that travelled with him -got mixed with lights on each side of a village street, and his feet -walked in through a gate. They had no reason for it, except that the -gate stood open and was painted white. He pushed back the door of a -little garden tool-house beside the path, and lay down on the floor. -He could not make out which of a number of things were happening. The -Fourteenth Infantry appeared to be bucking a steep hill, with the smoke -rolling down over it; but on the other hand Kid Sadler was singing -hoarsely, but distinctly, "A-alas, a-alas!" and moreover, a dim light -shone through a white-curtained window somewhere between a rod and a -mile away, and glimmered down the wet path by the tool-house. Some one -said, "Some of it's jag and some of it's the yellow. About half and -half." He might have been making the remark himself, except that he -appeared to be elsewhere. The rain kept up a thin whisper on the roof -of the tool-house. Gasps, shouts, thumping of feet, clash of rifle and -canteen. The hill was as steep as a wall. Little Irish said, "His legs -was too short to shtep on the back av his neck wid the shteepness av the -hill." - -"A-alas! A comin' home." - -"Oh, shut up, Kid!" - -"A-alas, a-alas!" The dark was split with red gashes, as it used to be -in the field hospital. The rain whispered on the roof and the wet path -glimmered like silk. - -It was the village of Zoar, which lies far back to the west of -Wyantenaug Valley, among low waves of hills, the house the old Hare -Place, and Miss Elizabeth Hare and Gracia lived there behind the white -gateway. - -That gateway had once been an ancient arch overhead, with a green wooden -ball topping it. Some one cut a face on the ball, that leered into the -street. It did not in the least resemble Miss Elizabeth, whose smile -was gentle and cool; but it was taken down from its station of half a -century; and Gracia cried secretly, because everything would needs be -disconsolate without an arch and a proper wooden ball on top of it, -under which knights and witch ladies might come and go, riding and -floating. It seemed to break down the old garden life. Odd flowers would -not hold conversations any more, tiger-lilies and peonies bother -each other, the tigers being snappish and the peonies fat, slow, and -irritating. Before Gracia's hair had abandoned yellow braids and become -mysterious, when she learned neat sewing and cross-stitch, she used to -set the tigers and peonies quarrelling to express her own feelings about -neat sewing and cross-stitch. Afterward she found the memory of that -wickedness too heavy, and confessed it to Miss Elizabeth, and added the -knights and witch ladies. Miss Elizabeth had said nothing, had seemed -disinclined to blame, and, going out into the garden, had walked to and -fro restlessly, stopping beside the tigers and peonies, and seeming to -look at the arched gateway with a certain wistfulness. - -Miss Elizabeth had now a dimly faded look, the charm of a still -November, where now and then an Indian summer steals over the chill. She -wore tiny white caps, and her hair was singularly smooth; while Gracia's -appeared rather to be blown back, pushed by the delicate fingers of a -breeze, that privately admired it, away from her eager face, with its -gray-blue eyes that looked at you as if they saw something else as well. -It kept you guessing about that other thing, and you got no further than -to wonder if it were not something, or some one, that you might be, -or might have been, if you had begun at it before life had become so -labelled and defined, so plastered over with maxims. - -The new gateway was still a doubtful quantity in Gracia's mind. It was -not justified. It had no connections, no consecrations; merely a white -gate against the greenery. - -It was the whiteness which caught Sandy Cass's dulled eyes, so that he -turned through, and lay down in the tool-house, and wondered which of a -number of incongruous things was really happening: Little Irish crying -plaintively that his legs were too short--"A-alas, a-alas!"--or the -whisper of the rain on the roof. - -Gracia lifted the white curtains, looked out, and saw the wet path -shining. - -"Is it raining, Gracia?" - -"It drizzles like anything, and the tool-house door is open, and, oh, -aunty! the path shines quite down to the gate." - -"It generally shines in the rain, dear." - -"Oh!" said Gracia, thoughtfully. She seemed to be examining a sudden -idea, and began the pretence of a whistle which afterward became a true -fact. - -"I wish it wouldn't be generally, don't you? I wish things would all be -specially." - -"I wouldn't wi--I wouldn't whistle, if I were you," said Miss Elizabeth, -gently. - -"Oh!" Gracia came suddenly with a ripple and coo of laughter, and -dropped on her knees by Miss Elizabeth. "You couldn't, you poor aunty, -if you tried. You never learned, did you?" - -Miss Elizabeth hesitated. - -"I once tried to learn--of your father. I used to think it sounded -cheerful. But my mother would n't allow it. What I really started to say -was, that I wouldn't, if I were you, I wouldn't wish so many things to -be other than they are. I used to wish for things to be different, and -then, you know, when they stay quite the same, it's such a number of -troubles." - -Gracia clasped her fingers about one knee, studied the neatly built fire -and the blue and white tiles over it, and thought hard on the subject of -wishes. She thought that she had not wished things to be different, so -much as to remain the same as of old, when one wore yellow braids, and -could whistle with approval, and everything happened specially. Because -it is sad when you begin to suspect that the sun and moon and the -growths of spring do not care about you, but only act according to -habits they have fallen into, and that the shining paths, which seem -to lead from beyond the night, are common or accidental and not meant -specially. The elder romancers and the latest seers do insist together -that they are, that such highways indeed as the moon lays on the water -are translunary and come with purposes from a celestial city. The -romancers have a simple faith, and the seers an ingenious theory about -it. But the days and weeks argue differently. They had begun to trouble -the fealty that Gracia held of romance, and she had not met with the -theory of the seers. - -Sandy Cass went through experiences that night which cannot be written, -for there was no sequence in them, and they were translunary and -sub-earthly; some of them broken fragments of his life thrown up at him -out of a kind of smoky red pit, very much as it used to be in the field -hospital. His life seemed to fall easily into fragments. There had not -been much sequence in it, since he began running away from the house of -the squire at fifteen. It had ranged between the back and front doors of -the social structure these ten years. The squire used to storm, because -it came natural to him to speak violently; but privately he thought -Sandy no more than his own younger self, let loose instead of tied down. -He even envied Sandy. He wished he would come oftener to entertain him. -Sandy was a periodical novel continued in the next issue, an irregular -and barbarous Odyssey, in which the squire, comparing with his Pope's -translation, recognized Scylla and Charybdis, Cyclops and Circe, and -the interference of the quarrelling gods. But that night the story went -through the Land of Shadows and Red Dreams. Sandy came at last to the -further edge of the Land; beyond was the Desert of Dreamless Sleep; and -then something white and waving was before his eyes, and beyond was a -pale green shimmer. He heard a gruff voice: - -"Hm--Constitution, Miss Hare. That chap had a solid ancestry. He ought -to have had a relapse and died, and he 'll be out in a week." - -Another voice said in an awed whisper: - -"He's like my Saint George!" - -"Hm--Legendary? This St. G. looks as if he'd made up with his devil. -Looks as if they'd been tolerably good friends." - -A third voice remonstrated: - -"Doctor!" - -"Hm, hm--My nonsense, Miss Gracia, my nonsense." - -The two ladies and the doctor went out. - -It was a long, low room, white, fragrant, and fresh. Soft white curtains -waved in open windows, and outside the late sunlight drifted shyly -through the pale green leaves of young maples. There were dainty things -about, touches of silk and lace, blue and white china on bureau and -dressing-table, a mirror framed with gilded pillars at the sides and a -painted Arcadia above. - -"Well, if I ain't an orphan!" grumbled Sandy, feebly. - -An elderly woman with a checked apron brought him soup in a bowl. She -was quite silent and soon went out. - -"It's pretty slick," he thought, looking around. "I could n't have done -better if I'd been a widow." - -The drifting quiet of the days that Sandy lay there pleased him for the -time. It felt like a cool poultice on a wound. The purity and fragility -of objects was interesting to look at, so long as he lay still and did -not move about among them. But he wondered how people could live -there right along. They must keep everything at a distance, with a -feather-duster between. He had an impression that china things always -broke, and white things became dirty. Then it occurred to him that there -might be some whose nature, without any worry to themselves, was to keep -things clean and not to knock them over, to touch things in a feathery -manner, so that they did not have to stay behind a duster. This subject -of speculation lasted him a day or two, and Miss Elizabeth and Gracia -began to interest him as beings with that special gift. He admired -any kind of capability. Miss Elizabeth he saw often, the woman in the -checked apron till he was tired of her. But Gracia was only now and then -a desirable and fleeting appearance in the doorway, saying: - -"Good morning, Saint George." - -She never stayed to tell him why "Saint George." It came to the point -that the notion of her yellow hair would stay by him an hour or more -afterward. He began to wake from his dozes, fancying he heard "Good -morning, Saint George," and finally to watch the doorway and fidget. - -"This lying abed," he concluded, "is played out." He got up and hunted -about for his clothes. His knees and fingers trembled. The clothes hung -in the closet, cleaned and pressed, in the extraordinary neighborhood of -a white muslin dress. Sandy sat down heavily on the bed. Things seemed -to be whizzing and whimpering all about him. He waited for them to -settle, and pulled on his clothes gradually. At the end of an hour he -thought he might pass on parade, and crept out into the hall and down -the stairs. The sunlight was warm in the garden and on the porch, and -pale green among the leaves. Gracia sat against a pillar, clasping one -knee. Miss Elizabeth sewed; her work-basket was fitted up inside on an -intricate system. Gracia hailed him with enthusiasm, and Miss Elizabeth -remonstrated. He looked past Miss Elizabeth to find the yellow hair. - -"This lying abed," he said feebly, "is played out." - -Sitting in the sunlight, Sandy told his story gradually from day to day. -It was all his story, being made up of selections. He was skilful -from practice on the squire, but he saw the need of a new principle -of selection and combination. His style of narrative was his own. It -possessed gravity, candor, simplicity, an assumption that nothing could -be unreasonable or surprising which came in the course of events, that -all things and all men were acceptable. Gracia thought that simplicity -beautiful, that his speech was like the speech of Tanneguy du Bois, -and that he looked like Saint George in the picture which hung in her -room--a pale young warrior, such as painters once loved to draw, putting -in those keen faces a peculiar manhood, tempered and edged like a sword. -Sandy looked oddly like him, in the straight lines of brow and mouth. -Saint George is taking a swift easy stride over the dead dragon, a kind -of level-eyed daring and grave inquiry in his face, as if it were Sandy -himself, about to say, "You don't happen to have another dragon? This -one wasn't real gamy. I'd rather have an average alligator." She laughed -with ripples and coos, and struggled with lumps in her throat, when -Sandy through simplicity fell into pathos. It bewildered her that the -funny things and pathetic things were so mixed up and run together, and -that he seemed to take no notice of either of them. But she grew -stern and indignant when Bill Smith, it was but probable, robbed the -unsuspecting sleep of his comrade. - -"You see," said Sandy, apologetically, "Bill was restless, that was the -reason. It was his enterprise kept bothering him. Likely he wanted -it for something, and he could n't tell how much I might need without -waking me up to ask. And he couldn't do that, because that'd have been -ridiculous, would n't it? Of course, if he'd waked me up to ask how -much I wanted, because he was going to take the rest with him, why, of -course, I'd been obliged to get up and hit him, to show how ridiculous -it was. Of course Bill saw that, and what could he do? Because there -wasn't any way he could tell, don't you see? So he left the pipe and -tobacco, and a dollar for luck, and lit out, being--a--restless." - -And Gracia wondered at and gloried in the width of that charity, that -impersonal and untamed tolerance. - -Then Sandy took up the subject of Kid Sadler. He felt there was need of -more virtue and valor. He took Kid Sadler and decorated him. He fitted -him with picturesque detail. The Kid bothered him with his raucous -voice, froth-dripped mustache, lean throat, black mighty hands, and -smell of uncleanness. But Sandy chose him as a poet. It seemed a good -start. Gracia surprised him by looking startled and quite tearful, where -the poet says: - - "Nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - - An neither does Bill Smith;" - -which had seemed to Sandy only an accurate statement. - -But the Kid's poetry needed expurgation and amendment. Sandy did it -conscientiously, and spent hours searching for lines of similar rhyme, -which would not glance so directly into byways and alleys that were -surprising. - - "A comin' home, - - A roamin' home--" - -"I told the Kid," he added critically, "roamin' wasn't a good rhyme, but -he thought it was a pathetic word." - - "Oh, when I was a little boy 't was things I did n't know, - - An when I growed I knowed a lot of things that was n't so; - - An now I know a few things that's useful an selected: - - As how to put hard liquor where hard liquor is expected--" - -and so on, different verses, which the Kid called his "Sing Song." -Sandy's judgment hung in doubt over this whether the lines were -objectionable. He tempered the taste of the working literary artist -for distinct flavor, and his own for that which is accurate, with the -cautions of a village library committee, and decided on, - - "An puts them things in moral verse to uses onexpected." - -"I don't know what he meant by 'onexpected,'" Sandy commented with a -sense of helplessness, "but maybe he meant that he didn't know what he -did mean. Because poets," getting more and more entangled, "poets are -that kind they can take a word and mean anything in the neighborhood, or -something that'll occur to 'em next week." - -Gracia admired the Kid, though Miss Elizabeth thought she ought to refer -to him as Mr. Sadler, which seemed a pity. And she declared a violent -love for Little Irish, because "his auburn hair turned bricky red with -falling down a well," and because he wished to climb hills by stepping -on the back of his neck. It was like Alice's Adventures, and especially -like the White Knight's scheme to be over a wall by putting his head on -top and standing on his head. - -After all humors and modifications, Sandy's story was a wild and strange -thing. It took new details from day to day, filling in the picture. -To Gracia's imagination it spread out beyond romance, full of glooms, -flashes, fascinations, dangers of cities, war and wilderness, and -in spite of Sandy's self-indifference, it was he who dominated the -pilgrimage, coloring it with his comment. The pilgrim appeared to be a -person to whom the Valley of the Shadow of Death was equally interesting -with Vanity Fair, and who entering the front gate of the Celestial City -with rejoicing would presently want to know whither the back gate would -take him. It seemed a pilgrimage to anywhere in search of everything, -but Gracia began to fancy it was meant to lead specially to the new -garden gate that opened so broadly on the street, and so dreamed the -fancy into belief. She saw Sandy in imagination coming out of the -pit-black night and lying down in the tool-house by the wet shining -path. The white gate was justified. - -Sandy's convalescence was not a finished thing, but he was beginning to -feel energy starting within him. Energy! He knew the feeling well. It -was something that snarled and clawed by fits. - -"I'm a wildcat," he said to himself reflectively, "sitting on eggs. -Why don't he get off? Now," as if addressing a speculative question for -instance to Kid Sadler, "he could n't expect to hatch anything, could -he?" - -It was such a question as the Kid would have been pleased with, and have -considered justly. "Has he got the eggs?" - -"I don't know. It's a mixed figure, Kid." - -"Does he feel like he wanted to hatch 'em?" - -"What'd he do with 'em hatched? That's so, Kid." - -"_Is_ he a wildcat?" - -"Yep." - -"He is. Can a wildcat hatch eggs? No, he can't." - -"A wildcat"--the Kid would have enjoyed following this figure--"ain't -an incubator. There ain't enough peacefulness in him. He'd make a yaller -mess of 'em an' take to the woods with the mess on his whiskers. It -stands to reason, don't it? He ain't in his own hole on a chickadee's -nest." - -Sandy stood looking over the gate into the village street, which was -shaded to dimness by its maples, a still, warm, brooding street. - -"Like an incubator," he thought, and heard Gracia calling from up the -path: - -"Saint George!" - -Sandy turned. She came down the path to the gate. - -"Aren't you going to fix the peony bed?" - -"Not," said Sandy, "if you stay here by the gate." - -Gracia looked away from him quickly into the street. - -"It's warm and quiet, isn't it? It's like--" - -Zoar was not to her like anything else. - -"Like an incubator," said Sandy, gloomily, and Gracia looked up and -laughed. - -"Oh, I shouldn't have thought of that." - -"Kid Sadler would have said it, if he'd been here." - -"Would he?" - -"Just his kind of figure. And he'd be saying further it was time Sandy -Cass took to the woods." - -He had an irritating spasm of desire to touch the slim white fingers -on the gate. Gracia moved her hands nervously. Sandy saw the fingers -tremble, and swore at himself under his breath. - -"Why, Saint George?" - -"Thinking he was a wildcat and he'd make a yel--a--Maybe thinking he -didn't look nat--I mean," Sandy ended very lamely, "the Kid'd probably -use figures of speech and mean something that'd occur to him by and by." - -"You're not well yet. You're not going so soon," she said, speaking -quite low. - -Sandy meditated a number of lies, and concluded that he did not care for -any of them. He seemed to dislike them as a class. - -This kind of internal struggle was new and irritating. He had never -known two desires that would not compromise equably, or one of them -recognize its place and get out of the road. The savage restlessness in -his blood, old, well-known, expected, something in brain and bone, had -always carried its point and always would. He accounted for all things -in all men by reference to it, supposing them to feel restless, the -inner reason why a man did anything. But here now was another thing, -hopelessly fighting it, clinging, exasperating; somewhere within him it -was a kind of solemn-eyed sorrow that looked outward and backward over -his life, and behold, the same was a windy alkali desert that bore -nothing and was bitter in the mouth; and at the ends of his fingers -it came to a keen point, a desire to touch Gracia's hair and the slim -fingers on the gate. - -Gracia looked up and then away. - -"You're not well yet." - -"You've been uncommonly good to me, and all--" - -"You mustn't speak of it that way. It spoils it." It seemed to both as -if they were swaying nearer together, a languid, mystical atmosphere -thickening about them. Only there was the drawback with Sandy of an -inward monitor, with a hoarse voice like Kid Sadler's, who would be -talking to him in figures and proverbs. - -"Keep away from china an' lace; they break an' stain; this thing has -been observed. Likewise is love a bit o' moonlight, sonny, that's all, -an' a tempest, an' a sucked orange. Come out o' that, Sandy, break away; -for, in the words o' the prophet, 'It's no square game,' an' this here -girl, God bless her! but she plays too high, an' you can't call her, -Sandy, you ain't got the chips. Come away, come away." - -"And that," Sandy concluded the council, "is pretty accurate. I'm broke -this deal." - -He stood up straight and looked at Gracia with eyes drawn and narrowed. - -She felt afraid and did not understand. - -"You don't know me. If you knew me, you'd know I have to go." - -The wind rose in the afternoon, and blew gustily through street and -garden. The windows of Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room were closed. The -curtains hung in white, lifeless folds. But in Gracia's room above the -windows were open, and the white curtains shook with the wind. Delicate -and tremulous, they clung and moulded themselves one moment to the -casement, and then broke out, straining in the wind that tossed the -maple leaves and went up and away into the wild sky after the driving -clouds. - -Sandy turned north up the village street, walking irresolutely. It might -be thirty miles to Wimberton. The squire had sent him money. He could -reach the railroad and make Wimberton that night, but he did not seem to -care about it. - -Out of the village, he fell into the long marching stride, and the -motion set his blood tingling. Presently he felt better; some burden was -shaken off; he was foot-loose and free of the open road, looking to the -friction of event. At the end of five miles he remembered a saying of -Kid Sadler's, chuckled over it, and began humming other verses of the -"Sing Song," so called by the outcast poet. - - "Oh, when I was a little boy, I laughed an then I cried, - - An ever since I done the same, more privately, inside. - - There's a joke between this world an me 'n it's tolerable grim, - - An God has got his end of it, an some of it's on him. - - - For he made a man with his left han, an the rest o' things - - with his right; - - An the right knew not what the left han did, for he hep - - it out o' sight. - - It's maybe a Wagner opery, it ain't no bedtime croon, - - When the highest note in the universe is a half note out - - o' tune'' - -"That appears to be pretty accurate," he thought. "Wonder how the Kid -comes to know things." - -He swung on enjoying the growth of vigor, the endless, open, travelled -road, and the wind blowing across his face. - - - - -SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS - -|Back Meadows lies three miles to the northwest of Hagar, rich -bottom-lands in Sanderson Hollow, and the Cattle Ridge shelters it on -the north. Five generations of Sandersons have added to the Sanderson -accumulation of this world's goods, without sensible interference on -the part of moths or rust or thieves that break through and steal. Cool, -quiet men, slow of speech and persistent of mood, they prospered -and lived well where other families, desiring too many things or not -desiring anything enough, found nothing at all desirable and drifted -away. The speculative traveller, hunting "abandoned farms," or studying -the problem of the future of New England's outlying districts, who -should stand on the crest of the Cattle Ridge overlooking the sheltered -valley, would note it as an instance of the problem satisfactorily -solved and of a farm which, so far from abandonment, smiled over all its -comfortable expanse in the consciousness of past and certainty of future -occupancy. These were ready illustrations for his thesis, if he had one: -the smooth meadows, square stone walls and herds of fawn-colored cattle, -large bams and long stables of the famous Sanderson stud; also the -white gabled house among the maples with spreading ells on either side, -suggesting a position taken with foresight and carefully guarded and -secured--a house that, recognizing the uncertainties and drifting -currents of the world, had acted accordingly, and now could afford to -consider itself complacently. The soul of any individual Sanderson might -be required of him, and his wisdom relative to eternity be demonstrated -folly, but the policy of the Sanderson family had not so far been -considered altogether an individual matter. Even individually, if the -question of such inversion of terms ever occurred to a Sanderson, it -only led to the conclusion that it was strictly a Pickwickian usage, -and, in the ordinary course of language, the policy of building barns, -stowing away goods and reflecting complacently thereon, still came under -the head of wisdom. - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, sister of Israel Sanderson of the last generation -and married into a distant branch of the Sanderson family, carried her -materialism with an unconscious and eccentric frankness that prevented -the family from recognizing in her a peculiar development of its own -quality. When Israel's gentle wife passed from a world which she had -found too full of unanswered questions, it was Mrs. Cullom who plunged -bulkily into the chamber of the great mystery and stopped, gulping with -astonishment. - -"I just made her some blanc-mange," she gasped. "Isn't that too bad! -Why, Israel!" - -Israel turned from the window and contemplated her gravely with his -hands clasped behind him. - -"I think you had better move down to the Meadows, Ellen," he said. "If -you will contrive to say as little as possible to me about Marian, and -one or two other matters I will specify, we shall get along very well." - -He went out with slow step and bent head, followed by Mrs. Cullom trying -vainly to find an idea on the subject suggested, which she was quite -positive she had somewhere about her. What Israel may have thought of -the thing that had whispered within his doors in an unknown tongue, and -had taken away what was his without receipt or equivalent exchange, it -were hard to say; equally hard even to say what he had thought of Marian -these twenty years. If her cloistral devotions and visionary moods -had seemed to him, in uninverted terms, folly, he had never said so. -Certainly he had liked her quiet, ladylike ways, and possibly respected -a difference of temperament inwardly as well as outwardly. At any rate, -tolerance was a consistent Sanderson policy and philosophy of life. - -There was a slight movement in the chamber, after the silence which -followed the departing footsteps of Israel and Mrs. Cullom. A small -person in pinafores crept stealthily from under the bed and peered -over the edge. It was a hard climb but he persisted, and at last -seated himself on it panting, with his elbows on his knees, gravely -considering. A few hours since, the silent lips had whispered, among -many things that came back to his memory in after years like a distant -chime of bells, only this that seemed of any immediate importance: "I -shall be far away to-night, Joe, but when you say your prayers I shall -hear." The problem that puckered the small brow was whether prayers out -of regular hours were real prayers. Joe decided to risk it and, getting -on his knees, said over all the prayers he knew. Then he leaned over -and patted the thin, cold cheek (Joe and his mother always tacitly -understood each other), slid off the bed with a satisfied air, and -solemnly trotted out of the room. - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was a widow; "Which," Israel remarked, "is a pity. -Cullom would have taken comfort in outliving you, Ellen." - -"Well," remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, -Israel. I've always respected his memory." - -Israel, gravely regarding her, observed, "You'd better not try to train -Joe," and departed, leaving her to struggle with the idea that -between Joe and Cullom's comfort Israel was getting very disconnected. -Disconnection of remark did not imply any changeableness in Israel's -temperament. He observed a silent sequence of character, and possibly -a sequence of thought of which he did not care to give evidence, on -matters which he found no profit in discussing. Twelve years later the -mystery again whispered within his doors, and he rose and followed it in -his usual deliberate and taciturn way, without disclosing any opinion on -the question of the inversion of terms. The story of each generation -is put away when its time comes with a more or less irrelevant epitaph, -whether or not its threads be gathered into a satisfactory finale. The -Spirit-of-things-moving-on is singularly indifferent to such matters. -Its only literary principle seems to be, to move on. The new Sanderson -of Back Meadows grew up a slight, thin-faced young fellow. The Sanderson -men were always slight of build, saving a certain breadth of shoulders. -A drooping mustache in course of time hid the only un-Sanderson feature, -a sensitive mouth. The cool gray eyes, slightly drawling speech, and -deliberate manner were all Sanderson, indicating "a chip of the old -block," as Mr. Durfey remarked to the old Scotchman who kept the drag -store in Hagar. If the latter had doubts, he kept them to himself. - -The Sanderson stud sprang from a certain red mare, Martha, belonging -to Blake Sanderson of Revolutionary times. They were a thin-necked, -generally bad-tempered breed, with red veins across the eyes, of high -repute among "horsey" men. Blake Sanderson was said to have ridden the -red mare from Boston in some astonishingly quick time on some -mysterious errand connected with the evacuation of New York, whereby her -descendants were at one time known as the Courier breed; but as no one -seemed to know what the errand was, it was possibly not a patriotic one. -Three of these red, thinnecked mares and a stallion were on exhibition -at the Hamilton County Fair of '76. Notable men of the county were -there, mingled with turfmen of all shades of notoriety; several -immaculately groomed gentlemen, tall-hatted, long-coated, and saying -little, but pointed out with provincial awe as coming from New York and -worth watching; a few lean Kentuckians, the redness of whose noses was -in direct ratio with their knowledge of the business, and whose artistic -profanity had a mercantile value in expressing contempt for Yankee -horse-flesh. There was the Honorable Gerald and the some-say -Dishonorable Morgan Map, originally natives of Hagar, with young Jacob -Lorn between them undergoing astute initiation into the ways of the -world and its manner of furnishing amusement to young men of wealth; -both conversing affably with Gypsy John of not even doubtful reputation, -at present booming Canadian stock in favor of certain animals that -may or may not have seen Canada. Thither came the manager of the opera -troupe resident in Hamilton during the Fair, and the Diva, popularly -known as Mignon, a brown-haired woman with a quick Gallic smile and a -voice, "By gad, sir, that she can soak every note of it in tears, the -little scamp," quoth Cassidy, observing from a distance. Cassidy was a -large fleshy man with a nickel shield under his coat. - - "A face to launch a thousand ships, - - And burn the topless towers of Ilium'' - -misquoted a tall, thin personage with an elongated face and sepulchral -voice. "The gods made you poetical, Mr. Cassidy. Do you find your gift -of sentiment of use on the force?" - -"Yes, sir," shouted Cassidy, inadvertently touched on one of innumerable -hobbies and beginning to pound one hand excitedly with the fist of the -other. "In fine cases, sir, the ordinary detective slips up on just that -point. Now let me tell you, Mr. Mavering--" - -"Tell me whether that is not Mignon's 'mari.' What sort of a man is he?" - -"Mignon's what? Oh--Manager Scott. He isn't married, further than that -he's liable to rows on account of Mignon, who--has a face to upset -things as you justly observe, not to speak of a disposition according. -At least, I don't know but what they may be married. If they are, -they're liable to perpetuate more rows than anything else." - -"'Does something smack, something grow to, has a kind of taste?"' - -"Eh?" said Cassidy, inquiringly. - -Sanderson, standing silently by, as silently turned and walked toward -the crowd drifting back and forth in front of the stables. Portly Judge -Carter of Gilead, beaming through gold-rimmed glasses, side-whiskered -and rubicund, stopped him to remark tremendously that he had issued an -injunction against the stallion going out of the state. "A matter of -local patriotism, Joe, eh?" - -"Hear, hear," commented the Honorable Gerald Map. A crowd began to -gather anticipating a conference of notables. Sanderson extricated -himself and walked on, and two small boys eventually smacked each -other over the question whether Judge Carter was as great a man as Mr. -Sanderson. - -Mavering's eyes followed him speculatively. - -"What's the particular combination that troubles the manager's rest?" - -"Eh?" said Cassidy. "Oh, I don't know. Bob Sutton mostly. He's here -somewhere. Swell young fellow in a plush vest, fashionable proprietor of -thread mills." - -The yellow, dusty road ran between the stables and a battle line of -sycamores and maples. Over the stables loomed the brick wall of the -theatre, and at the end of them a small green door for the private use -of exhibitors gave exit from the Fair Grounds. Sanderson stopped near a -group opposite it, where Mignon stood slapping her riding-boot with her -whip. - -"Mr. Sanderson," said Mignon, liquidly, "how can I get out through that -door?" - -Sanderson considered and suggested opening it. - -"But it's locked! Ciel! It's locked!" - -Sanderson considered again. "Here's a key," he said hopefully. - -"There!" shouted the plush vest. "I knew there'd be some solution. You -see, mademoiselle, what Ave admire in Sanderson is his readiness of -resource. Mademoiselle refused to melt down the fence with a smile or -climb over it on a high C, and we were quite in despair." - -Outside the gate, in the paved courtyard between the theatre and the -hotel, Mignon lifted her big brown eyes which said so many things, -according to Cassidy, that were not so, and observed demurely, "If you -were to leave me that key, Mr. Sanderson, well, I should steal in here -after the performance tonight and ride away on the little red mare, -certainly." - -Sanderson gravely held out the key, but Mignon drew back in sudden alarm -and clasped her hands tragically. - -"Oh, no! You would be on guard and, what! cut up? Yes. Ah, dreadfully! -You are so wise, Mr. Sanderson, and secret." - -And Jack Mavering, following slowly after, chuckled sepulchrally to -himself. "Pretty cool try sting. Peace to the shades of Manager Scott. I -couldn't have done it better myself." - -The Fair Grounds were as dark and lonely at eleven o'clock as if -the lighted street were not three hundred feet away with its gossipy -multitude going up and down seeking some new thing. The stands yawned -indifferently from a thousand vacant seats and the race-track had -forgotten its excitement. Horses stamped and rustled spectrally in their -stalls. The shadow under the maples was abysmal and the abyss gave forth -a murmur of dialogue, the sound of a silken voice. - -"Oh," it sighed in mock despair, "but Americans, they are so very -impassive. Look! They make love in monosyllables. They have no passion, -no action. They pull their mustachios, say 'Damn!'--so, and it is -tragedy. They stroke their chins, so, very grave. They say 'It is not -bad, and it is comedy. Ah, please, Joe, be romantique!" - -"Why," drawled the other voice, "I'll do whatever you like, except have -spasms." - -"Indifferent! Bah! That's not romantique. How would I look in the house -of your fathers?" - -"You'd look like thunder." - -"Would I?" The silken voice sank low and was quiet for a moment. "Well -then, listen. This shall you do. You shall give me that key and an order -to your man that I ride the little mare of a Sunday morning, which is -to-morrow, because she is the wind and because you are disagreeable. Is -it not so?" - -A ripple of low laughter by the green door, and "There then. You drive a -hard bargain in love, monsieur." The door opened and she stepped with -a rustle of skirts into and through the paved courtyard, now unlit by -lamps at the theatre entrance, dark enough for the purposes of Manager -Scott, in an angle of the entrance pulling his mustache and speaking -after the manner described by Mignon as tragedy. - -In the valley of the Wyantenaug many stopped and listened breathlessly -by barn-yard and entry door to a voice that floated along the still air -of the Sabbath morning, now carolling like a bobolink, now fluting -like a wood-thrush, now hushed in the covert of arching trees, and now -pealing over the meadows by the river bank; others only heard a rush of -hoofs and saw a little red horse and its rider go by with the electric -stride of a trained racer. Each put his or her interpretation thereon, -elaborately detailed after the manner of the region, and approximated -the fact of Mignon and her purposes as nearly as might be expected. -Delight in the creation of jewelled sounds as an end in itself; delight -in the clear morning air of autumn valleys, the sight of burnished -leaves and hills in mad revelry of color; delight in following vagrant -fancies with loose rein, happy, wine-lipped elves that rise without -reason and know no law; delight in the thrill and speed of a sinewy -horse compact of nerves; however all these may have entered in the -purposes of Mignon, they are not likely to have entered the conjectures -of the inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley, such pleasures of the flesh. -Mignon let the mare choose her road, confining her own choice to odd -matters of going slow or fast or not at all, pausing by the river bank -to determine the key and imitate the quality of its low chuckle, and -such doings; all as incomprehensible to the little red mare as to the -inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley. - -The valley is broad with cup-shaped sides, save where the crowding of -the hills has thrust one forward to stand in embarrassed projection. -Some twenty miles above Hamilton rises Windless Mountain on the right, -guarding from the world the village of Hagar behind it. Northward -from Windless lie irregular hills, and between them and the long -westward-inclining tumulus of the Cattle Ridge a narrow gorge with a -tumbling brook comes down. Up this gorge goes a broad, well-kept road, -now bridging the brook, now slipping under shelving ledges, everywhere -carpeted with the needles of pines, secret with the shadows of pines, -spicy and strong with the scent of pines, till at the end of half a mile -it emerges from beneath the pines into Sanderson Hollow. The little red -mare shot from the gloom into the sunlight with a snort and shake of the -head that seemed to say: "Oh, my hoofs and fetlocks! Deliver me from a -woman who makes believe to herself she is n't going where she is, or if -she is that it's only accidental." - -Mrs. Cullom Sanderson ponderously made ready for church, not with a -mental preparation of which the minister would have approved unless -he had seen as clearly as Mrs. Cullom the necessity of denouncing in -unmeasured terms the iniquity of Susan. Susan was a maid who tried to -do anything that she was told, and bumped her head a great deal. Her -present iniquity lay in her fingers and consisted in tying and buttoning -Mrs. Cullom and putting her together generally so that she felt as if -she had fallen into her clothes from different directions. A ring at the -door-bell brought Mrs. Cullom down from heights of sputtering invective -like an exhausted sky-rocket, and she plumped into a chair whispering -feebly, "Goodness, Susan, who's that?" Susan vaguely disclaimed all -knowledge of "that." - -"You might find out," remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, the reaction precluding -anything but a general feeling of injury. Susan went down-stairs and -bumped her head on the chandelier, opened the door and bumped it on the -door. - -"Ouch," she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. "Please, ma'am, Miss -Sanderson wants to know, who's that?" - -"Ah," said the trim little lady in riding-habit, "will you so kindly ask -Miss Sanderson that I may speak to her?" - -But Mrs. Cullom was already descending the stairs, each step appearing -to Mignon to have the nature of a plunge. "My goodness, yes. Come in." -Mignon carried her long skirt over the lintel. - -"I am quite grieved to intrude, mademoi--" Mrs. Cullom's matronly -proportions seemed to discountenance the diminutive, "a--madame. Mr. -Sanderson permitted me to ride one of his horses. He is so generous. -And the horse brought me here, oh, quite decisively," and Mignon laughed -such a soft, magical laugh that Susan grinned in broad delight. "It is -such a famous place, this, is it not,--Back Meadows? I thought I might -be allowed to--to pay tribute to its fame." - -Mrs. Cullom's cordiality was such that if, strictly speaking, two -hundred pounds can flutter, she may be said to have fluttered. She -plunged through two sombre-curtained parlors, Mignon drifting serenely -in the wake of her tumult. Something in the black, old colonial -furniture sent a feeling of cold gruesomeness into her sunny veins, and -she was glad when Mrs. Cullom declared it chilly and towed her into the -dining-room, where a warm light sifted through yellow windows of -modern setting high over a long, irregular sideboard, and mellowed the -portraits of departed Sandersons on the walls: honorables numerous of -colonial times (Blake, first of the horse-breeding Sandersons, booted -and spurred but with too much thinness of face and length of jaw for a -Squire Western type), all flanked by dames, with a child here and there, -above or below--all but the late Israel, whose loneliness in his gilt -frame seemed to have a certain harmony with his expression. - -"That was Joseph's father, my brother Israel," said Mrs. Cullom, as -Mignon's eyes travelled curiously along and rested on the last. "Joseph -keeps his mother hung up in his den." - -"Hung up? Den?" cried Mignon, with a recurrence of the gruesome feeling -of the parlors. "Oh, ciel! What does he keep there? Bones?" - -"Bones! Goodness no. Books." - -Mrs. Cullom pushed open a door to the right and entered a long, low room -piled to the ceiling and littered with books, which, together with the -leathern chair and red-shaded lamp before the fireplace, gave a decided -air of studious repose, nothing suggesting a breeder of fancy stock. An -oil painting of a lady hung over the mantel, and near it some medival -Madonna, not unresembling the portrait in its pale cheeks, unworldly -eyes, and that faint monastic air of vigil and vision and strenuous -yearning of the soul to throw its dust aside. Nevertheless the face of -the lady was a sweet face, quiet and pure, such as from many a Madonna -of the Old World in tawdry regalia looks pityingly down over altar and -winking tapers, seeming to say with her tender eyes, "Is it very hard, -my dear, the living? Come apart then and rest awhile." Mignon turned to -Mrs. Cullom. "You are dressed for going out, madame," she said, looking -at that lady's well-to-do black silk. "Am I not detaining you?" - -"Oh, I was going to church. Goodness, are n't you going to church?" -A sudden thought struck her and she added severely: "And you've been -riding that wicked little mare on Sunday. And she might have thrown you, -and how'd you look pitched headfirst into heaven dressed so everybody ud -know you weren't going to church!" - -"Oh," cried Mignon, "but I was good when I was a child. Yes! I went to -mass every day, and had a little prie-dieu, oh, so tiny!" - -"Mass!" gasped Mrs. Cullom. "Well, I declare. What's a pray-do?" - -Mignon surveyed her riding-skirt regretfully. "Would it not be -appropriate, madame? I should so like to go with you," she said -plaintively. - -"Goodness! I'll risk it if you will. I'd like to see the woman who'd -tell me what to wear to church." She plunged suddenly out of the room, -leaving Mignon thinking that she would not like to be the woman referred -to. She listened to the ponderous footsteps of Mrs. Cullom climbing -the stairs, and then sank into the leathern chair facing the picture. -Possibly the living and the dead faced each other on a point at issue; -they seemed to debate some matter gravely and gently, as is seldom done -where both are living. Possibly it was Mignon's dramatic instinct -which caused her to rise at last, gathering up her riding-skirt, at -the approaching footsteps of Mrs. Cullom, and bow with Gallic grace and -diminutive stateliness to the pure-faced lady with the spiritual eyes. -"C'est vrai, madame," she said, and passed out with her small head in -the air. - -The congregation that day in the little church of the bended -weather-vane, where Hagar's cross-roads meet, heard certain ancient -hymns sung as never before in the church of the bended weather-vane. -"Rock of Ages, cleft for me," pleaded the silken voice, like a visitant -invisible, floating from fluted pillar to fluted pillar, calling at -some unseen door, "Let me in! Ah, let me in!" Somewhat too much of -rose leaves and purple garments in the voice for that simple, steadfast -music. The spirit seemed pleading rather for gratification than -rest. The congregation stopped singing, save Mrs. Cullom, who flatted -comfortably on unnoticed. Deacon Crockett frowned ominously over his -glasses at a scandalous scene and a woman too conspicuous; Captain David -Brett showed all the places where he had no teeth; Mr. Royce looked down -from the pulpit troubled with strange thoughts, and Miss Hettie Royce -dropped her veil over her face, remembering her youth. - -How should Mignon know she was not expected to be on exhibition in that -curious place? Of course people should be silent and listen when an -artist sings. Mignon hardly remembered a time when she was not more or -less on exhibition. That volatile young lady cantered along the Windless -Mountain Road somewhat after twelve o'clock not in a very good humor. -She recognized the ill humor, considered ill humor a thing both -unpleasant and unnecessary and attributed it to an empty stomach; -dismounted before an orchard and swung herself over the wall reckless of -where her skirts went or where they did not. - -"Them apples is mine," growled a gray-bearded person behind a barn-yard -fence. - -"Then why didn't you get them for me, pig?" returned Mignon sharply, -and departed with more than her small hands could conveniently carry, -leaving the gray-bearded person turning the question over dubiously in -his mind. - -It happened to have occurred to Sanderson that certain business of his -own pointed to Back Meadows that Sunday morning. The up-train on Sunday -does not leave till after eleven, and he took the valley road on the red -stallion of uncertain temper. The inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley heard -no more carolling voices, or fitful rush and clatter of hoofs. The red -stallion covered his miles with a steady stride and the rider kept his -emotions, aesthetic or otherwise, to himself. The twain swung into the -Hollow about eleven o'clock, and Sanderson presently found himself in -his leathern chair debating a question at issue with the lady of the -spiritual eyes. What passed between them is their own secret, quite -hopeless of discovery, with one end of it on the other side of the -"valley of the shadow," and the other buried in close coverts of -Sanderson reserve. When the door-bell rang and Susan appearing bumped -her head against the casing and announced, "Mr. Joe, it's a red-haired -gentleman," having no dramatic instinct, he passed into the dining-room -without salutation to the lady of the spiritual eyes. - -"How are you, Scott? Sit down," he drawled placidly. - -"I suppose you know what I'm here for," said the other, with evident -self-restraint. - -"Can't say I do," returned Sanderson, cheerfully. "It needn't be -anything in particular, need it?" He sat down, stretched his legs under -the dining-room table and his arms on top of it. Manager Scott paced the -floor nervously. Suddenly he stooped, picked up something and flung it -on the table--a strip of thin gray veil. "You can save yourself a lie, -Mr. Sanderson." - -Sanderson gravely regarded the delicate article which seemed to be put -forth both as an accusation and a proof of something. Then he leaned -forward and rang the bell. "I will overlook that implication for the -present, Mr. Scott," he remarked. "If it's a bluff, it's a good one. I -take it it is n't. Susan, has any one been here this morning?" as that -maiden tumbled into the room in a general tangle of feet. - -"Yes, sir, and she's gone. My! She ain't comin' back to dinner! Lady -rode the little mare and she went to church with Miss Sanderson." - -"Mademoiselle Mignon," drawled Sanderson, turning to Manager Scott, -"asked permission to ride the mare this morning. I was not aware she -intended making an excursion to Back Meadows or I should have asked -permission to attend her. It seems she went to Hagar with my aunt and -proposes to ride back to Hamilton from there. It's my turn now, old man, -and I'd like to know what was the necessity of making your visit so very -tragic." - -"Oh, I presume I'm an ass," returned the other, with a noticeable -nervous twitching of the mouth and fingers, "and I presume I owe you an -apology. I shall probably shoot the man that comes between Mignon and -me, if he doesn't shoot first, which is all very asinine." - -"Quite irrespective of what mademoiselle may think about it?" - -"Oh, quite." - -"Well," said Sanderson, after a pause, "I rather sympathize with your -way of looking at it. I shouldn't wonder if I had some of that primeval -brutality myself." - -"Look here, Sanderson," said the manager. "Without going into -humiliating details as to how I came by the fact, which I don't know -why you take so much pains to conceal, I know as well as you do that the -issue is between you and me." - -"You don't mean to threaten, do you, Scott?" - -"Oh, no. I'm going back to Hamilton. I was looking for a row, and you -don't give me enough to go on." - -"Can't do it just now, old man," said Sanderson, gently, shaking hands -with him at the door. "I'll let you know when I can. In that case we 'll -have it out between us." - -The manager strode off across the Hollow and down the Gorge to the -valley station, and Sanderson mounted and took the road to Hagar. He -passed the village about one. The red stallion thundered through the -pine avenues at the foot of Windless and swept around the curve into -Wyantenaug Valley, but it was not till within a few miles of Hamilton -that the speedy little mare, even bothered as she was by her rider's -infirmity of purpose, allowed herself to be overtaken. The road there -turned away from the river and went covered with crisp autumn leaves -through chestnut woods. Mignon looked up and laughed, and the two horses -fell sympathetically into a walk. - -"Don't you think you owe me an explanation?" asked Sanderson, in a low -tone. - -"Indeed, sir, I owe you nothing, not even for this ride. It was paid -for," rippled the silken voice, and stopped suddenly in a little sob. -Sanderson turned quickly and bent over her. - -"By the living God," he said solemnly, "I swear I love you. What barrier -is strong enough to face that?" - -"It is because you do not know me, that. Listen, Joe. I have not been -what you call good nor pure in the past and shall not in the future. No, -hush. I know what I am and what I shall be always. If I swore by -your living God that I loved you now, it would not mean that I should -to-morrow, and the next day, oh, not at all. There are no deeps in me, -nor what you call a faith or principle in life. Listen, Joe. That lady -whose portrait I saw is your guardian angel. Look, I reverence now. -To-morrow I shall mock both her and you. This that I speak now is only -a mood. The wind is now one thing and then quite another, Joe. It has no -centre and no soul. I am an artist, sir. I have moods but no character. -Morals! I have none. They go like the whiff of the breeze. Nothing that -I do lowers or lifts me. It passes through me and that is all. Do you -not understand?" which indeed was hard to do, for the brown eyes were -very soft and deep. - -"If any one else had told me this," said Sanderson, between his teeth, -"man or woman, it would never have been said but once." - -"It is harder for you than for me, for to-morrow I shall not care and -you, you will care perhaps a long time. You are fast like these hills. -Listen. Now, sir, this is our last ride together. We are a cavalier and -his lady. They are gallant and gay. They wear life and love and death -in their hair like flowers. They smile and will not let their hearts -be sad, for they say, 'It is cowardly to be sad: it is brave only to -smile.' Is it not so?" - -Sanderson's New England reserve fled far away, and he bent over her -hand. - -"It shall be as you say." - -And to-morrow seemed far enough away, and an hour had its eternal value. -But the steady old hills could not understand that kind of chronology. - - - - -TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM - -|The Salem Road is a dusty road. Perhaps it is not really any dustier -than other roads, but it is straighter than most roads about Hagar. You -can see more of it at a time, and in that way you can see more dust. -Along this road one day many years ago came Dr. Wye of Salem in his -buggy, which leaned over on one side; and the dust was all over the -buggy-top, all over the big, gray, plodding horse, and all over the -doctor's hat and coat. He was tired and drowsy, but you would not have -suspected it; for he was a red-faced, sturdy man, with a beard cut -square, as if he never compromised with anything. He sat up straight and -solid, so as not to compromise with the tipping of the buggy. - -"Come, Billy," said the doctor, "no nonsense, now." - -He prided himself on being a strict man, who would put up with no -nonsense, but every one knew better. Billy, the gray horse, knew as well -as any one. - -"Come now, Billy, get along." - -A tall, dusty, black-bearded man rose up beside the road, and Billy -stopped immediately. - -A large pack lay against the bank. - -"You ain't seen a yeller dog?" - -"No," said the doctor, gruffly. He was provoked with Billy. "There -aren't any yellow dogs around here." - -"He hadn't no tail," persisted the stranger, wistfully. "And there were -a boy a-holdin' him. He chopped it off when he were little." - -"Who chopped it off?" - -"Hey? He's a little cuss, but the dog's a good dog." - -"Get up, Billy," growled the doctor. "All boys are little cusses. I have -n't seen any yellow dog. Nonsense! I wonder he did n't ask if I'd seen -the tail." - -But somehow the doctor could not get rid of the man's face, and he found -himself looking along the roadside for boys that were distinctly "little -cusses" and yellow dogs without tails, all the rest of the day. - -In the evening twilight he drove into Salem village. Very cool and -pleasant looked the little white house among the trees. Mother Wye -stood on the porch in her white apron and cap, watching for him. She -was flying signals of distress--if the word were not too strong--she was -even agitated. He tramped up the steps reassuringly. - -"Oh," whispered Mother Wye, "you've no idea, Ned! There's a boy and a -dog, a very large dog, my dear, on the back steps." - -"Well," said the doctor, gallantly, "they've no business to be anywhere -frightening my little mother. We'll tell them to do something else." The -doctor tramped sturdily around to the back steps, Mother Wye following -much comforted. - -The dog was actually a yellow dog without any tail to speak of--a large, -genial-looking dog, nevertheless; the boy, a black-eyed boy, very grave -and indifferent, with a face somewhat thin and long. "Without doubt," -thought the doctor, "a little cuss. Hullo," he said aloud, "I met a man -looking for you." - -The boy scrutinized him with settled gravity. "He's not much account," -he said calmly. "I'd rather stay here." - -"Oh, you would!" grumbled the doctor. "Must think I want somebody around -all the time to frighten this lady. Nice folks you are, you and your -dog." - -The boy turned quickly and took off his cap. "I beg your pardon, madam," -he said with a smile that was singularly sudden and winning. The action -was so elderly and sedate, so very courtly, surprising, and incongruous, -that the doctor slapped his knee and laughed uproariously; and Mother -Wye went through an immediate revulsion, to feel herself permeated with -motherly desires. The boy went on unmoved. - -"He's an easy dog, ma'am. His name's Poison, but he never does -anything;"--which started the doctor off again. - -"They said you wanted a boy." - -"Ah," said the doctor, growing grave, "that's true; but you're not the -boy." - -The boy seemed to think him plainly mistaken. "Stuff!" growled the -doctor, "I want a boy I can send all around the country. I know a dozen -boys that know the country, and that I know all about. I don't want you. -Besides," he added, "he said you were a little cuss." - -The boy paid no attention to the last remark. "I'll find it out. Other -boys are thick-headed." - -"That's true," the doctor admitted; "they are thick-headed." Indeed -this young person's serenity and confidence quite staggered him. A new -diplomatic idea seemed to occur to the young person. He turned to Mother -Wye and said gravely: "Will you pull Poison's ear, ma'am, so he'll know -it's all right?" - -Mother Wye, with some trepidation, pulled Poison's ear, and Poison -wagged the whole back end of himself to make up for a tail, signifying -things that were amicable, while the doctor tugged at his beard and -objected to nonsense. - -"Well, young man, we'll see what you have to say for yourself. Tut! -tut! mother,"--to Mrs. Wye's murmur of remonstrance,--"we'll have no -nonsense. This is a practical matter;" and he tramped sturdily into the -house, followed by the serious boy, the amicable dog, and the appeased, -in fact the quite melted, Mother Wye. - -"Now, boy," said the doctor, "what's your name?" - -"Jack." - -"Jack what? Is that other fellow your father?" - -"I reckon maybe he is," returned Jack, with a gloomy frown. "His name's -Baker. He peddles." - -The doctor tugged at his beard and muttered that "at any rate there -appeared to be no nonsense about it. But he's looking for you," he said. -"He'll take you away." - -"He's looking for the dog," said Jack, calmly. "He can't have him." - -The East End Road, which circles the eastern end of the Cattle Ridge, -is not at all like the Salem Road. It is wilder and crookeder, to begin -with, but that is a superficial matter. It passes through thick woods, -dips into gullies, and changes continually, while along the Salem Road -there is just the smoky haze on the meadows and dust in the chalices -of the flowers; there too the distance blinks stupidly and speculation -comes to nothing. But the real point is this: the Salem Road leads -straight to Hagar and stops there; the East End Road goes over somewhere -among the northern hills and splits up into innumerable side roads, -roads that lead to doorways, roads that run into footpaths and dwindle -away in despair, roads of which it must be said with sorrow that there -was doubt in Salem whether they ever ended or led anywhere. Hence arose -the tale that all things which were strange and new, at least all things -which were to be feared, came into Salem over the East End Road; just as -in Hagar they came down from the Cattle Ridge and went away to the south -beyond Windless Mountain. - -Along this road, a month later than the last incident, came the -black-bearded peddler with his pack, whistling; and indeed his pack, -though large, seemed to weigh singularly little; also the peddler seemed -to be in a very peaceful frame of mind. And along this road too came the -plodding gray horse, with the serious boy driving, and the yellow dog -in the rear; all at a pace which slowly but surely overtook the peddler. -The peddler, reaching a quiet place where a bank of ferns bordered the -brushwood, sat down and waited, whistling. The dog, catching sight of -him, came forward with a rush, wagging the back end of himself; and -Billy, the gray horse, came gently to a standstill. - -"How goes it?" said the peddler, pausing a moment in his whistling. -"Pretty good?" - -"Mostly." - -The peddler took a cigar-case from his pocket, a cigar wrapped in -tin-foil from the case, and lay back lazily among the ferns, putting his -long thin hands behind his head. "My notion was," he murmured, -"that it would take a month, a month would be enough." - -The serious boy said nothing, but sat with his chin on his fists looking -down the road meditatively. - -"My notion was," went on the peddler, "that a doctor's boy, particularly -that doctor's boy, would get into all the best houses around--learn the -lay of things tolerably neat. That was my notion. Good notion, wasn't -it, Jack?" Jack muttered a subdued assent. The peddler glanced at him -critically. "For instance now, that big square house on the hill north -of Hagar." - -Jack shook his head. "Nothing in it. Old man, name Map, rich enough, -furniture done up in cloth, valuables stored in Hamilton; clock or two -maybe; nothing in it." - -"Ah," said the other, "just so;" and again he glanced critically through -his half-closed eyes. "But there are others." Again Jack muttered a -subdued assent. - -"Good?" - -"Good enough." - -The apparent peddler smoked, quite at his ease among the ferns, and -seemed resolved that the boy should break the silence next. - -"Are you banking on this business, dad?" said the latter, finally. - -"Ah--why, no, Jack, not really. It's a sort of notion, I admit." He -lifted one knee lazily over the other. "I'm not shoving you, Jack. State -the case." A long silence followed, to which the conversation of the two -seemed well accustomed. - -"I never knew anything like that down there," nodding in the direction -of Salem. "Those people.--It's different." - -"That's so," assented the apparent peddler, critically. "I reckon it -is. We make a point not to be low. Polish is our strong point, Jack. -But we're not in society. We are not, in a way, on speaking terms with -society." - -"It ain't that." - -"Isn't," corrected the other, gently. "Isn't, Jack. But I rather think -it is." - -"Well," said Jack, "it's different, and"--with gloomy decision--"it's -better." - -The apparent peddler whistled no more, but lay back among the ferns and -gazed up at the drooping leaves overhead. The gray horse whisked at the -wood-gnats and looked around now and again inquiringly. The yellow dog -cocked his head on one side as if he had an opinion worth listening to -if it were only called for. - -"I suppose now," said the apparent peddler, softly, "I suppose now -they're pretty cosy. I suppose they say prayers." - -"You bet.". - -"You mean that they do, Jack. I suppose," he went on dreamily, "I -suppose the old lady has white hair and knits stockings." - -"She does that," said Jack, enthusiastically, "and pincushions and -mats." - -"And pincushions and mats. That's so." - -The lowing of cattle came up to them from hidden meadows below; for the -afternoon was drawing near its close and the cattle were uneasy. The -chimney and roof of a farmhouse were just visible through a break in the -sloping woods. The smoke that mounted from the chimney seemed to linger -lovingly over the roof, like a symbol of peace, blessing the hearth -from which it came. The sentimental outcast puffed his excellent cigar -meditatively, now and again taking it out to remark, "Pincushions and -mats!" indicating the constancy of his thoughts. - -The serious boy motioned in the direction of Salem. "I think I'll stay -there," he said. "It's better." - -"Reckon I know how you feel, Jack,--know how you feel. Give me my lowly -thatched cottage, and that sort of thing." After a longer silence -still, he sat up and threw away his cigar. "Well, Jack, if you see your -way--a--if I were you, Jack," he said slowly, "I wouldn't go half and -half; I'd go the whole bill. I'd turn on the hose and inquire for the -ten commandments, that's what I'd do." He came and leaned lazily on -the carriage wheel. "That isn't very plain. It's like this. You don't -exactly abolish the old man; you just imagine him comfortably buried; -that's it, comfortably buried, with an epitaph,--flourishy, Jack, -flourishy, stating"--here his eyes roamed meditatively along Billy's -well-padded spine--"stating, in a general way, that he made a point of -polish." - -The serious boy's lip trembled slightly. He seemed to be seeking some -method of expression. Finally he said: "I'll trade knives with you, dad. -It's six blades"; and the two silently exchanged knives. - -Then Billy, the gray horse, plodded down the hill through the woods, and -the apparent peddler plodded up. At one turn in the road can be seen the -white houses of Salem across the valley; and here he paused, leaning on -the single pole that guarded the edge. After a time he roused himself -again, swung his pack to his shoulder, and disappeared over the crest of -the hill whistling. - -The shadows deepened swiftly in the woods; they lengthened in the open -valley, filling the hollows, climbed the hill to Salem, and made dusky -Dr. Wye's little porch and his tiny office duskier still. The office -was so tiny that portly Judge Carter of Gilead seemed nearly to fill it, -leaving small space for the doctor. For this or some other reason -the doctor seemed uncomfortable, quite oppressed and borne down, and -remonstrating with the oppression. The judge was a man of some splendor, -with gold eye-glasses and cane. - -"There really is no doubt about it," he was saying, with a magnificent -finger on the doctor's knee, "no doubt at all." - -The conversation seemed to be most absorbing. The doctor pulled his -beard abstractedly and frowned. - -The serious boy drove by outside in the dusk, and after a while came up -from the bam. He sat down on the edge of the porch to think things over, -and the judge's voice rolled on oracularly. Jack hardly knew yet -what his thoughts were; and this was a state of mind that he was not -accustomed to put up with, because muddle-headedness was a thing that -he especially despised. "You don't exactly abolish the old man," he kept -hearing the peddler say; "you just imagine him comfortably buried--with -an epitaph--flourishy--stating--" - -"Clever, very," said the judge. "Merriwether was telling me--won't -catch him, too clever--Merri-wether says--remarkable--interesting scamp, -very." The doctor growled some inaudible objection. - -"Why did he show himself!" exclaimed the judge. "Why, see here. Observe -the refined cleverness of it! It roused your interest, didn't it? It was -unique, amusing. Chances are ten to one you would n't have taken the boy -without it. Why, look here--" - -"Stuff!"--Here the doctor raised his voice angrily. "The boy ran away -from him, of course." - -"Maybe, doctor, maybe," said the judge, soothingly. "But there are -other things--looks shady--consider the man is known. Dangerous, doctor, -dangerous, very. You ought to be careful." Then the words were a mere -murmur. - -Jack sat still on the porch, with his chin on his hands. Overhead -the night-hawks called, and now and then one came down with a whiz of -swooping wings. Presently he heard the chairs scrape; he rose, slipped -around to the back porch and into the kitchen. - -The little bronze clock in the dining-room had just told its largest -stint of hours,--and very hard work it made of it. It was a great trial -to the clock to have to rouse itself and bluster so. It did not mind -telling time in a quiet way. But then, every profession has its trials. -It settled itself again to stare with round, astonished face at the -table in the centre of the room. - -Jack sat at the table by a dim lamp, the house dark and silent all -around him, writing a letter. He leaned his head down almost on a level -with the paper. - -"I herd him and you," he wrote in a round hand with many blots. "I lied -and so did he I mean dad. I can lie good. Dad sed I must learn the ten -comandments. The ten comandments says diferent things. You neednt be -afrad. There dont anithing happen cep to me. I do love Mother Wye tru." -The clock went on telling the time in the way that it liked to do, -tick-tick-tick. Overhead the doctor slept a troubled sleep, and in -Gilead Judge Carter slept a sound sleep of good digestion. - -Far off the Salem Road led westward straight to Hagar, and stopped, and -the moonlight lay over it all the way; but the East End Road led through -the shadows and deep night over among the northern hills, and split -up into many roads, some of which did not seem ever to end, or lead -anywhere. - -Jack dropped from the window skilfully, noiselessly, and slid away in -the moonlight. At the Corners he did not hesitate, but took the East End -Road. - - - - -A VISIBLE JUDGMENT - -|He bore the name of Adam Wick. There seemed to be something primitive -in his temperament to fit it. By primitive we mean of such times as may -have furnished single-eyed passions that did not argue. He was a small, -thin, stooping man, with a sharp nose and red-lidded eyes. Sarah Wick, -his daughter, was a dry-faced woman of thirty, and lived with him. - -His house stood on a hill looking over the village of Preston -Plains, which lay in a flat valley. In the middle of the village the -church-steeple shot up tapering and tall. - -It was a bickering community. The church was a centre of interest. The -outlines of the building were clean and shapely, but in detail it stood -for a variety of opinions. A raised tracery ran along the pseudo-classic -frieze of its front, representing a rope of flowers with little cupids -holding up the loops. They may have been cherubs. The community had -quarrelled about them long ago when the church was building, but that -subject had given way to other subjects. - -The choir gallery bulged over the rear seats, as if to dispute the -relative importance of the pulpit. That was nothing. But it needed -bracing. The committee decided against a single pillar, and erected two, -one of them in the middle of Adam Wick's pew. - -Adam looked at things simply. It seemed to his simplicity that the -community had conspired to do him injustice. The spirit of nonconformity -stirred within him. He went to the minister. - -"Andrew Hill, nor any other man, nor committeeman's got no rights in my -pew." - -The minister was dignified. - -"The pew, Mr. Wick, belongs to the church." - -"No such thing! I sat twenty-four years in that pew." - -"But that, though very creditable--" - -"No such thing! I'll have no post in my pew, for Andrew Hill nor no -minister neither." - -"Mr. Wick--" - -"You take that post out o' my pew." - -He stumped out of the minister's green-latticed doorway and down the -gravel path. His eyes on either side of his sharp nose were like -those of an angry hawk, and his stooping shoulders, seen from behind, -resembled the huddled back of the hawk, caged and sullen. - -The minister watched him. Properly speaking, a primitive nature is an -unlimited monarchy where ego is king, but the minister's reflections did -not run in these terms. He did not even go so far as to wonder whether -such primitive natures did not render the current theory of a church -inaccurate. He went so far as to wonder what Adam Wick would do. - -One dark, windy night, near midnight, Adam Wick climbed in at the -vestibule window of the church, and chopped the pillar in two with an -axe. The wind wailed in the belfry over his head. The blinds strained, -as if hands were plucking at them from without. The sound of his blows -echoed in the cold, empty building, as if some personal devil were -enjoying the sacrilege. Adam was a simple-minded man; he realized that -he was having a good time himself. - -It was three days before the church was opened. What may have been -Adam's primitive thoughts, moving secretively among his townsmen? Then -a sudden rumor ran, a cry went up, of horror, of accusation, of the -lust of strife. Before the accusation Adam did not hesitate to make his -defiance perfect. The primitive mind was not in doubt. With a blink of -his red eyelids, he answered: - -"You tell Andrew Hill, don't you put another post in my pew." - -A meeting was held; a majority voted enthusiastically to strike his name -from the rolls for unchristian behavior and to replace the pillar. A -minority declared him a wronged man. That was natural enough in Preston -Plains. But Adam Wick's actions at this point were thought original and -effective by every one. - -He sat silently through the proceedings in the pew with the hacked -pillar, his shoulders hunched, his sharp eyes restless. - -"Mr. Wick," said the minister, sternly, "have you anything to say?" - -Adam rose. - -"I put fifty-six dollars into this meetin'-house. Any man deny that?" - -No man denied it. - -"Humph!" said Adam. - -He took the hymn-book from the rack, lifted the green cushion from the -seat, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out. - -No man spoke against it. - -"There's no further business before this meeting," said Chairman Hill. - -It was a Sunday in August and nearly noon. From the side porch of Adam -Wick's house on the hill the clustered foliage of the village below was -the centre of the landscape. The steeple and ridgepole of the church -rose out of the centre of the foliage. - -The landscape could not be fancied without the steeple. The dumb -materials of the earth, as well as the men who walk upon it, acquire -habits. You could read on the flat face of the valley that it had grown -accustomed to Preston Plains steeple. - -On the side porch stood a long, high-backed bench. It was a close -imitation of the pews in the church below among the foliage, with the -long green cushion on the seat and a chair facing it with a hymn-book -on it. Adam sat motionless on the bench. His red-lidded eyes were fixed -intently on the steeple. - -A hen with a brood of downy yellow chickens pecked about the path. -A turkey strutted up and down. The air was sultry, oppressive. A low -murmur of thunder mingled with the sleepy noises of creaking crickets -and clucking hen. - -Adam Wick's bench and rule of Sabbath observance had been common talk in -Preston Plains. But it had grown too familiar, for subjects of dispute -ever gave way there to other subjects. Some one said it was pathetic. -The minority thought it a happy instance to throw in the face of -the bigoted majority, that they had driven from the church a man -of religious feeling. The minister had consulted Andrew Hill, that -thick-set man with the dry mouth and gray chin-beard. - -"Not take out that pillar!" said Andrew Hill. "Ah," said the minister, -"I'm afraid that wouldn't do. It would seem like--" - -"I wouldn't move that pillar if the whole town was sidin' with him." - -"Oh, now--" - -"Not while I'm alive. Adam Wick, he's obstinate." Mr. Hill shut his -mouth grimly. - -"Religious! Humph! Maybe he is." - -The minister moved away. They were a stiff-necked people, but after all -he felt himself to be one of them. It was his own race. He knew how -Andrew Hill felt, as if something somewhere within him were suddenly -clamped down and riveted. He understood Adam too, in his private pew on -the side porch, the hymn-book on the chair, his eyes on Preston Plains -steeple, fixed and glittering. He thought, "We don't claim to be -altogether lovely." - -Adam was in his own eyes without question a just man suffering -injustice. His fathers in their Genesis and Exodus had so suffered, -faced stocks, pillory, the frowning edge of the wilderness, and -possessed their souls with the same grim congratulation. No generation -ever saw visions and sweat blood, and left a moderate-minded posterity. -Such martyrs were not surer that the God of Justice stood beside them -than Adam was sure of the injustice of that pillar in that pew, nor -more resolved that neither death nor hell should prevail against the -faithfulness of their protest. - -And the turkey strutted in the yard, the chickens hurried and peeped, -the thunder muttered at intervals as if the earth were breathing heavily -in its hot sleep. - -The church-bell rang for the end of the morning service. It floated up -from the distance, sweet and plaintive. - -Adam rose and carried the cushion, chair, and hymn-book into the house. - -The storm was rising, darkening. It crouched on the hills. It seemed to -gather its garments and gird its loins, to breathe heavily with crowded -hate, to strike with daggers of lightning right and left. - -Adam came out again and sat on the bench. The service being over, it was -no longer a pew. - -Carriages, one after another, drove out of the foliage below, and along -the five roads that ran out of Preston Plains between zigzag fences and -low stone walls. They were hurrying, but from that distance they seemed -to crawl. - -The Wick carriage came up the hill and through the gate--creaking -wheels, a shambling white horse, Sarah jerking the reins with monotonous -persistence. She stepped down and dusted off her cotton gloves. Adam -walked out to take the horse. - -"Wherefore do ye harden your hearts as the Egyptians and Pharaoh -hardened their hearts?" - -Adam seemed puzzled, blinked his eyes, seemed to study carefully the -contents of his own mind. - -"I do' know," he said at last. - -"First Samuel, seven, six," said Sarah. - -Adam led the horse away despondently. Halfway to the bam he stopped and -called out: - -"Did he preach at me?" - -"No." - -The minister had chosen a text that Adam did not know, and made no -reference to him, although the text was a likely one. Adam felt both -slights in a dim way, and resented them. He came back to the house and -sat in the front room before the window. - -The valley was covered with a thick veil of gray rain. The black cloud -above it cracked every moment with sudden explosions, the echoes of them -tumbling clumsily among the hills. Preston Plains steeple faded away -and the foliage below it became a dim blot. A few drops struck the -window-pane at Adam's face, then a rush and tumult of rain. Dimmer still -the valley, but the lightning jabbed down into it incessantly, unseen -batteries playing attack and defence over Preston Plains steeple. - -It was a swift, sudden storm, come and gone like a burst of passion. The -imminent crack and crash of the thunder ceased, and only rumblings were -heard, mere memories, echoes, or as if the broken fragments of the -sky were rolling to and fro in some vast sea-wash. The valley and the -village trees came slowly into view. - -"Dinner's ready," said Sarah, in the next room. - -She had a strident voice, and said dinner was ready as if she expected -Adam to dispute it. There was no answer from the window. - -"Pa! Aren't you comin'?" - -No answer. Sarah came to the door. - -"Pa!" - -His face was close to the rain-washed window-pane. Something rattled in -his throat. It seemed like a suppressed chuckle. He rested his chin on -his hand and clawed it with bony fingers. - -"Pa!" - -He turned on her sternly. - -"You needn't be shoutin' on the Lord's day. Meetin'-house steeple's -a-fire." - -From Adam Wick's nothing could be seen but the slow column of smoke -rising and curling around the slender steeple. But under the foliage -Preston Plains was in tumult. - -By night the church was saved, but the belfry was a blackened ruin -within. The bell had fallen, through floor, cross-beams, and ceiling, -and smashed the front of the choir gallery, a mass of fallen pillar, -railing, and broken plaster on the floor. - -Andrew Hill called a meeting. Adam Wick came, entered his cluttered pew -and sat on the pillar that lay prostrate across it. He perched on it -like a hawk, with huddled back and red-lidded eyes blinking. It was the -sense of the meeting that modern ideas demanded the choir should sit -behind the minister. The ruined gallery must be removed. Adam Wick rose. - -"You've got no place in this meetin'," said Andrew Hill. "Set down." - -Adam kept his place scornfully. - -"Can't I subscribe twenty dollars to this church?" The chairman stroked -his beard and a gleam of acrid humor lit his face for a moment. - -"Well," he said slowly, "I suppose you can." - -And the eyes of all present looked on Adam Wick favorably. - -The minister rose to speak the last word of peace. - -"My friends, the Lord did it. He is righteous--" - -"That's my idea!" said Adam Wick, like a hawk on his fallen pillar, -red-lidded, complacent. "He did what was right." - -The minister coughed, hesitated, and sat down. Andrew Hill glowered from -his chair. - -"There's no further business before this meetin'." - - - - -THE EMIGRANT EAST - -|The old book-shop on Cripple Street in the city of Hamilton was walled -to its dusky ceiling with books. Books were stacked on the floor like -split wood, with alleys between. The long table down the centre was -piled with old magazines and the wrecks of paper-covered novels. -School arithmetics and dead theologies; Annuals in faded gilt, called -"Keepsake," or "Friendship's Offering"; little leathern nubbins of books -from the last century, that yet seemed less antique than the Annuals -which counted no more than forty years--so southern and early-passing -was the youth of the Annual; Bohn's translations, the useful and -despised; gaudy, glittering prints of the poets and novelists; all were -crowded together without recognition of caste, in a common Bohemia. -Finding a book in that mystical chaos seemed to establish a right to it -of first discovery. The pretty girl, who sat in one of the dim windows -and kept the accounts, looked Oriental but not Jewish, and wore crimson -ribbons in her black hair and at her throat. She read one of the -Annuals, or gazed through the window at Cripple Street. A show-case -in the other window contained stamp collections, Hindoo, Chinese, and -Levantine coinage. - -Far back in the shop a daring explorer might come upon a third window, -gray, grimy, beyond which lay the unnamable backyards between Cripple -and Academy Streets. It could not be said to "open on" them, for it was -never opened, or "give a view" of them, being thick with gray dust. But -if one went up to it and looked carefully, there in the dim corner -might be seen an old man with a long faded black coat, rabbinical -beard, dusky, transparent skin, and Buddha eyes, blue, faint, far away, -self-abnegating, such as under the Bo-tree might have looked forth -in meek abstraction on the infinities and perceived the Eightfold -Principle. It was always possible to find Mr. Barria by steering for the -window. So appeared the old bookshop on Cripple Street, Mr. Barria, the -dealer, and his granddaughter, Janey. - -Nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull; for the hand of man, -working through generations, is the hand of nature, as surely as in -nature the oriole builds its nest or the rootlets seek their proper -soil. Cripple Street ran from Coronet to Main Street and its paving was -bad. There were a few tailors and bookbinders, a few silent, clapboarded -houses. - -But two doors from the corner on Coronet Street stood Station No. 4, of -the Fire Brigade, and Cripple Street was the nearest way to Main Street, -whither No. 4 was more likely to be called than elsewhere. So that, -though nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull, No. 4, Fire -Brigade, sometimes passed it, engine, ladder, and hose, in the splendor -of the supernatural, the stormy pageantry of the gods; and one Tommy -Durdo drove the engine. - -Durdo first came into Mr. Barria's shop in search of a paper-covered -novel with a title promising something wild and belligerent. It was a -rainy, dismal day, and Janey sat among the dust and refuse of forgotten -centuries. - -"My eyes!" he thought. "She's a peach." - -He lost interest in any possible belligerent novel, gazed at her with -the candor of his youthfulness, and remarked, guilefully: - -"I bet you've seen me before now." - -"You drive the engine," said Janey, with shining eyes. - -"Why, this is my pie," thought Durdo, and sat down by her on a pile -of old magazines. He was lank, muscular, with a wide mouth, lean jaws, -turn-up nose, and joyful eyes. The magazines contained variations on the -loves of Edwards, Eleanors, and other people, well-bred, unfortunate, -and possessed of sentiments. Durdo was not well-bred, and had not a -presentable sentiment in his recollection. He had faith in his average -luck, and went away from Mr. Barria's shop at last with a spot in the -tough texture of his soul that felt mellow. - -"J. Barria, bookdealer," he read from the sign. "J! That's Janey, ain't -it? Hold on. She ain't the bookdealer. She ain't any ten-cent novel -either. She's a Rushy bound, two dollar and a half a copy, with -a dedication on the fly-leaf, which"--Tommy stopped suddenly and -reflected--"which it might be dedicated to Tommy." - -It came near to being a sentiment. The possibility of such a thing -rising from within him seemed impressive. He walked back to No. 4 -thoughtfully, and thrust himself into a fight with Hamp Sharkey, in -which it was proved that Hamp was the better man. Tommy regained his -ordinary reckless cheerfulness. But when a man is in a state of mind -that it needs a stand-up and knock-down fight to introduce cheerfulness, -he cannot hope to conceal his state of mind. - -Cripple Street drowsed in the sunshine one August afternoon. A small boy -dug bricks out of the sidewalk with a stick. It seemed to emphasize the -indifferent calm that no one took that interest in Cripple Street to -come and stop him. The clangor of the fire-bells broke across the city. -For a moment the silence in Cripple Street seemed more deathly than -before. Then the doors of the tailors and bookbinders flew open. The -Fire Company came with leap and roar, ladder, engine, and hose, rattle -of wheels and thud of steam. Passing Mr. Barria's Durdo turned his head, -saw Janey in the door, and beamed on her. - -"Hooray," he shouted. - -"It's Tommy's girl," thundered Hamp Sharkey, from the top of his -jingling ladders. Fire Brigade No. 4 cheered, waved its helmet, wherever -it had a hand free, and in a moment was gone, leaving the drift of its -smoke in the air, the tremble of its passing, and Janey flushed and -thrilled. Hook and ladder and all had hailed her with honor as Tommy's -girl. A battalion of cavalry, with her lover at the head, dashing up to -salute, say, her battlemented or rose-embowered window--both terms occur -in the Annuals--and galloping away to the wars, might have been better -theoretically, but Janey was satisfied. She had no defence against such -battery. Power, daring, and danger were personified in Tommy. He had -brought them all to her feet. This it was to live and be a woman. She -turned back into the dim shop, her eyes shining. The backs of the dusty -books seemed to quiver and glow, even those containing arithmetic, -dead philosophies, and other cool abstractions, as if they forgot their -figures and rounded periods, and thought of the men who wrote them, how -these once were young. - -Durdo found it possible, by spending his off hours in Mr. Barria's shop, -to keep cheerful without fighting Hamp Sharkey. A row now and then with -a smaller man than Hamp was enough to satisfy the growing mellowness of -his soul. His off hours began at four. He passed them among the Annuals -and old magazines in a state of puzzled and flattered bliss. He fell so -far from nature as to read the Annuals where Janey directed, to conclude -that what was popularly called "fun" was vanity and dust in the mouth; -that from now on he would be decent, and that any corner or hole in the -ground which contained Janey and Tommy would suit him forever. No doubt -he was wrong there. - -Mr. Barria's memories of all that had befallen him within or without, in -the journey of this life, before his entry on the Path of Quietness, and -his consciousness of all external objects and occurrences since, were -clear enough, but only as little white clouds in the open sky are clear, -whose business it is to be far away and trouble us with no insistent -tempest. They never entered the inner circle of his meditation. They -appeared to be distant things. He had no sense of contact with them. -His abstractions had formed a series of concentric spheres about him. -In some outer sphere lay a knowledge of the value of books as bought and -sold, which enabled him to buy and sell them with indifferent profit, -but it entered his central absorption no more than the putting on and -off of his coat. - -He was not absorbed in books. He did not seem to care for them, beyond -the fourscore or more worn volumes that were piled about his table by -the gray window, many of them in tattered paper covers bearing German -imprints, some lately rebound by a Cripple Street bookbinder. He did not -care for history or geography, not even his own. He did not care where -he was born or when, where he was now, or how old. - -Once--whether forty years gone or four hundred, would have seemed to him -a question of the vaguest import--he had taught Arabic and Greek in a -university town, which looks off to mountains that in their turn look -off to the Adriatic Sea. There was a child, a smaller Julian Barria. -Somewhere about this time and place he began explorations in more -distant Eastern languages. The date was unnoted, obscure, traditional. -The interest in language soon disappeared. It was a period of wonder and -searching. After the moral fierceness of the Arab and Mohammedan, the -Hindoo's and Buddhist's calm negations and wide mental spaces first -interested him by contrast, then absorbed him. He began to practise the -discipline, the intense and quiet centring on one point, till the sense -of personality should slip away and he and that point be one. There was -no conviction or conversion, for the question never seemed put to him, -or to be of any value, whether one thing was true and another not true. -But the interest gradually changed to a personal issue. All that he now -heard and saw and spoke to, objects in rest or in motion, duties that -called for his performance, became not so much vaguer in outline as more -remote in position. In comparison with his other experiences they were -touched with a faint sense of unreality. The faces of other men were -changed in his eyes. He sometimes noticed and wondered, passingly, that -they seemed to see no change in him, or if any change, it was one that -drew them more than formerly to seek his sympathy. He observed himself -listening to intimate confessions with a feeling of patient benevolence -that cost him no effort, and seemed to him something not quite belonging -to him as a personal virtue, but which apparently satisfied and quieted -the troubled souls that sought him. - -About this later time--a reference to the histories would fix the date -at 1848--a civil war swept the land, and the University was closed. The -younger Julian Barria was involved in the fall of the revolutionists and -fled from the country. The late teacher of Greek and Arabic crossed -the ocean with him. It was a matter of mild indifference. He gave his -sympathy to all, gently and naturally, but felt no mental disturbance. -Neither did the change of scene affect him. Everywhere were earth -beneath and sky above, and if not it were no matter. Everywhere were -men and women and children, busy with a multitude of little things, -trembling, hurrying, crying out among anxieties. It was all one, clear -enough, but remote, touched with the same sense of unreality, and like -some sad old song familiar in childhood and still lingering in the -memory. - -The book-shop on Cripple Street at one time dealt also in newspapers and -cigars. They were more to the younger Barria's talent, more to his -taste the stirring talk of men who live in their own era and congregate -wherever there are newspapers and tobacco. Afterward he went away into -the West, seeking a larger field for his enterprise than Cripple Street, -and the newspaper and cigar business declined and passed away. The -show-case fell to other uses. The elder Barria sat by the square rear -window, and the gray dust gathered and dimmed it. Ten years flowed like -an unruffled stream; of their conventional divisions and succeeding -events he seemed but superficially conscious. Letters came now and -then from the West, announcing young Barria's journeys and schemes, his -marriage in the course of enterprise, finally his death. The last was in -a sprawling hand, and said: - -"Jules missus is ded to an thars a kid. Jules sez take her to the ol man -Jake when ye go est in the spring. I am Jake. He is wooly in his hed -sez he but he is a good man sez he. He got a soul like Mondays washin -on Tewsday mornin sez he spekin in figgers an menin you. Them was Jules -last word." - -The large, bony person called Jake, slouch-hatted and rough-bearded, -brought the child in time, and departed, muttering embarrassment. She -stood among the Annuals and old magazines with a silver dollar from -Jake clasped in each hand, and a roll of fifty-dollar bills in her -tiny pocket, probably representing young Barria's estate and the end of -Jake's duties as executor. She might have been two or three years old. -That was not a matter of interest to Mr. Barria, in whose conception the -soul of every creature was, in a way, more ancient than the hills. - -She seemed to believe in his good intentions and came to him gravely. -She did not remember any mother, and for her own name it had apparently -been "chicken" when her father had wanted her, and "scat" when he did -not. Mr. Barria envied a mind so untrammelled with memories, and named -her Jhana, which means a state of mystical meditation, of fruitful -tranquillity, out of which are said to come six kinds of supernatural -wisdom and ten powers. The name sometimes appeared to him written -Dhyana, when his meditations ran in Sanskrit instead of Pali. Cripple -Street called her Janey, and avoided the question with a wisdom of -its own. It had grown used to Mr. Barria. Scholars came from near-by -universities to consult him, and letters from distant countries to Herr, -Monsieur, or Signor Doctor Julian Barria, but Cripple Street, if it -knew of the matter, had no stated theory to explain it and was little -curious. His hair and beard grew white and prophetic, his skin more -transparent. A second decade and half a third glided by, and Janey and -Tommy Durdo sat hand in hand among the Annuals. - -"You must ask him, Tommy," Janey insisted, "because lovers always ask -parents." - -"An' the parents is horty and they runs away hossback. Say, Janey, if -his whiskers gets horty, I 'll faint. Say, Janey, you got to go 'n ask -my ma if you can have me." - -"Would she be haughty?" - -Janey always bubbled with pleasure, like a meadow spring, when Tommy -"got on a string," as he called it, fell to jesting circumstantially. -"You bet. She'd trun you down. An' yet she's married second time, she -has," he went on, thoughtfully, "an' she didn't ask my consent, not -either time. I would n't a given it the first, if she had, 'cause dad -was no good. I'd a been horty. I'd a told her he wa'n't worthy to come -into any family where I was comin', which he wa'n't." - -"Oh, Tommy!" - -"Yep. Dad was more nuisance'n mosquitoes." - -Mr. Barria came out of the distant retreat of his meditation slowly, and -looked up. It did not need all the subtle instinct of a pundit to read -the meaning of the two standing hand in hand before him. - -Tommy looked and felt as one asking favors of a spectre, and Mr. Barria -had fallen into a silent habit of understanding people. - -"Little Jhana iss a woman so soon?" he said softly. "She asks of her -birthright." - -He rose and looked quietly, steadily at Tommy, who felt himself growing -smaller inside, till his shoes seemed enormous, even his scalp loose and -his skull empty. - -"Mr.--" - -"It's Tommy Durdo," said Janey. - -"You will always remember to be a little kinder than seems necessary, -Mr. Durdo? It iss a good rule and very old." - -"He didn't ask whether I was a burglar or a lunatic by profesh," -grumbled Tommy, later. "Ain't a reasonable interest. He might a asked -which." - -"Never mind," said Janey. "I'll tell that." - -There were four rooms over the shop, where the three lived in great -peace. Tommy never made out whether Mr. Barria thought him a burglar or -a lunatic. As regards Janey he felt more like a burglar, as regards Mr. -Barria more like a lunatic. He dodged him reverentially. Only at the -station, where his duties kept him for the most part, did he feel like -a natural person and a fireman. He confided in Hamp Sharkey, and brought -him to the shop and the little up-stairs sitting-room for the purpose -of illustration. Hamp's feelings resembled Tommy's. They fell into nave -sympathy. Hamp admired Tommy for his cleverness, his limber tongue, -the reckless daring of his daily contact with Mr. Barria and Janey, two -mysteries, differing but both remote. She was not like the shop-girls on -Main Street. Hamp would carry away the memory of her shining eyes lifted -to Tommy's irregular, somewhat impish face, and growl secretly over his -mental bewilderment. Tommy admired Hamp for his height and breadth and -dull good-nature. - -On an afternoon in the early summer the fire-bells rang call after call. -Engine No. 4 went second. The freight houses by the harbor were burning, -and the tall furniture factory that backed them. About dusk the north -wall of the factory fell into the street with a roar and rattle of -flying bricks. - -The book-shop was dark in the centre. The two lamps in the front windows -were lit, and Mr. Barria's lamp in his hidden corner. - -It came upon Mr. Barria in his absorption that there had been a moment -before the sound of the trampling of heavy feet in the front of the -shop, and a sudden cry. The trampling continued and increased. He came -forward with his lamp. Men were crowding up the narrow stairs that began -in the opposite corner. One of them swung a lantern overhead. - -"'Twere a brick," said some one in the dark centre of the shop. "Took -him over the ear. Dented him in like a plug hat." - -"Where's some water?" - -"Knocked her over quicker 'n the brick." - -"Sh! What's that?" - -"It's the old man." - -The light of the lamp, lifted in Mr. Barria's hand, fell over his -head with its flowing white hair, rabbinical beard, and spectral face. -Three-men, one of them a policeman, drew back to one side of the shop, -looking startled and feebly embarrassed. On the other side the window -lamp shone on Janey, where she lay fallen among the old Annuals. - -He lifted her head and muttered: - -"Jhana, Jhana." - -The three men slipped through the door; those above came down; a doctor -bustled in, satchel in hand, and after him several women; Janey was -carried up; the shop was empty, except for Mr. Barria sitting by his -lamp and muttering softly. - -"She could not find it, the peace that is about, and her little -happiness it would not stay beside her." - -Presently the doctor spoke over him. - -"I think Mrs. Durdo should be taken to the hospital. St. James, you -know. It's not far." - -"You think--" - -"She is approaching confinement, and the shock, you know." - -"Whatever iss desirable, Herr Doctor. There iss no need, sir, of the -economy in respect to--to whatever iss desirable." - -"Quite right, Mr. Barria. Quite right." - -This was in June. Late in the fall Janey came back from St. James's -Hospital, pale, drooping, and alone. - -She sat in a black dress by the front window and kept the accounts as -before, gazed through the dim panes at Cripple Street, which was made -by nature to be dull, but read the Annuals no more, which was perhaps a -pity. - -Mr. Barria from the rear of the shop watched Janey, sitting among the -Annuals and looking out on Cripple Street. He had not entered on the -Path himself as a cure for sorrow and suffering; he had come to it from -another direction. Yet the first purpose of its system had been the -solution of these. It was written: - -"Sorrow and suffering will be overcome when this thirst for life is -quenched, which makes for continuance, and that desire of separateness -and hunger after selfhood are put aside. They will fall away as drops -from a lotus leaf." - -And Janey was a type of them as they walk abroad. The measure of her -trouble was the measure of the yearning and attainment that had been -hers. - -"Desire not more then of yearning or attainment, of sight or touch, -of life in variety or abundance, but desire none at all, and turning -within, the dwelling you build there dwell in it, until both desire and -separateness shall in turn disappear." - -He went forward and drew a chair beside her. - -"Little Jhana," he said, "there wass once a woman and young who brought -her dead child to the wisest of men, and asked so of him, 'Do you know -one medicine that will be good for this child?' It was the custom then -for the patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the -doctors require, so that when she asked what herbs he would wish, and -he answered, 'Mustard-seed,' she promised with haste to bring it, for it -wass a common herb. 'And it must come,' he said, 'only from some house -where no child, no hussband, no wife, no parent, no friend hass died.' -Then she went in great hope, carrying the dead child; but everywhere -they said, 'I have lost,' and again, 'We have lost,' and one said, 'What -iss this you say; the living are few but the dead are many.' She found -so no house in that place from which she might take the mustard-seed. -Therefore she buried the child, and came, and she said, 'I have not -found it; they tell me the living are few and the dead many.' And he -showed her how that nothing endured at all, but changed and passed into -something else, and each wass but a changing part of a changing whole, -and how, if one thought more of the whole, one so ceased to be troubled -much of the parts, and sorrow would fade away quietly." Janey stared at -him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. There was a certain comfort always -in Mr. Barria himself, however oddly he might talk. She dropped her head -on his knee and whispered: - -"I don't know about all that. I want Tommy and the baby." - -He touched her hair with thin fingers gently. "Then I wonder, little -Jhana," he said, looking to the magazines and Annuals, "if you have -found among these one, a poet of the English, who calls it to be better -to love and lose than not to love." - -"I don't know. I don't remember." - -He smoothed her hair again and went away. The winter passed and the -spring came with a scatter of sunshine and little showers. Janey still -sat by the window. If she had been able to generalize, to see that Tommy -and the baby represented hunger after life, and that this was the root -of sorrow, it would perhaps have still seemed to her that love and loss -were the better choice. Perhaps not. But she could not generalize. Her -thoughts were instincts, fancies, and little shining points of belief. -She could not see herself in any figure of speech; that she was one of a -multitude of discordant notes in the universe, whose business it was to -tune themselves to the key of a certain large music and disappear in its -harmony, where alone was constant happiness. It did not seem to mention -Tommy or the baby, and if not there was no point in it. - -Spring slipped away. Cripple Street was filled to the brim with bland -summer. Janey went every day to the cemetery with flowers. In September -she began to come back with flowers in her belt. - -It was a rainy, dismal day in October. Mr. Barria had a remote sense of -hearing Janey's laugh. It seemed to him there was a strange presence -in the shop. He peered out, and saw Hamp Sharkey outlined against the -window, large, slow-moving, and calm, a man who seemed to avoid all -troubles of the flesh by virtue of having enough flesh, and solid bone -beneath. Janey looked up at him and laughed. Around her were the old -Annuals, containing the loves of Edwards and Eleanors. - -Mr. Barria leaned back in his chair. Some untraced suggestion led him -to counting his years idly. He made them out to be nearly eighty. -They seemed suddenly to rest on his shoulders like a weight. If one -considered them at all, they were heavy, the years. And for this human -life, it was only intelligible in the abstract. Of its details there -were too many. - -The shop grew duskier, and the rain beat on the windows with an -incessant pattering, a multitude of tiny details, sounding accordingly -as one might listen. For either it would seem a cheerful, busy sound of -the kindly water, humble and precious and clean, needful in households, -pleasant in the fulness of rivers, comfortable, common, familiar; or it -was the low sigh of the driven rain, the melancholy iteration and murmur -of water circling like everything else its wheel of change, earth and -ocean and sky, earth and ocean and sky, and weary to go back to its -vague, elemental vapor, as before the worlds were shaped. - -Mr. Barria turned back to his volume, bound in gray paper with a German -imprint. To his ears the sound of the two voices talking became as -abstract as the rain. Hamp Sharkey's laugh was like the lowing of a -contented ox, and Janey's, as of old, like the ripple of a brook in a -meadow. - - - - -TOBIN'S MONUMENT - -|I was a student then and lived on the second floor of a brick dormitory -with foot-worn stones and sagging casements. The windows looked across -one end of the campus on ivy-covered walls of other buildings, on -a bronze statue whose head was bent to indicate that the person -represented had taken life seriously in his day. Near at hand was a -street of unacademic noises, horse-cars, shops, German bands, newsboys, -people who bought and sold without higher mathematics and seldom -mentioned Horatius Flaccus. - -But there were drifts and eddies of the street that would turn aside and -enter the dormitories commercially. Tobin was one of these. He came to -my door by preference, because of the large crack in the panel. For, -if one entered the dormitory commercially and knocked at the doors, one -never knew--it might be Horatius Flaccus, a volume of size and weight. -But with a crack in the panel one could stand outside at ease and -dignity, looking through it, and crying, "_M'las ca-andy!_ Peanuts!" -Then, if anything arrived, without doubt it arrived. A man might throw -what he chose at his own door. - -He was thin in the legs and shoulders, but round of face and marked -there with strange designs that were partly a native complexion; but, if -one is a candy boy, in constant company with newsboys, shiners, persons -who carry no such merchandise but are apt to wish for it violently, -one's complexion of course varies from day to day. - -"Say, but I hit _him!_ He bled on his clo's." Tobin sometimes made this -comment, "him" meaning different persons. There was a vein of fresh -romance in him. Did not Sir Balin, or his like, smite Sir Lanceor, so -that the blood flowed over his hauberk, and afterward speak of it with -enthusiasm? - -It was a cold December day in the year 188-, when the snow whirled -without rest from morning chapel till the end of the day was signified -by the first splutter of gas-jets. Among the hills where I was born that -office was left to the sunsets and twilights, who had a manner of doing -it, a certain broad nobility, a courtesy and grace. "One of God's days -is over. This is our sister, the night." The gas-jets were fretful, -coquettish, affected. "It is an outrage! One is simply turned on and -turned off!" Horatius Flaccus was social and intimate with me that day. -"_Exegi monumentum_," he remarked. "You will find it not easy to forget -me." - -Monuments! At the University we lived among commemorative buildings; -many a silent dusty room was dim with accumulation of thought; and there -men labored for what but to make a name? - -The statue outside represented one who took life seriously in his day, -now with the whirling snow about it, the gas-jet in front snapping -petulantly. "One is simply turned on and turned off!" - -"_Exegi monumentum_," continued Horatius Flac-cus. "This is my work, and -it is good. I shall not all die, _non omnis moriar_." It seemed natural -to feel so. But how honorably the sunsets and twilights used to go their -ways among the hills, contented and leaving not a wrack behind. - -It was a better attitude and conduct, that serene security of clouds in -their absolute death. "_Non omnis moriar_" was not only a boast, but a -complaint and a protest. - -Still, as to monuments, one would rather be memorialized by one's own -work than by the words of other men, or the indifferent labor of their -chisels. - -"_M'las ca-andy!_" - -"Come in, Tobin!" - -He opened the door and said, tentatively, "Peanuts." - -He always spoke in a more confident tone of the candy than of the -peanuts. There was no good reason for his confidence in either. - -"Tobin," I said, "you don't want a monument?" - -He kicked his feet together and murmured again, "Peanuts." - -His shoes were cracked at the sides. The cracks were full of snow. - -The remark seemed to imply that he did not expect a monument, having no -confidence in his peanuts. As a rule they were soggy and half-baked. - -Tobin's life, I thought, was too full of the flux of things; candy -melted, peanuts decayed, complexion changed from day to day, his private -wars were but momentary matters. I understood him to have no artificial -desires. Death would be too simple an affair for comment. He would -think of no comment to make. Sunsets and twilights went out in silence; -Tobin's half of humanity nearly as dumb. It was the other half that was -fussy on the subject. - -"Your feet are wet, Tobin. Warm them. Your shoes are no good." - -Tobin picked the easiest chair with good judgment, and balanced his feet -over the coals of the open stove, making no comment. - -"I won't buy your peanuts. They're sloppy. I might buy you another pair -of shoes. What do you think?" - -He looked at me, at the shoes, at the wet basket on his knees, but -nothing elaborate seemed to occur to him. He said: - -"A'right." He had great mental directness. I had reached that point in -the progress of young philosophy where the avoidance of fussiness takes -the character of a broad doctrine: a certain Doric attitude was desired. -Tobin seemed to me to have that attitude. - -"If I give you the money, will you buy shoes or cigarettes?" - -"Shoes." - -"Here, then. Got anything to say?" - -He put the bill into his pocket, and said: - -"Yep, I'll buy 'em." - -His attitude was better than mine. The common wish to be thanked was -pure fussiness. - -"Well, look here. You bring me back the old ones." - -Even that did not disturb him. The Doric attitude never questions other -men's indifferent whims. - -"A'right." - -I heard him presently on the lower floor, crying, "_M'las ca-andy!_ -Peanuts." - -"I shall be spoken of," continued Horatius Flaccus, calmly, "by that -wild southern river, the Aufidus, and in many other places. I shall be -called a pioneer in my own line, _princeps olium carmen deduxisse_." - -The night was closing down. The gas-light flickered on the half-hidden -face of the statue, so that its grave dignity seemed changed to a -shifty, mocking smile. - -I heard no more of Tobin for a month, and probably did not think of him. -There were Christmas holidays about, and that week which is called of -the Promenade, when one opens Horatius Flaccus only to wonder what might -have been the color of Lydia's hair, and to introduce comparisons that -are unfair to Lydia. - -It was late in January. Some one came and thumped on the cracked panel. -It was not Tobin, but a stout woman carrying Tobin's basket, who said in -an expressionless voice: - -"Oi! Them shoes." - -"What?" - -"You give 'im some shoes." - -"Tobin. That's so." - -"I'm Missus Tobin." - -She was dull-looking, round-eyed, gray-haired. She fumbled in the -basket, dropped something in wet paper on a chair, and seemed placidly -preparing to say more. It seemed to me that she had much of Tobin's -mental directness, the Doric attitude, the neglect of comment. I asked: -"How's Tobin?" - -"Oi! He's dead." - -"I am very sorry, Mrs. Tobin. May I--" - -"Oi! Funeral's this afternoon. He could'n' be round. He was sick. Five -weeks three days." - -She went out and down the stair, bumping back and forth between the wall -and the banister. - -On the misty afternoon of that day I stood on that corner where more than -elsewhere the city and the University meet; where hackmen and newsboys -congregate; where a gray brick hotel looks askance at the pillared -and vaulted entry of a recitation hall. The front of that hall is a -vainglorious thing. Those who understand, looking dimly with halfshut -eyes, may see it change to a mist, and in the mist appear a worn fence, -a grassless, trodden space, and four tall trees. - -The steps of the hall were deserted, except for newsboys playing tag -among the pillars. I asked one if he knew where Tobin lived. - -"He's havin' a funeral," he said. - -"Where?" - -"10 Clark Street." - -"Did you know him?" - -The others had gathered around. One of them said: - -"Tobin licked him." - -The first seemed to think more than ordinary justice should be done a -person with a funeral, and admitted that Tobin had licked him. - -No. 10 Clark Street was a door between a clothing shop and a livery -stable. The stairway led up into darkness. On the third landing a door -stood open, showing a low room. A painted coffin rested on two chairs. -Three or four women sat about with their hands on their knees. One of -them was Mrs. Tobin. - -"Funeral's over," she said, placidly. - -The clergyman from the mission had come and gone. They were waiting for -the city undertaker. But they seemed glad of an interruption and looked -at me with silent interest. - -"I want to ask you to tell me something about him, Mrs. Tobin." - -Mrs. Tobin reflected. "There ain't nothin'." - -"He never ate no candy," said one of the women, after a pause. - -Mrs. Tobin sat stolidly. Two large tears appeared at length and rolled -slowly down. - -"It made him dreadful sick when he was little. That's why." - -The third woman nodded thoughtfully. - -"He said folks was fools to eat candy. It was his stomach." - -"Oi!" said Mrs. Tobin. - -I went no nearer the coffin than to see the common grayish pallor of the -face, and went home in the misty dusk. - -The forgotten wet bundle had fallen to the floor and become undone. - -By the cracks in the sides, the down-trodden heels, the marks of keen -experience, they were Tobin's old shoes, round-toed, leather-thonged, -stoical, severe. - -Mrs. Tobin had not commented. She had brought them merely, Tobin having -stated that they were mine. - -They remained with me six months, and were known to most men, who came -to idle or labor, as "Tobin's Monument." They stood on a book-shelf, -with other monuments thought to be _aere perennius_, more enduring than -brass, and disappeared at the end of the year, when the janitor reigned -supreme. There seemed to be some far-off and final idea in the title, -some thesis which never got itself rightly stated. Horatius Flaccus was -kept on the shelf beside them in the notion that the statement should -somehow be worked out between them. And there was no definite result; -but I thought he grew more diffident with that companionship. - -"_Exegi monumentum_. I suppose there is no doubt about that," he would -remark. "_re perennius_. It seems a trifle pushing, so to trespass on -the attention of posterity. I would rather talk of my Sabine farm." - - - - -THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS - - - All honest things in the world we greet - - With welcome fair and free; - - A little love by the way is sweet, - - A friend, or two, or three; - - - Of the sun and moon and stars are glad, - - Of the waters of river and sea; - - We thank thee, Lord, for the years we've had, - - For the years that yet shall be. - - - These are our brothers, the winds of the airs; - - These are our sisters, the flowers. - - Be near us at evening and hear our.prayers., - - O God, in the late gray hours. - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Delectable Mountains, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - -***** This file should be named 50270-8.txt or 50270-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50270/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Delectable Mountains - -Author: Arthur Colton - -Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50270] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS - </h1> - <h2> - By Arthur Colton - </h2> - <h4> - Charles Scribner's Sons - </h4> - <h3> - 1901 - </h3> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <h3> - DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF - </h3> - <h3> - MY SISTER, MABEL COLTON - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>o they went up to - the Mountains, to behold the Gardens, and Orchards, the Vineyards, and - Fountains of water.... Now there was on the tops of these Mountains, - Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the high-way side. The - Pilgrims therefore went to them, and leaning upon their staves, (as is - common with weary Pilgrims, when they stand to talk with any by the way,) - they asked, Whose delectable Mountains are these?... When the Shepherds - perceived that they were way-faring men, they also put questions to them, - as, Whence came you? and, How got you into the way? and, By what means - have you so persevered therein?... Then said the Shepherds one to another, - Let us here shew to the Pilgrims the Gates of the Coelestial City, if they - have skill to look through our Perspective Glass.... Then they essayed to - look, but... they could not look steadily through the Glass; yet they - thought they saw something like the Gate. - </p> - <p> - <i>The Pilgrim's Progress</i>. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE LEATHER HERMIT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> BLACK POND CLEARING </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> JOPPA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE ELDER' SEAT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> NAUSICAA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A VISIBLE JUDGMENT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE EMIGRANT EAST </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> TOBIN'S MONUMENT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he hut was built - two sides and the roof of sodded poles; the roof had new clapboards of - birch bark, but the rest had once belonged to a charcoal burner; the front - side was partly poled and partly open, the back was the under-slope of a - rock. For it stood by a cliff, one of the many that show their lonely - faces all over the Cattle Ridge, except that this was more tumultuous than - most, and full of caves made by the clumsy leaning bowlders; and all about - were slim young birch trees in white and green, like the demoiselles at - Camelot. Old pines stood above the cliff, making a soft, sad noise in the - wind. In one of the caves above the leafage of the birches we kept the - idols, especially Baal, whom we thought the most energetic; and in front - of the cave was the altar-stone that served them all, a great flat rock - and thick with moss, where ears of com were sacrificed, or peas or - turnips, the first-fruits of the field; or of course, if you shot a - chipmunk or a rabbit, you could have a burnt offering of that kind. Also - the altar-stone was a council chamber and an outlook. - </p> - <p> - It was all a secret place on the north side of the Cattle Ridge, with - cliffs above and cliffs below. Eastward half a mile lay the Cattle Ridge - Road, and beyond that the Ridge ran on indefinitely; southward, three - miles down, the road took you into Hagar; westward the Ridge, after all - its leagues of length and rigor of form, broke down hurriedly to the - Wyantenaug River, at a place called the Haunted Water, where stood the - Leather Hermit's hut and beyond which were Bazilloa Armitage's - bottom-lands and the Preston Plains railroad station. The road from the - station across the bridge came through Sanderson Hollow, where the fields - were all over cattle and lively horses, and met the Cattle Ridge Road to - Hagar. And last, if you looked north from the altar-stone, you saw a long, - downward sweep of woodland, and on and on miles and miles to the meadows - and ploughed lands toward Wimberton, with a glimpse of the Wyantenaug far - away to the left. Such were the surroundings of the place of abandoned - gods. No one but ourselves came there, unless possibly the Hermit. If any - one had come it was thought that Baal would pitch him over the cliffs in - some manner, mystically. We got down on our hands and knees, and said, “O - Baal!” He was painted green, on a shingle; but his eyes were red. The - place was reached from the Cattle Ridge Road by trail, for the old - wood-road below was grown up to blackberry brambles, which made one - scratched and bloody and out of patience, unless it were blackberry time. - </p> - <p> - And on the bank, where the trail drops into the climbing highway, there - Aaron and Silvia were sitting in the June afternoon, hand in hand, with - the filtered green light of the woods about them. We came up from Hagar, - the three of us, and found them. They were strangers, so far as we knew. - Strangers or townsmen, we never took the trail with any one in sight; it - was an item in the Vows. But we ranged up before them and stared candidly. - There was nothing against that. Her eyes were nice and blue, and at the - time they contained tears. Her cheeks were dimpled and pink, her brown - dress dusty, and her round straw hat cocked a bit over one tearful blue - eye. He seemed like one who had been growing fast of late. His arms swung - loosely as if fastened to his shoulders with strings. The hand that held - her small hand was too large for its wrist, the wrist too large for the - arm, the arm too long for the shoulder. He had the first growth of a downy - mustache, a feeble chin, a humorous eye, and wore a broad-brimmed straw - hat and a faded black coat, loose and flopping to his knees. A carpet bag - lay at his feet, only half full and fallen over with an air of depression. - He seemed depressed in the same way. - </p> - <p> - “What's she crying for?” asked Moses Durfey, stolidly. - </p> - <p> - Aaron peered around at her shyly. - </p> - <p> - “She's scared to go home. I ain't, but I mote be 'fore I got there.” - </p> - <p> - “What's your name?” - </p> - <p> - “We-ell—” - </p> - <p> - He hesitated. Then, with loud defiance: - </p> - <p> - “It's Mr. and Mrs. Bees.” - </p> - <p> - A red squirrel clambered down a low-hanging branch overhead, and chattered - sharply, scattering flakes of bark. Aaron, still holding Silvia's hand, - leaned back on the bank and looked up. All lines of trouble faded quickly - from his face. He smiled, so that his two front teeth stood out - startlingly, and held up a long forefinger. - </p> - <p> - “Cherky little cuss, ain't he?” - </p> - <p> - The squirrel became more excited. Aaron's finger seemed to draw him like a - loadstone. He slid down nearer and nearer, as far as the branch allowed, - to a foot or two away, chattering his teeth fearfully. We knew that any - one who could magnetize so flighty and malicious a person as a red - squirrel, must be a magician, however simple he might be otherwise. Aaron - snapped his finger and the squirrel fled. “We'd better be movin', Silvy.” - </p> - <p> - Silvia's tears flowed the faster, and the lines of trouble returned to - Aaron's face. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't she want to go home?” persisted Moses, stolidly. - </p> - <p> - We drew close beside them now and sat on the bank, Moses and I by Aaron, - Chub Leroy by Silvia. Chub was thoughtful. Silvia dried her eyes and said - with a gulp: - </p> - <p> - “It's pa.” - </p> - <p> - “That's it.” Aaron nodded and rubbed his sharp nose. “Old man Kincard, - it's him.” - </p> - <p> - They both looked at us trustfully. Moses saw no light in the matter. - </p> - <p> - “Who's he?” - </p> - <p> - “He's my father-in-law. He ain't goin' to like it. He's a sneezer. What he - don't like generally gets out of the way. My snakes! He 'll put Silvy up - the chimney and me in the stove, and he 'll light the fire.” - </p> - <p> - He chuckled and then relapsed into trouble. His emotions seemed to flit - across his face like sunbeams and shadows on a wall, leaving no trace - behind them, or each wiped out by the next. - </p> - <p> - “Snakes! We might just as well sit here.” - </p> - <p> - Silvia wept again. Moses's face admitted a certain surprise. - </p> - <p> - “What'll he do that for?” - </p> - <p> - While Aaron told their story, Silvia sometimes commented tearfully on his - left, Moses stolidly on his right, and the red squirrel with excitement - overhead; Chub and I were silent; the woods for the most part kept still - and listened too, with only a little sympathetic murmur of leaves and - tremble of sunbeam and shadow. - </p> - <p> - The Kincard place, it seemed, lay five miles away, down the north side - till you cleared the woods, and then eastward among the foothills. Old - Kincard's first name was James. And directly across the road stood the - four-roomed house where the Bees family once lived. It was “rickety now - and rented to rats.” The Bees family had always been absent-minded, given - to dying off and leaving things lying around. In that way Aaron had begun - early to be an orphan and to live with the Kincards. He was supposed to - own the old house and the dooryard in front of it, but the rats never paid - their rent, unless they paid it to the old man or the cat; and Mr. Kincard - had a low opinion of Aaron, as being a Bees, and because he was built - lengthwise instead of sidewise and knew more about foxes than cows. It - seemed to Aaron that a fox was in himself a more interesting person; that - this raising more potatoes than you could eat, more tobacco than you could - smoke, this making butter and cheese and taking them to Wimberton weekly, - and buying little except mortgages and bank accounts, somewhere involved a - mistake. A mortgage was an arrangement by which you established strained - relations with a neighbor, a bank account something that made you - suspicious of the bank. Now in the woods one dealt for direct usefulness, - comfort, and freedom of mind. If a man liked to collect mortgages rather - than fox-skins, it was the virtue of the woods to teach tolerance; but Mr. - Kincard's opinion of Aaron was low and active. There was that difference - between a Kincard and a Bees point of view. - </p> - <p> - Aaron and Silvia grew up a few years apart on the old spread-out farm, - with the wooded mountainside heaving on the south and stretching east and - west. It was a neighborhood of few neighbors, and no village within many - miles, and the old man was not talkative commonly, though he'd open up - sometimes. Aaron and Silvia had always classed themselves together in - subdued opposition to their grim ruler of destiny. To each other they - called him “the old man,” and expressed by it a reverential but opposed - state of mind. To Aaron the undoubted parts of life were the mountain-side - of his pleasures and the level fields of his toil. Wimberton was but a - troubled glimpse now and then, an improbable memory of more people and - houses than seemed natural. Silvia tended to see things first through - Aaron's eyes, though she kept a basal judgment of her own in reserve. - </p> - <p> - “He always licked us together since we was little,” said Aaron, looking at - Silvia with softly reminiscent eye. “It was two licks to me for Silvy's - one. That was square enough, and the old man thought so. When he got set - in a habit he'd never change. It was two to me for Silvy's one.” - </p> - <p> - Aaron told him, but a week now gone, that himself and Silvia would wish to - be married, and he seemed surprised. In fact he came at Aaron with the - hoe-handle, but could not catch him, any more than a lonesome rabbit. Then - he opened up astonishingly, and told Aaron of his low opinion of him, - which was more spread-out and full of details than you'd expect. He wasn't - going to give Aaron any such “holt on him as that,” with a guaranty deed, - whatever that was, on eternity to loaf in, and he set him the end of the - week to clear out, to go elsewhere forever. To Aaron's mind that was an - absurd proposal. He wasn't going to do any such foolishness. The rather he - sold his collection of skins to a farmer named Shore, and one morning - borrowed a carpet bag and came over the Cattle Ridge hand in hand with - Silvia. - </p> - <p> - From Preston Plains they hired a team, drove over the line into York - State, and were married. The farmer named Shore laid that out for them. He - had a back score of trouble with the old man. - </p> - <p> - “And Silvy's got a cat,” added Aaron, “and she catches rats to please - herself. Silvy thinks she ought to catch rats to be obligin'. Folks that - live up these trees don't act that way. No more did Shore.” - </p> - <p> - Here Aaron looked shrewd and wise. - </p> - <p> - “I wish Sammy was here,” murmured Silvia, lovingly. - </p> - <p> - “First-rate cat,” Aaron admitted. “Now, we didn't marry to oblige each - other. Each of us obliged himself. Hey?” - </p> - <p> - Silvia opened her eyes wide. The idea seemed a little complicated. They - clasped hands the tighter. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said Aaron, “Silvy's scared. I ain't, but I mote be when I got - there.” - </p> - <p> - A blue-jay flew shrieking down the road. Aaron looked after it with a - quick change of interest. - </p> - <p> - “See him! Yes, sir. You can tell his meanness the way he hollers. Musses - folks' eggs.” - </p> - <p> - Aaron no longer surprised us now, nor did Silvia. We accepted them. We had - standards of character and conduct, of wisdom and of things possible, but - they were not set for us by the pulpit, the statute book, or the - market-place. We had often gone forth on expeditions into the mystical - beyond, always with a certain purpose to achieve there, and at some point - it had been necessary to come home and face the punishment, if there were - any, to have supper, and go to bed. Home could not be left permanently and - another existence arranged, any more than the feet could be taken from the - earth permanently. It had been found impractical. Aaron and Silvia were - like ourselves. They might conceive of living away from the farmhouse - under the mountain-side a few days. They shrank from facing old Kincard - with his hoe-handle or horse-whip, but one must go back eventually. We - recognized that their adventure was bold and peculiar; we judged the price - likely to be appalling; we gave them frank admiration for both. None of us - had ever run away to be definitely married, or suffered from a hoe-handle - or a horse-whip, and yet all these were things to be conceived of and - sympathized with. - </p> - <p> - “I knew a blue-jay,” went on Aaron, thoughtfully, “that lived near the end - of Shore's land, and he never appeared to like anything agreeable. He used - to hang around other folks' nests and holler till they were distracted.” - </p> - <p> - Silvia's snuffling caught his ear, and once more the rapid change passed - over his face. - </p> - <p> - “We-ell,” he said, “the old man'll be lively, that's sure. I'd stay in the - woods, if it was me, but women”—with a large air of observation—“have - to have houses.”. - </p> - <p> - “We've got a house,” broke in Chub, suddenly. We exchanged looks - furtively. - </p> - <p> - “They'll have to take the Vows,” I objected. “We've took 'em,” said Aaron. - “Parson—” - </p> - <p> - “You'll have to solemn swear,” said Moses. “Will you solemn swear?” - </p> - <p> - “I guess so.” - </p> - <p> - “And if you tell, you hope you drop dead.” - </p> - <p> - The blue-jay flew up the road again, shrieking scornfully. The red - squirrel trembled and chattered his teeth on the branch overhead. All else - in the woods was silent while Aaron and Silvia took the Vows. - </p> - <p> - And so we brought them, in excitement and content, to the place of the - abandoned gods. Baal lurked far back in his cave, the cliff looked down - with lonely forehead, the distant prospect was smooth and smoky. Neither - the gods nor the face of the world offered any promise or threat. But - Aaron and Silvia seemed to believe in the kindness of not human things. - Silvia fell to chattering, laughing, in unforeboding relief from sudden - and near-by evil. - </p> - <p> - Aaron had a surprising number of silver dollars, due to Shore and the - fox-skins, by means of which we should bring them supplies from Hagar; and - so we left them to the whispering gossip of leaves, the lonely cliff, the - lurking Baal, and the smooth, smoky prospect. - </p> - <p> - No doubt there were times to Aaron and Silvia of trembling awe, dumb - delight, conversations not to the point, so that it seemed more successful - merely to sit hand in hand and let the moon speak for them, pouring light - down silvery gulfs out of the abundant glory within her. There could be - seen, too, the dawn, as pink as Silvia's cheeks, but, after all, not so - interesting. A hermit-thrush sang of things holy at dawn, far down the - woodland, while the birch leaves trembled delicately and the breeze was - the sigh of a world in love; and of things quietly infinite at sunset in - the growth of rosy gloom. - </p> - <p> - “It's nice,” Silvia might whisper, leaning to Aaron. - </p> - <p> - “That's a hermit-thrush down there, Silvy. He opens his mouth, and oh! - Kingdom's comin'.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Little brown chap with a scared eye. You don't ever see him hardly.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't want to, do you, Aaron?” after a long silence. - </p> - <p> - “Don't know as you do.” - </p> - <p> - There would be a tendency, at least, to look at things that way, and talk - duskily as the dusk came on, and we would leave them on the altar-stone to - take the trail below. - </p> - <p> - But early in the afternoon it would be lively enough, except that Silvia - had a prejudice against Baal, which might have been dangerous if Baal had - minded it; but he did her no harm. She referred to Elijah and those - prophets of Baal, and we admitted he had been downed that time, for it - took him when he was not ready, and generally he was low in his luck ever - since. But we had chosen him first for an exiled dignity, who must needs - have a deadly dislike for the other dignity who had once conquered him - vaingloriously, and so must be in opposition to much that we opposed, such - as Sunday-school lessons, sermons, and limitations of liberty. It might be - that our reasonings were not so concrete and determined, but the sense of - opposition was strong. We put it to Silvia that she ought to respect - people's feelings, and she was reasonable enough. - </p> - <p> - Old Kincard, it seemed, was an interesting and opinionated heathen, and - Silvia had not experienced sermons and Sunday-schools. That explained - much. But she had read the Bible, which her mother had owned, before she - died; and we could follow her there, knowing it to be a book of naturally - strong points, as respects David for instance, Joseph, and parts of - Revelation. - </p> - <p> - Aaron did not care for books, and had no prejudice toward any being or - supposition that might find place in the woods. The altar-stone was common - to many gods and councils, and we offered it to Silvia, to use as she - liked. I judge she used it mostly to sit there with Aaron, and hear the - hermit-thrush, or watch the thick moonlight pour down the scoop of the - mountain. - </p> - <p> - That stretch of the Wyantenaug which is called the Haunted Water is quiet - and of slow current, by reason of its depth, and dark in color, by reason - of the steep fall of the Cattle Ridge and the pines which crowd from it to - the water's edge. The Leather Hermit's hut stood up from the water in the - dusk of the pines. - </p> - <p> - He came to the valley in times within the memories of many who would speak - if they were asked, but long enough ago to have become a settled fact; and - if any did not like him, neither did they like the Wyantenaug to flood the - bottom-lands in spring. The pines and the cliffs belonged to the - Sandersons, who cared little enough for either phenomenon. - </p> - <p> - We often met him on the Cattle Ridge, saw him pass glowering through the - thicket with shaggy gray beard and streaming hair. Sometimes he wore a - horse-blanket over his leathern vestment. He was apt to be there Sundays, - wandering about, and maybe trying to make out in what respect he differed - from Elijah the Tishbite; and although we knew this, and knew it was in - him to cut up roughly if he found out about Baal, being a prophet himself - both in his looks and his way of acting, still he went to and fro for the - most part on the other side of the crest, where he had a trail of his own; - and you could not see the altar-stone from the top of the cliff, but had - to climb down till you came to a jam of bowlders directly over it. - </p> - <p> - We did not know how long he may have stood there, glowering down on us. - The smoke of the sacrifice was beginning to curl up. Baal was backed - against a stone, looking off into anywhere and taking things - indifferently. Silvia sat aside, twirled her hat scornfully, and said we - were “silly.” Aaron chewed a birch twig, and was very calm. - </p> - <p> - We got down on our hands and knees, and said, “O Baal!” - </p> - <p> - And the Hermit's voice broke over us in thunder and a sound as of falling - mountains. It was Sunday, June 26, 1875. - </p> - <p> - He denounced us under the heads of “idolaters, gone after the abornination - of the Assyrians; babes and sucklings, old in sin, setting up strange gods - in secret places; idle mockers of holy things, like the little children of - Bethel, whereby they were cursed of the prophet and swallowed of - she-bears”; three headings with subdivisions. - </p> - <p> - Then he came down thumping on the left. Silvia shrieked and clung to - Aaron, and we fled to the right and hid in the rocks. He fell upon Baal, - cast him on the altar-fire, stamping both to extinction, and shouted: - </p> - <p> - “I know you, Aaron Bees and Silvia Kincard!” - </p> - <p> - “N-no, you don't,” stammered Aaron. “It's Mrs. Bees.” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit stood still and glared on them. - </p> - <p> - “Why are you here, Aaron and Silvia Bees?” - </p> - <p> - Aaron recovered himself, and fell to chewing his birch twig. - </p> - <p> - “We-ell, you see, it's the old man.” - </p> - <p> - “What of him?” - </p> - <p> - “He'd lick us with a hoe-handle, wouldn't he? And maybe he'd throw us out, - after all. What'd be the use? Might as well stay away,” Aaron finished, - grumbling. “Save the hoe.” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit's glare relaxed. Some recollection of former times may have - passed through his rifted mind, or the scent of a new denunciation drawn - it away from the abornination of Assyria, who lay split and smoking in the - ashes. He leaped from the altar-stone, and vanished under the leafage of - the birches. We listened to him crashing and plunging, chanting something - incoherent and tuneless, down the mountain, till the sound died away. - </p> - <p> - Alas, Baal-Peor! Even to this day there are twinges of shame, misgivings - of conscience, that we had fled in fear and given him over to his enemy, - to be trampled on, destroyed and split through his green jacket and red - eye. He never again stood gazing off into anywhere, snuffing the fumes of - sacrifice and remembering Babylon. The look of things has changed since - then. We have doubted Baal, and-found some restraints of liberty more - grateful than tyrannous. But it is plain that in his last defeat Baal-Peor - did not have a fair chance. - </p> - <p> - Concerning the Hermit's progress from this point, I can only draw upon - guesses and after report. He struck slantingwise down the mountain, left - the woods about at the Kincard place, and crossed the fields. - </p> - <p> - Old Kincard sat in his doorway smoking his pipe, thick-set, deep-chested, - long-armed, with square, rough-shaven jaws, and steel-blue eyes looking - out of a face like a carved cliff for length and edge. The Hermit stood - suddenly before and denounced him under two heads—as a heathen - unsoftened in heart, and for setting up the altar of lucre and pride - against the will of the Lord that the children of men should marry and - multiply. Old Kincard took his pipe from his mouth. - </p> - <p> - “Where might them marriers and multipliers be just now?” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit pointed to the most westward cliff in sight from the doorway. - </p> - <p> - “If you have not in mind to repent, James Kincard, I shall know it.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe you'd put them ideas of yours again?” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit restated his position accurately on the subject of heathen - hearts and the altar of lucre. - </p> - <p> - “Ain't no mistake about that, Hermit? We-ell, now—” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit shook his head sternly, and strode away. Old Kincard gave a - subterranean chuckle, such as a volcano might give purposing eruptions, - and fixed his eyes on the western cliff, five miles away, a grayish spot - in the darker woods. - </p> - <p> - Alas, Baal-Peor! - </p> - <p> - Yet he was never indeed a wood-god. He was always remembering how fine it - had been in Babylon. He had not cared for these later devotions. He had - been bored and weary. Since he was gone, split and dead, perhaps it was - better so. He should have a funeral pyre. - </p> - <p> - “And,” said Chub Leroy, “we'll keep his ashes in an urn. That's the way - they always did with people's ashes.” - </p> - <p> - We came up the Cattle Ridge Road Monday afternoon, talking of these - things. Chub carried the urn, which had once been a pickle-jar. Life still - was full of hope and ideas. The Hermit must be laid low in his arrogance. - Apollo, now, had strong points. Consider the pythoness and the oracle. The - Hermit couldn't prophesy in the same class with a pythoness. The oracle - might run, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “He who dwells by the Haunted Water alone, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - He shall not remain, but shall perish.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - We came then to the hut, but Silvia would have, nothing to do with Baal's - funeral, so that she and Aaron wandered away among the birches, that were - no older than they, young birches, slim and white, coloring the sunlight - pale green with their leaves. And we went up to the altar-stone, and made - ready the funeral, and set the urn to receive the ashes, decently, in - order. The pyre was built four-square, of chosen sticks. We did not try to - fit Baal together much; we laid him on as he came. And when the birch bark - was curling up and the pitchy black smoke of it was pouring upward, we - fell on our faces and cried: “Alas, Baal! Woe's me, Baal!” - </p> - <p> - It was a good ceremony. For when you are doing a ceremony, it depends on - how much your feelings are worked up, of course, and very few, if any, of - those we had done—and they were many—had ever reached such a - point of efficiency as the funeral of Baal-Peor. Moses howled mournfully, - as if it were in some tooth that his sorrow lay. The thought of that - impressiveness and luxury of feeling lay mellow in our minds long after. - “Alas, Baal!” - </p> - <p> - Somebody snorted near by. We looked up. Over our heads, thrust out beyond - the edge of the bowlders, was a strange old face, with heavy brows and - jaws and grizzled hair. - </p> - <p> - The face was distorted, the jaws working. It disappeared, and we sat up, - gasping at one another across the funeral pyre, where the black smoke was - rolling up faster and faster. - </p> - <p> - In a moment the face came out on the altar-stone, and looked at us with - level brows. - </p> - <p> - “What ye doin'?” - </p> - <p> - “My goodness!” gasped Moses. “You aren't another hermit?” - </p> - <p> - “What ye doin'?” - </p> - <p> - Chub recovered himself. - </p> - <p> - “It's Baal's funeral.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down on a stone and wiped his face, which was heated. He carried a - notable stick in his hand. “Baal! We-ell, what ailed him?” - </p> - <p> - “Are you Silvia's old man?” asked Chub. - </p> - <p> - “Just so—er—what ailed Baal?” - </p> - <p> - Then we told him—seeing Baal was dead and the Vows would have to be - taken over again—we told him about Baal, and about the Leather - Hermit, because he seemed touched by it, and worked his face and blinked - his sharp hard eyes uncannily. Some hidden vein of grim ideas was coming - to a white heat within him, like a suppressed molten stratum beneath the - earth, unsuspected on its surface, that suddenly heaves and cracks the - faces of stone cliffs. He gave way at last, and his laughter was the - rending tumult of an earthquake. - </p> - <p> - Aaron and Silvia came up through the woods hastily to the altar-stone. - </p> - <p> - “I say,” cried Chub. “Are you going to lick them? It's two to Aaron for - one to Silvia.” - </p> - <p> - “Been marryin' and multiplying have ye?” - </p> - <p> - He suppressed the earthquake, but still seemed mainly interested in Baal's - funeral. - </p> - <p> - Aaron said, “She's Mrs. Bees, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so. Baal's dead. That hermit's some lively.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll get an oracle on him,” said Moses. “What you going to do to Aaron - and Silvia?” - </p> - <p> - Here Silvia cast herself on the old man suddenly and wept on his shoulder. - One often noticed how girls would start up and cry on a person. - </p> - <p> - Maybe the earthquake had brought up subsoils and mellowed things; at least - Kincard made no motion to lick some one, though he looked bored, as any - fellow might. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, we-ell, I don't know—er—what's that oracle?” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “He who dwells hy the Haunted Water alone, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - He shall not remain, but shall perish.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “It's going to be like that,” said Chub. “Won't it fetch him, don't you - think?” - </p> - <p> - “It ought to,” said the old man, working his jaw. “It ought to.” - </p> - <p> - The black smoke had ceased, and flames were crackling and dancing all over - the funeral pyre. The clearer smoke floated up against the face of the - lonesome cliff. Aaron and Silvia clasped hands unfrightened. The old man - now and then rumbled subterraneously in his throat. Peace was everywhere, - and presently Baal-Peor was ashes. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE LEATHER HERMIT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>o know the - Wyantenaug thoroughly is to be wise in rivers; which if any one doubts, - let him follow it from its springs to the sea—a possible fortnight—and - consider then how he is a changed man with respect to rivers. Not that by - any means it is the epitome of rivers. It is no spendthrift flood-stream - to be whirling over the bottom-lands in April and scarcely able to wet its - middle stones in August, but a shrewd and honest river, a canny river - flowing among a canny folk, a companionable river, loving both laughter - and sentiment, with a taste for the varieties of life and a fine vein of - humor. Observe how it dances and sputters down the rapids—not really - losing its temper, but pretending to be nervous—dives into that - sloping pass where the rocks hang high and drip forever, runs through it - like a sleuth-hound, darkly and savagely, and saunters out into the - sunlight, as who should say in a guileless manner, “You don't happen to - know where I'm going?” Then it wanders about the valley, spreads out - comfortably and lies quiet a space, “But it really makes no difference, - you know”; and after that gives a chuckle, rounds a bunch of hills and - goes scampering off, quite taken up with a new idea. And so in many ways - it is an entertaining and friendly river, with a liking for a joke and a - pretty notion of dramatic effect. - </p> - <p> - But, of all times and places, I think it most beautiful in the twilight - and along that stretch, called of late the Haunted Water, opposite the - village of Preston Plains. The Cattle Ridge with its long heaving spine - comes down on the valley from the east, seeming to have it very much in - mind to walk over and do something to Preston Plains three miles beyond; - but it thought better of that long ago. The Wyantenaug goes close beneath - it in sheer bravado: “You try to cross me and you get jolly wet”; for the - Wyantenaug is very deep and broad just here. The Cattle Ridge, therefore, - merely wrinkles its craggy brows with a puzzled air, and Preston Plains is - untroubled save of its own inhabitants. As to that matter the people of - the village of Hagar have opinions. The valley road goes on the other side - of the river—naturally, for there are the pastures, the feeding - cattle, the corn-fields, and farmhouses—and the Cattle Ridge side is - steep, and threaded by a footpath only, for a mile or more, up to Hants - Corby's place. Hants Corby's is not much of a place either. - </p> - <p> - In old times the footpath was seldom used, except by the Leather Hermit. - No boy in Hagar would go that way for his life, though we often went up - and down on the river, and saw the Leather Hermit fishing. The minister in - Hagar visited him once or twice, and probably went by the footpath. I - remember distinctly how he shook his head and said that the Hermit sought - salvation at any rate by a narrow way, and how the miller's wife - remonstrated with him for seeming to take the Hermit seriously. - </p> - <p> - “You don't mean to say he ain't crazy,” she said, in anxious defence of - standard reason. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I suppose so, yes.” - </p> - <p> - The minister sighed and rubbed his chin uneasily, and Mrs. Mather - recovered her ordinary state of mind, which was a state of suppressed - complaint. - </p> - <p> - I was saying that the footpath was seldom used. Hants Corby would have - used it—for he was too shiftless to be afraid—if the river had - run the other way. As it was, he preferred to drift down in his boat and - row back when he had to. He found that easier, being very shiftless. The - Hermit himself went on the river, except in the spring when the current - below was too strong. - </p> - <p> - The opinions of the Leather Hermit may be shown in this way. If you came - on him, no matter suddenly, and asked whose land that was across the - river, he would answer promptly, “The devil's”; whereas it belonged to - Bazilloa Armitage, a pillar of the church in Preston Plains, who - quarrelled zealously with the other pillars; so that, as one sees, the - Leather Hermit was not in sympathy with the church in Preston Plains. - </p> - <p> - The people of the valley differed about him according to humor, and he - used strong language regarding the people of the valley according to - opportunity, especially regarding Bazilloa Armitage. He denounced Bazilloa - Armitage publicly in Preston Plains as a hypocrite, a backbiter, and a man - with a muck rake—with other language stronger still. Bazilloa - Armitage felt hurt, for he was, in fact, rather close, and exceedingly - respectable. Besides it is painful to be damned by a man who means exactly - what he says. - </p> - <p> - To speak particularly, this was in the year 1875; for the next year we - camped near the spot, and Hants Corby tried to frighten us into seeing the - Hermit's ghost. Bazilloa Armitage was denounced in June, and Hants Corby - on the second Friday in August, as Hants and the Hermit fished near each - other on the river. The Hermit denounced him under three heads—sluggard, - scoffer, and beast wallowing in the sty of his own lustful contentment. On - Saturday the Hermit rowed up to Hants Corby's place in the rain and - denounced him again. - </p> - <p> - Sunday morning the Hermit rose early, turned his back on the Wyantenaug, - and climbed the cliff, onward and up through the pines. The prophets of - old went into high places when they prayed; and it was an idea of his that - those who would walk in the rugged path after them could do no better. - Possibly the day was an anniversary, for it was of an August day many - years gone—before ever a charcoal pit was built on the Cattle Ridge—that - the Hermit first appeared on the Wyantenaug, with his leather clothes in a - bundle on his back, and perhaps another and invisible burden beneath it. A - third burden he took up immediately, that of denouncing the sins of - Wyantenaug Valley, as I have said. - </p> - <p> - All that Sabbath day the river went its way, and late in the afternoon the - sunlight stretched a thin finger beneath the hemlocks almost to the - Hermit's door. Across the river the two children of Bazilloa Armitage, boy - and girl, came down to the water's edge. The boy pulled a pole and line - out of some mysterious place in the bank. The little girl sat primly on - the grass, mindful of her white pinafore. - </p> - <p> - “You better look out, Cis,” he said. “Any fish you catch on Sunday is - devils. You don't touch him. You cut the line and let him dry till - Monday.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Tad!” gasped the little girl, “won't the Leather Hermit tell?” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Tad, sturdily, “father said he'd get even, if it took a month - of Sundays, and that's six Sundays by this time. There ain't anything - bothers the Hermit like catching the fish on Sundays, specially if you - catch a lot of 'em. Blamed old fool!” grumbled Tad. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Tad,” gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, “that's - swearing.” - </p> - <p> - But Tad did not mind. “There's Hants Corby,” he exclaimed; “he's going to - fish, too.” - </p> - <p> - Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the - children, and grinned sociably. - </p> - <p> - “He daren't touch his boat to-day,” he said in a husky whisper. “He'll - raise jinks in a minute. You wait.” - </p> - <p> - “Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?” - </p> - <p> - “Trout,” returned Hants, decisively, “is devils any time.” - </p> - <p> - Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather - Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with an - angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in Hagar—and - it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of Hagar. - </p> - <p> - Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut. - </p> - <p> - “Him,” he remarked, “he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him - alone particular. That ain't reasonable.” - </p> - <p> - “Father says he's a fernatic,” ventured Tad. “What's a fernatic, Hants?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said Hants, thoughtfully, “that's a rattlin' good word.” - </p> - <p> - Time dragged on, and yet no denouncing voice came from the further shore. - The door of the hut was a darker hole in the shade of the hemlocks. Hants - Corby proposed going over to investigate. - </p> - <p> - “If he ain't there, we'll carry off his boat.” - </p> - <p> - Tad fell into Hants's boat quite absorbed in the greatness of the thought. - It was not a good thing generally to follow Hants Corby, who was an - irresponsible person, apt to take much trouble to arrange a bad joke and - shiftlessly slip out from under the consequences. If he left you in a - trap, he thought that a part of the joke, as I remember very well. - </p> - <p> - “A-a-a-ow!” wailed Cissy Armitage from the bank; for it dawned on her that - something tremendous was going forward, in which Tad was likely to be - suddenly obliterated. She sat on the bank with her stubby shoes hanging - over, staring with great frightened blue eyes, till she saw them at last - draw silently away from the further shore—and behold, the Hermit's - boat was in tow. Then she knew that there was no one in the world so brave - or so grandly wicked as Tad. - </p> - <p> - Cissy Armitage used to have fluffy yellow hair and scratches on her shins. - She was a sunny little soul generally, but she had a way of imagining how - badly other people felt, which interfered with her happiness, and was not - always accurate. Tad seldom felt so badly as she thought he did. Tad - thought he could imagine most things better on the whole, but when it came - to imagining how badly other people felt, he admitted that she did it very - well. Therefore when she set about imagining how the Hermit felt, on the - other side of the river, with no boat to come across in, to where people - were cosy and comfortable, where they sang the Doxology and put the - kittens to bed, she quite forgot that the Hermit had always before had a - boat, that he never yet had taken advantage of it to make the acquaintance - of the Doxology or the kittens, and imagined him feeling very badly - indeed. - </p> - <p> - Bazilloa Armitage held family prayers at six o'clock on Sunday afternoons; - and all through them Cissy considered the Hermit. - </p> - <p> - “I sink in deep waters,” read Bazilloa Armitage with a rising inflection. - “The billows go over my head, all his waves go over me, Selah,” and Cissy - in her mind saw the Hermit sitting on the further shore, feeling very - badly, calling Tad an “evil generation,” and saying: “The billows go over - my head, Selah,” because he had no boat. She thought that one must feel - desperately in order to say: “Selah, the billows go over me.” And while - Bazilloa Armitage prayed for the President, Congress, the Governor, and - other people who were in trouble, she plotted diligently how it might be - avoided that the Hermit should feel so badly as to say “Selah,” or call - Tad an “evil generation”; how she might get the boat back, in order that - the Hermit should feel better and let bygones be; and how it might be done - secretly, in order that Tad should not make a bear of himself. Afterwards - she walked out of the back door in her sturdy fashion, and no one paid her - any attention. - </p> - <p> - The Hermit muttered in the dusk of his doorway. - </p> - <p> - Leather clothes are stiff after a rain and bad for the temper; moreover, - other things than disordered visions of the heavens rolling away as a - scroll and the imperative duty of denouncing some one were present in his - clouded brain,—half memories, breaking through clouds, of a time - when he had not as yet begun to companion daily with judgment to come, nor - had those black spots begun to dance before his eyes, which black spots - were evidently the sins of the world. He muttered and shifted his position - uneasily. - </p> - <p> - There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. It - stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in front. - There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, rolled after - it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears. - </p> - <p> - The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; he - shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar enough - to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: “It is written, 'Thou shalt - have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes.” He stared - with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples chuckled, - sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to steal in upon - him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He made an angry motion - to thrust it away, and muttered: “Judgment to come—judgment to - come.” He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, and then two infinite - things came together in his shattered brain with a crash, leaving him - stunned and still. - </p> - <p> - There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence, - too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, “Judgment to - come!” would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was—no—well, - there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and rolled - after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. He dressed - hides across a bench. The other men did not take much interest in judgment - to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under his bench. After that - the child rolled its doll down the steps again, and bumped after it - pitifully. - </p> - <p> - The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if - it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely - was true—whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the - steps he could not tell, but he thought, “Presently I shall forget one of - the two.” - </p> - <p> - The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills - beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa - Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter - sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds, - stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and - the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of - the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in - white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, the - light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for - judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north—that - was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that—could not be - anything—it was false—unless—unless it rolled down the - steps. And then once more the two infinite things came together with a - crash. He leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over - his head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning. - </p> - <p> - Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and adjusted - her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was embarrassing. - </p> - <p> - “I—I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I—I feel - bad.” - </p> - <p> - She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time the - only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. She - thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I—want to go home.” - </p> - <p> - The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She twisted - her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her throat, and - she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how badly she felt—unless - she said “Selah.” It was strong language, but she ventured it at last. - </p> - <p> - “I feel awful bad. The—the billows go over my head, Selah!” Then she - wished that she had let “Selah” quite alone. - </p> - <p> - The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and - dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep - forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and - decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily. - </p> - <p> - “What is your name?” he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks - who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not - know her name, having seen her often enough,—and this gave her - courage. “Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home.” - </p> - <p> - “No!” shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that - the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. “That isn't - the name.” Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing. - Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and was - much worse than “The billows go over me, Selah.” On the whole there seemed - to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and there - hesitated diffidently. - </p> - <p> - “I want to go home. I—I want you to row me.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his - knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but - almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars - and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the old - willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's - ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down. - Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and saw - him sitting with his head down. - </p> - <p> - Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants - Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from shore. - The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope wound around - his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there with a purpose. If - that purpose was to discover which of two things were true—judgment - to come, or the child that rolled its doll down the steps—every one - is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or failure. There was a - copy-book, such as children use, found in his hut. On the cover was - written, “The Book of Judgment.” It contained the record of his - denunciations, with other odd things. The people of Wyantenaug Valley - still differ, according to humor; but any one of them will give his or her - opinion, if you ask it. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - BLACK POND CLEARING - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n those days I - knew Hamilton only by the light in the south; for in Hagar men said, “That - light in the south is Hamilton,” as they would say, “The sunrise in the - east, the sunset in the west, the aurora in the north,” illuminations that - were native in their places. Hamilton was a yellow glimmer on clear - nights, and on cloudy nights a larger glow. It crouched low in the sky, - pale, secret, enticing. - </p> - <p> - Also I knew that Hamilton was twenty miles away, like Sheridan's ride. How - great and full of palaces and splendors that must be which shone so far! - How golden its streets, and jewelled its gates, like the Celestial City, - which is described in Revelations and “The Progress” in an unmistakable - manner, if not as one would wish in the matter of some details. Yet to - speak justly, “The Progress” was considered a passable good story, though - not up to the “Arabian Nights”; and Revelations had its points, though any - one could see the writer was mixed in his mind, and upset probably by the - oddness of his adventures, and rather stumped how to relate them plainly. - </p> - <p> - But this story does not include the city of Hamilton, although touching on - the lights in the south. It left its mark upon me and cast a shadow over - many things that did not seem connected with it, being a kind of - introduction for me to what might be called the Greater Melancholies. - </p> - <p> - There are four roads that meet in Hagar: the Cattle Ridge, the Salem, the - Windless Mountain, and the Red Rock. The Salem is broad, level, and - straight; the Windless sweeps around the mountain, deep through the pines, - the jungle of other woods, and the gorge of the falling Mill Stream; the - Red Rock is a high, clean hill road, open and bare; the Cattle Ridge Road - comes down from highest of all, from far up on the windy brows of the - Ridge, and dips and courtesies all the way into Hagar. Some time I would - like to make more plain the nature and influence of the Four Roads. But - the adventure began on the Cattle Ridge Road with a wide-armed chestnut - tree, where certain red squirrels lived who were lively and had thin - tails. I went out over the road on a long limb with Moses Durfey and Chub - Leroy, seeing Mr. Cummings driving a load of hay down from the Cattle - Ridge: it seemed desirable to drop on the hay when it passed beneath. Mr. - Cummings was sleepy. He sat nodding far down in front, while we lit softly - on the crest and slid over behind. - </p> - <p> - And next you are to know that Chub Leroy's feet came down thump on the - head of a monstrous man, half buried in the hay, who sat up and looked - around, vast, shaggy, black-bearded, smoking a corncob pipe, composed, and - quite ragged in his clothes. - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” he said mildly, and rubbed his head. - </p> - <p> - After a few moments looking us over, he pointed with his thumb through the - hay at Mr. Cummings, and leaned toward us and winked. - </p> - <p> - “Same as me,” he whispered, and shook all over his fatness, silently, with - the laughter and pleasure he was having inside. - </p> - <p> - It is a good thing in this world to have adventures, and it is only a - matter of looking around a bit in country or city. For each fellow his - quest is waiting at the street corner, or hides in the edge of the woods, - peering out of green shadows. On all highways it is to be met with and is - seldom far to seek—though no harm if it were—because the world - is populous with men and animals, and no moment like another. It may be, - if you drop on a hay-load, you will have a row with the driver, or you - will thump on the head such a free traveller as ours, vast, shaggy, - primeval, pipe-smoking, of wonderful fatness. - </p> - <p> - He seemed a sleepy, contented man, not in point of fact minding thumps on - the head. The hay-cart rolled on gently in the dust. Mr. Cummings drowsed - in front, unaware, and the Free Traveller drowsed behind, smoking - listlessly. The rest of us grew sleepy too and liked everything. For it - was odd but pleasant in a way to look down from the secrecy of the hay on - familiar things, on the village dooryards and the tops of hats. We seemed - to fall into silent league with the Free Traveller, to be interested in - things, but not anxious, observing the hats of labor and ambition, - careless of appearance, primitive, easy, seeing little importance in where - the cart might go, because anywhere was good enough. - </p> - <p> - Instead of turning east at the cross-roads, Mr. Cummings drove drowsily - ahead on the Windless Road, although the Cummings place is east on the - Salem; so that the hay was plainly going to the little pasture barn, three - miles off, all one to us, and better for the Free Traveller, as it - appeared after. But he was not interested then, being in a fair way to - sleep. We lay deep in the hay and looked up at the blue of the sky and the - white of the creeping clouds, till the pine trees closed suddenly over the - road, the cliffs of Windless Mountain on one side and the Mill Stream on - the other, deep under its bank. A strong south wind came under the pines, - skirting the corner of the mountain, hissed through the pine needles, and - rumpled the hay. - </p> - <p> - And there was a great smoke and blaze about us. “Humph!” said the Free - Traveller. - </p> - <p> - He went off the back of the hay-cart into the middle of the road, and we - too fell off immediately, each in his own way, on the pine needles. Mr. - Cummings came up over the top of the load with a tumult of mixed language, - and the horses ran away. - </p> - <p> - The great load sped down the green avenue smoking, crackling, blazing, - taking with it Mr. Cummings to unknown results, and leaving the Free - Traveller sitting up in the middle of the road and looking after it - mildly. He heaved himself up puffing. “There!” he said. “There goes my - pipe.” - </p> - <p> - “It's all your fault,” shouted Moses Durfey. “You shouldn't smoke on - hay-loads.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe Mr. Cummings is a deader,” said Chub Leroy, thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - The Free Traveller rubbed his leg. - </p> - <p> - “You're same as me. If he ain't dead he'll come back with a strap and lam - some of us. That ain't me. I'm going to light out.” - </p> - <p> - He slid under the rail and down the bank to the stream, handling himself - wonderfully for so weighty a man; for he seemed to accommodate himself to - obstacles like a jellyfish, and somehow to get around them. So he was over - the bowlders and across the stream, which there divides Windless Mountain - from the Great South Woods. - </p> - <p> - We were indignant that he should leave us to be “lammed” for his - carelessness. We shouted after, and Moses Durfey said he was a “chump.” - </p> - <p> - “You might come along,” retorted the Free Traveller with an injured - manner. “What's hindering? I lugs nobody. I lets folks alone.” - </p> - <p> - He was at the wood's edge by this time, where a dim green path went in, - looked over his shoulder a moment, and then disappeared. We scrambled down - the bank and over the bowlders, for it was not desirable to wait for Mr. - Cummings, and Hagar itself would be no refuge. Hagar was a place where - criticisms were made, while the green woods have never a comment on any - folly, but are good comrades to all who have the temper to like them. We - caught up with him by dint of running and followed silently. It grew dusky - with the lateness of the afternoon, the pale green light turning dark, and - we were solemn and rather low in our minds. The Free Traveller seemed to - grow more vast in outline. Being short of wind he wheezed and moaned and - what with his swaying as he walked, and his great humpy shoulders and all, - he looked less and less like a man, and more and more like a Thing. - Sometimes a tree would creak suddenly near at hand, and I fancied there - were other people in the woods, whispering and all going the way we went, - to see what would come to us in the end. - </p> - <p> - So it went on till we came on a little clearing, between the forest and a - swamp. A black pond, tinted a bit with the sunset, lay below along the - edge of the swamp; and we knew mainly where we were, for there was a - highway somewhere beyond the swamp, connecting the valleys of the - Wyantenaug and the Pilgrim. But none the less for the highway it seemed a - lonely place, fit for congregations of ghosts. The pond was unknown to me, - and it looked very still and oily. The forest seemed to crowd about and - overhang the clearing. On the western side was a heap of caverned - bowlders, and a fire burned in front with three persons sitting beside it. - </p> - <p> - The Free Traveller slid along the wood's edge noiselessly but without - hesitation, and coming to the fire was greeted. One of those who sat there - was a tall old man with very light blue eyes and prominent, his beard - white and long. As we came to know, he was called the “Prophet.” He said: - </p> - <p> - “How do, Humpy?” so that we knew the Free Traveller was called Humpy, - either for the shape of his shoulders or for the word he used to express - himself. There was a younger man, with a retreating chin, and a necktie, - but no collar, and there was a silent woman with a shawl over her head. - </p> - <p> - “These are friends o' mine,” said the Free Traveller to the older man. - “Make you acquainted. That's Showman Bobby, and that's the Prophet.” - </p> - <p> - A vast chuckle of mirth started then from deep within him and surged - through his throat,—such a laugh as would naturally come from a - whale or some creature of a past age, whose midriff was boundless. - </p> - <p> - “Ho!” he said. “Bloke with a hay-load lit under him. Ho, Ho!” - </p> - <p> - “Gen'leman,” said the Prophet with a fluent wave of his hand. “Friends of - Humpy's. That's enough. Any grub, Humpy?” - </p> - <p> - The Free Traveller brought out a round loaf and some meat done up in a - newspaper. He might have carried a number of such things about him without - making any great difference in his contour. The Prophet did not ask about - the hay-load, or where the bread and meat came from. - </p> - <p> - The daylight was fading now in the clearing, and presently a few thin - stars were out. It might have occurred to persons of better regulated - fancies than ours that they were due at supper long since with other - friends of staider qualities, and that now the wood-paths were too dark to - follow. Perhaps it did; but it could not have seemed a fair reason to be - troubled, that we were last seen in company with the Free Traveller, so - fat and friendly a man. I remember better that the Black Pond reflected no - stars, that the gleams from the fire played fearful games along the wood's - edge and the bowlders, and how, beyond the Black Pond, the swamp and the - close-cuddled hills, the lights of Hamilton crouched low under the sky. - Opposite us across the fire sat that woman who said nothing, and her face - was shadowed by her shawl. - </p> - <p> - Showman Bobby and the Free Traveller went to sleep, Bobby on his face and - the Free Traveller accommodating himself. The Prophet sat up and kept us - company; for we asked him questions naturally, and he seemed interested to - answer, and was fluent and striking in his speech. They were a runout - Company and very low in their luck; and it seemed that Bobby was the - manager, a tumbler himself by profession and in that way of life since - childhood; and the Free Traveller was apt to be an Australian giant now, - but in earlier years had been given to footing from place to place and - living as he might. The Prophet called him a skilful man at getting things - out of women, partly by experience, and partly by reason of his size and - the mildness of his manners. As for the Black Pond Clearing, it was well - known to people of the road, even to orange-men and pack-peddlers, being a - hidden place with wood and water and shelter in the caves from rain. - </p> - <p> - “That light in the south is Hamilton,” said Chub Leroy. - </p> - <p> - The Prophet started and looked anxiously across the fire, but the woman - did not move. Then he drew nearer us and spoke lower. - </p> - <p> - “You look out,” he said. “She ain't right in her head. Bobby painted the - kid for a pappoose. It took the shakes and died queer. You'd better lie - down, Cass,” speaking across the fire to the woman, who turned her head - and stared at him directly. “You'd better lie down.” - </p> - <p> - She drew back from the fire noiselessly and lay down, wrapping her shawl - about her head. - </p> - <p> - “I ain't been a circus heeler all my time,” began the Prophet. “I been a - gentleman. Neither has Humpy, I reckon. When I met Bobby it was West and - he ran a dime museum. He took me in for being a gifted talker, and I was - that low in my luck. She and Bobby was married sometime, and she did acts - like the Circassian Beauty, and the Headless Woman, and the Child of the - Aztecs. Humpy's gifts lies in his size, and he's a powerful strong man, - too, more than you'd think, and he can get himself up for a savage to look - like a loose tornado. Look at him now. Ain't he a heap? There was a - three-eyed dog in the show that you could n't tell that the extra eye was - n't so hardly, and a snake that was any kind of a snake according as you - fixed him, his natural color being black. We came East with Forepaugh's. - Bobby bought a tent in Chicago, and we came to Hamilton a fortnight ago. - Now there's Hamilton that's a-shining off there with its lights. And we - run away from it in the night a week come to-morrow, or next day, I - forget. We left the tent and outfit which was come down on by a Dutch - grocer for debt, and Cassie's baby was dead in the tent. Bobby painted him - too thick. And there was a lot of folks looking for us with sticks. Now, - that was n't right. Think Bobby'd have poisoned his own kid if he'd known - better about painting him, a kid that was a credit to the show! That's - what they said. Think folks coming round with sticks and a-howling - blasphemous is going to help out any family mourning! That ain't my idea. - </p> - <p> - “Then a fellow says, 'I don't know anything about it,' he says, 'and I - don't want to, but I know you get out of here quick.' - </p> - <p> - “And they drove us out of Hamilton that night ten miles in a covered cart, - and left us in the road. And the Dutch grocer got the outfit. I reckon the - circus and the city has buried the kid between 'em. Hey? Sh! She's got a - quirk. All I know is Fore-paugh's shook us as if we was fleas.” - </p> - <p> - The Prophet looked over to where Cassie lay, but she did not stir. Anyway, - if she heard, it was the Prophet's fault. “They're awful poor company,” he - said plaintively, “Bobby and Cass. She takes on terrible. She's took a - notion that baby ain't buried right. She thinks—well, I don't know. - Now that ain't my way of looking at things, but I did n't own the outfit. - It was Bobby's outfit, and the Dutch grocer got it.” - </p> - <p> - He was silent for a moment. We could hear the Free Traveller asleep and - rumbling in his throat. - </p> - <p> - “Where might you chaps come from?” asked the Prophet, suddenly. “Not that - it's my business. Maybe there might be a town over there? Hey? Yes.” - </p> - <p> - He grumbled in his beard a few moments more, and then lay down to sleep. - We drew together and whispered. The three men slept, and the woman said - nothing. - </p> - <p> - It is seen that sometimes your most battered and world-worn of men is the - simplest in his way of looking at things. Or else it was because the - Prophet was a talker by nature, and Bobby and Cass such poor company, that - he fell into speech with us on such equal terms. I have set down but - little of what he said, only enough for the story of the Company, and as I - happen to recollect it. - </p> - <p> - It should have been something earlier than nine o'clock when the Prophet - lay down to sleep, and half an hour later when we first noticed that the - woman, Cass, was sitting up. She had her back to us and was looking toward - the lights of Hamilton. There was no moon and the stars only shone here - and there between clouds that hurried across the sky, making preparations - for the storm that came in the morning. The fire burned low, but there was - no need of it for warmth. The outlines of the hills could be seen. The - swamp, the pond, and most of the clearing were dark together. - </p> - <p> - Presently she looked cautiously around, first at the three sleepers, and - then at us. She crept nearer slowly and crouched beside the dull fire, - throwing back her shawl. Her hair was black and straggled about her face, - and her eyes were black too, and glittering. The glow of the embers, - striking upward, made their sockets cavernous, but the eyes stood out in - the midst of the caverns. One knows well enough that tragedies walk about - and exchange agreeable phrases with each other. Your tragedy is yours, and - mine is mine, and in the meanwhile see to it that we look sedate, and - discuss anything, provided it is of no importance to either. One does not - choose to be an inscribed monument to the fame of one's private affair. - But Cassie had lost that instinct of reserve, and her desolation looked - out of her eyes with dreadful candor. The lines of her face, the droop of - her figure and even little motions of the hand, signified but one thought. - I suppose all ideas possible to the world had become as one to her, so - that three boys cowering away from her seemed only a natural enough part - of the same subject. It was all one; namely, a baby painted brown, who - died queerly in a side tent in Hamilton Fair Grounds. - </p> - <p> - We stared at her breathlessly. - </p> - <p> - “You tell 'em I'm going,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Where?” asked Chub. - </p> - <p> - “They ain't no right to—to—Who are you?” - </p> - <p> - But this was only in passing. She did not wait to be answered. - </p> - <p> - “You tell 'em I'm going.” - </p> - <p> - “What for?” persisted Chub. - </p> - <p> - “It's six days. Maybe they throwed him where the tin cans are. You tell - 'em I'm going.” - </p> - <p> - And she was gone. She must have slipped along the edge of the woods where - the shadows were densest. - </p> - <p> - We listened a moment or two stupidly. Then we sprang up. It seems as if - the three men were on their feet at the same instant, wakened by some - common instinct or pressure of fear. It was a single sound of splashing we - heard off in the darkness. Bobby was gone, then the Free Traveller, then - the Prophet. We fell into hollows, over rocks and stumps, and came to the - pond. The reflection of a star or two glimmered there. The water looked - heavy, like melted lead, and any ripple that had been was gone, or too - slight to see. The Free Traveller and Bobby went in and waded about. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you step on her,” said Bobby, hoarsely. - </p> - <p> - The bottom seemed to shelve steeply from the shore. They moved along - chest-deep, feeling with their feet, and we heard them whispering. The - Prophet sat down and whimpered softly. They waded a distance along the - shore, and back. They came close in, whispered together, and went out - again. - </p> - <p> - “Here! I got it,” said the Free Traveller. They came out, carrying - something large and black, and laid it on the ground. - </p> - <p> - “It ain't Cassie!” whimpered the Prophet. “It ain't Cassie, is it?” - </p> - <p> - They all stood about it. The face was like a dim white patch on the - ground. - </p> - <p> - “Hold your jaw,” said Bobby. “Hark!” - </p> - <p> - There were voices in the woods above, and a crashing of the branches. They - were coming nearer and lights were twinkling far back in the wood-path, - where we had entered the clearing. I do not know what thought it was—some - instinct to flee and hide—that seized the outcasts. They slid away - into the darkness together, swiftly and without speaking. The Free - Traveller had Cassie's body on his shoulder, carrying it as a child - carries a rag doll. The darkness swallowed them at a gulp, and we stood - alone by the Black Pond. Several men came into the clearing with lanterns, - villagers from Hagar, Harvey Cummings, the minister, and others, who swung - their lanterns and shouted. - </p> - <p> - Now, I suppose that Cassie lies buried to-day somewhere in the South - Woods, and it may be that no man alive knows where. For none of the - Company were ever seen again in that part of the country, nor have been - heard of anywhere now these many years. We can see the lights of Hamilton - from Hagar as of old, but we seldom think of the Celestial City, or any - palaces and splendors, but of the multitude of various people who go to - and fro, each carrying a story. - </p> - <p> - The coming and going of aliens made little difference with Hagar. I - suppose it was more important there, that Harvey Cummings's hay-load went - up lawlessly in smoke and flame, and never came to the little pasture barn - on the Windless Mountain Road. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - JOPPA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n Friday - afternoon, the twenty-eighth of June, Deacon Crockett's horse ran away. It - was not a suitable thing, not at all what a settled community had a right - to expect of a horse with stubby legs and no mane to speak of, who had - grown old in the order of decent conduct. He ran into Mrs. Cullom - Sanderson's basket phaeton and spilled Mrs. Cullom on the ground, which - was taking a grave responsibility. It was done in the midst of Hagar. - Harvey Cummings jumped out of the way and said, “Deb it!” There was no - concealment about it. Everybody heard of it and said it was astonishing. - </p> - <p> - The name of the deacon's horse was Joppa. The deacon's father-in-law, - Captain David Brett, had an iron-gray named Borneo. Borneo and Joppa did - not agree, on account of Borneo's kicking Joppa in the ribs to show his - contempt. It was natural that he should have this contempt, being sleek - and spirited himself, with a nautical gait that every one admitted to be - taking; and Joppa did not think it unnatural in him to show it. Without - questioning the justice of Borneo's position, he disliked being kicked in - the ribs. - </p> - <p> - Borneo had been eating grass by the roadside; Joppa stood harnessed in - front of the horse-block; Mrs. Crockett stood on the horse-block; Borneo - came around and kicked Joppa in the ribs; Joppa ran away; Mrs. Crockett - shrieked; Harvey Cummings said “Deb it!” and Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was - spilled. She weighed two hundred pounds and covered a deal of ground when - she was spilled. - </p> - <p> - He crossed the bridge and tore along the Salem Road, his stubby legs - pattering under him, and a great fear in his soul of the shouting village - behind. Angelica and Willy Flint saw him coming. - </p> - <p> - “It's a runaway!” shouted Angelica. - </p> - <p> - Willy Flint continued swinging on the gate. He thought it his place to be - self-contained and accurate. - </p> - <p> - “It's Joppa,” he said calmly. - </p> - <p> - But Angelica did not care for appearances. She shied a clam-shell at - Joppa, said “Hi there!” and jumped around. - </p> - <p> - Joppa swerved sharply, the deacon's buggy turned several sides up, if that - is possible, bobbed along behind, and then broke loose at the thills. - Joppa fled madly up the side road that leads to Scrabble Up and Down, and - disappeared over the crest of the hill, leaving Angelica and Willy Flint - to gloat over the wreck of the buggy. It gratified a number of their - instincts. - </p> - <p> - The region called Scrabble Up and Down, as well as the road which leads to - it, is distinguished by innumerable small steep hills and hollows. For the - rest, it is a sandy and ill-populated district, and a lonely road. - Westward of it lies a wilderness of underbrush and stunted trees, rising - at last into exultant woods and billowing over the hills mile upon mile to - the valley of the Wyantenaug. The South Woods do not belong to Scrabble Up - and Down. They are put there to show Scrabble Up and Down what it cannot - do. - </p> - <p> - The road winds around hillocks and down hollows in an aimless fashion; and - for that reason it is not possible to see much of it at a time. When the - villagers of Hagar reached the top of the first hill, Joppa was nearly a - mile away, his stubby legs rather tired, his spirit more tranquil, and - himself out of sight of the villagers of Hagar. He saw no point in turning - back. Hagar gave him but a dull and unideal life, plodding between shafts - before the austere and silent deacon, unaccountably smacked with a whip, - and in constant contrast with Borneo's good looks. Joppa had not many - ideas and little imagination. He did not feel drawn to go back. Moreover - he smelt something damp and fresh in the direction of the woods which - absorbed him. He stopped, sniffed, and looked around. The fence was broken - here and there, as fences generally were in Scrabble Up and Down. The - leaves were budding; there was a shimmer of green on the distant woods; - and presently Joppa was wandering through the brush and scrub trees - westward. The broken shafts dragged quietly beside him. He lifted his head - a little higher than usual and had an odd feeling, as if he were enjoying - himself. - </p> - <p> - A tumult, row, or excitement of any kind was considered by the children of - Hagar a thing to be desired, assisted, and remembered gratefully. Some of - the elders were much of the same mind. Joppa's action was therefore - popular in Hagar, the more so that it was felt to be incongruous; and, - when by no search that Friday afternoon nor the following Saturday could - he be found, his reputation rose in leaps. He had gone over the hill and - vanished like a ghost, commonplace, homely, plodding, downcast Joppa, - known to Hagar in that fashion these dozen or more years and suddenly - become the loud talk of the day. The road to Scrabble Up and Down and the - roads far beyond were searched. Inquiry spread to Salem and to Gilead. On - Saturday night notices were posted here and there by happy jokers relating - to Joppa, one on the church door of Hagar requesting the prayers of the - congregation. Mr. Atherton Bell thought the deacon's horse like “the - deacon's one-hoss shay,” in that he had lasted an extraordinary time - intact, and then disintegrated. Joppa had become a mystery, an excitement, - a cause of wit. A definite addition had been made to the hoarded stock of - tradition and jest; the lives of all seemed the richer. An atmosphere of - deep and tranquil mirth pervaded the village, a kind of mellow light of - humor, in the focus of which stood Deacon Crockett, and writhed. - </p> - <p> - It was hoped that the minister would preach on Joppa. He preached on - “human insignificance,” and read of the war-horse, “Hast thou clothed his - neck with thunder?” but it was thought not to refer to Joppa. - </p> - <p> - As for the children of Hagar, did they not dream of him, and hear him - thumping and blundering by in the winds of the dim night? They saw no - humor in him, nor in the deacon. Rather it was a serious mystery, and they - went about with the impression of it on their faces, having faith that the - outcome would be worthy of the promise. - </p> - <p> - Harvey Cummings thought that the war-horse did not refer to Joppa, and - said so on the steps of the church. “There wan'd no thudder aboud him. He - was the meekest hoss in Hamilton County. He run away on accound of his - shyness.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Cummings had no palate to speak of, and his consonants were uncertain. - Mr. Atherton Bell threw out his chest, as an orator should, put his thumbs - in the armholes of his vest, and gazed at Mr. Cummings with a kindling - eye. - </p> - <p> - “For a meek horse,” he said impressively, “he showed—a—great - resolution when he spilled Mrs. Cullom Sanderson. I declare to you, - Harvey, I give you my word, sir, I would not have missed seeing Mrs. - Cullom spilled for a government contract.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, indeed, Mr. Bell!” said Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, rustling past, - “clothed with thunder” and black silk. Mr. Atherton Bell recovered himself - slowly and moved to a greater distance from the church door. He was a - politician and a legislator, but he found diplomacy difficult. Several - others gathered around, desiring to hear the statesman. “Now suppose, - Harvey, suppose the deacon too should take a notion to run away, knock - over Mrs. Cullom, you know, and—a—disappear. Imagine it, - Harvey.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Cummings shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “Can't do it.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Bell took off his hat and smiled expansively. - </p> - <p> - “It's a pleasing thought, ha! He might be translated—a—Elijah, - you know. He might leave his mantle to—to me. Hitherto the deacon - has lacked dramatic interest. Contact between Mrs. Cullom and Deacon - Crockett would—” (here his hearers stirred appreciatively) “would - have dramatic interest—Ah, good morning, deacon, good morning, sir. - We were speaking of your loss. We—a—trust it will not be - permanent.” - </p> - <p> - The deacon moved on without answering. Mr. Atherton Bell's spirit fell - again, and he wiped his forehead nervously. - </p> - <p> - It would be a painful thing if a man were suddenly to enter into full - sight of himself as others see him; it is a measure of distress even to - have a passing glimpse—not so much because he sees a worse man, but - because he sees a stranger. - </p> - <p> - Deacon Crockett had never asked himself how others saw him. He was not a - flexible man. The grooves in which his life ran had been worn slowly in a - hard substance. Its purports and ends had always seemed to him accurately - measured and bounded. He exacted his rights, paid his dues, and had no - doubts about either; held his conscience before him as a sword, dividing - truth from falsehood. He stood by the faith of his forefathers, gave up no - jot or tittle of it; there were no hazy outlying regions in that faith. - </p> - <p> - When a man observes himself to be a well-defined thing in certain - relations with other well-defined things, has no more doubt of the meaning - of his presence on the earth than of the function of a cogwheel in his - watch, his footing seems singularly secure; the figure he makes in his own - eyes not only grows rigid with habit, but seems logically exact to begin - with. To doubt the function of the cog-wheel is to put in question the - watch, which is impossible and a sufficient demonstration. Other men's - opinions, if worth anything or considered at all, are assumed to be - respectful; and the assumption seems just. - </p> - <p> - Why should he not feel impregnable in his personal dignity, who sees - himself sufficiently fulfilling his function in an ordered scheme, a just - man, elected to become perfect? Personal dignity is at least not a vulgar - ambition. It was the deacon's ambition, the thing which he wished to - characterize his life. - </p> - <p> - The deacon walked down the path from the church. He walked quietly and - stiffly as usual, but the spirit within him was worse than angry; it was - confused. The whole neighborhood seemed to be laughing at him; his fingers - tingled at the thought. - </p> - <p> - But that was not the source of his confusion. It was, strangely, that - there seemed to be no malice in the laughter, only a kind of amused - friendliness. An insult and a resentment can be understood by a man of - function, within his function; his resentment maintains his equilibrium. - But, quite the contrary, his neighbors seemed timidly to invite him into - the joke. Of all the hidden ways of laughter one comes last to that in - which he may walk and be amused with himself; although it is only there - that he is for the first time entirely comfortable in the world. Tim Rae, - the town drunkard, met him where the path across the Green joins the road. - It was Tim's habit to flee from the deacon's approach with feeble - subterfuges, not because the deacon ever lectured him, but because the - deacon's presence seemed to foreshorten his stature, and gave him a chill - in the stomach, where he preferred “something warm.” Yet he ambled amiably - across the road, and his air of good-fellowship could not have been - greater if they had met in a ditch on equal terms of intoxication. - </p> - <p> - “What think, deacon,” he gurgled. “I was dream-in' las' night, 'bout Joppa - comin' down my chimney, damned if he did n't.” - </p> - <p> - The deacon stopped and faced him. - </p> - <p> - “You may be drunk, sir,” he said slowly, “on Saturday night, and you may - curse on the Sabbath; but you <i>may not</i> expect me to sympathize with - you—in either.” - </p> - <p> - Then Tim Rae slunk away foreshortened of stature and cold in the stomach. - </p> - <p> - Monday morning was the first of May; and on May-day, unless the season - were backward and without early flowers, the children of Hagar would go - after ground-pine for the May-baskets, and trailing arbutus to fill them - with. They would hang the baskets on the door-handles of those who were - thought worthy, popular persons such as the minister and Sandy Campbell; - on Mr. Atherton Bell's door-handle on account of Bobby Bell, who was a - gentleman but not allowed to be out nights because of his inferior age. - </p> - <p> - Ground-pine grows in many places, but early arbutus is a whimsical flower, - as shy as first love. It is nearly always to be found somewhere in the - South Woods. And the South Woods are to be reached, not by Scrabble Up and - Down, but along the Windless Mountain Road, across the Mill Stream, and by - cart-paths which know not their own minds. - </p> - <p> - The deacon drove home from Gilead Monday afternoon, and saw the children - noisily jumping the Mill Stream where the line of bowlders dams up the - stream and makes deep quiet water above. Their voices, quarrelling and - laughing, fell on his ear with an unfamiliar sound. Somehow they seemed - significant, at least suggesting odd trains of thought. He found himself - imagining how it would seem to go Maying; and the incongruity of it - brought a sudden frown of mental pain and confusion to his forehead. And - so he drove into Hagar. - </p> - <p> - But if he had followed the May-day revellers, as he had oddly imagined - himself doing, he would have gone by those winding cart-paths, fragrant - with early growth, and might have seen the children break from the woods - with shouts into a small opening above a sunken pond; he might even have - heard the voice of Angelica Flint rise in shrill excitement: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Why, there's Joppa!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Some minutes after six, the first shading of the twilight being in the - air, the villagers of Hagar, whose houses lay along the north and south - road, rose on one impulse and came forth into the street. And standing by - their gates and porches, they saw the children go by with lost Joppa in - their midst. Around his neck was a huge flopping wreath of ground-pine and - arbutus. The arbutus did not stay in very well, and there was little of it—only - bits stuck in here and there. Joppa hung his head low, so that the wreath - had to be held on. He did not seem cheerful; in fact, the whole cortège - had a subdued though important air, as if oppressed by a great thought and - conscious of ceremony. - </p> - <p> - The minister and the other neighbors along the street came out and - followed. Some dozen or more at last stood on the brow of the slight hill - looking down to the deacon's house; and they too felt conscious of - something, of a ceremony, a suspense. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Atherton Bell met the children and drove his buggy into the ditch, - stood up and gazed over the back of it with an absorbed look. - </p> - <p> - “I feel curious how the deacon will take it,” said the minister. “I—I - feel anxious.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Atherton Bell said, it got him. He said something too about “dramatic - interest” and “a good betting chance he'll cut up rough”; but no one - answered him. - </p> - <p> - The procession halted outside the deacon's gate. A tendency to giggle on - the part of certain girls was sternly suppressed by Angelica Flint. Willy - Flint led Joppa cautiously up the board walk and tied him to a pillar of - the porch; the company began to retreat irregularly. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the deacon, tall and black-coated, stood in the doorway, Mrs. - Crockett at his elbow pouring forth exclamations; and the retreat became a - flight. Little Nettie Paulus fell behind; she stood in the middle of the - road and wailed piteously. - </p> - <p> - The deacon glared at Joppa and Joppa's grotesque necklace, looked after - the fleeing children and saw on the brow of the hill the group of his - fellow-townsmen. His forehead flushed and he hesitated. At last he took - the wreath awkwardly from Joppa's neck, went into the house and shut the - door. The wreath hung in his front window seven months, and fell to pieces - about the end of November. Joppa died long after of old age and - rheumatism. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE ELDER' SEAT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>etween the mill - and the miller's house in Hagar the Mill Stream made a broad pool with a - yellow bottom of pebbles and sand. It was sometimes called the - Mediterranean. If you wished to cross the Mill Stream, there was a plank - below, which was good to jounce on also, though apt to tip you into the - water. The pool was shallow, about twenty feet across and as long as you - might care to go upstream,—as far as the clay bank, anyway, where - Chub Leroy built the city of Alexandria. Jeannette Paulus walked all over - Alexandria to catch a frog, and made a mess of it, and did not catch the - frog. That is the way of things in this world. Alexandria fell in a - moment, with all her palaces and towers. But there were other cities, and - commerce was lively on the Mediterranean. - </p> - <p> - On the nearer side, against the gray, weatherbeaten flank of the miller's - house was a painted bench, for convenience of the morning sun and - afternoon shade; and I call it now the Elders' Seat, because Captain David - Brett and others were often to be seen sitting there in the sun or shade. - I remember the minister was there, and Job Mather, the miller, whenever - his grist ran low, so that he let his stem millstones cease to grind. - These were the three to whom the Elders' Seat seemed to us to belong by - right of continuance, because our short memories ran not to the contrary. - Captain David was well in his seventies, the miller not far behind, and - Mr. Royce already gray-haired. They sat and watched the rise and fall of - cities, the growth and decay of commerce, the tumult of conquests, and the - wreck of high ambition. They noticed that one thing did not change nor - cease, namely, the ripple of the stream; just as if, in history, there - really were a voice distinguishable that went murmuring forever. - </p> - <p> - After the fall of Alexandria Damascus was built, but inland, so that it - had to be reached by caravan; and Moses Durfey laid the foundations of - Byzantium where the pool narrowed into rushing water, and Venice was - planted low in a marshy place hard by the seven hills of Rome. But you - must know that Bobby Bell built the city of Rome absurdly, and filled it - with pot-holes to keep frogs in and floating black bugs, so that it was - impossible to hold it against the Carthaginians. There were wars in those - days. These were the main marts of trade, but there were quays and - fortresses elsewhere; and it should be told sometime how the Barbary - pirates came down. Rome was in a bad way, for Bobby had one aquarium in - the Campus Martius, and another where the Forum should have been. There - was nothing flourishing but the aqueducts. - </p> - <p> - The three Elders would sit leaning forward, watching the changes of - fortune and event that went on from hour to hour by the Mediterranean. The - captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested his chin on his cane; the - miller's hands were on his knees, his large white face stolid, his heavy - lips seldom moving. He was a thinking man, the miller,—a - slow-moving, slow-speaking, persistent man, and a fatalist in his way of - thinking, though he used no such term; it was his notion of things. - </p> - <p> - They talked of old history out of Gibbon and Grote and the Seven - Monarchies, and they talked of things that had happened to them as men in - the world; but the things which they thought of most often, in watching - the children and the Mill Stream, they said little about, for these had - not happened a thousand or two thousand years before, nor twenty or - thirty, but just sixty or seventy. And this was why they came so often to - the Elders' Seat, because something dim and happy seemed to come up to - them, like a mist, from the Mill Stream, where the children quarrelled and - contrived. - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell ye what ailed Rome,” said Captain David. “She needed to be - keeled and scraped. She fouled her bottom!” - </p> - <p> - The minister answered slowly: “No, she was rotten within. She lost the - faith in God and in man that keeps a people sound.” - </p> - <p> - “Ho! Well, then she wa'n't handled right.” - </p> - <p> - The miller rubbed his thumb slowly on the palm of his hand. “She was - grinded out,” he said. “She couldn't help it. Corn can't keep itself from - meal when the stones gets at it. No more a man can't keep his bones from - dust, nor a people, either, I'm thinking, when its time comes.” - </p> - <p> - The minister shook his head. “I don't like that.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know as I do, either. And I don't know as that makes any - difference.” - </p> - <p> - “Ho!” said the captain. “Bobby's got a new frog!” - </p> - <p> - And Chub Leroy cried out in despair: “Look out, Bobby! You're stepping on - the Colosseum!” - </p> - <p> - I would not pretend to say how long the Elders' Seat had stood there, or - how many years the Elders had come to it now and again; but I remember - that it seemed to us very permanent, in a world of shifting empires, where - Alexandria was suddenly walked upon and deserted, and Venice went down the - current in a rainy night, and was spoken of no more. We could not remember - when it had not stood in its place. It was a kind of Olympus to us, or - Delphi, where we went for oracles on shipping and other matters. - </p> - <p> - Afterward we grew up, and became too old to dabble and make beautiful - things of gray clay, except Chub Leroy, who is still doing something of - that kind, cutting and building with clay and stone. But the Elders' Seat - remained, and the Elders watched other children, as if nothing had - happened. Only, Captain David had trouble to keep his pipe in his mouth. - So that when the Elders' Seat took its first journey, it seemed very - difficult for us to understand,—even for those who were too old to - dabble in gray clay. - </p> - <p> - It was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mill, past the drug - store, the Crocketts' house, where Captain David lived, and so on by the - crossroads, to the minister's, with the graveyard just beyond. I remember - how very yellow and dusty the road was in the summer of '86, so that the - clay bottom cracked off in flat pieces, which could be gathered up; and - then, if you climbed the wall with care enough, you could scale them at - woodchucks. August was sultry and still. The morning-glories drooped on - Captain David's porch, and the pigeons on the roof went to sleep more than - was natural. - </p> - <p> - The minister and Job Mather sat, one afternoon, in the Elders' Seat; for - Captain David, he had not gone out through his gate those many days. There - was history enough in process on the Mediterranean. The Americans and - Carthaginians were preparing to have a battle, on account of docks that - ran too near together. The Elders discovered that they did not care about - it. - </p> - <p> - The miller got to his feet, and lifted one end of the bench. “Come,” he - said gruffly. “Let's move it.” - </p> - <p> - “Hey!” said the minister, looking troubled and a bit lost. Then his lips - trembled. “Yes, Job. That's so, Job. We'd better move it.” - </p> - <p> - The children came up from the Mediterranean in a body, and stared. It was - much to them as if, in Greece, the gods had risen up and gone away, for - unknown reasons, taking Olympus with them. The old men went along the - yellow, dusty road with very shuffling steps, carrying the Elders' Seat, - one at each end, till they turned into Captain David's garden and put it - down against the porch. Mrs. Crockett came to the door, and held up her - hands in astonishment. Captain David was helped out. He was faded and worn - with pain. He settled himself in the Elders' Seat. It did not seem - possible to say anything. The captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested - his chin on his cane; the miller's hands were on his knees, his large - white face stolid and set. - </p> - <p> - “I'm goin' to shell those peas to-morrow,” began the captain at last. Then - his voice broke, and a mist came into his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I bet ye the Americans are licking the Carthaginians.” - </p> - <p> - On the contrary, the Americans and Carthaginians, with other nations, were - hanging over the picket fence, staring and bewildered. What was the use of - mere human wars, if primeval things could be suddenly changed? The grass - might take a notion to come up pink or the seas to run out at the bottom, - and that sort of thing would make a difference. - </p> - <p> - The sun dropped low in the west, and presently Chub Leroy, who built the - city of Alexandria ten years before, came slowly along in the shadow of - the maples, and St. Agnes Macree was with him. She was old Caspar Macree's - granddaughter, and he was a charcoal-burner on the Cattle Ridge long ago. - They were surprised to see the Elders' Seat, and stopped a moment. St. - Agnes looked up at him and smiled softly, and Chub's eyes kept saying, - “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” all the time. Then they went on. - </p> - <p> - “I remember—” said Captain David, and stopped short. - </p> - <p> - “Eh! So do I,” said the minister. - </p> - <p> - “You do! Well, Job, do you remember? Ain't it the remarkablest thing!” - </p> - <p> - The miller's heavy face was changed with a slow, embarrassed smile. And - all these three sat a long time very still, while the sunlight slanted - among the morning-glories and the pigeons slept on the roof. - </p> - <p> - There came a day in September when the minister and the miller were alone - again on the Elders' Seat, but Captain David lay in his bed near the - window. He slept a great deal, and babbled in his half dreams: sometimes - about ships and cordage, anchorage in harbors and whaling in the south - seas; and at times about some one named “Kitty.” I never heard who Kitty - was. He said something or other “wasn't right.” He took the trouble and - the end of things all in good part, and bore no grudge to any one for it; - it seemed only natural, like coming to anchor at last. - </p> - <p> - “When a man gets legs like mine,” he said, “it's time he took another way - of getting round. Something like a fish'd be my notion. Parson, a man gets - the other side of somewhere, he can jump round lively-like, same as he was - a boy, eh?” - </p> - <p> - The minister murmured something about “our Heavenly Father,” and Captain - David said softly: “I guess he don't call us nothing but boys. He says, - 'Shucks! it ain't natural for 'em to behave.' Don't ye think, parson? Him, - he might see an old man like me and tell him, 'Glad to see ye, sonny'; - same as Harrier in Doty's Slip. The boys come in after a year out, or - maybe three years, and old man Harrier, he says, 'Glad to see ye, sonny'; - and the boys gets terrible drunk. He kept a junk-shop, Harrier.” - </p> - <p> - The minister tried to answer, but could not make it out. - </p> - <p> - “I saw a ship go down sudden-like. It was in '44. It was inside Cape Cod. - Something blowed her up inside. Me, I've took my time, I have. What ye - grumbling about, parson?” - </p> - <p> - In the morning the shutters were closed, and all about the house was - still. The pigeons were cooing on the roof of the porch; and Captain David - was dead, without seeing any reason to grumble. Down at the mill the - miller watched his monotonous millstones grinding slowly. - </p> - <p> - The Elders' Seat was moved once more after Captain David died, not back to - the Mediterranean, but further up the yellow road and into the minister's - yard, facing westward. From there the captain's white slab could be seen - through the cemetery gate. The two Elders occupied the seat some years, - and then went in through the gate. - </p> - <p> - But the Elders' Seat and its journeys from place to place seemed to have - some curious meaning, hardly to be spelled. I imagine this far, at least: - that at a certain point it became to the two more natural, more quiet and - happy, to turn their eyes in the direction the captain had gone than in - the direction they had all come. It pleased them then to move the Elders' - Seat a little nearer to the gate. And when the late hour came, it was - rather a familiar matter. The minister went in to look for his Master, and - the miller according to his' notion of things. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ot quite two - centuries of human life have gone quietly in Wimberton, and for the most - part it has been on Main and Chester Streets. Main Street is a quarter of - a mile long and three hundred feet wide, with double roads, and between - them a clean lawn shaded by old elms. Chester Street is narrow and crowded - with shops, and runs from the middle of Main down-hill to the railway and - the river. It is the business street for Wimberton and the countryside of - fifteen miles about. Main Street is surrounded by old houses of honorable - frontage, two churches, and the Solley Institute, which used to be called - “Solley's Folly” by frivolous aliens. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley, who owned the mines up the river and the foundries that have - been empty and silent these many years, founded it in 1840. At the time I - remember best the Institute had twenty-one trustees, lady patronesses, - matrons, and nurses; and three beneficiaries, or representatives of the - “aged, but not destitute, of Hamilton County.” That seemed odd to the - alien. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley need not have been so rigid about the equipment and - requirements of admission, except that he had in mind an institution of - dignity. It stood at the head of Main Street, with wide piazzas like a - hotel. The aristocracy of old Wimberton used to meet there and pass the - summer afternoons. The young people gave balls in the great parlors, and - the three beneficiaries looked on, and found nothing to complain of in the - management. What matter if it were odd? True Wimberton folk never called - the Institute a folly, but only newcomers, before years of residence made - them endurable and able to understand Wimberton. Failure is a lady of - better manners than Success, who is forward, complacent, taking herself - with unpleasant seriousness. Imagine the Institute swarming with people - from all parts of the county, a staring success in beneficence! - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley's idea was touched with delicacy. It was not a home for - Hamilton County poor, but for those who, merely lingering somewhat on the - slow descent, found it a lonely road. For there is a period in life, of - varying length, when, one's purposes having failed or been unfulfilled, - the world seems quite occupied by other people who are busy with - themselves. Life belongs at any one time to the generation which is making - the most of it. A beneficiary was in a certain position of respectable - humility. But I suppose it was not so much Mr. Solley's discrimination as - that in 1840 his own house was empty of all but a few servants; and so out - of his sense of loneliness grew his idea of a society of the - superannuated. That was the Solley Institute. - </p> - <p> - It is not so difficult to recreate old Wimberton of seventy years back, - for the same houses stood on Main Street, and the familiar names were then - heard—Solley, Gore, Cutting, Gilbert, Cass, Savage. The elms were - smaller, with fewer lights under them at night, and gravel paths instead - of asphalt. - </p> - <p> - One may even call up those who peopled the street, whom time has disguised - or hidden away completely. Lucia Gore has dimples,—instead of those - faded cheeks one remembers at the Institute,—and quick movements, - and a bewildering prettiness, in spite of the skirts that made women look - like decanters or tea-bells in 1830. She is coming down the gravel - sidewalk with a swift step, a singular fire and eagerness of manner, more - than one would suppose Miss Lucia to have once possessed. - </p> - <p> - And there is the elder Solley, already with that worn, wintry old face we - know from his portrait at the Institute, and John Solley, the son, both - with high-rolled collars, tall hats, and stiff cravats. Women said that - John Solley was reckless, but one only notices that he is very tall. - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad to see you are in a hurry, too, my dear. We might hurry up the - wedding among us all,” says the elder Solley, with a grim smile and a bow. - “Ha! Glad to see you in a hurry;” and he passes on, leaving the two - together. Lucia flushes and seems to object. - </p> - <p> - Is not that Mrs. Andrew Cutting in the front window of the gabled house - directly behind them? Then she is thinking how considerate it is, how - respectful to Main Street, that John and Lucia are to marry. - </p> - <p> - The past springs up quickly, even to little details. Mrs. Cutting wears a - morning cap, has one finger on her cheek, and is wondering why John looks - amused and Lucia in a temper. “He will have to behave himself,” thinks - Mrs. Cutting. “Lucia is—dear me, Lucia is very decided. I don't - really know that John likes to behave himself.” And all these people of - 1830 are clearly interested in their own affairs, and care little for - those who will look back at them, seventy years away. - </p> - <p> - Love climbs trees in the Hesperides, day in and out, very busy with their - remarkable fruit, the dragon lying beneath with indifferent jaws. Do we - observe how recklessly the young man reaches out, and how slightly he - knows the nature of his footing? The branches of such apple trees as bear - golden fruit are notoriously brittle. He might drop into the lazy throat - of Fate by as easy an accident as the observer into figures of speech, and - the dragon care little about the matter. That indifference of Fate is - hard, for it seems an expense for no value received by any one. We are - advised to be as little melancholy as possible, and charge it to profit - and loss. - </p> - <p> - It is well known that John Solley left Wimberton late one night in - October, 1830. In the morning the two big stuccoed houses of Gore and - Solley looked at each other across the street under the yellow arch of - leaves with that mysterious expression which they ever after seemed to - possess to the dwellers on Main Street. And the Gores' housemaid picked up - a glittering something from the fell of the bearskin rug on the parlor - floor. - </p> - <p> - “Land! It's Miss Lucia's engagement ring. She's a careless girl!” Plannah - was a single woman of fifty, and spoke with strong moral indignation. - </p> - <p> - Some mornings later Mr. Solley came stiffly down his front steps, crossed - the street under the yellow elms, and went in between the white pillars of - the Gore house. Mr. Gore was a middle-aged man, chubby, benevolent, - gray-haired, deliberate. He sank back in his easy-chair in fat - astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear me! I don't know.” - </p> - <p> - Lucia was called. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Solley wishes to ask you—a—something.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish to ask if my son has treated you badly,” said Mr. Solley, most - absurdly. - </p> - <p> - “Not at all, Mr. Solley.” - </p> - <p> - Lucia's eyes were suddenly hot and shining. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, but if John is a scoundrel, you will do me a favor by - telling me so.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is he? I shall do nothing of the kind.” - </p> - <p> - “I am about to write to my son.” - </p> - <p> - “And that's nothing to me,” she cried, and went swiftly out of the room. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I suppose he's only a fool,” said Mr. Solley, grimly. “I knew that. - Spirited girl, Gore, very. Good morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear me!” said Mr. Gore, mildly, rubbing his glasses. “How quickly they - do things!” - </p> - <p> - Elderly gentlemen whose wives are dead and children adventuring in the - Hesperides should take advice. Mrs. Cutting might have advised against - this paragraph in Mr. Solley's letter: - </p> - <p> - “I have taken the trouble to inquire whether you have been acting as a - gentleman should. Inasmuch as Miss Lucia seemed to imply that the matter - no longer interests her, I presume she has followed her own will, which is - certainly a woman's right. With respect to the Michigan lands, I inclose - surveys. You will do well,” etc. - </p> - <p> - But Mr. Solley had not for many years thought of the Hesperides as a more - difficult piece of property to survey than another. Men and women followed - their own wills there as elsewhere, and were quite right, so long as they - did business honorably. And Mr. Gore had been a managed and advised man - all his wedded life, and had not found, that it increased his happiness. - That advice had always tended to embark him on some enterprise that was - fatiguing. - </p> - <p> - “A good woman, Letitia,” often ran Mr. Gore's reflections; and then, with - a sense of furtiveness, as if Letitia somewhere in the spiritual universe - might overhear his thought, “a little masterful—a—spirited, - very.” - </p> - <p> - But it was hard for Wimberton people to have a secret shut up among them. - It was not respectful to Main Street, with John Solley fleeing - mysteriously in the night and coming no more to Wimberton, and Lucia going - about with her nose in the air, impossible to sympathize with. Some months - passed, and Lucia seemed more subdued, then very quiet indeed, with a - liking to sit by her father's side, to Mr. Gore's slight uneasiness. She - might wish him to do something. - </p> - <p> - He knew no more than Wimberton what had happened to send John westward and - Lucia to sitting beside him in unused silence; but he differed from - Wimberton in thinking it perhaps not desirable to know. He would pat her - hand furtively, and polish his glasses, without seeming to alter the - situation. Once he asked timidly if it were not dull for her. - </p> - <p> - “No, father.” - </p> - <p> - “I've thought sometimes—sometimes—a—I don't remember - what I was going to say.” - </p> - <p> - Lucia's head went down till it almost rested on his knee. - </p> - <p> - “Father—do you know—where John is?” - </p> - <p> - “Why—a—of course, Mr. Solley—” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, father! No!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I might inquire around—a—somewhere.” - </p> - <p> - “No! Oh, promise me you won't ask any one! Promise!” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Gore, very much confused. - </p> - <p> - “It is no matter,” said Lucia, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Gore thought for several minutes, but no idea seemed to occur to him, - and it relieved him to give it up. - </p> - <p> - Months have a way of making years by a rapid arithmetic, and years that - greet us with such little variety of expression are the more apt to step - behind with faint reproach and very swiftly. Mr. Solley founded the - Institute in 1840, and died. The Solley house stood empty, and Miss Lucia - Gore by that time was living alone, except for the elderly maiden, Hannah. - Looking at the old elms of Wimberton, grave and orderly, there is much to - be said for a vegetable life. There is no right dignity but in the slow - growths of time. - </p> - <p> - The elms increased their girth; the railway crept up the river; the young - men went to Southern battle-fields, and some of them returned; children of - a second generation walked in the Hesperides; the Institute was reduced to - three beneficiaries; Main Street smelled of tar from the asphalt - sidewalks; Chester Street was prosperous. Banks failed in '73, and “Miss - Lucia has lost everything,” said Wimberton gossip. - </p> - <p> - The Solley house was alternately rented and empty, the Gore house was - sold, Miss Lucia went up to the Institute, and gossip in Wimberton woke - again. - </p> - <p> - “Of course the Institute is not like other places, but then—” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Lucia was such a lady.” - </p> - <p> - “But it's a charity, after all.” - </p> - <p> - “Very sensible of Miss Lucia, I'm sure.” - </p> - <p> - “She was engaged to old Institute Solley's son once, but it ended with a - bump.” - </p> - <p> - “Then Miss Lucia goes to the Institute who might have gone to the Solley - house.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is what one doesn't know.” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Lucia a beneficiary! But isn't that rather embarrassing?” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if she—” - </p> - <p> - “My dear, it was centuries ago. One does n't think of love-affairs fifty - years old. They dry up.” - </p> - <p> - “Respectable, and you pay a little.” - </p> - <p> - “But a charity really.” - </p> - <p> - That year the public library was built on Main and Gilbert Streets, the - great elm fell down in the Institute yard, Mrs. Andrew Cutting died at - ninety-eight, with good sense and composure, and here is a letter written - by Miss Lucia to Babbie Cutting. Babbie Cutting, I remember, had eyes like - a last-century romance, never fancy-free, and her dolls loved and were - melancholy, when we were children together under the elms in Wimberton. - The letter is written in thin, flowing lines on lavender paper. - </p> - <p> - <i>My dear Child</i>: I am afraid you thought that your question offended - me, but it did not, indeed. I was engaged to Mr. John Solley many years - ago. I think I had a very hasty temper then, which I think has quite - wasted away now, for I have been so much alone. But then I sometimes fell - into dreadful rages. Mr. Solley was a very bold man, not easily influenced - or troubled, who laughed at my little faults and whims more than I thought - he should. - </p> - <p> - You seemed to ask what sudden and mysterious thing happened to us, but, my - dear, one's life is chiefly moved by trifles and little accidents and - whims. Mr. Solley came one night, and I fancied he had been neglecting me, - for I was very proud, more so than ordinary life permits women to be. I - remember that he stood with his hands behind him, smiling. He looked so - easy and strong, so impossible to disturb, and said, “You're such a little - spitfire, Lucia,” and I was so angry, it was like hot flames all through - my head. - </p> - <p> - I cried, “How dare you speak to me so!” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” he said, and laughed. “It seems perilous.” - </p> - <p> - I tore his ring from my finger and threw it in his face. It struck his - forehead and fell to the floor without any sound. There was a tiny red cut - on his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “That is your engagement ring,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Take it away. I want nothing more to do with you,” I cried—very - foolishly, for I did, and my anger was going off in fright. He turned - around and went from the house. The maid found the ring in the morning. - Mr. Solley had left Wimberton that night. Well, my dear, that is all. I - thought he would have come back. It seemed as if he might. I am so old now - that I do not mind talking, but I was proud then, and women are not - permitted to be very proud. Do your romances tell you that women are - foolish and men are sometimes hard on them? - </p> - <p> - That is not good romance at all, but if you will come to see me again I - will tell you much better romances than mine that I have heard, for other - people's lives are interesting, even if mine has been quite dull. - </p> - <p> - Will you put this letter away to remember me by? But do not think of me as - a complaining old woman, for I have had a long life of leisure and many - friends. I do not think any one who really cares for me will do so the - less for my living at the Institute, and only those we love are of real - importance to us. It is kind of you to visit me. - </p> - <p> - <i>Your Affectionate Friend.</i> - </p> - <p> - So half a century is put lightly aside; Miss Lucia has found it quite - dull; and here is the year 1885, when, as every one knows, John Solley - came back to Wimberton, a tall old man with a white mustache, heavy brows, - and deep eyes. Men thought it an honor to the town that the great and rich - Mr. Solley, so dignified a man, should return to spend his last days in - Wimberton. He would be its ornamental citizen, the proper leader of its - aristocracy. But Babbie Cutting thought of another function. What matter - for the melancholy waste of years, fifty leagues across? Love should walk - over it triumphant, unwearied, and find a fairer romance at the end. Were - there not written in the books words to that effect? Babbie moved in a - world of dreams, where knights were ever coming home from distant places, - or, at least, where every one found happiness after great trouble. She - looked up into Mr. Solley's eyes and thought them romantic to a degree. - When she heard he had never married the thing seemed as good as proved. - And the little old lady at the Institute with the old-fashioned rolled - curls above her ears—what a sequel! - </p> - <p> - It was a white winter day. The elms looked so cold against the sky that it - was difficult to remember they had ever been green, or believe it was in - them to put forth leaves once more. The wind drove the sharp-edged - particles of snow directly in Babbie's face, and she put her head down, - covering her mouth with her furs. She turned in at the Solley house, and - found herself in the drawing-room, facing that tall, thin, - military-looking old man, and feeling out of breath and troubled what to - do first. But Mr. Solley was not a man to let any girl whatever be ill at - ease, and surely not one with cheeks and eyes and soft hair like Babbie - Cutting. Presently they were experienced friends. Babbie sat in Mr. - Solley's great chair and stretched her hands toward the fire. Mr. Solley - was persuaded to take up his cigar again. - </p> - <p> - “I had not dared to hope,” he said, “that my native place would welcome me - so charmingly. I have made so many new friends, or rather they seemed to - be friends already, though unknown to me, that I seem to begin life again. - I seem to start it all over. I should have returned sooner.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I'm sure you should have,” said Babbie, eagerly. “And do you know who - is living at the Institute now?” - </p> - <p> - “The Institute? I had almost forgotten the Institute, and I am a trustee, - which is very neglectful of duty. Who is living at the Institute now?” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Lucia Gore.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley was silent, and looked at Babbie oddly under his white - eyebrows, so that her cheeks began to burn, and she was not a little - frightened, though quite determined and eager. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Lucia lost all her money when the banks failed, and she sold the - Gore house, and got enough interest to pay her dues and a little more; but - it seems so sad for Miss Lucia, because people will patronize her, not - meaning to. But they 're so stupid—or, at least, it doesn't seem - like Miss Lucia.” - </p> - <p> - “I did not know she was living,” said Mr. Solley, quietly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how could you—be that way!” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley looked steadily at Babbie, and it seemed to him as if her face - gave him a clue to something that he had groped for in the darkness of - late, as if some white mist were lifted from the river and he could see up - its vistas and smoky cataracts. How could he be that way? It is every - man's most personal and most unsolved enigma—how he came to be that - way, to be possible as he is. Up the river he saw a face somewhat like - Babbie's, somewhat more imperious, but with the same pathetic eagerness - and desire for abundance of life. How could young John Solley become old - John Solley? Looking into Babbie's eyes, he seemed able to put the two men - side by side. - </p> - <p> - “At one time, Miss Barbara,” he said, “—you will forgive my saying - so,—I should have resented your reference. Now I am only thinking - how kind it is of you to forget that I am old.” - </p> - <p> - Babbie did not quite understand, and felt troubled, and not sure of her - position. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Solley,” she said, “I—I have a letter from Miss Lucia. Do you - think I might show it to you?” - </p> - <p> - “It concerns me?” - </p> - <p> - “Y-yes.” - </p> - <p> - He walked down the room and back again. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know that you ought, but you have tempted me to wish that you - would. Thank you.” He put on his glasses and read it slowly. Babbie - thought he read it like a business letter. - </p> - <p> - “He ought to turn pale or red,” she thought. “Oh, he oughtn't to wear his - spectacles on the end of his nose!” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley handed back the letter. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Miss Barbara,” he said, and began to talk of her - great-grandmother Cutting. - </p> - <p> - Babbie blinked back her sudden tears. It was very different from a - romance, where the pages will always turn and tell you the story - willingly, where the hero always shows you exactly how he feels. She - thought she would like to cry somewhere else. She stood up to go. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry I'm so silly,” she said, with a little gulp and trying to be - dignified. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley looked amused, so far as that the wrinkles deepened about his - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Will you be a friend of mine?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Babbie, plaintively, but she did not think she would. How - could she, and he so cold, so prosaic! She went out into the snow, which - was driving down Main Street from the Institute. It was four by the town - clock. - </p> - <p> - They said in Wimberton that Mr. Solley left his house at seven o'clock in - the evening, and that Stephen, the gardener, held an umbrella in front of - him to keep off the storm all the way up the hill to the Institute. And - they said, too, that the lights were left burning in the Solley house, and - the fire on the hearth, and that the book he was reading when Babbie went - in lay open on the table. The fire burned itself out. Stephen came in - late, closed the book, and put out the lights, and in the morning went - about town saying that Mr. Solley was to enter the Institute as a - beneficiary. - </p> - <p> - But it is a secret that on that snowy evening Mr. Solley and Miss Lucia - sat in the great east parlor of the Institute, with a lamp near by, but - darkness in all the distances about them. His hands were on his - gold-headed cane; Miss Lucia's rolls of white curls were very tidy over - her ears, and her fingers were knitting something placidly. She was saying - it was “quite impossible. One doesn't want to be absurd at seventy-five.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose not,” said Mr. Solley. “I shouldn't mind it. What do you think - of the other plan?” - </p> - <p> - “If you want my permission to be a beneficiary,” said Miss Lucia, with her - eyes twinkling, “I think it would be a proper humiliation for you. I think - you deserve it.” - </p> - <p> - “It would be no humiliation.” - </p> - <p> - “It was for me—some.” - </p> - <p> - “It shall be so no more. I'll make them wish they were all old enough to - do the same—hem—confound them!” - </p> - <p> - “Did you think of it that way, John?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley was silent for some moments. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, I have been a busy man,” he said at last, “but there was - nothing in it all that I care to think over now. And to-day, for the first - time, that seemed to me strange. It was shown to me—that is, I saw - it was strange. We have only a few years left, and you will let me be - somewhat near you while they pass. Isn't that enough? It seems a little - vague. Well, then, yes. I thought of it that way, as you say. Do you mind - my thinking of it that way?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Lucia's eyes grew a little tearful, but she managed to hide it by - settling her glasses. Seventy-five years in a small town make the opinions - of one's neighbors part of the structure of existence. It was bitter, the - thought that Main Street tacitly patronized her. - </p> - <p> - “Why, no, I don't mind.” - </p> - <p> - She dropped her knitting and laughed suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “I think, John,” she said, “that I missed marrying a very nice man.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Solley's glasses fell off with surprise. He put them on again and - chuckled to himself. - </p> - <p> - “My father used to call me a—hem—a fool. He used to state - things more accurately than you did.” - </p> - <p> - After all, there was no other institute like Wimberton's. The standards of - other places were no measure for our conduct, and the fact that such - things were not seen elsewhere was a flattering reason why they should be - seen in Wimberton; namely, only five beneficiaries, and one of them a rich - man and a trustee. It was singular, but it suited Wimberton to be - singular. One thing was plain to all, that if Mr. Solley was a - beneficiary, then to be a beneficiary was a dignified, well-bred, and - suitable thing. But one thing was not plain to all, why he chose to be a - beneficiary. Babbie Cutting went up to the Institute, and coming back, - wept for pure sentiment in her white-curtained room, with the picture on - the wall of Sir Lancelot riding down by the whirling river, the island, - and the gray-walled castle of Shalott. - </p> - <p> - I remember well the great ball and reception that Mr. Solley gave at the - Institute to celebrate his entry, and how we all paid our respects to the - five beneficiaries, four old men, who were gracious, but patronizing,—one - with gold eye-glasses and gold-headed cane,—and Miss Lucia, with the - rolled curls over her ears. The Institute, from that time on, looked down - on Main Street with a different air, and never lost its advantage. It - seemed to many that the second Solley had refounded it for one of those - whims that are ornamental in the rich. Babbie Cutting said to her heart, - “He refounded it for Miss Lucia.” - </p> - <p> - There was nowhere in Wimberton such dignified society as at the Institute. - Even so that the last visitor of all seemed only to come by invitation, - and to pay his respects with proper ceremony: “Sir, or madam, I hope it is - not an inconvenient time,” or similar phrase. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not at all. It seems very dark around.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you take my arm? The path is steep and worn, and here is a small - matter of a river, as you see. I regret that the water is perhaps a trifle - cold. Yes, one hears so much talk about the other side that one hardly - knows what to think. There is no hurry. But at this point I say good night - and leave you. When you were young you often heard good night said when - the morning was at hand. May it be so. Good night.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - NAUSICAA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Fourteenth - Infantry, volunteers, were mustered out on the last day of April. Sandy - Cass and Kid Sadler came that night into the great city of the river and - the straits with their heads full of lurid visions which they set about - immediately to realize. Little Irish was with them, and Bill Smith, who - had had other names at other times. And Sandy woke the next morning in a - room that had no furniture but a bed, a washstand, a cracked mirror, and a - chair. He did not remember coming there. Some one must have put him to - bed. It was not Kid Sadler or Little Irish; they were drunk early, with - bad judgment. It must have been Bill Smith. A hat with a frayed cord lay - on the floor. “That's Bill's hat,” he said. “He's got mine.” - </p> - <p> - The gray morning filled the window, and carts rattled by in the street. He - rose and drank from the pitcher to clear the bitterness from his mouth, - and saw himself in the glass, haggard and holloweyed. It was a clean-cut - face, with straight, thin lips, straight eyebrows, and brown hair. The - lips were white and lines ran back from the eyes. Sandy did not think he - looked a credit to himself. - </p> - <p> - “Some of it's yellow fever,” he reflected, “and some of it's jag. About - half and half. The squire can charge it to the yellow.” - </p> - <p> - He wondered what new thing Squire Cass would find to say to his “rascally - nephew, that reprobate Ulysses.” Squire Cass was a red-faced gentleman and - substantial citizen of that calm New England town of Wimberton, which - Sandy knew very well and did not care for. It was too calm. But it would - be good for his constitution to go there now. He wondered if his - constitution would hold out for another night equally joyful; “Maybe it - might;” then how much of his eighty dollars' back pay was blown in. He put - on his clothes slowly, feeling through the pockets, collected two - half-dollars on the way, came to the last and stopped. - </p> - <p> - “Must have missed one;” and began again. But that crumpled wad of bills - was gone altogether. “Well, if I ain't an orphan!” - </p> - <p> - He remembered last a place with bright glass chandeliers, a gilt cupid - over the bar, a girl in a frowzy hat, laughing with large teeth, and Kid - Sadler singing that song he had made up and was so “doggone stuck on”: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Sandy Cass! A-alas! - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - We 'll be shut up - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - In the lockup - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - If this here keeps on.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It got monotonous, that song. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Sandy Cass! A-alas! - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A comin' home, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A bummin home—” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He liked to make poetry, Kid Sadler. You would not have expected it, to - look at his sloppy mustache, long dry throat, and big hands. The poetry - was generally accurate. Sandy did not see any good in it, unless it was - accurate. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Little Irish is a Catholic, he come from I-er-land; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - He ain't a whole cathedral, nor a new brass band; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - He got religion in 'is joints from the hoonin of a shell, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An 'is auburn hair's burned bricky red from leanin over - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - hell'' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - That was accurate enough, though put in figures of speech, but the Kid was - still more accurate regarding Bill Smith: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Nobody knows who Bill Smith is, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - His kin nor yet his kith, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - An nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - An neither does Bill Smith;” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - which was perfectly true. Anyhow the Kid could not have taken the wad, nor - Little Irish. It must have been Bill Smith. - </p> - <p> - “It was Bill,” he decided. - </p> - <p> - He did not make any special comments. Some thing or other happens to a man - every day. He went down-stairs, through a dim narrow hallway. - </p> - <p> - “Hope there don't any one want something of me. I don't believe they 'll - get it.” - </p> - <p> - There were sounds in the basement, but no one met him. In the street the - Ninth Avenue car rolled by, a block away. He saw a restaurant sign which - said fearlessly that a stew cost ten cents, went in and breakfasted for - fifteen, waited on by a thin, weary woman, who looked at his blue coat and - braided hat with half-roused interest. - </p> - <p> - The cobble-stones on Sixth Avenue were shining and wet. Here and there - some one in the crowd turned to look after him. It might have been the - uniform, the loafer's slouch of the hat, taken with the face being young - and too white. - </p> - <p> - The hands of the station clock stood at ten. He took a ticket to the limit - of eighty-five cents, heard dimly the name of a familiar junction; and - then the rumble of the train was under him for an hour. Bill Smith had - left him his pipe and tobacco. Bill had good points. Sandy was inclined to - think kindly of Bill's thoughtfulness, and envy him his enterprise. The - roar of the car-wheels sounded like Kid Sadler's voice, hoarse and choky, - “A-alas, a-alas!” - </p> - <p> - It was eleven o'clock at the junction. The mist of the earlier morning had - become a slow drizzle. Trains jangled to and fro in the freight yards. He - took a road which led away from the brick warehouses, streets of shady - trees and lawns, and curved to the north, along the bank of a cold, sleepy - river. - </p> - <p> - There was an unpainted, three-room house somewhere, where a fat woman said - “Good land!” and gave him a plate full of different things, on a table - covered with oil-cloth. He could not remember afterward what he ate, or - what the woman said further. He remembered the oil-cloth, which had a - yellow-feverish design of curved lines, that twisted snakily, and came out - of the cloth and ran across the plate. Then out in the gray drizzle again. - </p> - <p> - All the morning his brain had seemed to grow duller and duller, heavy and - sodden; but in the afternoon red lights began dancing in the mist. It - might have been five miles or twenty he had gone by dusk; the distinction - between miles and rods was not clear—they both consisted of brown - mud and gray mist. Sometimes it was a mile across the road. The dusk, and - then the dark, heaved, and pulsed through blood-red veins, and peeled, and - broke apart in brilliant cracks, as they used to do nights in the field - hospital. There seemed to be no hope or desire in him, except in his feet, - which moved on. The lights that travelled with him got mixed with lights - on each side of a village street, and his feet walked in through a gate. - They had no reason for it, except that the gate stood open and was painted - white. He pushed back the door of a little garden tool-house beside the - path, and lay down on the floor. He could not make out which of a number - of things were happening. The Fourteenth Infantry appeared to be bucking a - steep hill, with the smoke rolling down over it; but on the other hand Kid - Sadler was singing hoarsely, but distinctly, “A-alas, a-alas!” and - moreover, a dim light shone through a white-curtained window somewhere - between a rod and a mile away, and glimmered down the wet path by the - tool-house. Some one said, “Some of it's jag and some of it's the yellow. - About half and half.” He might have been making the remark himself, except - that he appeared to be elsewhere. The rain kept up a thin whisper on the - roof of the tool-house. Gasps, shouts, thumping of feet, clash of rifle - and canteen. The hill was as steep as a wall. Little Irish said, “His legs - was too short to shtep on the back av his neck wid the shteepness av the - hill.” - </p> - <p> - “A-alas! A comin' home.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, shut up, Kid!” - </p> - <p> - “A-alas, a-alas!” The dark was split with red gashes, as it used to be in - the field hospital. The rain whispered on the roof and the wet path - glimmered like silk. - </p> - <p> - It was the village of Zoar, which lies far back to the west of Wyantenaug - Valley, among low waves of hills, the house the old Hare Place, and Miss - Elizabeth Hare and Gracia lived there behind the white gateway. - </p> - <p> - That gateway had once been an ancient arch overhead, with a green wooden - ball topping it. Some one cut a face on the ball, that leered into the - street. It did not in the least resemble Miss Elizabeth, whose smile was - gentle and cool; but it was taken down from its station of half a century; - and Gracia cried secretly, because everything would needs be disconsolate - without an arch and a proper wooden ball on top of it, under which knights - and witch ladies might come and go, riding and floating. It seemed to - break down the old garden life. Odd flowers would not hold conversations - any more, tiger-lilies and peonies bother each other, the tigers being - snappish and the peonies fat, slow, and irritating. Before Gracia's hair - had abandoned yellow braids and become mysterious, when she learned neat - sewing and cross-stitch, she used to set the tigers and peonies - quarrelling to express her own feelings about neat sewing and - cross-stitch. Afterward she found the memory of that wickedness too heavy, - and confessed it to Miss Elizabeth, and added the knights and witch - ladies. Miss Elizabeth had said nothing, had seemed disinclined to blame, - and, going out into the garden, had walked to and fro restlessly, stopping - beside the tigers and peonies, and seeming to look at the arched gateway - with a certain wistfulness. - </p> - <p> - Miss Elizabeth had now a dimly faded look, the charm of a still November, - where now and then an Indian summer steals over the chill. She wore tiny - white caps, and her hair was singularly smooth; while Gracia's appeared - rather to be blown back, pushed by the delicate fingers of a breeze, that - privately admired it, away from her eager face, with its gray-blue eyes - that looked at you as if they saw something else as well. It kept you - guessing about that other thing, and you got no further than to wonder if - it were not something, or some one, that you might be, or might have been, - if you had begun at it before life had become so labelled and defined, so - plastered over with maxims. - </p> - <p> - The new gateway was still a doubtful quantity in Gracia's mind. It was not - justified. It had no connections, no consecrations; merely a white gate - against the greenery. - </p> - <p> - It was the whiteness which caught Sandy Cass's dulled eyes, so that he - turned through, and lay down in the tool-house, and wondered which of a - number of incongruous things was really happening: Little Irish crying - plaintively that his legs were too short—“A-alas, a-alas!”—or - the whisper of the rain on the roof. - </p> - <p> - Gracia lifted the white curtains, looked out, and saw the wet path - shining. - </p> - <p> - “Is it raining, Gracia?” - </p> - <p> - “It drizzles like anything, and the tool-house door is open, and, oh, - aunty! the path shines quite down to the gate.” - </p> - <p> - “It generally shines in the rain, dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Gracia, thoughtfully. She seemed to be examining a sudden idea, - and began the pretence of a whistle which afterward became a true fact. - </p> - <p> - “I wish it wouldn't be generally, don't you? I wish things would all be - specially.” - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't wi—I wouldn't whistle, if I were you,” said Miss - Elizabeth, gently. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” Gracia came suddenly with a ripple and coo of laughter, and dropped - on her knees by Miss Elizabeth. “You couldn't, you poor aunty, if you - tried. You never learned, did you?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Elizabeth hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “I once tried to learn—of your father. I used to think it sounded - cheerful. But my mother would n't allow it. What I really started to say - was, that I wouldn't, if I were you, I wouldn't wish so many things to be - other than they are. I used to wish for things to be different, and then, - you know, when they stay quite the same, it's such a number of troubles.” - </p> - <p> - Gracia clasped her fingers about one knee, studied the neatly built fire - and the blue and white tiles over it, and thought hard on the subject of - wishes. She thought that she had not wished things to be different, so - much as to remain the same as of old, when one wore yellow braids, and - could whistle with approval, and everything happened specially. Because it - is sad when you begin to suspect that the sun and moon and the growths of - spring do not care about you, but only act according to habits they have - fallen into, and that the shining paths, which seem to lead from beyond - the night, are common or accidental and not meant specially. The elder - romancers and the latest seers do insist together that they are, that such - highways indeed as the moon lays on the water are translunary and come - with purposes from a celestial city. The romancers have a simple faith, - and the seers an ingenious theory about it. But the days and weeks argue - differently. They had begun to trouble the fealty that Gracia held of - romance, and she had not met with the theory of the seers. - </p> - <p> - Sandy Cass went through experiences that night which cannot be written, - for there was no sequence in them, and they were translunary and - sub-earthly; some of them broken fragments of his life thrown up at him - out of a kind of smoky red pit, very much as it used to be in the field - hospital. His life seemed to fall easily into fragments. There had not - been much sequence in it, since he began running away from the house of - the squire at fifteen. It had ranged between the back and front doors of - the social structure these ten years. The squire used to storm, because it - came natural to him to speak violently; but privately he thought Sandy no - more than his own younger self, let loose instead of tied down. He even - envied Sandy. He wished he would come oftener to entertain him. Sandy was - a periodical novel continued in the next issue, an irregular and barbarous - Odyssey, in which the squire, comparing with his Pope's translation, - recognized Scylla and Charybdis, Cyclops and Circe, and the interference - of the quarrelling gods. But that night the story went through the Land of - Shadows and Red Dreams. Sandy came at last to the further edge of the - Land; beyond was the Desert of Dreamless Sleep; and then something white - and waving was before his eyes, and beyond was a pale green shimmer. He - heard a gruff voice: - </p> - <p> - “Hm—Constitution, Miss Hare. That chap had a solid ancestry. He - ought to have had a relapse and died, and he 'll be out in a week.” - </p> - <p> - Another voice said in an awed whisper: - </p> - <p> - “He's like my Saint George!” - </p> - <p> - “Hm—Legendary? This St. G. looks as if he'd made up with his devil. - Looks as if they'd been tolerably good friends.” - </p> - <p> - A third voice remonstrated: - </p> - <p> - “Doctor!” - </p> - <p> - “Hm, hm—My nonsense, Miss Gracia, my nonsense.” - </p> - <p> - The two ladies and the doctor went out. - </p> - <p> - It was a long, low room, white, fragrant, and fresh. Soft white curtains - waved in open windows, and outside the late sunlight drifted shyly through - the pale green leaves of young maples. There were dainty things about, - touches of silk and lace, blue and white china on bureau and - dressing-table, a mirror framed with gilded pillars at the sides and a - painted Arcadia above. - </p> - <p> - “Well, if I ain't an orphan!” grumbled Sandy, feebly. - </p> - <p> - An elderly woman with a checked apron brought him soup in a bowl. She was - quite silent and soon went out. - </p> - <p> - “It's pretty slick,” he thought, looking around. “I could n't have done - better if I'd been a widow.” - </p> - <p> - The drifting quiet of the days that Sandy lay there pleased him for the - time. It felt like a cool poultice on a wound. The purity and fragility of - objects was interesting to look at, so long as he lay still and did not - move about among them. But he wondered how people could live there right - along. They must keep everything at a distance, with a feather-duster - between. He had an impression that china things always broke, and white - things became dirty. Then it occurred to him that there might be some - whose nature, without any worry to themselves, was to keep things clean - and not to knock them over, to touch things in a feathery manner, so that - they did not have to stay behind a duster. This subject of speculation - lasted him a day or two, and Miss Elizabeth and Gracia began to interest - him as beings with that special gift. He admired any kind of capability. - Miss Elizabeth he saw often, the woman in the checked apron till he was - tired of her. But Gracia was only now and then a desirable and fleeting - appearance in the doorway, saying: - </p> - <p> - “Good morning, Saint George.” - </p> - <p> - She never stayed to tell him why “Saint George.” It came to the point that - the notion of her yellow hair would stay by him an hour or more afterward. - He began to wake from his dozes, fancying he heard “Good morning, Saint - George,” and finally to watch the doorway and fidget. - </p> - <p> - “This lying abed,” he concluded, “is played out.” He got up and hunted - about for his clothes. His knees and fingers trembled. The clothes hung in - the closet, cleaned and pressed, in the extraordinary neighborhood of a - white muslin dress. Sandy sat down heavily on the bed. Things seemed to be - whizzing and whimpering all about him. He waited for them to settle, and - pulled on his clothes gradually. At the end of an hour he thought he might - pass on parade, and crept out into the hall and down the stairs. The - sunlight was warm in the garden and on the porch, and pale green among the - leaves. Gracia sat against a pillar, clasping one knee. Miss Elizabeth - sewed; her work-basket was fitted up inside on an intricate system. Gracia - hailed him with enthusiasm, and Miss Elizabeth remonstrated. He looked - past Miss Elizabeth to find the yellow hair. - </p> - <p> - “This lying abed,” he said feebly, “is played out.” - </p> - <p> - Sitting in the sunlight, Sandy told his story gradually from day to day. - It was all his story, being made up of selections. He was skilful from - practice on the squire, but he saw the need of a new principle of - selection and combination. His style of narrative was his own. It - possessed gravity, candor, simplicity, an assumption that nothing could be - unreasonable or surprising which came in the course of events, that all - things and all men were acceptable. Gracia thought that simplicity - beautiful, that his speech was like the speech of Tanneguy du Bois, and - that he looked like Saint George in the picture which hung in her room—a - pale young warrior, such as painters once loved to draw, putting in those - keen faces a peculiar manhood, tempered and edged like a sword. Sandy - looked oddly like him, in the straight lines of brow and mouth. Saint - George is taking a swift easy stride over the dead dragon, a kind of - level-eyed daring and grave inquiry in his face, as if it were Sandy - himself, about to say, “You don't happen to have another dragon? This one - wasn't real gamy. I'd rather have an average alligator.” She laughed with - ripples and coos, and struggled with lumps in her throat, when Sandy - through simplicity fell into pathos. It bewildered her that the funny - things and pathetic things were so mixed up and run together, and that he - seemed to take no notice of either of them. But she grew stern and - indignant when Bill Smith, it was but probable, robbed the unsuspecting - sleep of his comrade. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” said Sandy, apologetically, “Bill was restless, that was the - reason. It was his enterprise kept bothering him. Likely he wanted it for - something, and he could n't tell how much I might need without waking me - up to ask. And he couldn't do that, because that'd have been ridiculous, - would n't it? Of course, if he'd waked me up to ask how much I wanted, - because he was going to take the rest with him, why, of course, I'd been - obliged to get up and hit him, to show how ridiculous it was. Of course - Bill saw that, and what could he do? Because there wasn't any way he could - tell, don't you see? So he left the pipe and tobacco, and a dollar for - luck, and lit out, being—a—restless.” - </p> - <p> - And Gracia wondered at and gloried in the width of that charity, that - impersonal and untamed tolerance. - </p> - <p> - Then Sandy took up the subject of Kid Sadler. He felt there was need of - more virtue and valor. He took Kid Sadler and decorated him. He fitted him - with picturesque detail. The Kid bothered him with his raucous voice, - froth-dripped mustache, lean throat, black mighty hands, and smell of - uncleanness. But Sandy chose him as a poet. It seemed a good start. Gracia - surprised him by looking startled and quite tearful, where the poet says: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Nobody cares who Bill Smith is, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - An neither does Bill Smith;” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - which had seemed to Sandy only an accurate statement. - </p> - <p> - But the Kid's poetry needed expurgation and amendment. Sandy did it - conscientiously, and spent hours searching for lines of similar rhyme, - which would not glance so directly into byways and alleys that were - surprising. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “A comin' home, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A roamin' home—” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “I told the Kid,” he added critically, “roamin' wasn't a good rhyme, but - he thought it was a pathetic word.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Oh, when I was a little boy 't was things I did n't know, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An when I growed I knowed a lot of things that was n't so; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An now I know a few things that's useful an selected: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - As how to put hard liquor where hard liquor is expected—” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - and so on, different verses, which the Kid called his “Sing Song.” Sandy's - judgment hung in doubt over this whether the lines were objectionable. He - tempered the taste of the working literary artist for distinct flavor, and - his own for that which is accurate, with the cautions of a village library - committee, and decided on, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “An puts them things in moral verse to uses onexpected.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “I don't know what he meant by 'onexpected,'” Sandy commented with a sense - of helplessness, “but maybe he meant that he didn't know what he did mean. - Because poets,” getting more and more entangled, “poets are that kind they - can take a word and mean anything in the neighborhood, or something - that'll occur to 'em next week.” - </p> - <p> - Gracia admired the Kid, though Miss Elizabeth thought she ought to refer - to him as Mr. Sadler, which seemed a pity. And she declared a violent love - for Little Irish, because “his auburn hair turned bricky red with falling - down a well,” and because he wished to climb hills by stepping on the back - of his neck. It was like Alice's Adventures, and especially like the White - Knight's scheme to be over a wall by putting his head on top and standing - on his head. - </p> - <p> - After all humors and modifications, Sandy's story was a wild and strange - thing. It took new details from day to day, filling in the picture. To - Gracia's imagination it spread out beyond romance, full of glooms, - flashes, fascinations, dangers of cities, war and wilderness, and in spite - of Sandy's self-indifference, it was he who dominated the pilgrimage, - coloring it with his comment. The pilgrim appeared to be a person to whom - the Valley of the Shadow of Death was equally interesting with Vanity - Fair, and who entering the front gate of the Celestial City with rejoicing - would presently want to know whither the back gate would take him. It - seemed a pilgrimage to anywhere in search of everything, but Gracia began - to fancy it was meant to lead specially to the new garden gate that opened - so broadly on the street, and so dreamed the fancy into belief. She saw - Sandy in imagination coming out of the pit-black night and lying down in - the tool-house by the wet shining path. The white gate was justified. - </p> - <p> - Sandy's convalescence was not a finished thing, but he was beginning to - feel energy starting within him. Energy! He knew the feeling well. It was - something that snarled and clawed by fits. - </p> - <p> - “I'm a wildcat,” he said to himself reflectively, “sitting on eggs. Why - don't he get off? Now,” as if addressing a speculative question for - instance to Kid Sadler, “he could n't expect to hatch anything, could he?” - </p> - <p> - It was such a question as the Kid would have been pleased with, and have - considered justly. “Has he got the eggs?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. It's a mixed figure, Kid.” - </p> - <p> - “Does he feel like he wanted to hatch 'em?” - </p> - <p> - “What'd he do with 'em hatched? That's so, Kid.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Is</i> he a wildcat?” - </p> - <p> - “Yep.” - </p> - <p> - “He is. Can a wildcat hatch eggs? No, he can't.” - </p> - <p> - “A wildcat”—the Kid would have enjoyed following this figure—“ain't - an incubator. There ain't enough peacefulness in him. He'd make a yaller - mess of 'em an' take to the woods with the mess on his whiskers. It stands - to reason, don't it? He ain't in his own hole on a chickadee's nest.” - </p> - <p> - Sandy stood looking over the gate into the village street, which was - shaded to dimness by its maples, a still, warm, brooding street. - </p> - <p> - “Like an incubator,” he thought, and heard Gracia calling from up the - path: - </p> - <p> - “Saint George!” - </p> - <p> - Sandy turned. She came down the path to the gate. - </p> - <p> - “Aren't you going to fix the peony bed?” - </p> - <p> - “Not,” said Sandy, “if you stay here by the gate.” - </p> - <p> - Gracia looked away from him quickly into the street. - </p> - <p> - “It's warm and quiet, isn't it? It's like—” - </p> - <p> - Zoar was not to her like anything else. - </p> - <p> - “Like an incubator,” said Sandy, gloomily, and Gracia looked up and - laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I shouldn't have thought of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Kid Sadler would have said it, if he'd been here.” - </p> - <p> - “Would he?” - </p> - <p> - “Just his kind of figure. And he'd be saying further it was time Sandy - Cass took to the woods.” - </p> - <p> - He had an irritating spasm of desire to touch the slim white fingers on - the gate. Gracia moved her hands nervously. Sandy saw the fingers tremble, - and swore at himself under his breath. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Saint George?” - </p> - <p> - “Thinking he was a wildcat and he'd make a yel—a—Maybe - thinking he didn't look nat—I mean,” Sandy ended very lamely, “the - Kid'd probably use figures of speech and mean something that'd occur to - him by and by.” - </p> - <p> - “You're not well yet. You're not going so soon,” she said, speaking quite - low. - </p> - <p> - Sandy meditated a number of lies, and concluded that he did not care for - any of them. He seemed to dislike them as a class. - </p> - <p> - This kind of internal struggle was new and irritating. He had never known - two desires that would not compromise equably, or one of them recognize - its place and get out of the road. The savage restlessness in his blood, - old, well-known, expected, something in brain and bone, had always carried - its point and always would. He accounted for all things in all men by - reference to it, supposing them to feel restless, the inner reason why a - man did anything. But here now was another thing, hopelessly fighting it, - clinging, exasperating; somewhere within him it was a kind of solemn-eyed - sorrow that looked outward and backward over his life, and behold, the - same was a windy alkali desert that bore nothing and was bitter in the - mouth; and at the ends of his fingers it came to a keen point, a desire to - touch Gracia's hair and the slim fingers on the gate. - </p> - <p> - Gracia looked up and then away. - </p> - <p> - “You're not well yet.” - </p> - <p> - “You've been uncommonly good to me, and all—” - </p> - <p> - “You mustn't speak of it that way. It spoils it.” It seemed to both as if - they were swaying nearer together, a languid, mystical atmosphere - thickening about them. Only there was the drawback with Sandy of an inward - monitor, with a hoarse voice like Kid Sadler's, who would be talking to - him in figures and proverbs. - </p> - <p> - “Keep away from china an' lace; they break an' stain; this thing has been - observed. Likewise is love a bit o' moonlight, sonny, that's all, an' a - tempest, an' a sucked orange. Come out o' that, Sandy, break away; for, in - the words o' the prophet, 'It's no square game,' an' this here girl, God - bless her! but she plays too high, an' you can't call her, Sandy, you - ain't got the chips. Come away, come away.” - </p> - <p> - “And that,” Sandy concluded the council, “is pretty accurate. I'm broke - this deal.” - </p> - <p> - He stood up straight and looked at Gracia with eyes drawn and narrowed. - </p> - <p> - She felt afraid and did not understand. - </p> - <p> - “You don't know me. If you knew me, you'd know I have to go.” - </p> - <p> - The wind rose in the afternoon, and blew gustily through street and - garden. The windows of Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room were closed. The - curtains hung in white, lifeless folds. But in Gracia's room above the - windows were open, and the white curtains shook with the wind. Delicate - and tremulous, they clung and moulded themselves one moment to the - casement, and then broke out, straining in the wind that tossed the maple - leaves and went up and away into the wild sky after the driving clouds. - </p> - <p> - Sandy turned north up the village street, walking irresolutely. It might - be thirty miles to Wimberton. The squire had sent him money. He could - reach the railroad and make Wimberton that night, but he did not seem to - care about it. - </p> - <p> - Out of the village, he fell into the long marching stride, and the motion - set his blood tingling. Presently he felt better; some burden was shaken - off; he was foot-loose and free of the open road, looking to the friction - of event. At the end of five miles he remembered a saying of Kid Sadler's, - chuckled over it, and began humming other verses of the “Sing Song,” so - called by the outcast poet. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Oh, when I was a little boy, I laughed an then I cried, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An ever since I done the same, more privately, inside. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - There's a joke between this world an me 'n it's tolerable grim, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An God has got his end of it, an some of it's on him. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - For he made a man with his left han, an the rest o' things - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - with his right; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - An the right knew not what the left han did, for he hep - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - it out o' sight. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - It's maybe a Wagner opery, it ain't no bedtime croon, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - When the highest note in the universe is a half note out - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - o' tune'' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “That appears to be pretty accurate,” he thought. “Wonder how the Kid - comes to know things.” - </p> - <p> - He swung on enjoying the growth of vigor, the endless, open, travelled - road, and the wind blowing across his face. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ack Meadows lies - three miles to the northwest of Hagar, rich bottom-lands in Sanderson - Hollow, and the Cattle Ridge shelters it on the north. Five generations of - Sandersons have added to the Sanderson accumulation of this world's goods, - without sensible interference on the part of moths or rust or thieves that - break through and steal. Cool, quiet men, slow of speech and persistent of - mood, they prospered and lived well where other families, desiring too - many things or not desiring anything enough, found nothing at all - desirable and drifted away. The speculative traveller, hunting “abandoned - farms,” or studying the problem of the future of New England's outlying - districts, who should stand on the crest of the Cattle Ridge overlooking - the sheltered valley, would note it as an instance of the problem - satisfactorily solved and of a farm which, so far from abandonment, smiled - over all its comfortable expanse in the consciousness of past and - certainty of future occupancy. These were ready illustrations for his - thesis, if he had one: the smooth meadows, square stone walls and herds of - fawn-colored cattle, large bams and long stables of the famous Sanderson - stud; also the white gabled house among the maples with spreading ells on - either side, suggesting a position taken with foresight and carefully - guarded and secured—a house that, recognizing the uncertainties and - drifting currents of the world, had acted accordingly, and now could - afford to consider itself complacently. The soul of any individual - Sanderson might be required of him, and his wisdom relative to eternity be - demonstrated folly, but the policy of the Sanderson family had not so far - been considered altogether an individual matter. Even individually, if the - question of such inversion of terms ever occurred to a Sanderson, it only - led to the conclusion that it was strictly a Pickwickian usage, and, in - the ordinary course of language, the policy of building barns, stowing - away goods and reflecting complacently thereon, still came under the head - of wisdom. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, sister of Israel Sanderson of the last generation - and married into a distant branch of the Sanderson family, carried her - materialism with an unconscious and eccentric frankness that prevented the - family from recognizing in her a peculiar development of its own quality. - When Israel's gentle wife passed from a world which she had found too full - of unanswered questions, it was Mrs. Cullom who plunged bulkily into the - chamber of the great mystery and stopped, gulping with astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “I just made her some blanc-mange,” she gasped. “Isn't that too bad! Why, - Israel!” - </p> - <p> - Israel turned from the window and contemplated her gravely with his hands - clasped behind him. - </p> - <p> - “I think you had better move down to the Meadows, Ellen,” he said. “If you - will contrive to say as little as possible to me about Marian, and one or - two other matters I will specify, we shall get along very well.” - </p> - <p> - He went out with slow step and bent head, followed by Mrs. Cullom trying - vainly to find an idea on the subject suggested, which she was quite - positive she had somewhere about her. What Israel may have thought of the - thing that had whispered within his doors in an unknown tongue, and had - taken away what was his without receipt or equivalent exchange, it were - hard to say; equally hard even to say what he had thought of Marian these - twenty years. If her cloistral devotions and visionary moods had seemed to - him, in uninverted terms, folly, he had never said so. Certainly he had - liked her quiet, ladylike ways, and possibly respected a difference of - temperament inwardly as well as outwardly. At any rate, tolerance was a - consistent Sanderson policy and philosophy of life. - </p> - <p> - There was a slight movement in the chamber, after the silence which - followed the departing footsteps of Israel and Mrs. Cullom. A small person - in pinafores crept stealthily from under the bed and peered over the edge. - It was a hard climb but he persisted, and at last seated himself on it - panting, with his elbows on his knees, gravely considering. A few hours - since, the silent lips had whispered, among many things that came back to - his memory in after years like a distant chime of bells, only this that - seemed of any immediate importance: “I shall be far away to-night, Joe, - but when you say your prayers I shall hear.” The problem that puckered the - small brow was whether prayers out of regular hours were real prayers. Joe - decided to risk it and, getting on his knees, said over all the prayers he - knew. Then he leaned over and patted the thin, cold cheek (Joe and his - mother always tacitly understood each other), slid off the bed with a - satisfied air, and solemnly trotted out of the room. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was a widow; “Which,” Israel remarked, “is a pity. - Cullom would have taken comfort in outliving you, Ellen.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, - Israel. I've always respected his memory.” - </p> - <p> - Israel, gravely regarding her, observed, “You'd better not try to train - Joe,” and departed, leaving her to struggle with the idea that between Joe - and Cullom's comfort Israel was getting very disconnected. Disconnection - of remark did not imply any changeableness in Israel's temperament. He - observed a silent sequence of character, and possibly a sequence of - thought of which he did not care to give evidence, on matters which he - found no profit in discussing. Twelve years later the mystery again - whispered within his doors, and he rose and followed it in his usual - deliberate and taciturn way, without disclosing any opinion on the - question of the inversion of terms. The story of each generation is put - away when its time comes with a more or less irrelevant epitaph, whether - or not its threads be gathered into a satisfactory finale. The - Spirit-of-things-moving-on is singularly indifferent to such matters. Its - only literary principle seems to be, to move on. The new Sanderson of Back - Meadows grew up a slight, thin-faced young fellow. The Sanderson men were - always slight of build, saving a certain breadth of shoulders. A drooping - mustache in course of time hid the only un-Sanderson feature, a sensitive - mouth. The cool gray eyes, slightly drawling speech, and deliberate manner - were all Sanderson, indicating “a chip of the old block,” as Mr. Durfey - remarked to the old Scotchman who kept the drag store in Hagar. If the - latter had doubts, he kept them to himself. - </p> - <p> - The Sanderson stud sprang from a certain red mare, Martha, belonging to - Blake Sanderson of Revolutionary times. They were a thin-necked, generally - bad-tempered breed, with red veins across the eyes, of high repute among - “horsey” men. Blake Sanderson was said to have ridden the red mare from - Boston in some astonishingly quick time on some mysterious errand - connected with the evacuation of New York, whereby her descendants were at - one time known as the Courier breed; but as no one seemed to know what the - errand was, it was possibly not a patriotic one. Three of these red, - thinnecked mares and a stallion were on exhibition at the Hamilton County - Fair of '76. Notable men of the county were there, mingled with turfmen of - all shades of notoriety; several immaculately groomed gentlemen, - tall-hatted, long-coated, and saying little, but pointed out with - provincial awe as coming from New York and worth watching; a few lean - Kentuckians, the redness of whose noses was in direct ratio with their - knowledge of the business, and whose artistic profanity had a mercantile - value in expressing contempt for Yankee horse-flesh. There was the - Honorable Gerald and the some-say Dishonorable Morgan Map, originally - natives of Hagar, with young Jacob Lorn between them undergoing astute - initiation into the ways of the world and its manner of furnishing - amusement to young men of wealth; both conversing affably with Gypsy John - of not even doubtful reputation, at present booming Canadian stock in - favor of certain animals that may or may not have seen Canada. Thither - came the manager of the opera troupe resident in Hamilton during the Fair, - and the Diva, popularly known as Mignon, a brown-haired woman with a quick - Gallic smile and a voice, “By gad, sir, that she can soak every note of it - in tears, the little scamp,” quoth Cassidy, observing from a distance. - Cassidy was a large fleshy man with a nickel shield under his coat. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “A face to launch a thousand ships, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And burn the topless towers of Ilium'' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - misquoted a tall, thin personage with an elongated face and sepulchral - voice. “The gods made you poetical, Mr. Cassidy. Do you find your gift of - sentiment of use on the force?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir,” shouted Cassidy, inadvertently touched on one of innumerable - hobbies and beginning to pound one hand excitedly with the fist of the - other. “In fine cases, sir, the ordinary detective slips up on just that - point. Now let me tell you, Mr. Mavering—” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me whether that is not Mignon's 'mari.' What sort of a man is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Mignon's what? Oh—Manager Scott. He isn't married, further than - that he's liable to rows on account of Mignon, who—has a face to - upset things as you justly observe, not to speak of a disposition - according. At least, I don't know but what they may be married. If they - are, they're liable to perpetuate more rows than anything else.” - </p> - <p> - “'Does something smack, something grow to, has a kind of taste?”' - </p> - <p> - “Eh?” said Cassidy, inquiringly. - </p> - <p> - Sanderson, standing silently by, as silently turned and walked toward the - crowd drifting back and forth in front of the stables. Portly Judge Carter - of Gilead, beaming through gold-rimmed glasses, side-whiskered and - rubicund, stopped him to remark tremendously that he had issued an - injunction against the stallion going out of the state. “A matter of local - patriotism, Joe, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “Hear, hear,” commented the Honorable Gerald Map. A crowd began to gather - anticipating a conference of notables. Sanderson extricated himself and - walked on, and two small boys eventually smacked each other over the - question whether Judge Carter was as great a man as Mr. Sanderson. - </p> - <p> - Mavering's eyes followed him speculatively. - </p> - <p> - “What's the particular combination that troubles the manager's rest?” - </p> - <p> - “Eh?” said Cassidy. “Oh, I don't know. Bob Sutton mostly. He's here - somewhere. Swell young fellow in a plush vest, fashionable proprietor of - thread mills.” - </p> - <p> - The yellow, dusty road ran between the stables and a battle line of - sycamores and maples. Over the stables loomed the brick wall of the - theatre, and at the end of them a small green door for the private use of - exhibitors gave exit from the Fair Grounds. Sanderson stopped near a group - opposite it, where Mignon stood slapping her riding-boot with her whip. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Sanderson,” said Mignon, liquidly, “how can I get out through that - door?” - </p> - <p> - Sanderson considered and suggested opening it. - </p> - <p> - “But it's locked! Ciel! It's locked!” - </p> - <p> - Sanderson considered again. “Here's a key,” he said hopefully. - </p> - <p> - “There!” shouted the plush vest. “I knew there'd be some solution. You - see, mademoiselle, what Ave admire in Sanderson is his readiness of - resource. Mademoiselle refused to melt down the fence with a smile or - climb over it on a high C, and we were quite in despair.” - </p> - <p> - Outside the gate, in the paved courtyard between the theatre and the - hotel, Mignon lifted her big brown eyes which said so many things, - according to Cassidy, that were not so, and observed demurely, “If you - were to leave me that key, Mr. Sanderson, well, I should steal in here - after the performance tonight and ride away on the little red mare, - certainly.” - </p> - <p> - Sanderson gravely held out the key, but Mignon drew back in sudden alarm - and clasped her hands tragically. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no! You would be on guard and, what! cut up? Yes. Ah, dreadfully! You - are so wise, Mr. Sanderson, and secret.” - </p> - <p> - And Jack Mavering, following slowly after, chuckled sepulchrally to - himself. “Pretty cool try sting. Peace to the shades of Manager Scott. I - couldn't have done it better myself.” - </p> - <p> - The Fair Grounds were as dark and lonely at eleven o'clock as if the - lighted street were not three hundred feet away with its gossipy multitude - going up and down seeking some new thing. The stands yawned indifferently - from a thousand vacant seats and the race-track had forgotten its - excitement. Horses stamped and rustled spectrally in their stalls. The - shadow under the maples was abysmal and the abyss gave forth a murmur of - dialogue, the sound of a silken voice. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” it sighed in mock despair, “but Americans, they are so very - impassive. Look! They make love in monosyllables. They have no passion, no - action. They pull their mustachios, say 'Damn!'—so, and it is - tragedy. They stroke their chins, so, very grave. They say 'It is not bad, - and it is comedy. Ah, please, Joe, be romantique!” - </p> - <p> - “Why,” drawled the other voice, “I'll do whatever you like, except have - spasms.” - </p> - <p> - “Indifferent! Bah! That's not romantique. How would I look in the house of - your fathers?” - </p> - <p> - “You'd look like thunder.” - </p> - <p> - “Would I?” The silken voice sank low and was quiet for a moment. “Well - then, listen. This shall you do. You shall give me that key and an order - to your man that I ride the little mare of a Sunday morning, which is - to-morrow, because she is the wind and because you are disagreeable. Is it - not so?” - </p> - <p> - A ripple of low laughter by the green door, and “There then. You drive a - hard bargain in love, monsieur.” The door opened and she stepped with a - rustle of skirts into and through the paved courtyard, now unlit by lamps - at the theatre entrance, dark enough for the purposes of Manager Scott, in - an angle of the entrance pulling his mustache and speaking after the - manner described by Mignon as tragedy. - </p> - <p> - In the valley of the Wyantenaug many stopped and listened breathlessly by - barn-yard and entry door to a voice that floated along the still air of - the Sabbath morning, now carolling like a bobolink, now fluting like a - wood-thrush, now hushed in the covert of arching trees, and now pealing - over the meadows by the river bank; others only heard a rush of hoofs and - saw a little red horse and its rider go by with the electric stride of a - trained racer. Each put his or her interpretation thereon, elaborately - detailed after the manner of the region, and approximated the fact of - Mignon and her purposes as nearly as might be expected. Delight in the - creation of jewelled sounds as an end in itself; delight in the clear - morning air of autumn valleys, the sight of burnished leaves and hills in - mad revelry of color; delight in following vagrant fancies with loose - rein, happy, wine-lipped elves that rise without reason and know no law; - delight in the thrill and speed of a sinewy horse compact of nerves; - however all these may have entered in the purposes of Mignon, they are not - likely to have entered the conjectures of the inhabitants of Wyantenaug - Valley, such pleasures of the flesh. Mignon let the mare choose her road, - confining her own choice to odd matters of going slow or fast or not at - all, pausing by the river bank to determine the key and imitate the - quality of its low chuckle, and such doings; all as incomprehensible to - the little red mare as to the inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley. - </p> - <p> - The valley is broad with cup-shaped sides, save where the crowding of the - hills has thrust one forward to stand in embarrassed projection. Some - twenty miles above Hamilton rises Windless Mountain on the right, guarding - from the world the village of Hagar behind it. Northward from Windless lie - irregular hills, and between them and the long westward-inclining tumulus - of the Cattle Ridge a narrow gorge with a tumbling brook comes down. Up - this gorge goes a broad, well-kept road, now bridging the brook, now - slipping under shelving ledges, everywhere carpeted with the needles of - pines, secret with the shadows of pines, spicy and strong with the scent - of pines, till at the end of half a mile it emerges from beneath the pines - into Sanderson Hollow. The little red mare shot from the gloom into the - sunlight with a snort and shake of the head that seemed to say: “Oh, my - hoofs and fetlocks! Deliver me from a woman who makes believe to herself - she is n't going where she is, or if she is that it's only accidental.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Cullom Sanderson ponderously made ready for church, not with a mental - preparation of which the minister would have approved unless he had seen - as clearly as Mrs. Cullom the necessity of denouncing in unmeasured terms - the iniquity of Susan. Susan was a maid who tried to do anything that she - was told, and bumped her head a great deal. Her present iniquity lay in - her fingers and consisted in tying and buttoning Mrs. Cullom and putting - her together generally so that she felt as if she had fallen into her - clothes from different directions. A ring at the door-bell brought Mrs. - Cullom down from heights of sputtering invective like an exhausted - sky-rocket, and she plumped into a chair whispering feebly, “Goodness, - Susan, who's that?” Susan vaguely disclaimed all knowledge of “that.” - </p> - <p> - “You might find out,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, the reaction precluding - anything but a general feeling of injury. Susan went down-stairs and - bumped her head on the chandelier, opened the door and bumped it on the - door. - </p> - <p> - “Ouch,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Please, ma'am, Miss - Sanderson wants to know, who's that?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said the trim little lady in riding-habit, “will you so kindly ask - Miss Sanderson that I may speak to her?” - </p> - <p> - But Mrs. Cullom was already descending the stairs, each step appearing to - Mignon to have the nature of a plunge. “My goodness, yes. Come in.” Mignon - carried her long skirt over the lintel. - </p> - <p> - “I am quite grieved to intrude, mademoi—” Mrs. Cullom's matronly - proportions seemed to discountenance the diminutive, “a—madame. Mr. - Sanderson permitted me to ride one of his horses. He is so generous. And - the horse brought me here, oh, quite decisively,” and Mignon laughed such - a soft, magical laugh that Susan grinned in broad delight. “It is such a - famous place, this, is it not,—Back Meadows? I thought I might be - allowed to—to pay tribute to its fame.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Cullom's cordiality was such that if, strictly speaking, two hundred - pounds can flutter, she may be said to have fluttered. She plunged through - two sombre-curtained parlors, Mignon drifting serenely in the wake of her - tumult. Something in the black, old colonial furniture sent a feeling of - cold gruesomeness into her sunny veins, and she was glad when Mrs. Cullom - declared it chilly and towed her into the dining-room, where a warm light - sifted through yellow windows of modern setting high over a long, - irregular sideboard, and mellowed the portraits of departed Sandersons on - the walls: honorables numerous of colonial times (Blake, first of the - horse-breeding Sandersons, booted and spurred but with too much thinness - of face and length of jaw for a Squire Western type), all flanked by - dames, with a child here and there, above or below—all but the late - Israel, whose loneliness in his gilt frame seemed to have a certain - harmony with his expression. - </p> - <p> - “That was Joseph's father, my brother Israel,” said Mrs. Cullom, as - Mignon's eyes travelled curiously along and rested on the last. “Joseph - keeps his mother hung up in his den.” - </p> - <p> - “Hung up? Den?” cried Mignon, with a recurrence of the gruesome feeling of - the parlors. “Oh, ciel! What does he keep there? Bones?” - </p> - <p> - “Bones! Goodness no. Books.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Cullom pushed open a door to the right and entered a long, low room - piled to the ceiling and littered with books, which, together with the - leathern chair and red-shaded lamp before the fireplace, gave a decided - air of studious repose, nothing suggesting a breeder of fancy stock. An - oil painting of a lady hung over the mantel, and near it some mediæval - Madonna, not unresembling the portrait in its pale cheeks, unworldly eyes, - and that faint monastic air of vigil and vision and strenuous yearning of - the soul to throw its dust aside. Nevertheless the face of the lady was a - sweet face, quiet and pure, such as from many a Madonna of the Old World - in tawdry regalia looks pityingly down over altar and winking tapers, - seeming to say with her tender eyes, “Is it very hard, my dear, the - living? Come apart then and rest awhile.” Mignon turned to Mrs. Cullom. - “You are dressed for going out, madame,” she said, looking at that lady's - well-to-do black silk. “Am I not detaining you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I was going to church. Goodness, are n't you going to church?” A - sudden thought struck her and she added severely: “And you've been riding - that wicked little mare on Sunday. And she might have thrown you, and - how'd you look pitched headfirst into heaven dressed so everybody ud know - you weren't going to church!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” cried Mignon, “but I was good when I was a child. Yes! I went to - mass every day, and had a little prie-dieu, oh, so tiny!” - </p> - <p> - “Mass!” gasped Mrs. Cullom. “Well, I declare. What's a pray-do?” - </p> - <p> - Mignon surveyed her riding-skirt regretfully. “Would it not be - appropriate, madame? I should so like to go with you,” she said - plaintively. - </p> - <p> - “Goodness! I'll risk it if you will. I'd like to see the woman who'd tell - me what to wear to church.” She plunged suddenly out of the room, leaving - Mignon thinking that she would not like to be the woman referred to. She - listened to the ponderous footsteps of Mrs. Cullom climbing the stairs, - and then sank into the leathern chair facing the picture. Possibly the - living and the dead faced each other on a point at issue; they seemed to - debate some matter gravely and gently, as is seldom done where both are - living. Possibly it was Mignon's dramatic instinct which caused her to - rise at last, gathering up her riding-skirt, at the approaching footsteps - of Mrs. Cullom, and bow with Gallic grace and diminutive stateliness to - the pure-faced lady with the spiritual eyes. “C'est vrai, madame,” she - said, and passed out with her small head in the air. - </p> - <p> - The congregation that day in the little church of the bended weather-vane, - where Hagar's cross-roads meet, heard certain ancient hymns sung as never - before in the church of the bended weather-vane. “Rock of Ages, cleft for - me,” pleaded the silken voice, like a visitant invisible, floating from - fluted pillar to fluted pillar, calling at some unseen door, “Let me in! - Ah, let me in!” Somewhat too much of rose leaves and purple garments in - the voice for that simple, steadfast music. The spirit seemed pleading - rather for gratification than rest. The congregation stopped singing, save - Mrs. Cullom, who flatted comfortably on unnoticed. Deacon Crockett frowned - ominously over his glasses at a scandalous scene and a woman too - conspicuous; Captain David Brett showed all the places where he had no - teeth; Mr. Royce looked down from the pulpit troubled with strange - thoughts, and Miss Hettie Royce dropped her veil over her face, - remembering her youth. - </p> - <p> - How should Mignon know she was not expected to be on exhibition in that - curious place? Of course people should be silent and listen when an artist - sings. Mignon hardly remembered a time when she was not more or less on - exhibition. That volatile young lady cantered along the Windless Mountain - Road somewhat after twelve o'clock not in a very good humor. She - recognized the ill humor, considered ill humor a thing both unpleasant and - unnecessary and attributed it to an empty stomach; dismounted before an - orchard and swung herself over the wall reckless of where her skirts went - or where they did not. - </p> - <p> - “Them apples is mine,” growled a gray-bearded person behind a barn-yard - fence. - </p> - <p> - “Then why didn't you get them for me, pig?” returned Mignon sharply, and - departed with more than her small hands could conveniently carry, leaving - the gray-bearded person turning the question over dubiously in his mind. - </p> - <p> - It happened to have occurred to Sanderson that certain business of his own - pointed to Back Meadows that Sunday morning. The up-train on Sunday does - not leave till after eleven, and he took the valley road on the red - stallion of uncertain temper. The inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley heard - no more carolling voices, or fitful rush and clatter of hoofs. The red - stallion covered his miles with a steady stride and the rider kept his - emotions, aesthetic or otherwise, to himself. The twain swung into the - Hollow about eleven o'clock, and Sanderson presently found himself in his - leathern chair debating a question at issue with the lady of the spiritual - eyes. What passed between them is their own secret, quite hopeless of - discovery, with one end of it on the other side of the “valley of the - shadow,” and the other buried in close coverts of Sanderson reserve. When - the door-bell rang and Susan appearing bumped her head against the casing - and announced, “Mr. Joe, it's a red-haired gentleman,” having no dramatic - instinct, he passed into the dining-room without salutation to the lady of - the spiritual eyes. - </p> - <p> - “How are you, Scott? Sit down,” he drawled placidly. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you know what I'm here for,” said the other, with evident - self-restraint. - </p> - <p> - “Can't say I do,” returned Sanderson, cheerfully. “It needn't be anything - in particular, need it?” He sat down, stretched his legs under the - dining-room table and his arms on top of it. Manager Scott paced the floor - nervously. Suddenly he stooped, picked up something and flung it on the - table—a strip of thin gray veil. “You can save yourself a lie, Mr. - Sanderson.” - </p> - <p> - Sanderson gravely regarded the delicate article which seemed to be put - forth both as an accusation and a proof of something. Then he leaned - forward and rang the bell. “I will overlook that implication for the - present, Mr. Scott,” he remarked. “If it's a bluff, it's a good one. I - take it it is n't. Susan, has any one been here this morning?” as that - maiden tumbled into the room in a general tangle of feet. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, and she's gone. My! She ain't comin' back to dinner! Lady rode - the little mare and she went to church with Miss Sanderson.” - </p> - <p> - “Mademoiselle Mignon,” drawled Sanderson, turning to Manager Scott, “asked - permission to ride the mare this morning. I was not aware she intended - making an excursion to Back Meadows or I should have asked permission to - attend her. It seems she went to Hagar with my aunt and proposes to ride - back to Hamilton from there. It's my turn now, old man, and I'd like to - know what was the necessity of making your visit so very tragic.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I presume I'm an ass,” returned the other, with a noticeable nervous - twitching of the mouth and fingers, “and I presume I owe you an apology. I - shall probably shoot the man that comes between Mignon and me, if he - doesn't shoot first, which is all very asinine.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite irrespective of what mademoiselle may think about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, quite.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Sanderson, after a pause, “I rather sympathize with your way - of looking at it. I shouldn't wonder if I had some of that primeval - brutality myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Sanderson,” said the manager. “Without going into humiliating - details as to how I came by the fact, which I don't know why you take so - much pains to conceal, I know as well as you do that the issue is between - you and me.” - </p> - <p> - “You don't mean to threaten, do you, Scott?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no. I'm going back to Hamilton. I was looking for a row, and you - don't give me enough to go on.” - </p> - <p> - “Can't do it just now, old man,” said Sanderson, gently, shaking hands - with him at the door. “I'll let you know when I can. In that case we 'll - have it out between us.” - </p> - <p> - The manager strode off across the Hollow and down the Gorge to the valley - station, and Sanderson mounted and took the road to Hagar. He passed the - village about one. The red stallion thundered through the pine avenues at - the foot of Windless and swept around the curve into Wyantenaug Valley, - but it was not till within a few miles of Hamilton that the speedy little - mare, even bothered as she was by her rider's infirmity of purpose, - allowed herself to be overtaken. The road there turned away from the river - and went covered with crisp autumn leaves through chestnut woods. Mignon - looked up and laughed, and the two horses fell sympathetically into a - walk. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think you owe me an explanation?” asked Sanderson, in a low - tone. - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, sir, I owe you nothing, not even for this ride. It was paid for,” - rippled the silken voice, and stopped suddenly in a little sob. Sanderson - turned quickly and bent over her. - </p> - <p> - “By the living God,” he said solemnly, “I swear I love you. What barrier - is strong enough to face that?” - </p> - <p> - “It is because you do not know me, that. Listen, Joe. I have not been what - you call good nor pure in the past and shall not in the future. No, hush. - I know what I am and what I shall be always. If I swore by your living God - that I loved you now, it would not mean that I should to-morrow, and the - next day, oh, not at all. There are no deeps in me, nor what you call a - faith or principle in life. Listen, Joe. That lady whose portrait I saw is - your guardian angel. Look, I reverence now. To-morrow I shall mock both - her and you. This that I speak now is only a mood. The wind is now one - thing and then quite another, Joe. It has no centre and no soul. I am an - artist, sir. I have moods but no character. Morals! I have none. They go - like the whiff of the breeze. Nothing that I do lowers or lifts me. It - passes through me and that is all. Do you not understand?” which indeed - was hard to do, for the brown eyes were very soft and deep. - </p> - <p> - “If any one else had told me this,” said Sanderson, between his teeth, - “man or woman, it would never have been said but once.” - </p> - <p> - “It is harder for you than for me, for to-morrow I shall not care and you, - you will care perhaps a long time. You are fast like these hills. Listen. - Now, sir, this is our last ride together. We are a cavalier and his lady. - They are gallant and gay. They wear life and love and death in their hair - like flowers. They smile and will not let their hearts be sad, for they - say, 'It is cowardly to be sad: it is brave only to smile.' Is it not so?” - </p> - <p> - Sanderson's New England reserve fled far away, and he bent over her hand. - </p> - <p> - “It shall be as you say.” - </p> - <p> - And to-morrow seemed far enough away, and an hour had its eternal value. - But the steady old hills could not understand that kind of chronology. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Salem Road is a - dusty road. Perhaps it is not really any dustier than other roads, but it - is straighter than most roads about Hagar. You can see more of it at a - time, and in that way you can see more dust. Along this road one day many - years ago came Dr. Wye of Salem in his buggy, which leaned over on one - side; and the dust was all over the buggy-top, all over the big, gray, - plodding horse, and all over the doctor's hat and coat. He was tired and - drowsy, but you would not have suspected it; for he was a red-faced, - sturdy man, with a beard cut square, as if he never compromised with - anything. He sat up straight and solid, so as not to compromise with the - tipping of the buggy. - </p> - <p> - “Come, Billy,” said the doctor, “no nonsense, now.” - </p> - <p> - He prided himself on being a strict man, who would put up with no - nonsense, but every one knew better. Billy, the gray horse, knew as well - as any one. - </p> - <p> - “Come now, Billy, get along.” - </p> - <p> - A tall, dusty, black-bearded man rose up beside the road, and Billy - stopped immediately. - </p> - <p> - A large pack lay against the bank. - </p> - <p> - “You ain't seen a yeller dog?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the doctor, gruffly. He was provoked with Billy. “There aren't - any yellow dogs around here.” - </p> - <p> - “He hadn't no tail,” persisted the stranger, wistfully. “And there were a - boy a-holdin' him. He chopped it off when he were little.” - </p> - <p> - “Who chopped it off?” - </p> - <p> - “Hey? He's a little cuss, but the dog's a good dog.” - </p> - <p> - “Get up, Billy,” growled the doctor. “All boys are little cusses. I have - n't seen any yellow dog. Nonsense! I wonder he did n't ask if I'd seen the - tail.” - </p> - <p> - But somehow the doctor could not get rid of the man's face, and he found - himself looking along the roadside for boys that were distinctly “little - cusses” and yellow dogs without tails, all the rest of the day. - </p> - <p> - In the evening twilight he drove into Salem village. Very cool and - pleasant looked the little white house among the trees. Mother Wye stood - on the porch in her white apron and cap, watching for him. She was flying - signals of distress—if the word were not too strong—she was - even agitated. He tramped up the steps reassuringly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” whispered Mother Wye, “you've no idea, Ned! There's a boy and a dog, - a very large dog, my dear, on the back steps.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said the doctor, gallantly, “they've no business to be anywhere - frightening my little mother. We'll tell them to do something else.” The - doctor tramped sturdily around to the back steps, Mother Wye following - much comforted. - </p> - <p> - The dog was actually a yellow dog without any tail to speak of—a - large, genial-looking dog, nevertheless; the boy, a black-eyed boy, very - grave and indifferent, with a face somewhat thin and long. “Without - doubt,” thought the doctor, “a little cuss. Hullo,” he said aloud, “I met - a man looking for you.” - </p> - <p> - The boy scrutinized him with settled gravity. “He's not much account,” he - said calmly. “I'd rather stay here.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you would!” grumbled the doctor. “Must think I want somebody around - all the time to frighten this lady. Nice folks you are, you and your dog.” - </p> - <p> - The boy turned quickly and took off his cap. “I beg your pardon, madam,” - he said with a smile that was singularly sudden and winning. The action - was so elderly and sedate, so very courtly, surprising, and incongruous, - that the doctor slapped his knee and laughed uproariously; and Mother Wye - went through an immediate revulsion, to feel herself permeated with - motherly desires. The boy went on unmoved. - </p> - <p> - “He's an easy dog, ma'am. His name's Poison, but he never does anything;”—which - started the doctor off again. - </p> - <p> - “They said you wanted a boy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said the doctor, growing grave, “that's true; but you're not the - boy.” - </p> - <p> - The boy seemed to think him plainly mistaken. “Stuff!” growled the doctor, - “I want a boy I can send all around the country. I know a dozen boys that - know the country, and that I know all about. I don't want you. Besides,” - he added, “he said you were a little cuss.” - </p> - <p> - The boy paid no attention to the last remark. “I'll find it out. Other - boys are thick-headed.” - </p> - <p> - “That's true,” the doctor admitted; “they are thick-headed.” Indeed this - young person's serenity and confidence quite staggered him. A new - diplomatic idea seemed to occur to the young person. He turned to Mother - Wye and said gravely: “Will you pull Poison's ear, ma'am, so he'll know - it's all right?” - </p> - <p> - Mother Wye, with some trepidation, pulled Poison's ear, and Poison wagged - the whole back end of himself to make up for a tail, signifying things - that were amicable, while the doctor tugged at his beard and objected to - nonsense. - </p> - <p> - “Well, young man, we'll see what you have to say for yourself. Tut! tut! - mother,”—to Mrs. Wye's murmur of remonstrance,—“we'll have no - nonsense. This is a practical matter;” and he tramped sturdily into the - house, followed by the serious boy, the amicable dog, and the appeased, in - fact the quite melted, Mother Wye. - </p> - <p> - “Now, boy,” said the doctor, “what's your name?” - </p> - <p> - “Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “Jack what? Is that other fellow your father?” - </p> - <p> - “I reckon maybe he is,” returned Jack, with a gloomy frown. “His name's - Baker. He peddles.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor tugged at his beard and muttered that “at any rate there - appeared to be no nonsense about it. But he's looking for you,” he said. - “He'll take you away.” - </p> - <p> - “He's looking for the dog,” said Jack, calmly. “He can't have him.” - </p> - <p> - The East End Road, which circles the eastern end of the Cattle Ridge, is - not at all like the Salem Road. It is wilder and crookeder, to begin with, - but that is a superficial matter. It passes through thick woods, dips into - gullies, and changes continually, while along the Salem Road there is just - the smoky haze on the meadows and dust in the chalices of the flowers; - there too the distance blinks stupidly and speculation comes to nothing. - But the real point is this: the Salem Road leads straight to Hagar and - stops there; the East End Road goes over somewhere among the northern - hills and splits up into innumerable side roads, roads that lead to - doorways, roads that run into footpaths and dwindle away in despair, roads - of which it must be said with sorrow that there was doubt in Salem whether - they ever ended or led anywhere. Hence arose the tale that all things - which were strange and new, at least all things which were to be feared, - came into Salem over the East End Road; just as in Hagar they came down - from the Cattle Ridge and went away to the south beyond Windless Mountain. - </p> - <p> - Along this road, a month later than the last incident, came the - black-bearded peddler with his pack, whistling; and indeed his pack, - though large, seemed to weigh singularly little; also the peddler seemed - to be in a very peaceful frame of mind. And along this road too came the - plodding gray horse, with the serious boy driving, and the yellow dog in - the rear; all at a pace which slowly but surely overtook the peddler. The - peddler, reaching a quiet place where a bank of ferns bordered the - brushwood, sat down and waited, whistling. The dog, catching sight of him, - came forward with a rush, wagging the back end of himself; and Billy, the - gray horse, came gently to a standstill. - </p> - <p> - “How goes it?” said the peddler, pausing a moment in his whistling. - “Pretty good?” - </p> - <p> - “Mostly.” - </p> - <p> - The peddler took a cigar-case from his pocket, a cigar wrapped in tin-foil - from the case, and lay back lazily among the ferns, putting his long thin - hands behind his head. “My notion was,” he murmured, “that it would take a - month, a month would be enough.” - </p> - <p> - The serious boy said nothing, but sat with his chin on his fists looking - down the road meditatively. - </p> - <p> - “My notion was,” went on the peddler, “that a doctor's boy, particularly - that doctor's boy, would get into all the best houses around—learn - the lay of things tolerably neat. That was my notion. Good notion, wasn't - it, Jack?” Jack muttered a subdued assent. The peddler glanced at him - critically. “For instance now, that big square house on the hill north of - Hagar.” - </p> - <p> - Jack shook his head. “Nothing in it. Old man, name Map, rich enough, - furniture done up in cloth, valuables stored in Hamilton; clock or two - maybe; nothing in it.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said the other, “just so;” and again he glanced critically through - his half-closed eyes. “But there are others.” Again Jack muttered a - subdued assent. - </p> - <p> - “Good?” - </p> - <p> - “Good enough.” - </p> - <p> - The apparent peddler smoked, quite at his ease among the ferns, and seemed - resolved that the boy should break the silence next. - </p> - <p> - “Are you banking on this business, dad?” said the latter, finally. - </p> - <p> - “Ah—why, no, Jack, not really. It's a sort of notion, I admit.” He - lifted one knee lazily over the other. “I'm not shoving you, Jack. State - the case.” A long silence followed, to which the conversation of the two - seemed well accustomed. - </p> - <p> - “I never knew anything like that down there,” nodding in the direction of - Salem. “Those people.—It's different.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so,” assented the apparent peddler, critically. “I reckon it is. - We make a point not to be low. Polish is our strong point, Jack. But we're - not in society. We are not, in a way, on speaking terms with society.” - </p> - <p> - “It ain't that.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't,” corrected the other, gently. “Isn't, Jack. But I rather think it - is.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Jack, “it's different, and”—with gloomy decision—“it's - better.” - </p> - <p> - The apparent peddler whistled no more, but lay back among the ferns and - gazed up at the drooping leaves overhead. The gray horse whisked at the - wood-gnats and looked around now and again inquiringly. The yellow dog - cocked his head on one side as if he had an opinion worth listening to if - it were only called for. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose now,” said the apparent peddler, softly, “I suppose now they're - pretty cosy. I suppose they say prayers.” - </p> - <p> - “You bet.”. - </p> - <p> - “You mean that they do, Jack. I suppose,” he went on dreamily, “I suppose - the old lady has white hair and knits stockings.” - </p> - <p> - “She does that,” said Jack, enthusiastically, “and pincushions and mats.” - </p> - <p> - “And pincushions and mats. That's so.” - </p> - <p> - The lowing of cattle came up to them from hidden meadows below; for the - afternoon was drawing near its close and the cattle were uneasy. The - chimney and roof of a farmhouse were just visible through a break in the - sloping woods. The smoke that mounted from the chimney seemed to linger - lovingly over the roof, like a symbol of peace, blessing the hearth from - which it came. The sentimental outcast puffed his excellent cigar - meditatively, now and again taking it out to remark, “Pincushions and - mats!” indicating the constancy of his thoughts. - </p> - <p> - The serious boy motioned in the direction of Salem. “I think I'll stay - there,” he said. “It's better.” - </p> - <p> - “Reckon I know how you feel, Jack,—know how you feel. Give me my - lowly thatched cottage, and that sort of thing.” After a longer silence - still, he sat up and threw away his cigar. “Well, Jack, if you see your - way—a—if I were you, Jack,” he said slowly, “I wouldn't go - half and half; I'd go the whole bill. I'd turn on the hose and inquire for - the ten commandments, that's what I'd do.” He came and leaned lazily on - the carriage wheel. “That isn't very plain. It's like this. You don't - exactly abolish the old man; you just imagine him comfortably buried; - that's it, comfortably buried, with an epitaph,—flourishy, Jack, - flourishy, stating”—here his eyes roamed meditatively along Billy's - well-padded spine—“stating, in a general way, that he made a point - of polish.” - </p> - <p> - The serious boy's lip trembled slightly. He seemed to be seeking some - method of expression. Finally he said: “I'll trade knives with you, dad. - It's six blades”; and the two silently exchanged knives. - </p> - <p> - Then Billy, the gray horse, plodded down the hill through the woods, and - the apparent peddler plodded up. At one turn in the road can be seen the - white houses of Salem across the valley; and here he paused, leaning on - the single pole that guarded the edge. After a time he roused himself - again, swung his pack to his shoulder, and disappeared over the crest of - the hill whistling. - </p> - <p> - The shadows deepened swiftly in the woods; they lengthened in the open - valley, filling the hollows, climbed the hill to Salem, and made dusky Dr. - Wye's little porch and his tiny office duskier still. The office was so - tiny that portly Judge Carter of Gilead seemed nearly to fill it, leaving - small space for the doctor. For this or some other reason the doctor - seemed uncomfortable, quite oppressed and borne down, and remonstrating - with the oppression. The judge was a man of some splendor, with gold - eye-glasses and cane. - </p> - <p> - “There really is no doubt about it,” he was saying, with a magnificent - finger on the doctor's knee, “no doubt at all.” - </p> - <p> - The conversation seemed to be most absorbing. The doctor pulled his beard - abstractedly and frowned. - </p> - <p> - The serious boy drove by outside in the dusk, and after a while came up - from the bam. He sat down on the edge of the porch to think things over, - and the judge's voice rolled on oracularly. Jack hardly knew yet what his - thoughts were; and this was a state of mind that he was not accustomed to - put up with, because muddle-headedness was a thing that he especially - despised. “You don't exactly abolish the old man,” he kept hearing the - peddler say; “you just imagine him comfortably buried—with an - epitaph—flourishy—stating—” - </p> - <p> - “Clever, very,” said the judge. “Merriwether was telling me—won't - catch him, too clever—Merri-wether says—remarkable—interesting - scamp, very.” The doctor growled some inaudible objection. - </p> - <p> - “Why did he show himself!” exclaimed the judge. “Why, see here. Observe - the refined cleverness of it! It roused your interest, didn't it? It was - unique, amusing. Chances are ten to one you would n't have taken the boy - without it. Why, look here—” - </p> - <p> - “Stuff!”—Here the doctor raised his voice angrily. “The boy ran away - from him, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the judge, soothingly. “But there are other - things—looks shady—consider the man is known. Dangerous, - doctor, dangerous, very. You ought to be careful.” Then the words were a - mere murmur. - </p> - <p> - Jack sat still on the porch, with his chin on his hands. Overhead the - night-hawks called, and now and then one came down with a whiz of swooping - wings. Presently he heard the chairs scrape; he rose, slipped around to - the back porch and into the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - The little bronze clock in the dining-room had just told its largest stint - of hours,—and very hard work it made of it. It was a great trial to - the clock to have to rouse itself and bluster so. It did not mind telling - time in a quiet way. But then, every profession has its trials. It settled - itself again to stare with round, astonished face at the table in the - centre of the room. - </p> - <p> - Jack sat at the table by a dim lamp, the house dark and silent all around - him, writing a letter. He leaned his head down almost on a level with the - paper. - </p> - <p> - “I herd him and you,” he wrote in a round hand with many blots. “I lied - and so did he I mean dad. I can lie good. Dad sed I must learn the ten - comandments. The ten comandments says diferent things. You neednt be - afrad. There dont anithing happen cep to me. I do love Mother Wye tru.” - The clock went on telling the time in the way that it liked to do, - tick-tick-tick. Overhead the doctor slept a troubled sleep, and in Gilead - Judge Carter slept a sound sleep of good digestion. - </p> - <p> - Far off the Salem Road led westward straight to Hagar, and stopped, and - the moonlight lay over it all the way; but the East End Road led through - the shadows and deep night over among the northern hills, and split up - into many roads, some of which did not seem ever to end, or lead anywhere. - </p> - <p> - Jack dropped from the window skilfully, noiselessly, and slid away in the - moonlight. At the Corners he did not hesitate, but took the East End Road. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - A VISIBLE JUDGMENT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e bore the name of - Adam Wick. There seemed to be something primitive in his temperament to - fit it. By primitive we mean of such times as may have furnished - single-eyed passions that did not argue. He was a small, thin, stooping - man, with a sharp nose and red-lidded eyes. Sarah Wick, his daughter, was - a dry-faced woman of thirty, and lived with him. - </p> - <p> - His house stood on a hill looking over the village of Preston Plains, - which lay in a flat valley. In the middle of the village the - church-steeple shot up tapering and tall. - </p> - <p> - It was a bickering community. The church was a centre of interest. The - outlines of the building were clean and shapely, but in detail it stood - for a variety of opinions. A raised tracery ran along the pseudo-classic - frieze of its front, representing a rope of flowers with little cupids - holding up the loops. They may have been cherubs. The community had - quarrelled about them long ago when the church was building, but that - subject had given way to other subjects. - </p> - <p> - The choir gallery bulged over the rear seats, as if to dispute the - relative importance of the pulpit. That was nothing. But it needed - bracing. The committee decided against a single pillar, and erected two, - one of them in the middle of Adam Wick's pew. - </p> - <p> - Adam looked at things simply. It seemed to his simplicity that the - community had conspired to do him injustice. The spirit of nonconformity - stirred within him. He went to the minister. - </p> - <p> - “Andrew Hill, nor any other man, nor committeeman's got no rights in my - pew.” - </p> - <p> - The minister was dignified. - </p> - <p> - “The pew, Mr. Wick, belongs to the church.” - </p> - <p> - “No such thing! I sat twenty-four years in that pew.” - </p> - <p> - “But that, though very creditable—” - </p> - <p> - “No such thing! I'll have no post in my pew, for Andrew Hill nor no - minister neither.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Wick—” - </p> - <p> - “You take that post out o' my pew.” - </p> - <p> - He stumped out of the minister's green-latticed doorway and down the - gravel path. His eyes on either side of his sharp nose were like those of - an angry hawk, and his stooping shoulders, seen from behind, resembled the - huddled back of the hawk, caged and sullen. - </p> - <p> - The minister watched him. Properly speaking, a primitive nature is an - unlimited monarchy where ego is king, but the minister's reflections did - not run in these terms. He did not even go so far as to wonder whether - such primitive natures did not render the current theory of a church - inaccurate. He went so far as to wonder what Adam Wick would do. - </p> - <p> - One dark, windy night, near midnight, Adam Wick climbed in at the - vestibule window of the church, and chopped the pillar in two with an axe. - The wind wailed in the belfry over his head. The blinds strained, as if - hands were plucking at them from without. The sound of his blows echoed in - the cold, empty building, as if some personal devil were enjoying the - sacrilege. Adam was a simple-minded man; he realized that he was having a - good time himself. - </p> - <p> - It was three days before the church was opened. What may have been Adam's - primitive thoughts, moving secretively among his townsmen? Then a sudden - rumor ran, a cry went up, of horror, of accusation, of the lust of strife. - Before the accusation Adam did not hesitate to make his defiance perfect. - The primitive mind was not in doubt. With a blink of his red eyelids, he - answered: - </p> - <p> - “You tell Andrew Hill, don't you put another post in my pew.” - </p> - <p> - A meeting was held; a majority voted enthusiastically to strike his name - from the rolls for unchristian behavior and to replace the pillar. A - minority declared him a wronged man. That was natural enough in Preston - Plains. But Adam Wick's actions at this point were thought original and - effective by every one. - </p> - <p> - He sat silently through the proceedings in the pew with the hacked pillar, - his shoulders hunched, his sharp eyes restless. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Wick,” said the minister, sternly, “have you anything to say?” - </p> - <p> - Adam rose. - </p> - <p> - “I put fifty-six dollars into this meetin'-house. Any man deny that?” - </p> - <p> - No man denied it. - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” said Adam. - </p> - <p> - He took the hymn-book from the rack, lifted the green cushion from the - seat, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out. - </p> - <p> - No man spoke against it. - </p> - <p> - “There's no further business before this meeting,” said Chairman Hill. - </p> - <p> - It was a Sunday in August and nearly noon. From the side porch of Adam - Wick's house on the hill the clustered foliage of the village below was - the centre of the landscape. The steeple and ridgepole of the church rose - out of the centre of the foliage. - </p> - <p> - The landscape could not be fancied without the steeple. The dumb materials - of the earth, as well as the men who walk upon it, acquire habits. You - could read on the flat face of the valley that it had grown accustomed to - Preston Plains steeple. - </p> - <p> - On the side porch stood a long, high-backed bench. It was a close - imitation of the pews in the church below among the foliage, with the long - green cushion on the seat and a chair facing it with a hymn-book on it. - Adam sat motionless on the bench. His red-lidded eyes were fixed intently - on the steeple. - </p> - <p> - A hen with a brood of downy yellow chickens pecked about the path. A - turkey strutted up and down. The air was sultry, oppressive. A low murmur - of thunder mingled with the sleepy noises of creaking crickets and - clucking hen. - </p> - <p> - Adam Wick's bench and rule of Sabbath observance had been common talk in - Preston Plains. But it had grown too familiar, for subjects of dispute - ever gave way there to other subjects. Some one said it was pathetic. The - minority thought it a happy instance to throw in the face of the bigoted - majority, that they had driven from the church a man of religious feeling. - The minister had consulted Andrew Hill, that thick-set man with the dry - mouth and gray chin-beard. - </p> - <p> - “Not take out that pillar!” said Andrew Hill. “Ah,” said the minister, - “I'm afraid that wouldn't do. It would seem like—” - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't move that pillar if the whole town was sidin' with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, now—” - </p> - <p> - “Not while I'm alive. Adam Wick, he's obstinate.” Mr. Hill shut his mouth - grimly. - </p> - <p> - “Religious! Humph! Maybe he is.” - </p> - <p> - The minister moved away. They were a stiff-necked people, but after all he - felt himself to be one of them. It was his own race. He knew how Andrew - Hill felt, as if something somewhere within him were suddenly clamped down - and riveted. He understood Adam too, in his private pew on the side porch, - the hymn-book on the chair, his eyes on Preston Plains steeple, fixed and - glittering. He thought, “We don't claim to be altogether lovely.” - </p> - <p> - Adam was in his own eyes without question a just man suffering injustice. - His fathers in their Genesis and Exodus had so suffered, faced stocks, - pillory, the frowning edge of the wilderness, and possessed their souls - with the same grim congratulation. No generation ever saw visions and - sweat blood, and left a moderate-minded posterity. Such martyrs were not - surer that the God of Justice stood beside them than Adam was sure of the - injustice of that pillar in that pew, nor more resolved that neither death - nor hell should prevail against the faithfulness of their protest. - </p> - <p> - And the turkey strutted in the yard, the chickens hurried and peeped, the - thunder muttered at intervals as if the earth were breathing heavily in - its hot sleep. - </p> - <p> - The church-bell rang for the end of the morning service. It floated up - from the distance, sweet and plaintive. - </p> - <p> - Adam rose and carried the cushion, chair, and hymn-book into the house. - </p> - <p> - The storm was rising, darkening. It crouched on the hills. It seemed to - gather its garments and gird its loins, to breathe heavily with crowded - hate, to strike with daggers of lightning right and left. - </p> - <p> - Adam came out again and sat on the bench. The service being over, it was - no longer a pew. - </p> - <p> - Carriages, one after another, drove out of the foliage below, and along - the five roads that ran out of Preston Plains between zigzag fences and - low stone walls. They were hurrying, but from that distance they seemed to - crawl. - </p> - <p> - The Wick carriage came up the hill and through the gate—creaking - wheels, a shambling white horse, Sarah jerking the reins with monotonous - persistence. She stepped down and dusted off her cotton gloves. Adam - walked out to take the horse. - </p> - <p> - “Wherefore do ye harden your hearts as the Egyptians and Pharaoh hardened - their hearts?” - </p> - <p> - Adam seemed puzzled, blinked his eyes, seemed to study carefully the - contents of his own mind. - </p> - <p> - “I do' know,” he said at last. - </p> - <p> - “First Samuel, seven, six,” said Sarah. - </p> - <p> - Adam led the horse away despondently. Halfway to the bam he stopped and - called out: - </p> - <p> - “Did he preach at me?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - The minister had chosen a text that Adam did not know, and made no - reference to him, although the text was a likely one. Adam felt both - slights in a dim way, and resented them. He came back to the house and sat - in the front room before the window. - </p> - <p> - The valley was covered with a thick veil of gray rain. The black cloud - above it cracked every moment with sudden explosions, the echoes of them - tumbling clumsily among the hills. Preston Plains steeple faded away and - the foliage below it became a dim blot. A few drops struck the window-pane - at Adam's face, then a rush and tumult of rain. Dimmer still the valley, - but the lightning jabbed down into it incessantly, unseen batteries - playing attack and defence over Preston Plains steeple. - </p> - <p> - It was a swift, sudden storm, come and gone like a burst of passion. The - imminent crack and crash of the thunder ceased, and only rumblings were - heard, mere memories, echoes, or as if the broken fragments of the sky - were rolling to and fro in some vast sea-wash. The valley and the village - trees came slowly into view. - </p> - <p> - “Dinner's ready,” said Sarah, in the next room. - </p> - <p> - She had a strident voice, and said dinner was ready as if she expected - Adam to dispute it. There was no answer from the window. - </p> - <p> - “Pa! Aren't you comin'?” - </p> - <p> - No answer. Sarah came to the door. - </p> - <p> - “Pa!” - </p> - <p> - His face was close to the rain-washed window-pane. Something rattled in - his throat. It seemed like a suppressed chuckle. He rested his chin on his - hand and clawed it with bony fingers. - </p> - <p> - “Pa!” - </p> - <p> - He turned on her sternly. - </p> - <p> - “You needn't be shoutin' on the Lord's day. Meetin'-house steeple's - a-fire.” - </p> - <p> - From Adam Wick's nothing could be seen but the slow column of smoke rising - and curling around the slender steeple. But under the foliage Preston - Plains was in tumult. - </p> - <p> - By night the church was saved, but the belfry was a blackened ruin within. - The bell had fallen, through floor, cross-beams, and ceiling, and smashed - the front of the choir gallery, a mass of fallen pillar, railing, and - broken plaster on the floor. - </p> - <p> - Andrew Hill called a meeting. Adam Wick came, entered his cluttered pew - and sat on the pillar that lay prostrate across it. He perched on it like - a hawk, with huddled back and red-lidded eyes blinking. It was the sense - of the meeting that modern ideas demanded the choir should sit behind the - minister. The ruined gallery must be removed. Adam Wick rose. - </p> - <p> - “You've got no place in this meetin',” said Andrew Hill. “Set down.” - </p> - <p> - Adam kept his place scornfully. - </p> - <p> - “Can't I subscribe twenty dollars to this church?” The chairman stroked - his beard and a gleam of acrid humor lit his face for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose you can.” - </p> - <p> - And the eyes of all present looked on Adam Wick favorably. - </p> - <p> - The minister rose to speak the last word of peace. - </p> - <p> - “My friends, the Lord did it. He is righteous—” - </p> - <p> - “That's my idea!” said Adam Wick, like a hawk on his fallen pillar, - red-lidded, complacent. “He did what was right.” - </p> - <p> - The minister coughed, hesitated, and sat down. Andrew Hill glowered from - his chair. - </p> - <p> - “There's no further business before this meetin'.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE EMIGRANT EAST - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he old book-shop - on Cripple Street in the city of Hamilton was walled to its dusky ceiling - with books. Books were stacked on the floor like split wood, with alleys - between. The long table down the centre was piled with old magazines and - the wrecks of paper-covered novels. School arithmetics and dead - theologies; Annuals in faded gilt, called “Keepsake,” or “Friendship's - Offering”; little leathern nubbins of books from the last century, that - yet seemed less antique than the Annuals which counted no more than forty - years—so southern and early-passing was the youth of the Annual; - Bohn's translations, the useful and despised; gaudy, glittering prints of - the poets and novelists; all were crowded together without recognition of - caste, in a common Bohemia. Finding a book in that mystical chaos seemed - to establish a right to it of first discovery. The pretty girl, who sat in - one of the dim windows and kept the accounts, looked Oriental but not - Jewish, and wore crimson ribbons in her black hair and at her throat. She - read one of the Annuals, or gazed through the window at Cripple Street. A - show-case in the other window contained stamp collections, Hindoo, - Chinese, and Levantine coinage. - </p> - <p> - Far back in the shop a daring explorer might come upon a third window, - gray, grimy, beyond which lay the unnamable backyards between Cripple and - Academy Streets. It could not be said to “open on” them, for it was never - opened, or “give a view” of them, being thick with gray dust. But if one - went up to it and looked carefully, there in the dim corner might be seen - an old man with a long faded black coat, rabbinical beard, dusky, - transparent skin, and Buddha eyes, blue, faint, far away, self-abnegating, - such as under the Bo-tree might have looked forth in meek abstraction on - the infinities and perceived the Eightfold Principle. It was always - possible to find Mr. Barria by steering for the window. So appeared the - old bookshop on Cripple Street, Mr. Barria, the dealer, and his - granddaughter, Janey. - </p> - <p> - Nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull; for the hand of man, - working through generations, is the hand of nature, as surely as in nature - the oriole builds its nest or the rootlets seek their proper soil. Cripple - Street ran from Coronet to Main Street and its paving was bad. There were - a few tailors and bookbinders, a few silent, clapboarded houses. - </p> - <p> - But two doors from the corner on Coronet Street stood Station No. 4, of - the Fire Brigade, and Cripple Street was the nearest way to Main Street, - whither No. 4 was more likely to be called than elsewhere. So that, though - nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull, No. 4, Fire Brigade, - sometimes passed it, engine, ladder, and hose, in the splendor of the - supernatural, the stormy pageantry of the gods; and one Tommy Durdo drove - the engine. - </p> - <p> - Durdo first came into Mr. Barria's shop in search of a paper-covered novel - with a title promising something wild and belligerent. It was a rainy, - dismal day, and Janey sat among the dust and refuse of forgotten - centuries. - </p> - <p> - “My eyes!” he thought. “She's a peach.” - </p> - <p> - He lost interest in any possible belligerent novel, gazed at her with the - candor of his youthfulness, and remarked, guilefully: - </p> - <p> - “I bet you've seen me before now.” - </p> - <p> - “You drive the engine,” said Janey, with shining eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Why, this is my pie,” thought Durdo, and sat down by her on a pile of old - magazines. He was lank, muscular, with a wide mouth, lean jaws, turn-up - nose, and joyful eyes. The magazines contained variations on the loves of - Edwards, Eleanors, and other people, well-bred, unfortunate, and possessed - of sentiments. Durdo was not well-bred, and had not a presentable - sentiment in his recollection. He had faith in his average luck, and went - away from Mr. Barria's shop at last with a spot in the tough texture of - his soul that felt mellow. - </p> - <p> - “J. Barria, bookdealer,” he read from the sign. “J! That's Janey, ain't - it? Hold on. She ain't the bookdealer. She ain't any ten-cent novel - either. She's a Rushy bound, two dollar and a half a copy, with a - dedication on the fly-leaf, which”—Tommy stopped suddenly and - reflected—“which it might be dedicated to Tommy.” - </p> - <p> - It came near to being a sentiment. The possibility of such a thing rising - from within him seemed impressive. He walked back to No. 4 thoughtfully, - and thrust himself into a fight with Hamp Sharkey, in which it was proved - that Hamp was the better man. Tommy regained his ordinary reckless - cheerfulness. But when a man is in a state of mind that it needs a - stand-up and knock-down fight to introduce cheerfulness, he cannot hope to - conceal his state of mind. - </p> - <p> - Cripple Street drowsed in the sunshine one August afternoon. A small boy - dug bricks out of the sidewalk with a stick. It seemed to emphasize the - indifferent calm that no one took that interest in Cripple Street to come - and stop him. The clangor of the fire-bells broke across the city. For a - moment the silence in Cripple Street seemed more deathly than before. Then - the doors of the tailors and bookbinders flew open. The Fire Company came - with leap and roar, ladder, engine, and hose, rattle of wheels and thud of - steam. Passing Mr. Barria's Durdo turned his head, saw Janey in the door, - and beamed on her. - </p> - <p> - “Hooray,” he shouted. - </p> - <p> - “It's Tommy's girl,” thundered Hamp Sharkey, from the top of his jingling - ladders. Fire Brigade No. 4 cheered, waved its helmet, wherever it had a - hand free, and in a moment was gone, leaving the drift of its smoke in the - air, the tremble of its passing, and Janey flushed and thrilled. Hook and - ladder and all had hailed her with honor as Tommy's girl. A battalion of - cavalry, with her lover at the head, dashing up to salute, say, her - battlemented or rose-embowered window—both terms occur in the - Annuals—and galloping away to the wars, might have been better - theoretically, but Janey was satisfied. She had no defence against such - battery. Power, daring, and danger were personified in Tommy. He had - brought them all to her feet. This it was to live and be a woman. She - turned back into the dim shop, her eyes shining. The backs of the dusty - books seemed to quiver and glow, even those containing arithmetic, dead - philosophies, and other cool abstractions, as if they forgot their figures - and rounded periods, and thought of the men who wrote them, how these once - were young. - </p> - <p> - Durdo found it possible, by spending his off hours in Mr. Barria's shop, - to keep cheerful without fighting Hamp Sharkey. A row now and then with a - smaller man than Hamp was enough to satisfy the growing mellowness of his - soul. His off hours began at four. He passed them among the Annuals and - old magazines in a state of puzzled and flattered bliss. He fell so far - from nature as to read the Annuals where Janey directed, to conclude that - what was popularly called “fun” was vanity and dust in the mouth; that - from now on he would be decent, and that any corner or hole in the ground - which contained Janey and Tommy would suit him forever. No doubt he was - wrong there. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barria's memories of all that had befallen him within or without, in - the journey of this life, before his entry on the Path of Quietness, and - his consciousness of all external objects and occurrences since, were - clear enough, but only as little white clouds in the open sky are clear, - whose business it is to be far away and trouble us with no insistent - tempest. They never entered the inner circle of his meditation. They - appeared to be distant things. He had no sense of contact with them. His - abstractions had formed a series of concentric spheres about him. In some - outer sphere lay a knowledge of the value of books as bought and sold, - which enabled him to buy and sell them with indifferent profit, but it - entered his central absorption no more than the putting on and off of his - coat. - </p> - <p> - He was not absorbed in books. He did not seem to care for them, beyond the - fourscore or more worn volumes that were piled about his table by the gray - window, many of them in tattered paper covers bearing German imprints, - some lately rebound by a Cripple Street bookbinder. He did not care for - history or geography, not even his own. He did not care where he was born - or when, where he was now, or how old. - </p> - <p> - Once—whether forty years gone or four hundred, would have seemed to - him a question of the vaguest import—he had taught Arabic and Greek - in a university town, which looks off to mountains that in their turn look - off to the Adriatic Sea. There was a child, a smaller Julian Barria. - Somewhere about this time and place he began explorations in more distant - Eastern languages. The date was unnoted, obscure, traditional. The - interest in language soon disappeared. It was a period of wonder and - searching. After the moral fierceness of the Arab and Mohammedan, the - Hindoo's and Buddhist's calm negations and wide mental spaces first - interested him by contrast, then absorbed him. He began to practise the - discipline, the intense and quiet centring on one point, till the sense of - personality should slip away and he and that point be one. There was no - conviction or conversion, for the question never seemed put to him, or to - be of any value, whether one thing was true and another not true. But the - interest gradually changed to a personal issue. All that he now heard and - saw and spoke to, objects in rest or in motion, duties that called for his - performance, became not so much vaguer in outline as more remote in - position. In comparison with his other experiences they were touched with - a faint sense of unreality. The faces of other men were changed in his - eyes. He sometimes noticed and wondered, passingly, that they seemed to - see no change in him, or if any change, it was one that drew them more - than formerly to seek his sympathy. He observed himself listening to - intimate confessions with a feeling of patient benevolence that cost him - no effort, and seemed to him something not quite belonging to him as a - personal virtue, but which apparently satisfied and quieted the troubled - souls that sought him. - </p> - <p> - About this later time—a reference to the histories would fix the - date at 1848—a civil war swept the land, and the University was - closed. The younger Julian Barria was involved in the fall of the - revolutionists and fled from the country. The late teacher of Greek and - Arabic crossed the ocean with him. It was a matter of mild indifference. - He gave his sympathy to all, gently and naturally, but felt no mental - disturbance. Neither did the change of scene affect him. Everywhere were - earth beneath and sky above, and if not it were no matter. Everywhere were - men and women and children, busy with a multitude of little things, - trembling, hurrying, crying out among anxieties. It was all one, clear - enough, but remote, touched with the same sense of unreality, and like - some sad old song familiar in childhood and still lingering in the memory. - </p> - <p> - The book-shop on Cripple Street at one time dealt also in newspapers and - cigars. They were more to the younger Barria's talent, more to his taste - the stirring talk of men who live in their own era and congregate wherever - there are newspapers and tobacco. Afterward he went away into the West, - seeking a larger field for his enterprise than Cripple Street, and the - newspaper and cigar business declined and passed away. The show-case fell - to other uses. The elder Barria sat by the square rear window, and the - gray dust gathered and dimmed it. Ten years flowed like an unruffled - stream; of their conventional divisions and succeeding events he seemed - but superficially conscious. Letters came now and then from the West, - announcing young Barria's journeys and schemes, his marriage in the course - of enterprise, finally his death. The last was in a sprawling hand, and - said: - </p> - <p> - “Jules missus is ded to an thars a kid. Jules sez take her to the ol man - Jake when ye go est in the spring. I am Jake. He is wooly in his hed sez - he but he is a good man sez he. He got a soul like Mondays washin on - Tewsday mornin sez he spekin in figgers an menin you. Them was Jules last - word.” - </p> - <p> - The large, bony person called Jake, slouch-hatted and rough-bearded, - brought the child in time, and departed, muttering embarrassment. She - stood among the Annuals and old magazines with a silver dollar from Jake - clasped in each hand, and a roll of fifty-dollar bills in her tiny pocket, - probably representing young Barria's estate and the end of Jake's duties - as executor. She might have been two or three years old. That was not a - matter of interest to Mr. Barria, in whose conception the soul of every - creature was, in a way, more ancient than the hills. - </p> - <p> - She seemed to believe in his good intentions and came to him gravely. She - did not remember any mother, and for her own name it had apparently been - “chicken” when her father had wanted her, and “scat” when he did not. Mr. - Barria envied a mind so untrammelled with memories, and named her Jhana, - which means a state of mystical meditation, of fruitful tranquillity, out - of which are said to come six kinds of supernatural wisdom and ten powers. - The name sometimes appeared to him written Dhyana, when his meditations - ran in Sanskrit instead of Pali. Cripple Street called her Janey, and - avoided the question with a wisdom of its own. It had grown used to Mr. - Barria. Scholars came from near-by universities to consult him, and - letters from distant countries to Herr, Monsieur, or Signor Doctor Julian - Barria, but Cripple Street, if it knew of the matter, had no stated theory - to explain it and was little curious. His hair and beard grew white and - prophetic, his skin more transparent. A second decade and half a third - glided by, and Janey and Tommy Durdo sat hand in hand among the Annuals. - </p> - <p> - “You must ask him, Tommy,” Janey insisted, “because lovers always ask - parents.” - </p> - <p> - “An' the parents is horty and they runs away hossback. Say, Janey, if his - whiskers gets horty, I 'll faint. Say, Janey, you got to go 'n ask my ma - if you can have me.” - </p> - <p> - “Would she be haughty?” - </p> - <p> - Janey always bubbled with pleasure, like a meadow spring, when Tommy “got - on a string,” as he called it, fell to jesting circumstantially. “You bet. - She'd trun you down. An' yet she's married second time, she has,” he went - on, thoughtfully, “an' she didn't ask my consent, not either time. I would - n't a given it the first, if she had, 'cause dad was no good. I'd a been - horty. I'd a told her he wa'n't worthy to come into any family where I was - comin', which he wa'n't.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Tommy!” - </p> - <p> - “Yep. Dad was more nuisance'n mosquitoes.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barria came out of the distant retreat of his meditation slowly, and - looked up. It did not need all the subtle instinct of a pundit to read the - meaning of the two standing hand in hand before him. - </p> - <p> - Tommy looked and felt as one asking favors of a spectre, and Mr. Barria - had fallen into a silent habit of understanding people. - </p> - <p> - “Little Jhana iss a woman so soon?” he said softly. “She asks of her - birthright.” - </p> - <p> - He rose and looked quietly, steadily at Tommy, who felt himself growing - smaller inside, till his shoes seemed enormous, even his scalp loose and - his skull empty. - </p> - <p> - “Mr.—” - </p> - <p> - “It's Tommy Durdo,” said Janey. - </p> - <p> - “You will always remember to be a little kinder than seems necessary, Mr. - Durdo? It iss a good rule and very old.” - </p> - <p> - “He didn't ask whether I was a burglar or a lunatic by profesh,” grumbled - Tommy, later. “Ain't a reasonable interest. He might a asked which.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind,” said Janey. “I'll tell that.” - </p> - <p> - There were four rooms over the shop, where the three lived in great peace. - Tommy never made out whether Mr. Barria thought him a burglar or a - lunatic. As regards Janey he felt more like a burglar, as regards Mr. - Barria more like a lunatic. He dodged him reverentially. Only at the - station, where his duties kept him for the most part, did he feel like a - natural person and a fireman. He confided in Hamp Sharkey, and brought him - to the shop and the little up-stairs sitting-room for the purpose of - illustration. Hamp's feelings resembled Tommy's. They fell into naïve - sympathy. Hamp admired Tommy for his cleverness, his limber tongue, the - reckless daring of his daily contact with Mr. Barria and Janey, two - mysteries, differing but both remote. She was not like the shop-girls on - Main Street. Hamp would carry away the memory of her shining eyes lifted - to Tommy's irregular, somewhat impish face, and growl secretly over his - mental bewilderment. Tommy admired Hamp for his height and breadth and - dull good-nature. - </p> - <p> - On an afternoon in the early summer the fire-bells rang call after call. - Engine No. 4 went second. The freight houses by the harbor were burning, - and the tall furniture factory that backed them. About dusk the north wall - of the factory fell into the street with a roar and rattle of flying - bricks. - </p> - <p> - The book-shop was dark in the centre. The two lamps in the front windows - were lit, and Mr. Barria's lamp in his hidden corner. - </p> - <p> - It came upon Mr. Barria in his absorption that there had been a moment - before the sound of the trampling of heavy feet in the front of the shop, - and a sudden cry. The trampling continued and increased. He came forward - with his lamp. Men were crowding up the narrow stairs that began in the - opposite corner. One of them swung a lantern overhead. - </p> - <p> - “'Twere a brick,” said some one in the dark centre of the shop. “Took him - over the ear. Dented him in like a plug hat.” - </p> - <p> - “Where's some water?” - </p> - <p> - “Knocked her over quicker 'n the brick.” - </p> - <p> - “Sh! What's that?” - </p> - <p> - “It's the old man.” - </p> - <p> - The light of the lamp, lifted in Mr. Barria's hand, fell over his head - with its flowing white hair, rabbinical beard, and spectral face. - Three-men, one of them a policeman, drew back to one side of the shop, - looking startled and feebly embarrassed. On the other side the window lamp - shone on Janey, where she lay fallen among the old Annuals. - </p> - <p> - He lifted her head and muttered: - </p> - <p> - “Jhana, Jhana.” - </p> - <p> - The three men slipped through the door; those above came down; a doctor - bustled in, satchel in hand, and after him several women; Janey was - carried up; the shop was empty, except for Mr. Barria sitting by his lamp - and muttering softly. - </p> - <p> - “She could not find it, the peace that is about, and her little happiness - it would not stay beside her.” - </p> - <p> - Presently the doctor spoke over him. - </p> - <p> - “I think Mrs. Durdo should be taken to the hospital. St. James, you know. - It's not far.” - </p> - <p> - “You think—” - </p> - <p> - “She is approaching confinement, and the shock, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Whatever iss desirable, Herr Doctor. There iss no need, sir, of the - economy in respect to—to whatever iss desirable.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite right, Mr. Barria. Quite right.” - </p> - <p> - This was in June. Late in the fall Janey came back from St. James's - Hospital, pale, drooping, and alone. - </p> - <p> - She sat in a black dress by the front window and kept the accounts as - before, gazed through the dim panes at Cripple Street, which was made by - nature to be dull, but read the Annuals no more, which was perhaps a pity. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barria from the rear of the shop watched Janey, sitting among the - Annuals and looking out on Cripple Street. He had not entered on the Path - himself as a cure for sorrow and suffering; he had come to it from another - direction. Yet the first purpose of its system had been the solution of - these. It was written: - </p> - <p> - “Sorrow and suffering will be overcome when this thirst for life is - quenched, which makes for continuance, and that desire of separateness and - hunger after selfhood are put aside. They will fall away as drops from a - lotus leaf.” - </p> - <p> - And Janey was a type of them as they walk abroad. The measure of her - trouble was the measure of the yearning and attainment that had been hers. - </p> - <p> - “Desire not more then of yearning or attainment, of sight or touch, of - life in variety or abundance, but desire none at all, and turning within, - the dwelling you build there dwell in it, until both desire and - separateness shall in turn disappear.” - </p> - <p> - He went forward and drew a chair beside her. - </p> - <p> - “Little Jhana,” he said, “there wass once a woman and young who brought - her dead child to the wisest of men, and asked so of him, 'Do you know one - medicine that will be good for this child?' It was the custom then for the - patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the doctors require, - so that when she asked what herbs he would wish, and he answered, - 'Mustard-seed,' she promised with haste to bring it, for it wass a common - herb. 'And it must come,' he said, 'only from some house where no child, - no hussband, no wife, no parent, no friend hass died.' Then she went in - great hope, carrying the dead child; but everywhere they said, 'I have - lost,' and again, 'We have lost,' and one said, 'What iss this you say; - the living are few but the dead are many.' She found so no house in that - place from which she might take the mustard-seed. Therefore she buried the - child, and came, and she said, 'I have not found it; they tell me the - living are few and the dead many.' And he showed her how that nothing - endured at all, but changed and passed into something else, and each wass - but a changing part of a changing whole, and how, if one thought more of - the whole, one so ceased to be troubled much of the parts, and sorrow - would fade away quietly.” Janey stared at him with wide, uncomprehending - eyes. There was a certain comfort always in Mr. Barria himself, however - oddly he might talk. She dropped her head on his knee and whispered: - </p> - <p> - “I don't know about all that. I want Tommy and the baby.” - </p> - <p> - He touched her hair with thin fingers gently. “Then I wonder, little - Jhana,” he said, looking to the magazines and Annuals, “if you have found - among these one, a poet of the English, who calls it to be better to love - and lose than not to love.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. I don't remember.” - </p> - <p> - He smoothed her hair again and went away. The winter passed and the spring - came with a scatter of sunshine and little showers. Janey still sat by the - window. If she had been able to generalize, to see that Tommy and the baby - represented hunger after life, and that this was the root of sorrow, it - would perhaps have still seemed to her that love and loss were the better - choice. Perhaps not. But she could not generalize. Her thoughts were - instincts, fancies, and little shining points of belief. She could not see - herself in any figure of speech; that she was one of a multitude of - discordant notes in the universe, whose business it was to tune themselves - to the key of a certain large music and disappear in its harmony, where - alone was constant happiness. It did not seem to mention Tommy or the - baby, and if not there was no point in it. - </p> - <p> - Spring slipped away. Cripple Street was filled to the brim with bland - summer. Janey went every day to the cemetery with flowers. In September - she began to come back with flowers in her belt. - </p> - <p> - It was a rainy, dismal day in October. Mr. Barria had a remote sense of - hearing Janey's laugh. It seemed to him there was a strange presence in - the shop. He peered out, and saw Hamp Sharkey outlined against the window, - large, slow-moving, and calm, a man who seemed to avoid all troubles of - the flesh by virtue of having enough flesh, and solid bone beneath. Janey - looked up at him and laughed. Around her were the old Annuals, containing - the loves of Edwards and Eleanors. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barria leaned back in his chair. Some untraced suggestion led him to - counting his years idly. He made them out to be nearly eighty. They seemed - suddenly to rest on his shoulders like a weight. If one considered them at - all, they were heavy, the years. And for this human life, it was only - intelligible in the abstract. Of its details there were too many. - </p> - <p> - The shop grew duskier, and the rain beat on the windows with an incessant - pattering, a multitude of tiny details, sounding accordingly as one might - listen. For either it would seem a cheerful, busy sound of the kindly - water, humble and precious and clean, needful in households, pleasant in - the fulness of rivers, comfortable, common, familiar; or it was the low - sigh of the driven rain, the melancholy iteration and murmur of water - circling like everything else its wheel of change, earth and ocean and - sky, earth and ocean and sky, and weary to go back to its vague, elemental - vapor, as before the worlds were shaped. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Barria turned back to his volume, bound in gray paper with a German - imprint. To his ears the sound of the two voices talking became as - abstract as the rain. Hamp Sharkey's laugh was like the lowing of a - contented ox, and Janey's, as of old, like the ripple of a brook in a - meadow. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - TOBIN'S MONUMENT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was a student - then and lived on the second floor of a brick dormitory with foot-worn - stones and sagging casements. The windows looked across one end of the - campus on ivy-covered walls of other buildings, on a bronze statue whose - head was bent to indicate that the person represented had taken life - seriously in his day. Near at hand was a street of unacademic noises, - horse-cars, shops, German bands, newsboys, people who bought and sold - without higher mathematics and seldom mentioned Horatius Flaccus. - </p> - <p> - But there were drifts and eddies of the street that would turn aside and - enter the dormitories commercially. Tobin was one of these. He came to my - door by preference, because of the large crack in the panel. For, if one - entered the dormitory commercially and knocked at the doors, one never - knew—it might be Horatius Flaccus, a volume of size and weight. But - with a crack in the panel one could stand outside at ease and dignity, - looking through it, and crying, “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i> Peanuts!” Then, if - anything arrived, without doubt it arrived. A man might throw what he - chose at his own door. - </p> - <p> - He was thin in the legs and shoulders, but round of face and marked there - with strange designs that were partly a native complexion; but, if one is - a candy boy, in constant company with newsboys, shiners, persons who carry - no such merchandise but are apt to wish for it violently, one's complexion - of course varies from day to day. - </p> - <p> - “Say, but I hit <i>him!</i> He bled on his clo's.” Tobin sometimes made - this comment, “him” meaning different persons. There was a vein of fresh - romance in him. Did not Sir Balin, or his like, smite Sir Lanceor, so that - the blood flowed over his hauberk, and afterward speak of it with - enthusiasm? - </p> - <p> - It was a cold December day in the year 188-, when the snow whirled without - rest from morning chapel till the end of the day was signified by the - first splutter of gas-jets. Among the hills where I was born that office - was left to the sunsets and twilights, who had a manner of doing it, a - certain broad nobility, a courtesy and grace. “One of God's days is over. - This is our sister, the night.” The gas-jets were fretful, coquettish, - affected. “It is an outrage! One is simply turned on and turned off!” - Horatius Flaccus was social and intimate with me that day. “<i>Exegi - monumentum</i>,” he remarked. “You will find it not easy to forget me.” - </p> - <p> - Monuments! At the University we lived among commemorative buildings; many - a silent dusty room was dim with accumulation of thought; and there men - labored for what but to make a name? - </p> - <p> - The statue outside represented one who took life seriously in his day, now - with the whirling snow about it, the gas-jet in front snapping petulantly. - “One is simply turned on and turned off!” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Exegi monumentum</i>,” continued Horatius Flac-cus. “This is my work, - and it is good. I shall not all die, <i>non omnis moriar</i>.” It seemed - natural to feel so. But how honorably the sunsets and twilights used to go - their ways among the hills, contented and leaving not a wrack behind. - </p> - <p> - It was a better attitude and conduct, that serene security of clouds in - their absolute death. “<i>Non omnis moriar</i>” was not only a boast, but - a complaint and a protest. - </p> - <p> - Still, as to monuments, one would rather be memorialized by one's own work - than by the words of other men, or the indifferent labor of their chisels. - </p> - <p> - “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Come in, Tobin!” - </p> - <p> - He opened the door and said, tentatively, “Peanuts.” - </p> - <p> - He always spoke in a more confident tone of the candy than of the peanuts. - There was no good reason for his confidence in either. - </p> - <p> - “Tobin,” I said, “you don't want a monument?” - </p> - <p> - He kicked his feet together and murmured again, “Peanuts.” - </p> - <p> - His shoes were cracked at the sides. The cracks were full of snow. - </p> - <p> - The remark seemed to imply that he did not expect a monument, having no - confidence in his peanuts. As a rule they were soggy and half-baked. - </p> - <p> - Tobin's life, I thought, was too full of the flux of things; candy melted, - peanuts decayed, complexion changed from day to day, his private wars were - but momentary matters. I understood him to have no artificial desires. - Death would be too simple an affair for comment. He would think of no - comment to make. Sunsets and twilights went out in silence; Tobin's half - of humanity nearly as dumb. It was the other half that was fussy on the - subject. - </p> - <p> - “Your feet are wet, Tobin. Warm them. Your shoes are no good.” - </p> - <p> - Tobin picked the easiest chair with good judgment, and balanced his feet - over the coals of the open stove, making no comment. - </p> - <p> - “I won't buy your peanuts. They're sloppy. I might buy you another pair of - shoes. What do you think?” - </p> - <p> - He looked at me, at the shoes, at the wet basket on his knees, but nothing - elaborate seemed to occur to him. He said: - </p> - <p> - “A'right.” He had great mental directness. I had reached that point in the - progress of young philosophy where the avoidance of fussiness takes the - character of a broad doctrine: a certain Doric attitude was desired. Tobin - seemed to me to have that attitude. - </p> - <p> - “If I give you the money, will you buy shoes or cigarettes?” - </p> - <p> - “Shoes.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, then. Got anything to say?” - </p> - <p> - He put the bill into his pocket, and said: - </p> - <p> - “Yep, I'll buy 'em.” - </p> - <p> - His attitude was better than mine. The common wish to be thanked was pure - fussiness. - </p> - <p> - “Well, look here. You bring me back the old ones.” - </p> - <p> - Even that did not disturb him. The Doric attitude never questions other - men's indifferent whims. - </p> - <p> - “A'right.” - </p> - <p> - I heard him presently on the lower floor, crying, “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i> - Peanuts.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be spoken of,” continued Horatius Flaccus, calmly, “by that wild - southern river, the Aufidus, and in many other places. I shall be called a - pioneer in my own line, <i>princeps Æolium carmen deduxisse</i>.” - </p> - <p> - The night was closing down. The gas-light flickered on the half-hidden - face of the statue, so that its grave dignity seemed changed to a shifty, - mocking smile. - </p> - <p> - I heard no more of Tobin for a month, and probably did not think of him. - There were Christmas holidays about, and that week which is called of the - Promenade, when one opens Horatius Flaccus only to wonder what might have - been the color of Lydia's hair, and to introduce comparisons that are - unfair to Lydia. - </p> - <p> - It was late in January. Some one came and thumped on the cracked panel. It - was not Tobin, but a stout woman carrying Tobin's basket, who said in an - expressionless voice: - </p> - <p> - “Oi! Them shoes.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “You give 'im some shoes.” - </p> - <p> - “Tobin. That's so.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm Missus Tobin.” - </p> - <p> - She was dull-looking, round-eyed, gray-haired. She fumbled in the basket, - dropped something in wet paper on a chair, and seemed placidly preparing - to say more. It seemed to me that she had much of Tobin's mental - directness, the Doric attitude, the neglect of comment. I asked: “How's - Tobin?” - </p> - <p> - “Oi! He's dead.” - </p> - <p> - “I am very sorry, Mrs. Tobin. May I—” - </p> - <p> - “Oi! Funeral's this afternoon. He could'n' be round. He was sick. Five - weeks three days.” - </p> - <p> - She went out and down the stair, bumping back and forth between the wall - and the banister. - </p> - <p> - On the misty afternoon of that day I stood on that corner where more than - elsewhere the city and the University meet; where hackmen and newsboys - congregate; where a gray brick hotel looks askance at the pillared and - vaulted entry of a recitation hall. The front of that hall is a - vainglorious thing. Those who understand, looking dimly with halfshut - eyes, may see it change to a mist, and in the mist appear a worn fence, a - grassless, trodden space, and four tall trees. - </p> - <p> - The steps of the hall were deserted, except for newsboys playing tag among - the pillars. I asked one if he knew where Tobin lived. - </p> - <p> - “He's havin' a funeral,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Where?” - </p> - <p> - “10 Clark Street.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you know him?” - </p> - <p> - The others had gathered around. One of them said: - </p> - <p> - “Tobin licked him.” - </p> - <p> - The first seemed to think more than ordinary justice should be done a - person with a funeral, and admitted that Tobin had licked him. - </p> - <p> - No. 10 Clark Street was a door between a clothing shop and a livery - stable. The stairway led up into darkness. On the third landing a door - stood open, showing a low room. A painted coffin rested on two chairs. - Three or four women sat about with their hands on their knees. One of them - was Mrs. Tobin. - </p> - <p> - “Funeral's over,” she said, placidly. - </p> - <p> - The clergyman from the mission had come and gone. They were waiting for - the city undertaker. But they seemed glad of an interruption and looked at - me with silent interest. - </p> - <p> - “I want to ask you to tell me something about him, Mrs. Tobin.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Tobin reflected. “There ain't nothin'.” - </p> - <p> - “He never ate no candy,” said one of the women, after a pause. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Tobin sat stolidly. Two large tears appeared at length and rolled - slowly down. - </p> - <p> - “It made him dreadful sick when he was little. That's why.” - </p> - <p> - The third woman nodded thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - “He said folks was fools to eat candy. It was his stomach.” - </p> - <p> - “Oi!” said Mrs. Tobin. - </p> - <p> - I went no nearer the coffin than to see the common grayish pallor of the - face, and went home in the misty dusk. - </p> - <p> - The forgotten wet bundle had fallen to the floor and become undone. - </p> - <p> - By the cracks in the sides, the down-trodden heels, the marks of keen - experience, they were Tobin's old shoes, round-toed, leather-thonged, - stoical, severe. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Tobin had not commented. She had brought them merely, Tobin having - stated that they were mine. - </p> - <p> - They remained with me six months, and were known to most men, who came to - idle or labor, as “Tobin's Monument.” They stood on a book-shelf, with - other monuments thought to be <i>aere perennius</i>, more enduring than - brass, and disappeared at the end of the year, when the janitor reigned - supreme. There seemed to be some far-off and final idea in the title, some - thesis which never got itself rightly stated. Horatius Flaccus was kept on - the shelf beside them in the notion that the statement should somehow be - worked out between them. And there was no definite result; but I thought - he grew more diffident with that companionship. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Exegi monumentum</i>. I suppose there is no doubt about that,” he - would remark. “<i>Ære perennius</i>. It seems a trifle pushing, so to - trespass on the attention of posterity. I would rather talk of my Sabine - farm.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS - </h2> - <p class="indent15"> - All honest things in the world we greet - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - With welcome fair and free; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - A little love by the way is sweet, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - A friend, or two, or three; - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Of the sun and moon and stars are glad, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Of the waters of river and sea; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - We thank thee, Lord, for the years we've had, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - For the years that yet shall be. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - These are our brothers, the winds of the airs; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - These are our sisters, the flowers. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Be near us at evening and hear our.prayers., - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - O God, in the late gray hours. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Delectable Mountains, by Arthur Colton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS *** - -***** This file should be named 50270-h.htm or 50270-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/2/7/50270/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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-<pre>
-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Delectable Mountains, by Arthur Colton
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: The Delectable Mountains
-
-Author: Arthur Colton
-
-Release Date: October 21, 2015 [EBook #50270]
-Last Updated: March 12, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By Arthur Colton
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Charles Scribner's Sons
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1901
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /> <br />
- </p>
- <h3>
- DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF
- </h3>
- <h3>
- MY SISTER, MABEL COLTON
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>o they went up to
- the Mountains, to behold the Gardens, and Orchards, the Vineyards, and
- Fountains of water.... Now there was on the tops of these Mountains,
- Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the high-way side. The
- Pilgrims therefore went to them, and leaning upon their staves, (as is
- common with weary Pilgrims, when they stand to talk with any by the way,)
- they asked, Whose delectable Mountains are these?... When the Shepherds
- perceived that they were way-faring men, they also put questions to them,
- as, Whence came you? and, How got you into the way? and, By what means
- have you so persevered therein?... Then said the Shepherds one to another,
- Let us here shew to the Pilgrims the Gates of the Coelestial City, if they
- have skill to look through our Perspective Glass.... Then they essayed to
- look, but... they could not look steadily through the Glass; yet they
- thought they saw something like the Gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>The Pilgrim's Progress</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE LEATHER HERMIT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> BLACK POND CLEARING </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> JOPPA </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE ELDER' SEAT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> NAUSICAA </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A VISIBLE JUDGMENT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE EMIGRANT EAST </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> TOBIN'S MONUMENT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE PLACE OF THE ABANDONED GODS
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he hut was built
- two sides and the roof of sodded poles; the roof had new clapboards of
- birch bark, but the rest had once belonged to a charcoal burner; the front
- side was partly poled and partly open, the back was the under-slope of a
- rock. For it stood by a cliff, one of the many that show their lonely
- faces all over the Cattle Ridge, except that this was more tumultuous than
- most, and full of caves made by the clumsy leaning bowlders; and all about
- were slim young birch trees in white and green, like the demoiselles at
- Camelot. Old pines stood above the cliff, making a soft, sad noise in the
- wind. In one of the caves above the leafage of the birches we kept the
- idols, especially Baal, whom we thought the most energetic; and in front
- of the cave was the altar-stone that served them all, a great flat rock
- and thick with moss, where ears of com were sacrificed, or peas or
- turnips, the first-fruits of the field; or of course, if you shot a
- chipmunk or a rabbit, you could have a burnt offering of that kind. Also
- the altar-stone was a council chamber and an outlook.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was all a secret place on the north side of the Cattle Ridge, with
- cliffs above and cliffs below. Eastward half a mile lay the Cattle Ridge
- Road, and beyond that the Ridge ran on indefinitely; southward, three
- miles down, the road took you into Hagar; westward the Ridge, after all
- its leagues of length and rigor of form, broke down hurriedly to the
- Wyantenaug River, at a place called the Haunted Water, where stood the
- Leather Hermit's hut and beyond which were Bazilloa Armitage's
- bottom-lands and the Preston Plains railroad station. The road from the
- station across the bridge came through Sanderson Hollow, where the fields
- were all over cattle and lively horses, and met the Cattle Ridge Road to
- Hagar. And last, if you looked north from the altar-stone, you saw a long,
- downward sweep of woodland, and on and on miles and miles to the meadows
- and ploughed lands toward Wimberton, with a glimpse of the Wyantenaug far
- away to the left. Such were the surroundings of the place of abandoned
- gods. No one but ourselves came there, unless possibly the Hermit. If any
- one had come it was thought that Baal would pitch him over the cliffs in
- some manner, mystically. We got down on our hands and knees, and said, “O
- Baal!” He was painted green, on a shingle; but his eyes were red. The
- place was reached from the Cattle Ridge Road by trail, for the old
- wood-road below was grown up to blackberry brambles, which made one
- scratched and bloody and out of patience, unless it were blackberry time.
- </p>
- <p>
- And on the bank, where the trail drops into the climbing highway, there
- Aaron and Silvia were sitting in the June afternoon, hand in hand, with
- the filtered green light of the woods about them. We came up from Hagar,
- the three of us, and found them. They were strangers, so far as we knew.
- Strangers or townsmen, we never took the trail with any one in sight; it
- was an item in the Vows. But we ranged up before them and stared candidly.
- There was nothing against that. Her eyes were nice and blue, and at the
- time they contained tears. Her cheeks were dimpled and pink, her brown
- dress dusty, and her round straw hat cocked a bit over one tearful blue
- eye. He seemed like one who had been growing fast of late. His arms swung
- loosely as if fastened to his shoulders with strings. The hand that held
- her small hand was too large for its wrist, the wrist too large for the
- arm, the arm too long for the shoulder. He had the first growth of a downy
- mustache, a feeble chin, a humorous eye, and wore a broad-brimmed straw
- hat and a faded black coat, loose and flopping to his knees. A carpet bag
- lay at his feet, only half full and fallen over with an air of depression.
- He seemed depressed in the same way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's she crying for?” asked Moses Durfey, stolidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron peered around at her shyly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's scared to go home. I ain't, but I mote be 'fore I got there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's your name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We-ell—”
- </p>
- <p>
- He hesitated. Then, with loud defiance:
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Mr. and Mrs. Bees.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A red squirrel clambered down a low-hanging branch overhead, and chattered
- sharply, scattering flakes of bark. Aaron, still holding Silvia's hand,
- leaned back on the bank and looked up. All lines of trouble faded quickly
- from his face. He smiled, so that his two front teeth stood out
- startlingly, and held up a long forefinger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Cherky little cuss, ain't he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The squirrel became more excited. Aaron's finger seemed to draw him like a
- loadstone. He slid down nearer and nearer, as far as the branch allowed,
- to a foot or two away, chattering his teeth fearfully. We knew that any
- one who could magnetize so flighty and malicious a person as a red
- squirrel, must be a magician, however simple he might be otherwise. Aaron
- snapped his finger and the squirrel fled. “We'd better be movin', Silvy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Silvia's tears flowed the faster, and the lines of trouble returned to
- Aaron's face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why don't she want to go home?” persisted Moses, stolidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- We drew close beside them now and sat on the bank, Moses and I by Aaron,
- Chub Leroy by Silvia. Chub was thoughtful. Silvia dried her eyes and said
- with a gulp:
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's pa.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's it.” Aaron nodded and rubbed his sharp nose. “Old man Kincard,
- it's him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They both looked at us trustfully. Moses saw no light in the matter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who's he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's my father-in-law. He ain't goin' to like it. He's a sneezer. What he
- don't like generally gets out of the way. My snakes! He 'll put Silvy up
- the chimney and me in the stove, and he 'll light the fire.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He chuckled and then relapsed into trouble. His emotions seemed to flit
- across his face like sunbeams and shadows on a wall, leaving no trace
- behind them, or each wiped out by the next.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Snakes! We might just as well sit here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Silvia wept again. Moses's face admitted a certain surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What'll he do that for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- While Aaron told their story, Silvia sometimes commented tearfully on his
- left, Moses stolidly on his right, and the red squirrel with excitement
- overhead; Chub and I were silent; the woods for the most part kept still
- and listened too, with only a little sympathetic murmur of leaves and
- tremble of sunbeam and shadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Kincard place, it seemed, lay five miles away, down the north side
- till you cleared the woods, and then eastward among the foothills. Old
- Kincard's first name was James. And directly across the road stood the
- four-roomed house where the Bees family once lived. It was “rickety now
- and rented to rats.” The Bees family had always been absent-minded, given
- to dying off and leaving things lying around. In that way Aaron had begun
- early to be an orphan and to live with the Kincards. He was supposed to
- own the old house and the dooryard in front of it, but the rats never paid
- their rent, unless they paid it to the old man or the cat; and Mr. Kincard
- had a low opinion of Aaron, as being a Bees, and because he was built
- lengthwise instead of sidewise and knew more about foxes than cows. It
- seemed to Aaron that a fox was in himself a more interesting person; that
- this raising more potatoes than you could eat, more tobacco than you could
- smoke, this making butter and cheese and taking them to Wimberton weekly,
- and buying little except mortgages and bank accounts, somewhere involved a
- mistake. A mortgage was an arrangement by which you established strained
- relations with a neighbor, a bank account something that made you
- suspicious of the bank. Now in the woods one dealt for direct usefulness,
- comfort, and freedom of mind. If a man liked to collect mortgages rather
- than fox-skins, it was the virtue of the woods to teach tolerance; but Mr.
- Kincard's opinion of Aaron was low and active. There was that difference
- between a Kincard and a Bees point of view.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron and Silvia grew up a few years apart on the old spread-out farm,
- with the wooded mountainside heaving on the south and stretching east and
- west. It was a neighborhood of few neighbors, and no village within many
- miles, and the old man was not talkative commonly, though he'd open up
- sometimes. Aaron and Silvia had always classed themselves together in
- subdued opposition to their grim ruler of destiny. To each other they
- called him “the old man,” and expressed by it a reverential but opposed
- state of mind. To Aaron the undoubted parts of life were the mountain-side
- of his pleasures and the level fields of his toil. Wimberton was but a
- troubled glimpse now and then, an improbable memory of more people and
- houses than seemed natural. Silvia tended to see things first through
- Aaron's eyes, though she kept a basal judgment of her own in reserve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He always licked us together since we was little,” said Aaron, looking at
- Silvia with softly reminiscent eye. “It was two licks to me for Silvy's
- one. That was square enough, and the old man thought so. When he got set
- in a habit he'd never change. It was two to me for Silvy's one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron told him, but a week now gone, that himself and Silvia would wish to
- be married, and he seemed surprised. In fact he came at Aaron with the
- hoe-handle, but could not catch him, any more than a lonesome rabbit. Then
- he opened up astonishingly, and told Aaron of his low opinion of him,
- which was more spread-out and full of details than you'd expect. He wasn't
- going to give Aaron any such “holt on him as that,” with a guaranty deed,
- whatever that was, on eternity to loaf in, and he set him the end of the
- week to clear out, to go elsewhere forever. To Aaron's mind that was an
- absurd proposal. He wasn't going to do any such foolishness. The rather he
- sold his collection of skins to a farmer named Shore, and one morning
- borrowed a carpet bag and came over the Cattle Ridge hand in hand with
- Silvia.
- </p>
- <p>
- From Preston Plains they hired a team, drove over the line into York
- State, and were married. The farmer named Shore laid that out for them. He
- had a back score of trouble with the old man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Silvy's got a cat,” added Aaron, “and she catches rats to please
- herself. Silvy thinks she ought to catch rats to be obligin'. Folks that
- live up these trees don't act that way. No more did Shore.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here Aaron looked shrewd and wise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish Sammy was here,” murmured Silvia, lovingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “First-rate cat,” Aaron admitted. “Now, we didn't marry to oblige each
- other. Each of us obliged himself. Hey?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Silvia opened her eyes wide. The idea seemed a little complicated. They
- clasped hands the tighter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now,” said Aaron, “Silvy's scared. I ain't, but I mote be when I got
- there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A blue-jay flew shrieking down the road. Aaron looked after it with a
- quick change of interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “See him! Yes, sir. You can tell his meanness the way he hollers. Musses
- folks' eggs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron no longer surprised us now, nor did Silvia. We accepted them. We had
- standards of character and conduct, of wisdom and of things possible, but
- they were not set for us by the pulpit, the statute book, or the
- market-place. We had often gone forth on expeditions into the mystical
- beyond, always with a certain purpose to achieve there, and at some point
- it had been necessary to come home and face the punishment, if there were
- any, to have supper, and go to bed. Home could not be left permanently and
- another existence arranged, any more than the feet could be taken from the
- earth permanently. It had been found impractical. Aaron and Silvia were
- like ourselves. They might conceive of living away from the farmhouse
- under the mountain-side a few days. They shrank from facing old Kincard
- with his hoe-handle or horse-whip, but one must go back eventually. We
- recognized that their adventure was bold and peculiar; we judged the price
- likely to be appalling; we gave them frank admiration for both. None of us
- had ever run away to be definitely married, or suffered from a hoe-handle
- or a horse-whip, and yet all these were things to be conceived of and
- sympathized with.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I knew a blue-jay,” went on Aaron, thoughtfully, “that lived near the end
- of Shore's land, and he never appeared to like anything agreeable. He used
- to hang around other folks' nests and holler till they were distracted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Silvia's snuffling caught his ear, and once more the rapid change passed
- over his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We-ell,” he said, “the old man'll be lively, that's sure. I'd stay in the
- woods, if it was me, but women”—with a large air of observation—“have
- to have houses.”.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We've got a house,” broke in Chub, suddenly. We exchanged looks
- furtively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They'll have to take the Vows,” I objected. “We've took 'em,” said Aaron.
- “Parson—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'll have to solemn swear,” said Moses. “Will you solemn swear?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And if you tell, you hope you drop dead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The blue-jay flew up the road again, shrieking scornfully. The red
- squirrel trembled and chattered his teeth on the branch overhead. All else
- in the woods was silent while Aaron and Silvia took the Vows.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so we brought them, in excitement and content, to the place of the
- abandoned gods. Baal lurked far back in his cave, the cliff looked down
- with lonely forehead, the distant prospect was smooth and smoky. Neither
- the gods nor the face of the world offered any promise or threat. But
- Aaron and Silvia seemed to believe in the kindness of not human things.
- Silvia fell to chattering, laughing, in unforeboding relief from sudden
- and near-by evil.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron had a surprising number of silver dollars, due to Shore and the
- fox-skins, by means of which we should bring them supplies from Hagar; and
- so we left them to the whispering gossip of leaves, the lonely cliff, the
- lurking Baal, and the smooth, smoky prospect.
- </p>
- <p>
- No doubt there were times to Aaron and Silvia of trembling awe, dumb
- delight, conversations not to the point, so that it seemed more successful
- merely to sit hand in hand and let the moon speak for them, pouring light
- down silvery gulfs out of the abundant glory within her. There could be
- seen, too, the dawn, as pink as Silvia's cheeks, but, after all, not so
- interesting. A hermit-thrush sang of things holy at dawn, far down the
- woodland, while the birch leaves trembled delicately and the breeze was
- the sigh of a world in love; and of things quietly infinite at sunset in
- the growth of rosy gloom.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's nice,” Silvia might whisper, leaning to Aaron.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a hermit-thrush down there, Silvy. He opens his mouth, and oh!
- Kingdom's comin'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Little brown chap with a scared eye. You don't ever see him hardly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't want to, do you, Aaron?” after a long silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't know as you do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There would be a tendency, at least, to look at things that way, and talk
- duskily as the dusk came on, and we would leave them on the altar-stone to
- take the trail below.
- </p>
- <p>
- But early in the afternoon it would be lively enough, except that Silvia
- had a prejudice against Baal, which might have been dangerous if Baal had
- minded it; but he did her no harm. She referred to Elijah and those
- prophets of Baal, and we admitted he had been downed that time, for it
- took him when he was not ready, and generally he was low in his luck ever
- since. But we had chosen him first for an exiled dignity, who must needs
- have a deadly dislike for the other dignity who had once conquered him
- vaingloriously, and so must be in opposition to much that we opposed, such
- as Sunday-school lessons, sermons, and limitations of liberty. It might be
- that our reasonings were not so concrete and determined, but the sense of
- opposition was strong. We put it to Silvia that she ought to respect
- people's feelings, and she was reasonable enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- Old Kincard, it seemed, was an interesting and opinionated heathen, and
- Silvia had not experienced sermons and Sunday-schools. That explained
- much. But she had read the Bible, which her mother had owned, before she
- died; and we could follow her there, knowing it to be a book of naturally
- strong points, as respects David for instance, Joseph, and parts of
- Revelation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron did not care for books, and had no prejudice toward any being or
- supposition that might find place in the woods. The altar-stone was common
- to many gods and councils, and we offered it to Silvia, to use as she
- liked. I judge she used it mostly to sit there with Aaron, and hear the
- hermit-thrush, or watch the thick moonlight pour down the scoop of the
- mountain.
- </p>
- <p>
- That stretch of the Wyantenaug which is called the Haunted Water is quiet
- and of slow current, by reason of its depth, and dark in color, by reason
- of the steep fall of the Cattle Ridge and the pines which crowd from it to
- the water's edge. The Leather Hermit's hut stood up from the water in the
- dusk of the pines.
- </p>
- <p>
- He came to the valley in times within the memories of many who would speak
- if they were asked, but long enough ago to have become a settled fact; and
- if any did not like him, neither did they like the Wyantenaug to flood the
- bottom-lands in spring. The pines and the cliffs belonged to the
- Sandersons, who cared little enough for either phenomenon.
- </p>
- <p>
- We often met him on the Cattle Ridge, saw him pass glowering through the
- thicket with shaggy gray beard and streaming hair. Sometimes he wore a
- horse-blanket over his leathern vestment. He was apt to be there Sundays,
- wandering about, and maybe trying to make out in what respect he differed
- from Elijah the Tishbite; and although we knew this, and knew it was in
- him to cut up roughly if he found out about Baal, being a prophet himself
- both in his looks and his way of acting, still he went to and fro for the
- most part on the other side of the crest, where he had a trail of his own;
- and you could not see the altar-stone from the top of the cliff, but had
- to climb down till you came to a jam of bowlders directly over it.
- </p>
- <p>
- We did not know how long he may have stood there, glowering down on us.
- The smoke of the sacrifice was beginning to curl up. Baal was backed
- against a stone, looking off into anywhere and taking things
- indifferently. Silvia sat aside, twirled her hat scornfully, and said we
- were “silly.” Aaron chewed a birch twig, and was very calm.
- </p>
- <p>
- We got down on our hands and knees, and said, “O Baal!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the Hermit's voice broke over us in thunder and a sound as of falling
- mountains. It was Sunday, June 26, 1875.
- </p>
- <p>
- He denounced us under the heads of “idolaters, gone after the abornination
- of the Assyrians; babes and sucklings, old in sin, setting up strange gods
- in secret places; idle mockers of holy things, like the little children of
- Bethel, whereby they were cursed of the prophet and swallowed of
- she-bears”; three headings with subdivisions.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he came down thumping on the left. Silvia shrieked and clung to
- Aaron, and we fled to the right and hid in the rocks. He fell upon Baal,
- cast him on the altar-fire, stamping both to extinction, and shouted:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know you, Aaron Bees and Silvia Kincard!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “N-no, you don't,” stammered Aaron. “It's Mrs. Bees.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit stood still and glared on them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why are you here, Aaron and Silvia Bees?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron recovered himself, and fell to chewing his birch twig.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We-ell, you see, it's the old man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What of him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He'd lick us with a hoe-handle, wouldn't he? And maybe he'd throw us out,
- after all. What'd be the use? Might as well stay away,” Aaron finished,
- grumbling. “Save the hoe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit's glare relaxed. Some recollection of former times may have
- passed through his rifted mind, or the scent of a new denunciation drawn
- it away from the abornination of Assyria, who lay split and smoking in the
- ashes. He leaped from the altar-stone, and vanished under the leafage of
- the birches. We listened to him crashing and plunging, chanting something
- incoherent and tuneless, down the mountain, till the sound died away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Alas, Baal-Peor! Even to this day there are twinges of shame, misgivings
- of conscience, that we had fled in fear and given him over to his enemy,
- to be trampled on, destroyed and split through his green jacket and red
- eye. He never again stood gazing off into anywhere, snuffing the fumes of
- sacrifice and remembering Babylon. The look of things has changed since
- then. We have doubted Baal, and-found some restraints of liberty more
- grateful than tyrannous. But it is plain that in his last defeat Baal-Peor
- did not have a fair chance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Concerning the Hermit's progress from this point, I can only draw upon
- guesses and after report. He struck slantingwise down the mountain, left
- the woods about at the Kincard place, and crossed the fields.
- </p>
- <p>
- Old Kincard sat in his doorway smoking his pipe, thick-set, deep-chested,
- long-armed, with square, rough-shaven jaws, and steel-blue eyes looking
- out of a face like a carved cliff for length and edge. The Hermit stood
- suddenly before and denounced him under two heads—as a heathen
- unsoftened in heart, and for setting up the altar of lucre and pride
- against the will of the Lord that the children of men should marry and
- multiply. Old Kincard took his pipe from his mouth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where might them marriers and multipliers be just now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit pointed to the most westward cliff in sight from the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you have not in mind to repent, James Kincard, I shall know it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Maybe you'd put them ideas of yours again?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit restated his position accurately on the subject of heathen
- hearts and the altar of lucre.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ain't no mistake about that, Hermit? We-ell, now—”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit shook his head sternly, and strode away. Old Kincard gave a
- subterranean chuckle, such as a volcano might give purposing eruptions,
- and fixed his eyes on the western cliff, five miles away, a grayish spot
- in the darker woods.
- </p>
- <p>
- Alas, Baal-Peor!
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet he was never indeed a wood-god. He was always remembering how fine it
- had been in Babylon. He had not cared for these later devotions. He had
- been bored and weary. Since he was gone, split and dead, perhaps it was
- better so. He should have a funeral pyre.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And,” said Chub Leroy, “we'll keep his ashes in an urn. That's the way
- they always did with people's ashes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We came up the Cattle Ridge Road Monday afternoon, talking of these
- things. Chub carried the urn, which had once been a pickle-jar. Life still
- was full of hope and ideas. The Hermit must be laid low in his arrogance.
- Apollo, now, had strong points. Consider the pythoness and the oracle. The
- Hermit couldn't prophesy in the same class with a pythoness. The oracle
- might run,
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “He who dwells by the Haunted Water alone,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- He shall not remain, but shall perish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- We came then to the hut, but Silvia would have, nothing to do with Baal's
- funeral, so that she and Aaron wandered away among the birches, that were
- no older than they, young birches, slim and white, coloring the sunlight
- pale green with their leaves. And we went up to the altar-stone, and made
- ready the funeral, and set the urn to receive the ashes, decently, in
- order. The pyre was built four-square, of chosen sticks. We did not try to
- fit Baal together much; we laid him on as he came. And when the birch bark
- was curling up and the pitchy black smoke of it was pouring upward, we
- fell on our faces and cried: “Alas, Baal! Woe's me, Baal!”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a good ceremony. For when you are doing a ceremony, it depends on
- how much your feelings are worked up, of course, and very few, if any, of
- those we had done—and they were many—had ever reached such a
- point of efficiency as the funeral of Baal-Peor. Moses howled mournfully,
- as if it were in some tooth that his sorrow lay. The thought of that
- impressiveness and luxury of feeling lay mellow in our minds long after.
- “Alas, Baal!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Somebody snorted near by. We looked up. Over our heads, thrust out beyond
- the edge of the bowlders, was a strange old face, with heavy brows and
- jaws and grizzled hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- The face was distorted, the jaws working. It disappeared, and we sat up,
- gasping at one another across the funeral pyre, where the black smoke was
- rolling up faster and faster.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a moment the face came out on the altar-stone, and looked at us with
- level brows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What ye doin'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My goodness!” gasped Moses. “You aren't another hermit?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What ye doin'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Chub recovered himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Baal's funeral.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat down on a stone and wiped his face, which was heated. He carried a
- notable stick in his hand. “Baal! We-ell, what ailed him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you Silvia's old man?” asked Chub.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so—er—what ailed Baal?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then we told him—seeing Baal was dead and the Vows would have to be
- taken over again—we told him about Baal, and about the Leather
- Hermit, because he seemed touched by it, and worked his face and blinked
- his sharp hard eyes uncannily. Some hidden vein of grim ideas was coming
- to a white heat within him, like a suppressed molten stratum beneath the
- earth, unsuspected on its surface, that suddenly heaves and cracks the
- faces of stone cliffs. He gave way at last, and his laughter was the
- rending tumult of an earthquake.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron and Silvia came up through the woods hastily to the altar-stone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I say,” cried Chub. “Are you going to lick them? It's two to Aaron for
- one to Silvia.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Been marryin' and multiplying have ye?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He suppressed the earthquake, but still seemed mainly interested in Baal's
- funeral.
- </p>
- <p>
- Aaron said, “She's Mrs. Bees, anyhow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so. Baal's dead. That hermit's some lively.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We'll get an oracle on him,” said Moses. “What you going to do to Aaron
- and Silvia?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here Silvia cast herself on the old man suddenly and wept on his shoulder.
- One often noticed how girls would start up and cry on a person.
- </p>
- <p>
- Maybe the earthquake had brought up subsoils and mellowed things; at least
- Kincard made no motion to lick some one, though he looked bored, as any
- fellow might.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, we-ell, I don't know—er—what's that oracle?”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “He who dwells hy the Haunted Water alone,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- He shall not remain, but shall perish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's going to be like that,” said Chub. “Won't it fetch him, don't you
- think?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It ought to,” said the old man, working his jaw. “It ought to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The black smoke had ceased, and flames were crackling and dancing all over
- the funeral pyre. The clearer smoke floated up against the face of the
- lonesome cliff. Aaron and Silvia clasped hands unfrightened. The old man
- now and then rumbled subterraneously in his throat. Peace was everywhere,
- and presently Baal-Peor was ashes.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE LEATHER HERMIT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>o know the
- Wyantenaug thoroughly is to be wise in rivers; which if any one doubts,
- let him follow it from its springs to the sea—a possible fortnight—and
- consider then how he is a changed man with respect to rivers. Not that by
- any means it is the epitome of rivers. It is no spendthrift flood-stream
- to be whirling over the bottom-lands in April and scarcely able to wet its
- middle stones in August, but a shrewd and honest river, a canny river
- flowing among a canny folk, a companionable river, loving both laughter
- and sentiment, with a taste for the varieties of life and a fine vein of
- humor. Observe how it dances and sputters down the rapids—not really
- losing its temper, but pretending to be nervous—dives into that
- sloping pass where the rocks hang high and drip forever, runs through it
- like a sleuth-hound, darkly and savagely, and saunters out into the
- sunlight, as who should say in a guileless manner, “You don't happen to
- know where I'm going?” Then it wanders about the valley, spreads out
- comfortably and lies quiet a space, “But it really makes no difference,
- you know”; and after that gives a chuckle, rounds a bunch of hills and
- goes scampering off, quite taken up with a new idea. And so in many ways
- it is an entertaining and friendly river, with a liking for a joke and a
- pretty notion of dramatic effect.
- </p>
- <p>
- But, of all times and places, I think it most beautiful in the twilight
- and along that stretch, called of late the Haunted Water, opposite the
- village of Preston Plains. The Cattle Ridge with its long heaving spine
- comes down on the valley from the east, seeming to have it very much in
- mind to walk over and do something to Preston Plains three miles beyond;
- but it thought better of that long ago. The Wyantenaug goes close beneath
- it in sheer bravado: “You try to cross me and you get jolly wet”; for the
- Wyantenaug is very deep and broad just here. The Cattle Ridge, therefore,
- merely wrinkles its craggy brows with a puzzled air, and Preston Plains is
- untroubled save of its own inhabitants. As to that matter the people of
- the village of Hagar have opinions. The valley road goes on the other side
- of the river—naturally, for there are the pastures, the feeding
- cattle, the corn-fields, and farmhouses—and the Cattle Ridge side is
- steep, and threaded by a footpath only, for a mile or more, up to Hants
- Corby's place. Hants Corby's is not much of a place either.
- </p>
- <p>
- In old times the footpath was seldom used, except by the Leather Hermit.
- No boy in Hagar would go that way for his life, though we often went up
- and down on the river, and saw the Leather Hermit fishing. The minister in
- Hagar visited him once or twice, and probably went by the footpath. I
- remember distinctly how he shook his head and said that the Hermit sought
- salvation at any rate by a narrow way, and how the miller's wife
- remonstrated with him for seeming to take the Hermit seriously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't mean to say he ain't crazy,” she said, in anxious defence of
- standard reason.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I suppose so, yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister sighed and rubbed his chin uneasily, and Mrs. Mather
- recovered her ordinary state of mind, which was a state of suppressed
- complaint.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was saying that the footpath was seldom used. Hants Corby would have
- used it—for he was too shiftless to be afraid—if the river had
- run the other way. As it was, he preferred to drift down in his boat and
- row back when he had to. He found that easier, being very shiftless. The
- Hermit himself went on the river, except in the spring when the current
- below was too strong.
- </p>
- <p>
- The opinions of the Leather Hermit may be shown in this way. If you came
- on him, no matter suddenly, and asked whose land that was across the
- river, he would answer promptly, “The devil's”; whereas it belonged to
- Bazilloa Armitage, a pillar of the church in Preston Plains, who
- quarrelled zealously with the other pillars; so that, as one sees, the
- Leather Hermit was not in sympathy with the church in Preston Plains.
- </p>
- <p>
- The people of the valley differed about him according to humor, and he
- used strong language regarding the people of the valley according to
- opportunity, especially regarding Bazilloa Armitage. He denounced Bazilloa
- Armitage publicly in Preston Plains as a hypocrite, a backbiter, and a man
- with a muck rake—with other language stronger still. Bazilloa
- Armitage felt hurt, for he was, in fact, rather close, and exceedingly
- respectable. Besides it is painful to be damned by a man who means exactly
- what he says.
- </p>
- <p>
- To speak particularly, this was in the year 1875; for the next year we
- camped near the spot, and Hants Corby tried to frighten us into seeing the
- Hermit's ghost. Bazilloa Armitage was denounced in June, and Hants Corby
- on the second Friday in August, as Hants and the Hermit fished near each
- other on the river. The Hermit denounced him under three heads—sluggard,
- scoffer, and beast wallowing in the sty of his own lustful contentment. On
- Saturday the Hermit rowed up to Hants Corby's place in the rain and
- denounced him again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sunday morning the Hermit rose early, turned his back on the Wyantenaug,
- and climbed the cliff, onward and up through the pines. The prophets of
- old went into high places when they prayed; and it was an idea of his that
- those who would walk in the rugged path after them could do no better.
- Possibly the day was an anniversary, for it was of an August day many
- years gone—before ever a charcoal pit was built on the Cattle Ridge—that
- the Hermit first appeared on the Wyantenaug, with his leather clothes in a
- bundle on his back, and perhaps another and invisible burden beneath it. A
- third burden he took up immediately, that of denouncing the sins of
- Wyantenaug Valley, as I have said.
- </p>
- <p>
- All that Sabbath day the river went its way, and late in the afternoon the
- sunlight stretched a thin finger beneath the hemlocks almost to the
- Hermit's door. Across the river the two children of Bazilloa Armitage, boy
- and girl, came down to the water's edge. The boy pulled a pole and line
- out of some mysterious place in the bank. The little girl sat primly on
- the grass, mindful of her white pinafore.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You better look out, Cis,” he said. “Any fish you catch on Sunday is
- devils. You don't touch him. You cut the line and let him dry till
- Monday.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Tad!” gasped the little girl, “won't the Leather Hermit tell?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Tad, sturdily, “father said he'd get even, if it took a month
- of Sundays, and that's six Sundays by this time. There ain't anything
- bothers the Hermit like catching the fish on Sundays, specially if you
- catch a lot of 'em. Blamed old fool!” grumbled Tad.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Tad,” gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, “that's
- swearing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Tad did not mind. “There's Hants Corby,” he exclaimed; “he's going to
- fish, too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the
- children, and grinned sociably.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He daren't touch his boat to-day,” he said in a husky whisper. “He'll
- raise jinks in a minute. You wait.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Trout,” returned Hants, decisively, “is devils any time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather
- Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with an
- angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in Hagar—and
- it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of Hagar.
- </p>
- <p>
- Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Him,” he remarked, “he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him
- alone particular. That ain't reasonable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Father says he's a fernatic,” ventured Tad. “What's a fernatic, Hants?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” said Hants, thoughtfully, “that's a rattlin' good word.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Time dragged on, and yet no denouncing voice came from the further shore.
- The door of the hut was a darker hole in the shade of the hemlocks. Hants
- Corby proposed going over to investigate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If he ain't there, we'll carry off his boat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Tad fell into Hants's boat quite absorbed in the greatness of the thought.
- It was not a good thing generally to follow Hants Corby, who was an
- irresponsible person, apt to take much trouble to arrange a bad joke and
- shiftlessly slip out from under the consequences. If he left you in a
- trap, he thought that a part of the joke, as I remember very well.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A-a-a-ow!” wailed Cissy Armitage from the bank; for it dawned on her that
- something tremendous was going forward, in which Tad was likely to be
- suddenly obliterated. She sat on the bank with her stubby shoes hanging
- over, staring with great frightened blue eyes, till she saw them at last
- draw silently away from the further shore—and behold, the Hermit's
- boat was in tow. Then she knew that there was no one in the world so brave
- or so grandly wicked as Tad.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cissy Armitage used to have fluffy yellow hair and scratches on her shins.
- She was a sunny little soul generally, but she had a way of imagining how
- badly other people felt, which interfered with her happiness, and was not
- always accurate. Tad seldom felt so badly as she thought he did. Tad
- thought he could imagine most things better on the whole, but when it came
- to imagining how badly other people felt, he admitted that she did it very
- well. Therefore when she set about imagining how the Hermit felt, on the
- other side of the river, with no boat to come across in, to where people
- were cosy and comfortable, where they sang the Doxology and put the
- kittens to bed, she quite forgot that the Hermit had always before had a
- boat, that he never yet had taken advantage of it to make the acquaintance
- of the Doxology or the kittens, and imagined him feeling very badly
- indeed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bazilloa Armitage held family prayers at six o'clock on Sunday afternoons;
- and all through them Cissy considered the Hermit.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I sink in deep waters,” read Bazilloa Armitage with a rising inflection.
- “The billows go over my head, all his waves go over me, Selah,” and Cissy
- in her mind saw the Hermit sitting on the further shore, feeling very
- badly, calling Tad an “evil generation,” and saying: “The billows go over
- my head, Selah,” because he had no boat. She thought that one must feel
- desperately in order to say: “Selah, the billows go over me.” And while
- Bazilloa Armitage prayed for the President, Congress, the Governor, and
- other people who were in trouble, she plotted diligently how it might be
- avoided that the Hermit should feel so badly as to say “Selah,” or call
- Tad an “evil generation”; how she might get the boat back, in order that
- the Hermit should feel better and let bygones be; and how it might be done
- secretly, in order that Tad should not make a bear of himself. Afterwards
- she walked out of the back door in her sturdy fashion, and no one paid her
- any attention.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit muttered in the dusk of his doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- Leather clothes are stiff after a rain and bad for the temper; moreover,
- other things than disordered visions of the heavens rolling away as a
- scroll and the imperative duty of denouncing some one were present in his
- clouded brain,—half memories, breaking through clouds, of a time
- when he had not as yet begun to companion daily with judgment to come, nor
- had those black spots begun to dance before his eyes, which black spots
- were evidently the sins of the world. He muttered and shifted his position
- uneasily.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. It
- stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in front.
- There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, rolled after
- it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears.
- </p>
- <p>
- The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; he
- shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar enough
- to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: “It is written, 'Thou shalt
- have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes.” He stared
- with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples chuckled,
- sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to steal in upon
- him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He made an angry motion
- to thrust it away, and muttered: “Judgment to come—judgment to
- come.” He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, and then two infinite
- things came together in his shattered brain with a crash, leaving him
- stunned and still.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence,
- too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, “Judgment to
- come!” would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was—no—well,
- there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and rolled
- after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. He dressed
- hides across a bench. The other men did not take much interest in judgment
- to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under his bench. After that
- the child rolled its doll down the steps again, and bumped after it
- pitifully.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if
- it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely
- was true—whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the
- steps he could not tell, but he thought, “Presently I shall forget one of
- the two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills
- beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa
- Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter
- sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds,
- stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and
- the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of
- the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in
- white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, the
- light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for
- judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north—that
- was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that—could not be
- anything—it was false—unless—unless it rolled down the
- steps. And then once more the two infinite things came together with a
- crash. He leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over
- his head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and adjusted
- her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was embarrassing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I—I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I—I feel
- bad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time the
- only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. She
- thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I—want to go home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She twisted
- her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her throat, and
- she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how badly she felt—unless
- she said “Selah.” It was strong language, but she ventured it at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel awful bad. The—the billows go over my head, Selah!” Then she
- wished that she had let “Selah” quite alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and
- dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep
- forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and
- decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is your name?” he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks
- who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not
- know her name, having seen her often enough,—and this gave her
- courage. “Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No!” shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that
- the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. “That isn't
- the name.” Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing.
- Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and was
- much worse than “The billows go over me, Selah.” On the whole there seemed
- to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and there
- hesitated diffidently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to go home. I—I want you to row me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his
- knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but
- almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars
- and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the old
- willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's
- ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down.
- Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and saw
- him sitting with his head down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants
- Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from shore.
- The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope wound around
- his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there with a purpose. If
- that purpose was to discover which of two things were true—judgment
- to come, or the child that rolled its doll down the steps—every one
- is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or failure. There was a
- copy-book, such as children use, found in his hut. On the cover was
- written, “The Book of Judgment.” It contained the record of his
- denunciations, with other odd things. The people of Wyantenaug Valley
- still differ, according to humor; but any one of them will give his or her
- opinion, if you ask it.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- BLACK POND CLEARING
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n those days I
- knew Hamilton only by the light in the south; for in Hagar men said, “That
- light in the south is Hamilton,” as they would say, “The sunrise in the
- east, the sunset in the west, the aurora in the north,” illuminations that
- were native in their places. Hamilton was a yellow glimmer on clear
- nights, and on cloudy nights a larger glow. It crouched low in the sky,
- pale, secret, enticing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Also I knew that Hamilton was twenty miles away, like Sheridan's ride. How
- great and full of palaces and splendors that must be which shone so far!
- How golden its streets, and jewelled its gates, like the Celestial City,
- which is described in Revelations and “The Progress” in an unmistakable
- manner, if not as one would wish in the matter of some details. Yet to
- speak justly, “The Progress” was considered a passable good story, though
- not up to the “Arabian Nights”; and Revelations had its points, though any
- one could see the writer was mixed in his mind, and upset probably by the
- oddness of his adventures, and rather stumped how to relate them plainly.
- </p>
- <p>
- But this story does not include the city of Hamilton, although touching on
- the lights in the south. It left its mark upon me and cast a shadow over
- many things that did not seem connected with it, being a kind of
- introduction for me to what might be called the Greater Melancholies.
- </p>
- <p>
- There are four roads that meet in Hagar: the Cattle Ridge, the Salem, the
- Windless Mountain, and the Red Rock. The Salem is broad, level, and
- straight; the Windless sweeps around the mountain, deep through the pines,
- the jungle of other woods, and the gorge of the falling Mill Stream; the
- Red Rock is a high, clean hill road, open and bare; the Cattle Ridge Road
- comes down from highest of all, from far up on the windy brows of the
- Ridge, and dips and courtesies all the way into Hagar. Some time I would
- like to make more plain the nature and influence of the Four Roads. But
- the adventure began on the Cattle Ridge Road with a wide-armed chestnut
- tree, where certain red squirrels lived who were lively and had thin
- tails. I went out over the road on a long limb with Moses Durfey and Chub
- Leroy, seeing Mr. Cummings driving a load of hay down from the Cattle
- Ridge: it seemed desirable to drop on the hay when it passed beneath. Mr.
- Cummings was sleepy. He sat nodding far down in front, while we lit softly
- on the crest and slid over behind.
- </p>
- <p>
- And next you are to know that Chub Leroy's feet came down thump on the
- head of a monstrous man, half buried in the hay, who sat up and looked
- around, vast, shaggy, black-bearded, smoking a corncob pipe, composed, and
- quite ragged in his clothes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Humph!” he said mildly, and rubbed his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a few moments looking us over, he pointed with his thumb through the
- hay at Mr. Cummings, and leaned toward us and winked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Same as me,” he whispered, and shook all over his fatness, silently, with
- the laughter and pleasure he was having inside.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is a good thing in this world to have adventures, and it is only a
- matter of looking around a bit in country or city. For each fellow his
- quest is waiting at the street corner, or hides in the edge of the woods,
- peering out of green shadows. On all highways it is to be met with and is
- seldom far to seek—though no harm if it were—because the world
- is populous with men and animals, and no moment like another. It may be,
- if you drop on a hay-load, you will have a row with the driver, or you
- will thump on the head such a free traveller as ours, vast, shaggy,
- primeval, pipe-smoking, of wonderful fatness.
- </p>
- <p>
- He seemed a sleepy, contented man, not in point of fact minding thumps on
- the head. The hay-cart rolled on gently in the dust. Mr. Cummings drowsed
- in front, unaware, and the Free Traveller drowsed behind, smoking
- listlessly. The rest of us grew sleepy too and liked everything. For it
- was odd but pleasant in a way to look down from the secrecy of the hay on
- familiar things, on the village dooryards and the tops of hats. We seemed
- to fall into silent league with the Free Traveller, to be interested in
- things, but not anxious, observing the hats of labor and ambition,
- careless of appearance, primitive, easy, seeing little importance in where
- the cart might go, because anywhere was good enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- Instead of turning east at the cross-roads, Mr. Cummings drove drowsily
- ahead on the Windless Road, although the Cummings place is east on the
- Salem; so that the hay was plainly going to the little pasture barn, three
- miles off, all one to us, and better for the Free Traveller, as it
- appeared after. But he was not interested then, being in a fair way to
- sleep. We lay deep in the hay and looked up at the blue of the sky and the
- white of the creeping clouds, till the pine trees closed suddenly over the
- road, the cliffs of Windless Mountain on one side and the Mill Stream on
- the other, deep under its bank. A strong south wind came under the pines,
- skirting the corner of the mountain, hissed through the pine needles, and
- rumpled the hay.
- </p>
- <p>
- And there was a great smoke and blaze about us. “Humph!” said the Free
- Traveller.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went off the back of the hay-cart into the middle of the road, and we
- too fell off immediately, each in his own way, on the pine needles. Mr.
- Cummings came up over the top of the load with a tumult of mixed language,
- and the horses ran away.
- </p>
- <p>
- The great load sped down the green avenue smoking, crackling, blazing,
- taking with it Mr. Cummings to unknown results, and leaving the Free
- Traveller sitting up in the middle of the road and looking after it
- mildly. He heaved himself up puffing. “There!” he said. “There goes my
- pipe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's all your fault,” shouted Moses Durfey. “You shouldn't smoke on
- hay-loads.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Maybe Mr. Cummings is a deader,” said Chub Leroy, thoughtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Free Traveller rubbed his leg.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're same as me. If he ain't dead he'll come back with a strap and lam
- some of us. That ain't me. I'm going to light out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He slid under the rail and down the bank to the stream, handling himself
- wonderfully for so weighty a man; for he seemed to accommodate himself to
- obstacles like a jellyfish, and somehow to get around them. So he was over
- the bowlders and across the stream, which there divides Windless Mountain
- from the Great South Woods.
- </p>
- <p>
- We were indignant that he should leave us to be “lammed” for his
- carelessness. We shouted after, and Moses Durfey said he was a “chump.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might come along,” retorted the Free Traveller with an injured
- manner. “What's hindering? I lugs nobody. I lets folks alone.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was at the wood's edge by this time, where a dim green path went in,
- looked over his shoulder a moment, and then disappeared. We scrambled down
- the bank and over the bowlders, for it was not desirable to wait for Mr.
- Cummings, and Hagar itself would be no refuge. Hagar was a place where
- criticisms were made, while the green woods have never a comment on any
- folly, but are good comrades to all who have the temper to like them. We
- caught up with him by dint of running and followed silently. It grew dusky
- with the lateness of the afternoon, the pale green light turning dark, and
- we were solemn and rather low in our minds. The Free Traveller seemed to
- grow more vast in outline. Being short of wind he wheezed and moaned and
- what with his swaying as he walked, and his great humpy shoulders and all,
- he looked less and less like a man, and more and more like a Thing.
- Sometimes a tree would creak suddenly near at hand, and I fancied there
- were other people in the woods, whispering and all going the way we went,
- to see what would come to us in the end.
- </p>
- <p>
- So it went on till we came on a little clearing, between the forest and a
- swamp. A black pond, tinted a bit with the sunset, lay below along the
- edge of the swamp; and we knew mainly where we were, for there was a
- highway somewhere beyond the swamp, connecting the valleys of the
- Wyantenaug and the Pilgrim. But none the less for the highway it seemed a
- lonely place, fit for congregations of ghosts. The pond was unknown to me,
- and it looked very still and oily. The forest seemed to crowd about and
- overhang the clearing. On the western side was a heap of caverned
- bowlders, and a fire burned in front with three persons sitting beside it.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Free Traveller slid along the wood's edge noiselessly but without
- hesitation, and coming to the fire was greeted. One of those who sat there
- was a tall old man with very light blue eyes and prominent, his beard
- white and long. As we came to know, he was called the “Prophet.” He said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do, Humpy?” so that we knew the Free Traveller was called Humpy,
- either for the shape of his shoulders or for the word he used to express
- himself. There was a younger man, with a retreating chin, and a necktie,
- but no collar, and there was a silent woman with a shawl over her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “These are friends o' mine,” said the Free Traveller to the older man.
- “Make you acquainted. That's Showman Bobby, and that's the Prophet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A vast chuckle of mirth started then from deep within him and surged
- through his throat,—such a laugh as would naturally come from a
- whale or some creature of a past age, whose midriff was boundless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ho!” he said. “Bloke with a hay-load lit under him. Ho, Ho!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gen'leman,” said the Prophet with a fluent wave of his hand. “Friends of
- Humpy's. That's enough. Any grub, Humpy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Free Traveller brought out a round loaf and some meat done up in a
- newspaper. He might have carried a number of such things about him without
- making any great difference in his contour. The Prophet did not ask about
- the hay-load, or where the bread and meat came from.
- </p>
- <p>
- The daylight was fading now in the clearing, and presently a few thin
- stars were out. It might have occurred to persons of better regulated
- fancies than ours that they were due at supper long since with other
- friends of staider qualities, and that now the wood-paths were too dark to
- follow. Perhaps it did; but it could not have seemed a fair reason to be
- troubled, that we were last seen in company with the Free Traveller, so
- fat and friendly a man. I remember better that the Black Pond reflected no
- stars, that the gleams from the fire played fearful games along the wood's
- edge and the bowlders, and how, beyond the Black Pond, the swamp and the
- close-cuddled hills, the lights of Hamilton crouched low under the sky.
- Opposite us across the fire sat that woman who said nothing, and her face
- was shadowed by her shawl.
- </p>
- <p>
- Showman Bobby and the Free Traveller went to sleep, Bobby on his face and
- the Free Traveller accommodating himself. The Prophet sat up and kept us
- company; for we asked him questions naturally, and he seemed interested to
- answer, and was fluent and striking in his speech. They were a runout
- Company and very low in their luck; and it seemed that Bobby was the
- manager, a tumbler himself by profession and in that way of life since
- childhood; and the Free Traveller was apt to be an Australian giant now,
- but in earlier years had been given to footing from place to place and
- living as he might. The Prophet called him a skilful man at getting things
- out of women, partly by experience, and partly by reason of his size and
- the mildness of his manners. As for the Black Pond Clearing, it was well
- known to people of the road, even to orange-men and pack-peddlers, being a
- hidden place with wood and water and shelter in the caves from rain.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That light in the south is Hamilton,” said Chub Leroy.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Prophet started and looked anxiously across the fire, but the woman
- did not move. Then he drew nearer us and spoke lower.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You look out,” he said. “She ain't right in her head. Bobby painted the
- kid for a pappoose. It took the shakes and died queer. You'd better lie
- down, Cass,” speaking across the fire to the woman, who turned her head
- and stared at him directly. “You'd better lie down.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She drew back from the fire noiselessly and lay down, wrapping her shawl
- about her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ain't been a circus heeler all my time,” began the Prophet. “I been a
- gentleman. Neither has Humpy, I reckon. When I met Bobby it was West and
- he ran a dime museum. He took me in for being a gifted talker, and I was
- that low in my luck. She and Bobby was married sometime, and she did acts
- like the Circassian Beauty, and the Headless Woman, and the Child of the
- Aztecs. Humpy's gifts lies in his size, and he's a powerful strong man,
- too, more than you'd think, and he can get himself up for a savage to look
- like a loose tornado. Look at him now. Ain't he a heap? There was a
- three-eyed dog in the show that you could n't tell that the extra eye was
- n't so hardly, and a snake that was any kind of a snake according as you
- fixed him, his natural color being black. We came East with Forepaugh's.
- Bobby bought a tent in Chicago, and we came to Hamilton a fortnight ago.
- Now there's Hamilton that's a-shining off there with its lights. And we
- run away from it in the night a week come to-morrow, or next day, I
- forget. We left the tent and outfit which was come down on by a Dutch
- grocer for debt, and Cassie's baby was dead in the tent. Bobby painted him
- too thick. And there was a lot of folks looking for us with sticks. Now,
- that was n't right. Think Bobby'd have poisoned his own kid if he'd known
- better about painting him, a kid that was a credit to the show! That's
- what they said. Think folks coming round with sticks and a-howling
- blasphemous is going to help out any family mourning! That ain't my idea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then a fellow says, 'I don't know anything about it,' he says, 'and I
- don't want to, but I know you get out of here quick.'
- </p>
- <p>
- “And they drove us out of Hamilton that night ten miles in a covered cart,
- and left us in the road. And the Dutch grocer got the outfit. I reckon the
- circus and the city has buried the kid between 'em. Hey? Sh! She's got a
- quirk. All I know is Fore-paugh's shook us as if we was fleas.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Prophet looked over to where Cassie lay, but she did not stir. Anyway,
- if she heard, it was the Prophet's fault. “They're awful poor company,” he
- said plaintively, “Bobby and Cass. She takes on terrible. She's took a
- notion that baby ain't buried right. She thinks—well, I don't know.
- Now that ain't my way of looking at things, but I did n't own the outfit.
- It was Bobby's outfit, and the Dutch grocer got it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was silent for a moment. We could hear the Free Traveller asleep and
- rumbling in his throat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where might you chaps come from?” asked the Prophet, suddenly. “Not that
- it's my business. Maybe there might be a town over there? Hey? Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He grumbled in his beard a few moments more, and then lay down to sleep.
- We drew together and whispered. The three men slept, and the woman said
- nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is seen that sometimes your most battered and world-worn of men is the
- simplest in his way of looking at things. Or else it was because the
- Prophet was a talker by nature, and Bobby and Cass such poor company, that
- he fell into speech with us on such equal terms. I have set down but
- little of what he said, only enough for the story of the Company, and as I
- happen to recollect it.
- </p>
- <p>
- It should have been something earlier than nine o'clock when the Prophet
- lay down to sleep, and half an hour later when we first noticed that the
- woman, Cass, was sitting up. She had her back to us and was looking toward
- the lights of Hamilton. There was no moon and the stars only shone here
- and there between clouds that hurried across the sky, making preparations
- for the storm that came in the morning. The fire burned low, but there was
- no need of it for warmth. The outlines of the hills could be seen. The
- swamp, the pond, and most of the clearing were dark together.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently she looked cautiously around, first at the three sleepers, and
- then at us. She crept nearer slowly and crouched beside the dull fire,
- throwing back her shawl. Her hair was black and straggled about her face,
- and her eyes were black too, and glittering. The glow of the embers,
- striking upward, made their sockets cavernous, but the eyes stood out in
- the midst of the caverns. One knows well enough that tragedies walk about
- and exchange agreeable phrases with each other. Your tragedy is yours, and
- mine is mine, and in the meanwhile see to it that we look sedate, and
- discuss anything, provided it is of no importance to either. One does not
- choose to be an inscribed monument to the fame of one's private affair.
- But Cassie had lost that instinct of reserve, and her desolation looked
- out of her eyes with dreadful candor. The lines of her face, the droop of
- her figure and even little motions of the hand, signified but one thought.
- I suppose all ideas possible to the world had become as one to her, so
- that three boys cowering away from her seemed only a natural enough part
- of the same subject. It was all one; namely, a baby painted brown, who
- died queerly in a side tent in Hamilton Fair Grounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- We stared at her breathlessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You tell 'em I'm going,” she whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where?” asked Chub.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They ain't no right to—to—Who are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- But this was only in passing. She did not wait to be answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You tell 'em I'm going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What for?” persisted Chub.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's six days. Maybe they throwed him where the tin cans are. You tell
- 'em I'm going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And she was gone. She must have slipped along the edge of the woods where
- the shadows were densest.
- </p>
- <p>
- We listened a moment or two stupidly. Then we sprang up. It seems as if
- the three men were on their feet at the same instant, wakened by some
- common instinct or pressure of fear. It was a single sound of splashing we
- heard off in the darkness. Bobby was gone, then the Free Traveller, then
- the Prophet. We fell into hollows, over rocks and stumps, and came to the
- pond. The reflection of a star or two glimmered there. The water looked
- heavy, like melted lead, and any ripple that had been was gone, or too
- slight to see. The Free Traveller and Bobby went in and waded about.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you step on her,” said Bobby, hoarsely.
- </p>
- <p>
- The bottom seemed to shelve steeply from the shore. They moved along
- chest-deep, feeling with their feet, and we heard them whispering. The
- Prophet sat down and whimpered softly. They waded a distance along the
- shore, and back. They came close in, whispered together, and went out
- again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here! I got it,” said the Free Traveller. They came out, carrying
- something large and black, and laid it on the ground.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It ain't Cassie!” whimpered the Prophet. “It ain't Cassie, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- They all stood about it. The face was like a dim white patch on the
- ground.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hold your jaw,” said Bobby. “Hark!”
- </p>
- <p>
- There were voices in the woods above, and a crashing of the branches. They
- were coming nearer and lights were twinkling far back in the wood-path,
- where we had entered the clearing. I do not know what thought it was—some
- instinct to flee and hide—that seized the outcasts. They slid away
- into the darkness together, swiftly and without speaking. The Free
- Traveller had Cassie's body on his shoulder, carrying it as a child
- carries a rag doll. The darkness swallowed them at a gulp, and we stood
- alone by the Black Pond. Several men came into the clearing with lanterns,
- villagers from Hagar, Harvey Cummings, the minister, and others, who swung
- their lanterns and shouted.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, I suppose that Cassie lies buried to-day somewhere in the South
- Woods, and it may be that no man alive knows where. For none of the
- Company were ever seen again in that part of the country, nor have been
- heard of anywhere now these many years. We can see the lights of Hamilton
- from Hagar as of old, but we seldom think of the Celestial City, or any
- palaces and splendors, but of the multitude of various people who go to
- and fro, each carrying a story.
- </p>
- <p>
- The coming and going of aliens made little difference with Hagar. I
- suppose it was more important there, that Harvey Cummings's hay-load went
- up lawlessly in smoke and flame, and never came to the little pasture barn
- on the Windless Mountain Road.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- JOPPA
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n Friday
- afternoon, the twenty-eighth of June, Deacon Crockett's horse ran away. It
- was not a suitable thing, not at all what a settled community had a right
- to expect of a horse with stubby legs and no mane to speak of, who had
- grown old in the order of decent conduct. He ran into Mrs. Cullom
- Sanderson's basket phaeton and spilled Mrs. Cullom on the ground, which
- was taking a grave responsibility. It was done in the midst of Hagar.
- Harvey Cummings jumped out of the way and said, “Deb it!” There was no
- concealment about it. Everybody heard of it and said it was astonishing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The name of the deacon's horse was Joppa. The deacon's father-in-law,
- Captain David Brett, had an iron-gray named Borneo. Borneo and Joppa did
- not agree, on account of Borneo's kicking Joppa in the ribs to show his
- contempt. It was natural that he should have this contempt, being sleek
- and spirited himself, with a nautical gait that every one admitted to be
- taking; and Joppa did not think it unnatural in him to show it. Without
- questioning the justice of Borneo's position, he disliked being kicked in
- the ribs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Borneo had been eating grass by the roadside; Joppa stood harnessed in
- front of the horse-block; Mrs. Crockett stood on the horse-block; Borneo
- came around and kicked Joppa in the ribs; Joppa ran away; Mrs. Crockett
- shrieked; Harvey Cummings said “Deb it!” and Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was
- spilled. She weighed two hundred pounds and covered a deal of ground when
- she was spilled.
- </p>
- <p>
- He crossed the bridge and tore along the Salem Road, his stubby legs
- pattering under him, and a great fear in his soul of the shouting village
- behind. Angelica and Willy Flint saw him coming.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a runaway!” shouted Angelica.
- </p>
- <p>
- Willy Flint continued swinging on the gate. He thought it his place to be
- self-contained and accurate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Joppa,” he said calmly.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Angelica did not care for appearances. She shied a clam-shell at
- Joppa, said “Hi there!” and jumped around.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joppa swerved sharply, the deacon's buggy turned several sides up, if that
- is possible, bobbed along behind, and then broke loose at the thills.
- Joppa fled madly up the side road that leads to Scrabble Up and Down, and
- disappeared over the crest of the hill, leaving Angelica and Willy Flint
- to gloat over the wreck of the buggy. It gratified a number of their
- instincts.
- </p>
- <p>
- The region called Scrabble Up and Down, as well as the road which leads to
- it, is distinguished by innumerable small steep hills and hollows. For the
- rest, it is a sandy and ill-populated district, and a lonely road.
- Westward of it lies a wilderness of underbrush and stunted trees, rising
- at last into exultant woods and billowing over the hills mile upon mile to
- the valley of the Wyantenaug. The South Woods do not belong to Scrabble Up
- and Down. They are put there to show Scrabble Up and Down what it cannot
- do.
- </p>
- <p>
- The road winds around hillocks and down hollows in an aimless fashion; and
- for that reason it is not possible to see much of it at a time. When the
- villagers of Hagar reached the top of the first hill, Joppa was nearly a
- mile away, his stubby legs rather tired, his spirit more tranquil, and
- himself out of sight of the villagers of Hagar. He saw no point in turning
- back. Hagar gave him but a dull and unideal life, plodding between shafts
- before the austere and silent deacon, unaccountably smacked with a whip,
- and in constant contrast with Borneo's good looks. Joppa had not many
- ideas and little imagination. He did not feel drawn to go back. Moreover
- he smelt something damp and fresh in the direction of the woods which
- absorbed him. He stopped, sniffed, and looked around. The fence was broken
- here and there, as fences generally were in Scrabble Up and Down. The
- leaves were budding; there was a shimmer of green on the distant woods;
- and presently Joppa was wandering through the brush and scrub trees
- westward. The broken shafts dragged quietly beside him. He lifted his head
- a little higher than usual and had an odd feeling, as if he were enjoying
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- A tumult, row, or excitement of any kind was considered by the children of
- Hagar a thing to be desired, assisted, and remembered gratefully. Some of
- the elders were much of the same mind. Joppa's action was therefore
- popular in Hagar, the more so that it was felt to be incongruous; and,
- when by no search that Friday afternoon nor the following Saturday could
- he be found, his reputation rose in leaps. He had gone over the hill and
- vanished like a ghost, commonplace, homely, plodding, downcast Joppa,
- known to Hagar in that fashion these dozen or more years and suddenly
- become the loud talk of the day. The road to Scrabble Up and Down and the
- roads far beyond were searched. Inquiry spread to Salem and to Gilead. On
- Saturday night notices were posted here and there by happy jokers relating
- to Joppa, one on the church door of Hagar requesting the prayers of the
- congregation. Mr. Atherton Bell thought the deacon's horse like “the
- deacon's one-hoss shay,” in that he had lasted an extraordinary time
- intact, and then disintegrated. Joppa had become a mystery, an excitement,
- a cause of wit. A definite addition had been made to the hoarded stock of
- tradition and jest; the lives of all seemed the richer. An atmosphere of
- deep and tranquil mirth pervaded the village, a kind of mellow light of
- humor, in the focus of which stood Deacon Crockett, and writhed.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was hoped that the minister would preach on Joppa. He preached on
- “human insignificance,” and read of the war-horse, “Hast thou clothed his
- neck with thunder?” but it was thought not to refer to Joppa.
- </p>
- <p>
- As for the children of Hagar, did they not dream of him, and hear him
- thumping and blundering by in the winds of the dim night? They saw no
- humor in him, nor in the deacon. Rather it was a serious mystery, and they
- went about with the impression of it on their faces, having faith that the
- outcome would be worthy of the promise.
- </p>
- <p>
- Harvey Cummings thought that the war-horse did not refer to Joppa, and
- said so on the steps of the church. “There wan'd no thudder aboud him. He
- was the meekest hoss in Hamilton County. He run away on accound of his
- shyness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Cummings had no palate to speak of, and his consonants were uncertain.
- Mr. Atherton Bell threw out his chest, as an orator should, put his thumbs
- in the armholes of his vest, and gazed at Mr. Cummings with a kindling
- eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For a meek horse,” he said impressively, “he showed—a—great
- resolution when he spilled Mrs. Cullom Sanderson. I declare to you,
- Harvey, I give you my word, sir, I would not have missed seeing Mrs.
- Cullom spilled for a government contract.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, indeed, Mr. Bell!” said Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, rustling past,
- “clothed with thunder” and black silk. Mr. Atherton Bell recovered himself
- slowly and moved to a greater distance from the church door. He was a
- politician and a legislator, but he found diplomacy difficult. Several
- others gathered around, desiring to hear the statesman. “Now suppose,
- Harvey, suppose the deacon too should take a notion to run away, knock
- over Mrs. Cullom, you know, and—a—disappear. Imagine it,
- Harvey.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Cummings shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't do it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Bell took off his hat and smiled expansively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a pleasing thought, ha! He might be translated—a—Elijah,
- you know. He might leave his mantle to—to me. Hitherto the deacon
- has lacked dramatic interest. Contact between Mrs. Cullom and Deacon
- Crockett would—” (here his hearers stirred appreciatively) “would
- have dramatic interest—Ah, good morning, deacon, good morning, sir.
- We were speaking of your loss. We—a—trust it will not be
- permanent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon moved on without answering. Mr. Atherton Bell's spirit fell
- again, and he wiped his forehead nervously.
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be a painful thing if a man were suddenly to enter into full
- sight of himself as others see him; it is a measure of distress even to
- have a passing glimpse—not so much because he sees a worse man, but
- because he sees a stranger.
- </p>
- <p>
- Deacon Crockett had never asked himself how others saw him. He was not a
- flexible man. The grooves in which his life ran had been worn slowly in a
- hard substance. Its purports and ends had always seemed to him accurately
- measured and bounded. He exacted his rights, paid his dues, and had no
- doubts about either; held his conscience before him as a sword, dividing
- truth from falsehood. He stood by the faith of his forefathers, gave up no
- jot or tittle of it; there were no hazy outlying regions in that faith.
- </p>
- <p>
- When a man observes himself to be a well-defined thing in certain
- relations with other well-defined things, has no more doubt of the meaning
- of his presence on the earth than of the function of a cogwheel in his
- watch, his footing seems singularly secure; the figure he makes in his own
- eyes not only grows rigid with habit, but seems logically exact to begin
- with. To doubt the function of the cog-wheel is to put in question the
- watch, which is impossible and a sufficient demonstration. Other men's
- opinions, if worth anything or considered at all, are assumed to be
- respectful; and the assumption seems just.
- </p>
- <p>
- Why should he not feel impregnable in his personal dignity, who sees
- himself sufficiently fulfilling his function in an ordered scheme, a just
- man, elected to become perfect? Personal dignity is at least not a vulgar
- ambition. It was the deacon's ambition, the thing which he wished to
- characterize his life.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon walked down the path from the church. He walked quietly and
- stiffly as usual, but the spirit within him was worse than angry; it was
- confused. The whole neighborhood seemed to be laughing at him; his fingers
- tingled at the thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- But that was not the source of his confusion. It was, strangely, that
- there seemed to be no malice in the laughter, only a kind of amused
- friendliness. An insult and a resentment can be understood by a man of
- function, within his function; his resentment maintains his equilibrium.
- But, quite the contrary, his neighbors seemed timidly to invite him into
- the joke. Of all the hidden ways of laughter one comes last to that in
- which he may walk and be amused with himself; although it is only there
- that he is for the first time entirely comfortable in the world. Tim Rae,
- the town drunkard, met him where the path across the Green joins the road.
- It was Tim's habit to flee from the deacon's approach with feeble
- subterfuges, not because the deacon ever lectured him, but because the
- deacon's presence seemed to foreshorten his stature, and gave him a chill
- in the stomach, where he preferred “something warm.” Yet he ambled amiably
- across the road, and his air of good-fellowship could not have been
- greater if they had met in a ditch on equal terms of intoxication.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What think, deacon,” he gurgled. “I was dream-in' las' night, 'bout Joppa
- comin' down my chimney, damned if he did n't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon stopped and faced him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You may be drunk, sir,” he said slowly, “on Saturday night, and you may
- curse on the Sabbath; but you <i>may not</i> expect me to sympathize with
- you—in either.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Tim Rae slunk away foreshortened of stature and cold in the stomach.
- </p>
- <p>
- Monday morning was the first of May; and on May-day, unless the season
- were backward and without early flowers, the children of Hagar would go
- after ground-pine for the May-baskets, and trailing arbutus to fill them
- with. They would hang the baskets on the door-handles of those who were
- thought worthy, popular persons such as the minister and Sandy Campbell;
- on Mr. Atherton Bell's door-handle on account of Bobby Bell, who was a
- gentleman but not allowed to be out nights because of his inferior age.
- </p>
- <p>
- Ground-pine grows in many places, but early arbutus is a whimsical flower,
- as shy as first love. It is nearly always to be found somewhere in the
- South Woods. And the South Woods are to be reached, not by Scrabble Up and
- Down, but along the Windless Mountain Road, across the Mill Stream, and by
- cart-paths which know not their own minds.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon drove home from Gilead Monday afternoon, and saw the children
- noisily jumping the Mill Stream where the line of bowlders dams up the
- stream and makes deep quiet water above. Their voices, quarrelling and
- laughing, fell on his ear with an unfamiliar sound. Somehow they seemed
- significant, at least suggesting odd trains of thought. He found himself
- imagining how it would seem to go Maying; and the incongruity of it
- brought a sudden frown of mental pain and confusion to his forehead. And
- so he drove into Hagar.
- </p>
- <p>
- But if he had followed the May-day revellers, as he had oddly imagined
- himself doing, he would have gone by those winding cart-paths, fragrant
- with early growth, and might have seen the children break from the woods
- with shouts into a small opening above a sunken pond; he might even have
- heard the voice of Angelica Flint rise in shrill excitement:
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Why, there's Joppa!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- Some minutes after six, the first shading of the twilight being in the
- air, the villagers of Hagar, whose houses lay along the north and south
- road, rose on one impulse and came forth into the street. And standing by
- their gates and porches, they saw the children go by with lost Joppa in
- their midst. Around his neck was a huge flopping wreath of ground-pine and
- arbutus. The arbutus did not stay in very well, and there was little of it—only
- bits stuck in here and there. Joppa hung his head low, so that the wreath
- had to be held on. He did not seem cheerful; in fact, the whole cortège
- had a subdued though important air, as if oppressed by a great thought and
- conscious of ceremony.
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister and the other neighbors along the street came out and
- followed. Some dozen or more at last stood on the brow of the slight hill
- looking down to the deacon's house; and they too felt conscious of
- something, of a ceremony, a suspense.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Atherton Bell met the children and drove his buggy into the ditch,
- stood up and gazed over the back of it with an absorbed look.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel curious how the deacon will take it,” said the minister. “I—I
- feel anxious.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Atherton Bell said, it got him. He said something too about “dramatic
- interest” and “a good betting chance he'll cut up rough”; but no one
- answered him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The procession halted outside the deacon's gate. A tendency to giggle on
- the part of certain girls was sternly suppressed by Angelica Flint. Willy
- Flint led Joppa cautiously up the board walk and tied him to a pillar of
- the porch; the company began to retreat irregularly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly the deacon, tall and black-coated, stood in the doorway, Mrs.
- Crockett at his elbow pouring forth exclamations; and the retreat became a
- flight. Little Nettie Paulus fell behind; she stood in the middle of the
- road and wailed piteously.
- </p>
- <p>
- The deacon glared at Joppa and Joppa's grotesque necklace, looked after
- the fleeing children and saw on the brow of the hill the group of his
- fellow-townsmen. His forehead flushed and he hesitated. At last he took
- the wreath awkwardly from Joppa's neck, went into the house and shut the
- door. The wreath hung in his front window seven months, and fell to pieces
- about the end of November. Joppa died long after of old age and
- rheumatism.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE ELDER' SEAT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>etween the mill
- and the miller's house in Hagar the Mill Stream made a broad pool with a
- yellow bottom of pebbles and sand. It was sometimes called the
- Mediterranean. If you wished to cross the Mill Stream, there was a plank
- below, which was good to jounce on also, though apt to tip you into the
- water. The pool was shallow, about twenty feet across and as long as you
- might care to go upstream,—as far as the clay bank, anyway, where
- Chub Leroy built the city of Alexandria. Jeannette Paulus walked all over
- Alexandria to catch a frog, and made a mess of it, and did not catch the
- frog. That is the way of things in this world. Alexandria fell in a
- moment, with all her palaces and towers. But there were other cities, and
- commerce was lively on the Mediterranean.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the nearer side, against the gray, weatherbeaten flank of the miller's
- house was a painted bench, for convenience of the morning sun and
- afternoon shade; and I call it now the Elders' Seat, because Captain David
- Brett and others were often to be seen sitting there in the sun or shade.
- I remember the minister was there, and Job Mather, the miller, whenever
- his grist ran low, so that he let his stem millstones cease to grind.
- These were the three to whom the Elders' Seat seemed to us to belong by
- right of continuance, because our short memories ran not to the contrary.
- Captain David was well in his seventies, the miller not far behind, and
- Mr. Royce already gray-haired. They sat and watched the rise and fall of
- cities, the growth and decay of commerce, the tumult of conquests, and the
- wreck of high ambition. They noticed that one thing did not change nor
- cease, namely, the ripple of the stream; just as if, in history, there
- really were a voice distinguishable that went murmuring forever.
- </p>
- <p>
- After the fall of Alexandria Damascus was built, but inland, so that it
- had to be reached by caravan; and Moses Durfey laid the foundations of
- Byzantium where the pool narrowed into rushing water, and Venice was
- planted low in a marshy place hard by the seven hills of Rome. But you
- must know that Bobby Bell built the city of Rome absurdly, and filled it
- with pot-holes to keep frogs in and floating black bugs, so that it was
- impossible to hold it against the Carthaginians. There were wars in those
- days. These were the main marts of trade, but there were quays and
- fortresses elsewhere; and it should be told sometime how the Barbary
- pirates came down. Rome was in a bad way, for Bobby had one aquarium in
- the Campus Martius, and another where the Forum should have been. There
- was nothing flourishing but the aqueducts.
- </p>
- <p>
- The three Elders would sit leaning forward, watching the changes of
- fortune and event that went on from hour to hour by the Mediterranean. The
- captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested his chin on his cane; the
- miller's hands were on his knees, his large white face stolid, his heavy
- lips seldom moving. He was a thinking man, the miller,—a
- slow-moving, slow-speaking, persistent man, and a fatalist in his way of
- thinking, though he used no such term; it was his notion of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked of old history out of Gibbon and Grote and the Seven
- Monarchies, and they talked of things that had happened to them as men in
- the world; but the things which they thought of most often, in watching
- the children and the Mill Stream, they said little about, for these had
- not happened a thousand or two thousand years before, nor twenty or
- thirty, but just sixty or seventy. And this was why they came so often to
- the Elders' Seat, because something dim and happy seemed to come up to
- them, like a mist, from the Mill Stream, where the children quarrelled and
- contrived.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll tell ye what ailed Rome,” said Captain David. “She needed to be
- keeled and scraped. She fouled her bottom!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister answered slowly: “No, she was rotten within. She lost the
- faith in God and in man that keeps a people sound.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ho! Well, then she wa'n't handled right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The miller rubbed his thumb slowly on the palm of his hand. “She was
- grinded out,” he said. “She couldn't help it. Corn can't keep itself from
- meal when the stones gets at it. No more a man can't keep his bones from
- dust, nor a people, either, I'm thinking, when its time comes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister shook his head. “I don't like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know as I do, either. And I don't know as that makes any
- difference.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ho!” said the captain. “Bobby's got a new frog!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Chub Leroy cried out in despair: “Look out, Bobby! You're stepping on
- the Colosseum!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I would not pretend to say how long the Elders' Seat had stood there, or
- how many years the Elders had come to it now and again; but I remember
- that it seemed to us very permanent, in a world of shifting empires, where
- Alexandria was suddenly walked upon and deserted, and Venice went down the
- current in a rainy night, and was spoken of no more. We could not remember
- when it had not stood in its place. It was a kind of Olympus to us, or
- Delphi, where we went for oracles on shipping and other matters.
- </p>
- <p>
- Afterward we grew up, and became too old to dabble and make beautiful
- things of gray clay, except Chub Leroy, who is still doing something of
- that kind, cutting and building with clay and stone. But the Elders' Seat
- remained, and the Elders watched other children, as if nothing had
- happened. Only, Captain David had trouble to keep his pipe in his mouth.
- So that when the Elders' Seat took its first journey, it seemed very
- difficult for us to understand,—even for those who were too old to
- dabble in gray clay.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mill, past the drug
- store, the Crocketts' house, where Captain David lived, and so on by the
- crossroads, to the minister's, with the graveyard just beyond. I remember
- how very yellow and dusty the road was in the summer of '86, so that the
- clay bottom cracked off in flat pieces, which could be gathered up; and
- then, if you climbed the wall with care enough, you could scale them at
- woodchucks. August was sultry and still. The morning-glories drooped on
- Captain David's porch, and the pigeons on the roof went to sleep more than
- was natural.
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister and Job Mather sat, one afternoon, in the Elders' Seat; for
- Captain David, he had not gone out through his gate those many days. There
- was history enough in process on the Mediterranean. The Americans and
- Carthaginians were preparing to have a battle, on account of docks that
- ran too near together. The Elders discovered that they did not care about
- it.
- </p>
- <p>
- The miller got to his feet, and lifted one end of the bench. “Come,” he
- said gruffly. “Let's move it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey!” said the minister, looking troubled and a bit lost. Then his lips
- trembled. “Yes, Job. That's so, Job. We'd better move it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The children came up from the Mediterranean in a body, and stared. It was
- much to them as if, in Greece, the gods had risen up and gone away, for
- unknown reasons, taking Olympus with them. The old men went along the
- yellow, dusty road with very shuffling steps, carrying the Elders' Seat,
- one at each end, till they turned into Captain David's garden and put it
- down against the porch. Mrs. Crockett came to the door, and held up her
- hands in astonishment. Captain David was helped out. He was faded and worn
- with pain. He settled himself in the Elders' Seat. It did not seem
- possible to say anything. The captain smoked his pipe; the minister rested
- his chin on his cane; the miller's hands were on his knees, his large
- white face stolid and set.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm goin' to shell those peas to-morrow,” began the captain at last. Then
- his voice broke, and a mist came into his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I bet ye the Americans are licking the Carthaginians.”
- </p>
- <p>
- On the contrary, the Americans and Carthaginians, with other nations, were
- hanging over the picket fence, staring and bewildered. What was the use of
- mere human wars, if primeval things could be suddenly changed? The grass
- might take a notion to come up pink or the seas to run out at the bottom,
- and that sort of thing would make a difference.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun dropped low in the west, and presently Chub Leroy, who built the
- city of Alexandria ten years before, came slowly along in the shadow of
- the maples, and St. Agnes Macree was with him. She was old Caspar Macree's
- granddaughter, and he was a charcoal-burner on the Cattle Ridge long ago.
- They were surprised to see the Elders' Seat, and stopped a moment. St.
- Agnes looked up at him and smiled softly, and Chub's eyes kept saying,
- “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” all the time. Then they went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I remember—” said Captain David, and stopped short.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eh! So do I,” said the minister.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You do! Well, Job, do you remember? Ain't it the remarkablest thing!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The miller's heavy face was changed with a slow, embarrassed smile. And
- all these three sat a long time very still, while the sunlight slanted
- among the morning-glories and the pigeons slept on the roof.
- </p>
- <p>
- There came a day in September when the minister and the miller were alone
- again on the Elders' Seat, but Captain David lay in his bed near the
- window. He slept a great deal, and babbled in his half dreams: sometimes
- about ships and cordage, anchorage in harbors and whaling in the south
- seas; and at times about some one named “Kitty.” I never heard who Kitty
- was. He said something or other “wasn't right.” He took the trouble and
- the end of things all in good part, and bore no grudge to any one for it;
- it seemed only natural, like coming to anchor at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When a man gets legs like mine,” he said, “it's time he took another way
- of getting round. Something like a fish'd be my notion. Parson, a man gets
- the other side of somewhere, he can jump round lively-like, same as he was
- a boy, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister murmured something about “our Heavenly Father,” and Captain
- David said softly: “I guess he don't call us nothing but boys. He says,
- 'Shucks! it ain't natural for 'em to behave.' Don't ye think, parson? Him,
- he might see an old man like me and tell him, 'Glad to see ye, sonny';
- same as Harrier in Doty's Slip. The boys come in after a year out, or
- maybe three years, and old man Harrier, he says, 'Glad to see ye, sonny';
- and the boys gets terrible drunk. He kept a junk-shop, Harrier.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister tried to answer, but could not make it out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw a ship go down sudden-like. It was in '44. It was inside Cape Cod.
- Something blowed her up inside. Me, I've took my time, I have. What ye
- grumbling about, parson?”
- </p>
- <p>
- In the morning the shutters were closed, and all about the house was
- still. The pigeons were cooing on the roof of the porch; and Captain David
- was dead, without seeing any reason to grumble. Down at the mill the
- miller watched his monotonous millstones grinding slowly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Elders' Seat was moved once more after Captain David died, not back to
- the Mediterranean, but further up the yellow road and into the minister's
- yard, facing westward. From there the captain's white slab could be seen
- through the cemetery gate. The two Elders occupied the seat some years,
- and then went in through the gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Elders' Seat and its journeys from place to place seemed to have
- some curious meaning, hardly to be spelled. I imagine this far, at least:
- that at a certain point it became to the two more natural, more quiet and
- happy, to turn their eyes in the direction the captain had gone than in
- the direction they had all come. It pleased them then to move the Elders'
- Seat a little nearer to the gate. And when the late hour came, it was
- rather a familiar matter. The minister went in to look for his Master, and
- the miller according to his' notion of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE ROMANCE OF THE INSTITUTE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ot quite two
- centuries of human life have gone quietly in Wimberton, and for the most
- part it has been on Main and Chester Streets. Main Street is a quarter of
- a mile long and three hundred feet wide, with double roads, and between
- them a clean lawn shaded by old elms. Chester Street is narrow and crowded
- with shops, and runs from the middle of Main down-hill to the railway and
- the river. It is the business street for Wimberton and the countryside of
- fifteen miles about. Main Street is surrounded by old houses of honorable
- frontage, two churches, and the Solley Institute, which used to be called
- “Solley's Folly” by frivolous aliens.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley, who owned the mines up the river and the foundries that have
- been empty and silent these many years, founded it in 1840. At the time I
- remember best the Institute had twenty-one trustees, lady patronesses,
- matrons, and nurses; and three beneficiaries, or representatives of the
- “aged, but not destitute, of Hamilton County.” That seemed odd to the
- alien.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley need not have been so rigid about the equipment and
- requirements of admission, except that he had in mind an institution of
- dignity. It stood at the head of Main Street, with wide piazzas like a
- hotel. The aristocracy of old Wimberton used to meet there and pass the
- summer afternoons. The young people gave balls in the great parlors, and
- the three beneficiaries looked on, and found nothing to complain of in the
- management. What matter if it were odd? True Wimberton folk never called
- the Institute a folly, but only newcomers, before years of residence made
- them endurable and able to understand Wimberton. Failure is a lady of
- better manners than Success, who is forward, complacent, taking herself
- with unpleasant seriousness. Imagine the Institute swarming with people
- from all parts of the county, a staring success in beneficence!
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley's idea was touched with delicacy. It was not a home for
- Hamilton County poor, but for those who, merely lingering somewhat on the
- slow descent, found it a lonely road. For there is a period in life, of
- varying length, when, one's purposes having failed or been unfulfilled,
- the world seems quite occupied by other people who are busy with
- themselves. Life belongs at any one time to the generation which is making
- the most of it. A beneficiary was in a certain position of respectable
- humility. But I suppose it was not so much Mr. Solley's discrimination as
- that in 1840 his own house was empty of all but a few servants; and so out
- of his sense of loneliness grew his idea of a society of the
- superannuated. That was the Solley Institute.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is not so difficult to recreate old Wimberton of seventy years back,
- for the same houses stood on Main Street, and the familiar names were then
- heard—Solley, Gore, Cutting, Gilbert, Cass, Savage. The elms were
- smaller, with fewer lights under them at night, and gravel paths instead
- of asphalt.
- </p>
- <p>
- One may even call up those who peopled the street, whom time has disguised
- or hidden away completely. Lucia Gore has dimples,—instead of those
- faded cheeks one remembers at the Institute,—and quick movements,
- and a bewildering prettiness, in spite of the skirts that made women look
- like decanters or tea-bells in 1830. She is coming down the gravel
- sidewalk with a swift step, a singular fire and eagerness of manner, more
- than one would suppose Miss Lucia to have once possessed.
- </p>
- <p>
- And there is the elder Solley, already with that worn, wintry old face we
- know from his portrait at the Institute, and John Solley, the son, both
- with high-rolled collars, tall hats, and stiff cravats. Women said that
- John Solley was reckless, but one only notices that he is very tall.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm glad to see you are in a hurry, too, my dear. We might hurry up the
- wedding among us all,” says the elder Solley, with a grim smile and a bow.
- “Ha! Glad to see you in a hurry;” and he passes on, leaving the two
- together. Lucia flushes and seems to object.
- </p>
- <p>
- Is not that Mrs. Andrew Cutting in the front window of the gabled house
- directly behind them? Then she is thinking how considerate it is, how
- respectful to Main Street, that John and Lucia are to marry.
- </p>
- <p>
- The past springs up quickly, even to little details. Mrs. Cutting wears a
- morning cap, has one finger on her cheek, and is wondering why John looks
- amused and Lucia in a temper. “He will have to behave himself,” thinks
- Mrs. Cutting. “Lucia is—dear me, Lucia is very decided. I don't
- really know that John likes to behave himself.” And all these people of
- 1830 are clearly interested in their own affairs, and care little for
- those who will look back at them, seventy years away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Love climbs trees in the Hesperides, day in and out, very busy with their
- remarkable fruit, the dragon lying beneath with indifferent jaws. Do we
- observe how recklessly the young man reaches out, and how slightly he
- knows the nature of his footing? The branches of such apple trees as bear
- golden fruit are notoriously brittle. He might drop into the lazy throat
- of Fate by as easy an accident as the observer into figures of speech, and
- the dragon care little about the matter. That indifference of Fate is
- hard, for it seems an expense for no value received by any one. We are
- advised to be as little melancholy as possible, and charge it to profit
- and loss.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is well known that John Solley left Wimberton late one night in
- October, 1830. In the morning the two big stuccoed houses of Gore and
- Solley looked at each other across the street under the yellow arch of
- leaves with that mysterious expression which they ever after seemed to
- possess to the dwellers on Main Street. And the Gores' housemaid picked up
- a glittering something from the fell of the bearskin rug on the parlor
- floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Land! It's Miss Lucia's engagement ring. She's a careless girl!” Plannah
- was a single woman of fifty, and spoke with strong moral indignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some mornings later Mr. Solley came stiffly down his front steps, crossed
- the street under the yellow elms, and went in between the white pillars of
- the Gore house. Mr. Gore was a middle-aged man, chubby, benevolent,
- gray-haired, deliberate. He sank back in his easy-chair in fat
- astonishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear me! I don't know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lucia was called.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Solley wishes to ask you—a—something.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish to ask if my son has treated you badly,” said Mr. Solley, most
- absurdly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not at all, Mr. Solley.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lucia's eyes were suddenly hot and shining.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon, but if John is a scoundrel, you will do me a favor by
- telling me so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is he? I shall do nothing of the kind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am about to write to my son.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And that's nothing to me,” she cried, and went swiftly out of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I suppose he's only a fool,” said Mr. Solley, grimly. “I knew that.
- Spirited girl, Gore, very. Good morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear me!” said Mr. Gore, mildly, rubbing his glasses. “How quickly they
- do things!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Elderly gentlemen whose wives are dead and children adventuring in the
- Hesperides should take advice. Mrs. Cutting might have advised against
- this paragraph in Mr. Solley's letter:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have taken the trouble to inquire whether you have been acting as a
- gentleman should. Inasmuch as Miss Lucia seemed to imply that the matter
- no longer interests her, I presume she has followed her own will, which is
- certainly a woman's right. With respect to the Michigan lands, I inclose
- surveys. You will do well,” etc.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Mr. Solley had not for many years thought of the Hesperides as a more
- difficult piece of property to survey than another. Men and women followed
- their own wills there as elsewhere, and were quite right, so long as they
- did business honorably. And Mr. Gore had been a managed and advised man
- all his wedded life, and had not found, that it increased his happiness.
- That advice had always tended to embark him on some enterprise that was
- fatiguing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A good woman, Letitia,” often ran Mr. Gore's reflections; and then, with
- a sense of furtiveness, as if Letitia somewhere in the spiritual universe
- might overhear his thought, “a little masterful—a—spirited,
- very.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But it was hard for Wimberton people to have a secret shut up among them.
- It was not respectful to Main Street, with John Solley fleeing
- mysteriously in the night and coming no more to Wimberton, and Lucia going
- about with her nose in the air, impossible to sympathize with. Some months
- passed, and Lucia seemed more subdued, then very quiet indeed, with a
- liking to sit by her father's side, to Mr. Gore's slight uneasiness. She
- might wish him to do something.
- </p>
- <p>
- He knew no more than Wimberton what had happened to send John westward and
- Lucia to sitting beside him in unused silence; but he differed from
- Wimberton in thinking it perhaps not desirable to know. He would pat her
- hand furtively, and polish his glasses, without seeming to alter the
- situation. Once he asked timidly if it were not dull for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, father.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've thought sometimes—sometimes—a—I don't remember
- what I was going to say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lucia's head went down till it almost rested on his knee.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Father—do you know—where John is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why—a—of course, Mr. Solley—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, no, father! No!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I might inquire around—a—somewhere.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No! Oh, promise me you won't ask any one! Promise!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Gore, very much confused.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is no matter,” said Lucia, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Gore thought for several minutes, but no idea seemed to occur to him,
- and it relieved him to give it up.
- </p>
- <p>
- Months have a way of making years by a rapid arithmetic, and years that
- greet us with such little variety of expression are the more apt to step
- behind with faint reproach and very swiftly. Mr. Solley founded the
- Institute in 1840, and died. The Solley house stood empty, and Miss Lucia
- Gore by that time was living alone, except for the elderly maiden, Hannah.
- Looking at the old elms of Wimberton, grave and orderly, there is much to
- be said for a vegetable life. There is no right dignity but in the slow
- growths of time.
- </p>
- <p>
- The elms increased their girth; the railway crept up the river; the young
- men went to Southern battle-fields, and some of them returned; children of
- a second generation walked in the Hesperides; the Institute was reduced to
- three beneficiaries; Main Street smelled of tar from the asphalt
- sidewalks; Chester Street was prosperous. Banks failed in '73, and “Miss
- Lucia has lost everything,” said Wimberton gossip.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Solley house was alternately rented and empty, the Gore house was
- sold, Miss Lucia went up to the Institute, and gossip in Wimberton woke
- again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course the Institute is not like other places, but then—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Lucia was such a lady.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it's a charity, after all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very sensible of Miss Lucia, I'm sure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She was engaged to old Institute Solley's son once, but it ended with a
- bump.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then Miss Lucia goes to the Institute who might have gone to the Solley
- house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that is what one doesn't know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Lucia a beneficiary! But isn't that rather embarrassing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder if she—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear, it was centuries ago. One does n't think of love-affairs fifty
- years old. They dry up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Respectable, and you pay a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But a charity really.”
- </p>
- <p>
- That year the public library was built on Main and Gilbert Streets, the
- great elm fell down in the Institute yard, Mrs. Andrew Cutting died at
- ninety-eight, with good sense and composure, and here is a letter written
- by Miss Lucia to Babbie Cutting. Babbie Cutting, I remember, had eyes like
- a last-century romance, never fancy-free, and her dolls loved and were
- melancholy, when we were children together under the elms in Wimberton.
- The letter is written in thin, flowing lines on lavender paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>My dear Child</i>: I am afraid you thought that your question offended
- me, but it did not, indeed. I was engaged to Mr. John Solley many years
- ago. I think I had a very hasty temper then, which I think has quite
- wasted away now, for I have been so much alone. But then I sometimes fell
- into dreadful rages. Mr. Solley was a very bold man, not easily influenced
- or troubled, who laughed at my little faults and whims more than I thought
- he should.
- </p>
- <p>
- You seemed to ask what sudden and mysterious thing happened to us, but, my
- dear, one's life is chiefly moved by trifles and little accidents and
- whims. Mr. Solley came one night, and I fancied he had been neglecting me,
- for I was very proud, more so than ordinary life permits women to be. I
- remember that he stood with his hands behind him, smiling. He looked so
- easy and strong, so impossible to disturb, and said, “You're such a little
- spitfire, Lucia,” and I was so angry, it was like hot flames all through
- my head.
- </p>
- <p>
- I cried, “How dare you speak to me so!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know,” he said, and laughed. “It seems perilous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I tore his ring from my finger and threw it in his face. It struck his
- forehead and fell to the floor without any sound. There was a tiny red cut
- on his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is your engagement ring,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take it away. I want nothing more to do with you,” I cried—very
- foolishly, for I did, and my anger was going off in fright. He turned
- around and went from the house. The maid found the ring in the morning.
- Mr. Solley had left Wimberton that night. Well, my dear, that is all. I
- thought he would have come back. It seemed as if he might. I am so old now
- that I do not mind talking, but I was proud then, and women are not
- permitted to be very proud. Do your romances tell you that women are
- foolish and men are sometimes hard on them?
- </p>
- <p>
- That is not good romance at all, but if you will come to see me again I
- will tell you much better romances than mine that I have heard, for other
- people's lives are interesting, even if mine has been quite dull.
- </p>
- <p>
- Will you put this letter away to remember me by? But do not think of me as
- a complaining old woman, for I have had a long life of leisure and many
- friends. I do not think any one who really cares for me will do so the
- less for my living at the Institute, and only those we love are of real
- importance to us. It is kind of you to visit me.
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Your Affectionate Friend.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- So half a century is put lightly aside; Miss Lucia has found it quite
- dull; and here is the year 1885, when, as every one knows, John Solley
- came back to Wimberton, a tall old man with a white mustache, heavy brows,
- and deep eyes. Men thought it an honor to the town that the great and rich
- Mr. Solley, so dignified a man, should return to spend his last days in
- Wimberton. He would be its ornamental citizen, the proper leader of its
- aristocracy. But Babbie Cutting thought of another function. What matter
- for the melancholy waste of years, fifty leagues across? Love should walk
- over it triumphant, unwearied, and find a fairer romance at the end. Were
- there not written in the books words to that effect? Babbie moved in a
- world of dreams, where knights were ever coming home from distant places,
- or, at least, where every one found happiness after great trouble. She
- looked up into Mr. Solley's eyes and thought them romantic to a degree.
- When she heard he had never married the thing seemed as good as proved.
- And the little old lady at the Institute with the old-fashioned rolled
- curls above her ears—what a sequel!
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a white winter day. The elms looked so cold against the sky that it
- was difficult to remember they had ever been green, or believe it was in
- them to put forth leaves once more. The wind drove the sharp-edged
- particles of snow directly in Babbie's face, and she put her head down,
- covering her mouth with her furs. She turned in at the Solley house, and
- found herself in the drawing-room, facing that tall, thin,
- military-looking old man, and feeling out of breath and troubled what to
- do first. But Mr. Solley was not a man to let any girl whatever be ill at
- ease, and surely not one with cheeks and eyes and soft hair like Babbie
- Cutting. Presently they were experienced friends. Babbie sat in Mr.
- Solley's great chair and stretched her hands toward the fire. Mr. Solley
- was persuaded to take up his cigar again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had not dared to hope,” he said, “that my native place would welcome me
- so charmingly. I have made so many new friends, or rather they seemed to
- be friends already, though unknown to me, that I seem to begin life again.
- I seem to start it all over. I should have returned sooner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I'm sure you should have,” said Babbie, eagerly. “And do you know who
- is living at the Institute now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Institute? I had almost forgotten the Institute, and I am a trustee,
- which is very neglectful of duty. Who is living at the Institute now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Lucia Gore.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley was silent, and looked at Babbie oddly under his white
- eyebrows, so that her cheeks began to burn, and she was not a little
- frightened, though quite determined and eager.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Lucia lost all her money when the banks failed, and she sold the
- Gore house, and got enough interest to pay her dues and a little more; but
- it seems so sad for Miss Lucia, because people will patronize her, not
- meaning to. But they 're so stupid—or, at least, it doesn't seem
- like Miss Lucia.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did not know she was living,” said Mr. Solley, quietly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how could you—be that way!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley looked steadily at Babbie, and it seemed to him as if her face
- gave him a clue to something that he had groped for in the darkness of
- late, as if some white mist were lifted from the river and he could see up
- its vistas and smoky cataracts. How could he be that way? It is every
- man's most personal and most unsolved enigma—how he came to be that
- way, to be possible as he is. Up the river he saw a face somewhat like
- Babbie's, somewhat more imperious, but with the same pathetic eagerness
- and desire for abundance of life. How could young John Solley become old
- John Solley? Looking into Babbie's eyes, he seemed able to put the two men
- side by side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At one time, Miss Barbara,” he said, “—you will forgive my saying
- so,—I should have resented your reference. Now I am only thinking
- how kind it is of you to forget that I am old.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Babbie did not quite understand, and felt troubled, and not sure of her
- position.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Solley,” she said, “I—I have a letter from Miss Lucia. Do you
- think I might show it to you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It concerns me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Y-yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked down the room and back again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know that you ought, but you have tempted me to wish that you
- would. Thank you.” He put on his glasses and read it slowly. Babbie
- thought he read it like a business letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He ought to turn pale or red,” she thought. “Oh, he oughtn't to wear his
- spectacles on the end of his nose!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley handed back the letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, Miss Barbara,” he said, and began to talk of her
- great-grandmother Cutting.
- </p>
- <p>
- Babbie blinked back her sudden tears. It was very different from a
- romance, where the pages will always turn and tell you the story
- willingly, where the hero always shows you exactly how he feels. She
- thought she would like to cry somewhere else. She stood up to go.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm sorry I'm so silly,” she said, with a little gulp and trying to be
- dignified.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley looked amused, so far as that the wrinkles deepened about his
- eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you be a friend of mine?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Babbie, plaintively, but she did not think she would. How
- could she, and he so cold, so prosaic! She went out into the snow, which
- was driving down Main Street from the Institute. It was four by the town
- clock.
- </p>
- <p>
- They said in Wimberton that Mr. Solley left his house at seven o'clock in
- the evening, and that Stephen, the gardener, held an umbrella in front of
- him to keep off the storm all the way up the hill to the Institute. And
- they said, too, that the lights were left burning in the Solley house, and
- the fire on the hearth, and that the book he was reading when Babbie went
- in lay open on the table. The fire burned itself out. Stephen came in
- late, closed the book, and put out the lights, and in the morning went
- about town saying that Mr. Solley was to enter the Institute as a
- beneficiary.
- </p>
- <p>
- But it is a secret that on that snowy evening Mr. Solley and Miss Lucia
- sat in the great east parlor of the Institute, with a lamp near by, but
- darkness in all the distances about them. His hands were on his
- gold-headed cane; Miss Lucia's rolls of white curls were very tidy over
- her ears, and her fingers were knitting something placidly. She was saying
- it was “quite impossible. One doesn't want to be absurd at seventy-five.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose not,” said Mr. Solley. “I shouldn't mind it. What do you think
- of the other plan?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you want my permission to be a beneficiary,” said Miss Lucia, with her
- eyes twinkling, “I think it would be a proper humiliation for you. I think
- you deserve it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would be no humiliation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was for me—some.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It shall be so no more. I'll make them wish they were all old enough to
- do the same—hem—confound them!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you think of it that way, John?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley was silent for some moments.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know, I have been a busy man,” he said at last, “but there was
- nothing in it all that I care to think over now. And to-day, for the first
- time, that seemed to me strange. It was shown to me—that is, I saw
- it was strange. We have only a few years left, and you will let me be
- somewhat near you while they pass. Isn't that enough? It seems a little
- vague. Well, then, yes. I thought of it that way, as you say. Do you mind
- my thinking of it that way?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Lucia's eyes grew a little tearful, but she managed to hide it by
- settling her glasses. Seventy-five years in a small town make the opinions
- of one's neighbors part of the structure of existence. It was bitter, the
- thought that Main Street tacitly patronized her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, no, I don't mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She dropped her knitting and laughed suddenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think, John,” she said, “that I missed marrying a very nice man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Solley's glasses fell off with surprise. He put them on again and
- chuckled to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My father used to call me a—hem—a fool. He used to state
- things more accurately than you did.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After all, there was no other institute like Wimberton's. The standards of
- other places were no measure for our conduct, and the fact that such
- things were not seen elsewhere was a flattering reason why they should be
- seen in Wimberton; namely, only five beneficiaries, and one of them a rich
- man and a trustee. It was singular, but it suited Wimberton to be
- singular. One thing was plain to all, that if Mr. Solley was a
- beneficiary, then to be a beneficiary was a dignified, well-bred, and
- suitable thing. But one thing was not plain to all, why he chose to be a
- beneficiary. Babbie Cutting went up to the Institute, and coming back,
- wept for pure sentiment in her white-curtained room, with the picture on
- the wall of Sir Lancelot riding down by the whirling river, the island,
- and the gray-walled castle of Shalott.
- </p>
- <p>
- I remember well the great ball and reception that Mr. Solley gave at the
- Institute to celebrate his entry, and how we all paid our respects to the
- five beneficiaries, four old men, who were gracious, but patronizing,—one
- with gold eye-glasses and gold-headed cane,—and Miss Lucia, with the
- rolled curls over her ears. The Institute, from that time on, looked down
- on Main Street with a different air, and never lost its advantage. It
- seemed to many that the second Solley had refounded it for one of those
- whims that are ornamental in the rich. Babbie Cutting said to her heart,
- “He refounded it for Miss Lucia.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was nowhere in Wimberton such dignified society as at the Institute.
- Even so that the last visitor of all seemed only to come by invitation,
- and to pay his respects with proper ceremony: “Sir, or madam, I hope it is
- not an inconvenient time,” or similar phrase.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, not at all. It seems very dark around.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you take my arm? The path is steep and worn, and here is a small
- matter of a river, as you see. I regret that the water is perhaps a trifle
- cold. Yes, one hears so much talk about the other side that one hardly
- knows what to think. There is no hurry. But at this point I say good night
- and leave you. When you were young you often heard good night said when
- the morning was at hand. May it be so. Good night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- NAUSICAA
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Fourteenth
- Infantry, volunteers, were mustered out on the last day of April. Sandy
- Cass and Kid Sadler came that night into the great city of the river and
- the straits with their heads full of lurid visions which they set about
- immediately to realize. Little Irish was with them, and Bill Smith, who
- had had other names at other times. And Sandy woke the next morning in a
- room that had no furniture but a bed, a washstand, a cracked mirror, and a
- chair. He did not remember coming there. Some one must have put him to
- bed. It was not Kid Sadler or Little Irish; they were drunk early, with
- bad judgment. It must have been Bill Smith. A hat with a frayed cord lay
- on the floor. “That's Bill's hat,” he said. “He's got mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray morning filled the window, and carts rattled by in the street. He
- rose and drank from the pitcher to clear the bitterness from his mouth,
- and saw himself in the glass, haggard and holloweyed. It was a clean-cut
- face, with straight, thin lips, straight eyebrows, and brown hair. The
- lips were white and lines ran back from the eyes. Sandy did not think he
- looked a credit to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Some of it's yellow fever,” he reflected, “and some of it's jag. About
- half and half. The squire can charge it to the yellow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He wondered what new thing Squire Cass would find to say to his “rascally
- nephew, that reprobate Ulysses.” Squire Cass was a red-faced gentleman and
- substantial citizen of that calm New England town of Wimberton, which
- Sandy knew very well and did not care for. It was too calm. But it would
- be good for his constitution to go there now. He wondered if his
- constitution would hold out for another night equally joyful; “Maybe it
- might;” then how much of his eighty dollars' back pay was blown in. He put
- on his clothes slowly, feeling through the pockets, collected two
- half-dollars on the way, came to the last and stopped.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Must have missed one;” and began again. But that crumpled wad of bills
- was gone altogether. “Well, if I ain't an orphan!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He remembered last a place with bright glass chandeliers, a gilt cupid
- over the bar, a girl in a frowzy hat, laughing with large teeth, and Kid
- Sadler singing that song he had made up and was so “doggone stuck on”:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “Sandy Cass! A-alas!
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- We 'll be shut up
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- In the lockup
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- If this here keeps on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- It got monotonous, that song.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “Sandy Cass! A-alas!
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A comin' home,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A bummin home—”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- He liked to make poetry, Kid Sadler. You would not have expected it, to
- look at his sloppy mustache, long dry throat, and big hands. The poetry
- was generally accurate. Sandy did not see any good in it, unless it was
- accurate.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “Little Irish is a Catholic, he come from I-er-land;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- He ain't a whole cathedral, nor a new brass band;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- He got religion in 'is joints from the hoonin of a shell,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An 'is auburn hair's burned bricky red from leanin over
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- hell''
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- That was accurate enough, though put in figures of speech, but the Kid was
- still more accurate regarding Bill Smith:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “Nobody knows who Bill Smith is,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- His kin nor yet his kith,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- An nobody cares who Bill Smith is,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- An neither does Bill Smith;”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- which was perfectly true. Anyhow the Kid could not have taken the wad, nor
- Little Irish. It must have been Bill Smith.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was Bill,” he decided.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did not make any special comments. Some thing or other happens to a man
- every day. He went down-stairs, through a dim narrow hallway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hope there don't any one want something of me. I don't believe they 'll
- get it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There were sounds in the basement, but no one met him. In the street the
- Ninth Avenue car rolled by, a block away. He saw a restaurant sign which
- said fearlessly that a stew cost ten cents, went in and breakfasted for
- fifteen, waited on by a thin, weary woman, who looked at his blue coat and
- braided hat with half-roused interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- The cobble-stones on Sixth Avenue were shining and wet. Here and there
- some one in the crowd turned to look after him. It might have been the
- uniform, the loafer's slouch of the hat, taken with the face being young
- and too white.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hands of the station clock stood at ten. He took a ticket to the limit
- of eighty-five cents, heard dimly the name of a familiar junction; and
- then the rumble of the train was under him for an hour. Bill Smith had
- left him his pipe and tobacco. Bill had good points. Sandy was inclined to
- think kindly of Bill's thoughtfulness, and envy him his enterprise. The
- roar of the car-wheels sounded like Kid Sadler's voice, hoarse and choky,
- “A-alas, a-alas!”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was eleven o'clock at the junction. The mist of the earlier morning had
- become a slow drizzle. Trains jangled to and fro in the freight yards. He
- took a road which led away from the brick warehouses, streets of shady
- trees and lawns, and curved to the north, along the bank of a cold, sleepy
- river.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an unpainted, three-room house somewhere, where a fat woman said
- “Good land!” and gave him a plate full of different things, on a table
- covered with oil-cloth. He could not remember afterward what he ate, or
- what the woman said further. He remembered the oil-cloth, which had a
- yellow-feverish design of curved lines, that twisted snakily, and came out
- of the cloth and ran across the plate. Then out in the gray drizzle again.
- </p>
- <p>
- All the morning his brain had seemed to grow duller and duller, heavy and
- sodden; but in the afternoon red lights began dancing in the mist. It
- might have been five miles or twenty he had gone by dusk; the distinction
- between miles and rods was not clear—they both consisted of brown
- mud and gray mist. Sometimes it was a mile across the road. The dusk, and
- then the dark, heaved, and pulsed through blood-red veins, and peeled, and
- broke apart in brilliant cracks, as they used to do nights in the field
- hospital. There seemed to be no hope or desire in him, except in his feet,
- which moved on. The lights that travelled with him got mixed with lights
- on each side of a village street, and his feet walked in through a gate.
- They had no reason for it, except that the gate stood open and was painted
- white. He pushed back the door of a little garden tool-house beside the
- path, and lay down on the floor. He could not make out which of a number
- of things were happening. The Fourteenth Infantry appeared to be bucking a
- steep hill, with the smoke rolling down over it; but on the other hand Kid
- Sadler was singing hoarsely, but distinctly, “A-alas, a-alas!” and
- moreover, a dim light shone through a white-curtained window somewhere
- between a rod and a mile away, and glimmered down the wet path by the
- tool-house. Some one said, “Some of it's jag and some of it's the yellow.
- About half and half.” He might have been making the remark himself, except
- that he appeared to be elsewhere. The rain kept up a thin whisper on the
- roof of the tool-house. Gasps, shouts, thumping of feet, clash of rifle
- and canteen. The hill was as steep as a wall. Little Irish said, “His legs
- was too short to shtep on the back av his neck wid the shteepness av the
- hill.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A-alas! A comin' home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, shut up, Kid!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A-alas, a-alas!” The dark was split with red gashes, as it used to be in
- the field hospital. The rain whispered on the roof and the wet path
- glimmered like silk.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the village of Zoar, which lies far back to the west of Wyantenaug
- Valley, among low waves of hills, the house the old Hare Place, and Miss
- Elizabeth Hare and Gracia lived there behind the white gateway.
- </p>
- <p>
- That gateway had once been an ancient arch overhead, with a green wooden
- ball topping it. Some one cut a face on the ball, that leered into the
- street. It did not in the least resemble Miss Elizabeth, whose smile was
- gentle and cool; but it was taken down from its station of half a century;
- and Gracia cried secretly, because everything would needs be disconsolate
- without an arch and a proper wooden ball on top of it, under which knights
- and witch ladies might come and go, riding and floating. It seemed to
- break down the old garden life. Odd flowers would not hold conversations
- any more, tiger-lilies and peonies bother each other, the tigers being
- snappish and the peonies fat, slow, and irritating. Before Gracia's hair
- had abandoned yellow braids and become mysterious, when she learned neat
- sewing and cross-stitch, she used to set the tigers and peonies
- quarrelling to express her own feelings about neat sewing and
- cross-stitch. Afterward she found the memory of that wickedness too heavy,
- and confessed it to Miss Elizabeth, and added the knights and witch
- ladies. Miss Elizabeth had said nothing, had seemed disinclined to blame,
- and, going out into the garden, had walked to and fro restlessly, stopping
- beside the tigers and peonies, and seeming to look at the arched gateway
- with a certain wistfulness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Elizabeth had now a dimly faded look, the charm of a still November,
- where now and then an Indian summer steals over the chill. She wore tiny
- white caps, and her hair was singularly smooth; while Gracia's appeared
- rather to be blown back, pushed by the delicate fingers of a breeze, that
- privately admired it, away from her eager face, with its gray-blue eyes
- that looked at you as if they saw something else as well. It kept you
- guessing about that other thing, and you got no further than to wonder if
- it were not something, or some one, that you might be, or might have been,
- if you had begun at it before life had become so labelled and defined, so
- plastered over with maxims.
- </p>
- <p>
- The new gateway was still a doubtful quantity in Gracia's mind. It was not
- justified. It had no connections, no consecrations; merely a white gate
- against the greenery.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the whiteness which caught Sandy Cass's dulled eyes, so that he
- turned through, and lay down in the tool-house, and wondered which of a
- number of incongruous things was really happening: Little Irish crying
- plaintively that his legs were too short—“A-alas, a-alas!”—or
- the whisper of the rain on the roof.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gracia lifted the white curtains, looked out, and saw the wet path
- shining.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is it raining, Gracia?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It drizzles like anything, and the tool-house door is open, and, oh,
- aunty! the path shines quite down to the gate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It generally shines in the rain, dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” said Gracia, thoughtfully. She seemed to be examining a sudden idea,
- and began the pretence of a whistle which afterward became a true fact.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish it wouldn't be generally, don't you? I wish things would all be
- specially.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wouldn't wi—I wouldn't whistle, if I were you,” said Miss
- Elizabeth, gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” Gracia came suddenly with a ripple and coo of laughter, and dropped
- on her knees by Miss Elizabeth. “You couldn't, you poor aunty, if you
- tried. You never learned, did you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Elizabeth hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I once tried to learn—of your father. I used to think it sounded
- cheerful. But my mother would n't allow it. What I really started to say
- was, that I wouldn't, if I were you, I wouldn't wish so many things to be
- other than they are. I used to wish for things to be different, and then,
- you know, when they stay quite the same, it's such a number of troubles.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Gracia clasped her fingers about one knee, studied the neatly built fire
- and the blue and white tiles over it, and thought hard on the subject of
- wishes. She thought that she had not wished things to be different, so
- much as to remain the same as of old, when one wore yellow braids, and
- could whistle with approval, and everything happened specially. Because it
- is sad when you begin to suspect that the sun and moon and the growths of
- spring do not care about you, but only act according to habits they have
- fallen into, and that the shining paths, which seem to lead from beyond
- the night, are common or accidental and not meant specially. The elder
- romancers and the latest seers do insist together that they are, that such
- highways indeed as the moon lays on the water are translunary and come
- with purposes from a celestial city. The romancers have a simple faith,
- and the seers an ingenious theory about it. But the days and weeks argue
- differently. They had begun to trouble the fealty that Gracia held of
- romance, and she had not met with the theory of the seers.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy Cass went through experiences that night which cannot be written,
- for there was no sequence in them, and they were translunary and
- sub-earthly; some of them broken fragments of his life thrown up at him
- out of a kind of smoky red pit, very much as it used to be in the field
- hospital. His life seemed to fall easily into fragments. There had not
- been much sequence in it, since he began running away from the house of
- the squire at fifteen. It had ranged between the back and front doors of
- the social structure these ten years. The squire used to storm, because it
- came natural to him to speak violently; but privately he thought Sandy no
- more than his own younger self, let loose instead of tied down. He even
- envied Sandy. He wished he would come oftener to entertain him. Sandy was
- a periodical novel continued in the next issue, an irregular and barbarous
- Odyssey, in which the squire, comparing with his Pope's translation,
- recognized Scylla and Charybdis, Cyclops and Circe, and the interference
- of the quarrelling gods. But that night the story went through the Land of
- Shadows and Red Dreams. Sandy came at last to the further edge of the
- Land; beyond was the Desert of Dreamless Sleep; and then something white
- and waving was before his eyes, and beyond was a pale green shimmer. He
- heard a gruff voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hm—Constitution, Miss Hare. That chap had a solid ancestry. He
- ought to have had a relapse and died, and he 'll be out in a week.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Another voice said in an awed whisper:
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's like my Saint George!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hm—Legendary? This St. G. looks as if he'd made up with his devil.
- Looks as if they'd been tolerably good friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A third voice remonstrated:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doctor!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hm, hm—My nonsense, Miss Gracia, my nonsense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The two ladies and the doctor went out.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a long, low room, white, fragrant, and fresh. Soft white curtains
- waved in open windows, and outside the late sunlight drifted shyly through
- the pale green leaves of young maples. There were dainty things about,
- touches of silk and lace, blue and white china on bureau and
- dressing-table, a mirror framed with gilded pillars at the sides and a
- painted Arcadia above.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, if I ain't an orphan!” grumbled Sandy, feebly.
- </p>
- <p>
- An elderly woman with a checked apron brought him soup in a bowl. She was
- quite silent and soon went out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's pretty slick,” he thought, looking around. “I could n't have done
- better if I'd been a widow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The drifting quiet of the days that Sandy lay there pleased him for the
- time. It felt like a cool poultice on a wound. The purity and fragility of
- objects was interesting to look at, so long as he lay still and did not
- move about among them. But he wondered how people could live there right
- along. They must keep everything at a distance, with a feather-duster
- between. He had an impression that china things always broke, and white
- things became dirty. Then it occurred to him that there might be some
- whose nature, without any worry to themselves, was to keep things clean
- and not to knock them over, to touch things in a feathery manner, so that
- they did not have to stay behind a duster. This subject of speculation
- lasted him a day or two, and Miss Elizabeth and Gracia began to interest
- him as beings with that special gift. He admired any kind of capability.
- Miss Elizabeth he saw often, the woman in the checked apron till he was
- tired of her. But Gracia was only now and then a desirable and fleeting
- appearance in the doorway, saying:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good morning, Saint George.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She never stayed to tell him why “Saint George.” It came to the point that
- the notion of her yellow hair would stay by him an hour or more afterward.
- He began to wake from his dozes, fancying he heard “Good morning, Saint
- George,” and finally to watch the doorway and fidget.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This lying abed,” he concluded, “is played out.” He got up and hunted
- about for his clothes. His knees and fingers trembled. The clothes hung in
- the closet, cleaned and pressed, in the extraordinary neighborhood of a
- white muslin dress. Sandy sat down heavily on the bed. Things seemed to be
- whizzing and whimpering all about him. He waited for them to settle, and
- pulled on his clothes gradually. At the end of an hour he thought he might
- pass on parade, and crept out into the hall and down the stairs. The
- sunlight was warm in the garden and on the porch, and pale green among the
- leaves. Gracia sat against a pillar, clasping one knee. Miss Elizabeth
- sewed; her work-basket was fitted up inside on an intricate system. Gracia
- hailed him with enthusiasm, and Miss Elizabeth remonstrated. He looked
- past Miss Elizabeth to find the yellow hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This lying abed,” he said feebly, “is played out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sitting in the sunlight, Sandy told his story gradually from day to day.
- It was all his story, being made up of selections. He was skilful from
- practice on the squire, but he saw the need of a new principle of
- selection and combination. His style of narrative was his own. It
- possessed gravity, candor, simplicity, an assumption that nothing could be
- unreasonable or surprising which came in the course of events, that all
- things and all men were acceptable. Gracia thought that simplicity
- beautiful, that his speech was like the speech of Tanneguy du Bois, and
- that he looked like Saint George in the picture which hung in her room—a
- pale young warrior, such as painters once loved to draw, putting in those
- keen faces a peculiar manhood, tempered and edged like a sword. Sandy
- looked oddly like him, in the straight lines of brow and mouth. Saint
- George is taking a swift easy stride over the dead dragon, a kind of
- level-eyed daring and grave inquiry in his face, as if it were Sandy
- himself, about to say, “You don't happen to have another dragon? This one
- wasn't real gamy. I'd rather have an average alligator.” She laughed with
- ripples and coos, and struggled with lumps in her throat, when Sandy
- through simplicity fell into pathos. It bewildered her that the funny
- things and pathetic things were so mixed up and run together, and that he
- seemed to take no notice of either of them. But she grew stern and
- indignant when Bill Smith, it was but probable, robbed the unsuspecting
- sleep of his comrade.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see,” said Sandy, apologetically, “Bill was restless, that was the
- reason. It was his enterprise kept bothering him. Likely he wanted it for
- something, and he could n't tell how much I might need without waking me
- up to ask. And he couldn't do that, because that'd have been ridiculous,
- would n't it? Of course, if he'd waked me up to ask how much I wanted,
- because he was going to take the rest with him, why, of course, I'd been
- obliged to get up and hit him, to show how ridiculous it was. Of course
- Bill saw that, and what could he do? Because there wasn't any way he could
- tell, don't you see? So he left the pipe and tobacco, and a dollar for
- luck, and lit out, being—a—restless.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Gracia wondered at and gloried in the width of that charity, that
- impersonal and untamed tolerance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Sandy took up the subject of Kid Sadler. He felt there was need of
- more virtue and valor. He took Kid Sadler and decorated him. He fitted him
- with picturesque detail. The Kid bothered him with his raucous voice,
- froth-dripped mustache, lean throat, black mighty hands, and smell of
- uncleanness. But Sandy chose him as a poet. It seemed a good start. Gracia
- surprised him by looking startled and quite tearful, where the poet says:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “Nobody cares who Bill Smith is,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- An neither does Bill Smith;”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- which had seemed to Sandy only an accurate statement.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Kid's poetry needed expurgation and amendment. Sandy did it
- conscientiously, and spent hours searching for lines of similar rhyme,
- which would not glance so directly into byways and alleys that were
- surprising.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “A comin' home,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A roamin' home—”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “I told the Kid,” he added critically, “roamin' wasn't a good rhyme, but
- he thought it was a pathetic word.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “Oh, when I was a little boy 't was things I did n't know,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An when I growed I knowed a lot of things that was n't so;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An now I know a few things that's useful an selected:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- As how to put hard liquor where hard liquor is expected—”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- and so on, different verses, which the Kid called his “Sing Song.” Sandy's
- judgment hung in doubt over this whether the lines were objectionable. He
- tempered the taste of the working literary artist for distinct flavor, and
- his own for that which is accurate, with the cautions of a village library
- committee, and decided on,
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “An puts them things in moral verse to uses onexpected.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know what he meant by 'onexpected,'” Sandy commented with a sense
- of helplessness, “but maybe he meant that he didn't know what he did mean.
- Because poets,” getting more and more entangled, “poets are that kind they
- can take a word and mean anything in the neighborhood, or something
- that'll occur to 'em next week.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Gracia admired the Kid, though Miss Elizabeth thought she ought to refer
- to him as Mr. Sadler, which seemed a pity. And she declared a violent love
- for Little Irish, because “his auburn hair turned bricky red with falling
- down a well,” and because he wished to climb hills by stepping on the back
- of his neck. It was like Alice's Adventures, and especially like the White
- Knight's scheme to be over a wall by putting his head on top and standing
- on his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- After all humors and modifications, Sandy's story was a wild and strange
- thing. It took new details from day to day, filling in the picture. To
- Gracia's imagination it spread out beyond romance, full of glooms,
- flashes, fascinations, dangers of cities, war and wilderness, and in spite
- of Sandy's self-indifference, it was he who dominated the pilgrimage,
- coloring it with his comment. The pilgrim appeared to be a person to whom
- the Valley of the Shadow of Death was equally interesting with Vanity
- Fair, and who entering the front gate of the Celestial City with rejoicing
- would presently want to know whither the back gate would take him. It
- seemed a pilgrimage to anywhere in search of everything, but Gracia began
- to fancy it was meant to lead specially to the new garden gate that opened
- so broadly on the street, and so dreamed the fancy into belief. She saw
- Sandy in imagination coming out of the pit-black night and lying down in
- the tool-house by the wet shining path. The white gate was justified.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy's convalescence was not a finished thing, but he was beginning to
- feel energy starting within him. Energy! He knew the feeling well. It was
- something that snarled and clawed by fits.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm a wildcat,” he said to himself reflectively, “sitting on eggs. Why
- don't he get off? Now,” as if addressing a speculative question for
- instance to Kid Sadler, “he could n't expect to hatch anything, could he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was such a question as the Kid would have been pleased with, and have
- considered justly. “Has he got the eggs?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know. It's a mixed figure, Kid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does he feel like he wanted to hatch 'em?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What'd he do with 'em hatched? That's so, Kid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Is</i> he a wildcat?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yep.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is. Can a wildcat hatch eggs? No, he can't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A wildcat”—the Kid would have enjoyed following this figure—“ain't
- an incubator. There ain't enough peacefulness in him. He'd make a yaller
- mess of 'em an' take to the woods with the mess on his whiskers. It stands
- to reason, don't it? He ain't in his own hole on a chickadee's nest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy stood looking over the gate into the village street, which was
- shaded to dimness by its maples, a still, warm, brooding street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like an incubator,” he thought, and heard Gracia calling from up the
- path:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Saint George!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy turned. She came down the path to the gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aren't you going to fix the peony bed?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not,” said Sandy, “if you stay here by the gate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Gracia looked away from him quickly into the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's warm and quiet, isn't it? It's like—”
- </p>
- <p>
- Zoar was not to her like anything else.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like an incubator,” said Sandy, gloomily, and Gracia looked up and
- laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I shouldn't have thought of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kid Sadler would have said it, if he'd been here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just his kind of figure. And he'd be saying further it was time Sandy
- Cass took to the woods.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had an irritating spasm of desire to touch the slim white fingers on
- the gate. Gracia moved her hands nervously. Sandy saw the fingers tremble,
- and swore at himself under his breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, Saint George?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thinking he was a wildcat and he'd make a yel—a—Maybe
- thinking he didn't look nat—I mean,” Sandy ended very lamely, “the
- Kid'd probably use figures of speech and mean something that'd occur to
- him by and by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're not well yet. You're not going so soon,” she said, speaking quite
- low.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy meditated a number of lies, and concluded that he did not care for
- any of them. He seemed to dislike them as a class.
- </p>
- <p>
- This kind of internal struggle was new and irritating. He had never known
- two desires that would not compromise equably, or one of them recognize
- its place and get out of the road. The savage restlessness in his blood,
- old, well-known, expected, something in brain and bone, had always carried
- its point and always would. He accounted for all things in all men by
- reference to it, supposing them to feel restless, the inner reason why a
- man did anything. But here now was another thing, hopelessly fighting it,
- clinging, exasperating; somewhere within him it was a kind of solemn-eyed
- sorrow that looked outward and backward over his life, and behold, the
- same was a windy alkali desert that bore nothing and was bitter in the
- mouth; and at the ends of his fingers it came to a keen point, a desire to
- touch Gracia's hair and the slim fingers on the gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gracia looked up and then away.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're not well yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've been uncommonly good to me, and all—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mustn't speak of it that way. It spoils it.” It seemed to both as if
- they were swaying nearer together, a languid, mystical atmosphere
- thickening about them. Only there was the drawback with Sandy of an inward
- monitor, with a hoarse voice like Kid Sadler's, who would be talking to
- him in figures and proverbs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Keep away from china an' lace; they break an' stain; this thing has been
- observed. Likewise is love a bit o' moonlight, sonny, that's all, an' a
- tempest, an' a sucked orange. Come out o' that, Sandy, break away; for, in
- the words o' the prophet, 'It's no square game,' an' this here girl, God
- bless her! but she plays too high, an' you can't call her, Sandy, you
- ain't got the chips. Come away, come away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And that,” Sandy concluded the council, “is pretty accurate. I'm broke
- this deal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood up straight and looked at Gracia with eyes drawn and narrowed.
- </p>
- <p>
- She felt afraid and did not understand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know me. If you knew me, you'd know I have to go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind rose in the afternoon, and blew gustily through street and
- garden. The windows of Miss Elizabeth's sitting-room were closed. The
- curtains hung in white, lifeless folds. But in Gracia's room above the
- windows were open, and the white curtains shook with the wind. Delicate
- and tremulous, they clung and moulded themselves one moment to the
- casement, and then broke out, straining in the wind that tossed the maple
- leaves and went up and away into the wild sky after the driving clouds.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sandy turned north up the village street, walking irresolutely. It might
- be thirty miles to Wimberton. The squire had sent him money. He could
- reach the railroad and make Wimberton that night, but he did not seem to
- care about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Out of the village, he fell into the long marching stride, and the motion
- set his blood tingling. Presently he felt better; some burden was shaken
- off; he was foot-loose and free of the open road, looking to the friction
- of event. At the end of five miles he remembered a saying of Kid Sadler's,
- chuckled over it, and began humming other verses of the “Sing Song,” so
- called by the outcast poet.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “Oh, when I was a little boy, I laughed an then I cried,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An ever since I done the same, more privately, inside.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- There's a joke between this world an me 'n it's tolerable grim,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An God has got his end of it, an some of it's on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- For he made a man with his left han, an the rest o' things
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- with his right;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- An the right knew not what the left han did, for he hep
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- it out o' sight.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- It's maybe a Wagner opery, it ain't no bedtime croon,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- When the highest note in the universe is a half note out
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- o' tune''
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “That appears to be pretty accurate,” he thought. “Wonder how the Kid
- comes to know things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He swung on enjoying the growth of vigor, the endless, open, travelled
- road, and the wind blowing across his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- SANDERSON OF BACK MEADOWS
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ack Meadows lies
- three miles to the northwest of Hagar, rich bottom-lands in Sanderson
- Hollow, and the Cattle Ridge shelters it on the north. Five generations of
- Sandersons have added to the Sanderson accumulation of this world's goods,
- without sensible interference on the part of moths or rust or thieves that
- break through and steal. Cool, quiet men, slow of speech and persistent of
- mood, they prospered and lived well where other families, desiring too
- many things or not desiring anything enough, found nothing at all
- desirable and drifted away. The speculative traveller, hunting “abandoned
- farms,” or studying the problem of the future of New England's outlying
- districts, who should stand on the crest of the Cattle Ridge overlooking
- the sheltered valley, would note it as an instance of the problem
- satisfactorily solved and of a farm which, so far from abandonment, smiled
- over all its comfortable expanse in the consciousness of past and
- certainty of future occupancy. These were ready illustrations for his
- thesis, if he had one: the smooth meadows, square stone walls and herds of
- fawn-colored cattle, large bams and long stables of the famous Sanderson
- stud; also the white gabled house among the maples with spreading ells on
- either side, suggesting a position taken with foresight and carefully
- guarded and secured—a house that, recognizing the uncertainties and
- drifting currents of the world, had acted accordingly, and now could
- afford to consider itself complacently. The soul of any individual
- Sanderson might be required of him, and his wisdom relative to eternity be
- demonstrated folly, but the policy of the Sanderson family had not so far
- been considered altogether an individual matter. Even individually, if the
- question of such inversion of terms ever occurred to a Sanderson, it only
- led to the conclusion that it was strictly a Pickwickian usage, and, in
- the ordinary course of language, the policy of building barns, stowing
- away goods and reflecting complacently thereon, still came under the head
- of wisdom.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Cullom Sanderson, sister of Israel Sanderson of the last generation
- and married into a distant branch of the Sanderson family, carried her
- materialism with an unconscious and eccentric frankness that prevented the
- family from recognizing in her a peculiar development of its own quality.
- When Israel's gentle wife passed from a world which she had found too full
- of unanswered questions, it was Mrs. Cullom who plunged bulkily into the
- chamber of the great mystery and stopped, gulping with astonishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I just made her some blanc-mange,” she gasped. “Isn't that too bad! Why,
- Israel!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Israel turned from the window and contemplated her gravely with his hands
- clasped behind him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you had better move down to the Meadows, Ellen,” he said. “If you
- will contrive to say as little as possible to me about Marian, and one or
- two other matters I will specify, we shall get along very well.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He went out with slow step and bent head, followed by Mrs. Cullom trying
- vainly to find an idea on the subject suggested, which she was quite
- positive she had somewhere about her. What Israel may have thought of the
- thing that had whispered within his doors in an unknown tongue, and had
- taken away what was his without receipt or equivalent exchange, it were
- hard to say; equally hard even to say what he had thought of Marian these
- twenty years. If her cloistral devotions and visionary moods had seemed to
- him, in uninverted terms, folly, he had never said so. Certainly he had
- liked her quiet, ladylike ways, and possibly respected a difference of
- temperament inwardly as well as outwardly. At any rate, tolerance was a
- consistent Sanderson policy and philosophy of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a slight movement in the chamber, after the silence which
- followed the departing footsteps of Israel and Mrs. Cullom. A small person
- in pinafores crept stealthily from under the bed and peered over the edge.
- It was a hard climb but he persisted, and at last seated himself on it
- panting, with his elbows on his knees, gravely considering. A few hours
- since, the silent lips had whispered, among many things that came back to
- his memory in after years like a distant chime of bells, only this that
- seemed of any immediate importance: “I shall be far away to-night, Joe,
- but when you say your prayers I shall hear.” The problem that puckered the
- small brow was whether prayers out of regular hours were real prayers. Joe
- decided to risk it and, getting on his knees, said over all the prayers he
- knew. Then he leaned over and patted the thin, cold cheek (Joe and his
- mother always tacitly understood each other), slid off the bed with a
- satisfied air, and solemnly trotted out of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Cullom Sanderson was a widow; “Which,” Israel remarked, “is a pity.
- Cullom would have taken comfort in outliving you, Ellen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean,
- Israel. I've always respected his memory.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Israel, gravely regarding her, observed, “You'd better not try to train
- Joe,” and departed, leaving her to struggle with the idea that between Joe
- and Cullom's comfort Israel was getting very disconnected. Disconnection
- of remark did not imply any changeableness in Israel's temperament. He
- observed a silent sequence of character, and possibly a sequence of
- thought of which he did not care to give evidence, on matters which he
- found no profit in discussing. Twelve years later the mystery again
- whispered within his doors, and he rose and followed it in his usual
- deliberate and taciturn way, without disclosing any opinion on the
- question of the inversion of terms. The story of each generation is put
- away when its time comes with a more or less irrelevant epitaph, whether
- or not its threads be gathered into a satisfactory finale. The
- Spirit-of-things-moving-on is singularly indifferent to such matters. Its
- only literary principle seems to be, to move on. The new Sanderson of Back
- Meadows grew up a slight, thin-faced young fellow. The Sanderson men were
- always slight of build, saving a certain breadth of shoulders. A drooping
- mustache in course of time hid the only un-Sanderson feature, a sensitive
- mouth. The cool gray eyes, slightly drawling speech, and deliberate manner
- were all Sanderson, indicating “a chip of the old block,” as Mr. Durfey
- remarked to the old Scotchman who kept the drag store in Hagar. If the
- latter had doubts, he kept them to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Sanderson stud sprang from a certain red mare, Martha, belonging to
- Blake Sanderson of Revolutionary times. They were a thin-necked, generally
- bad-tempered breed, with red veins across the eyes, of high repute among
- “horsey” men. Blake Sanderson was said to have ridden the red mare from
- Boston in some astonishingly quick time on some mysterious errand
- connected with the evacuation of New York, whereby her descendants were at
- one time known as the Courier breed; but as no one seemed to know what the
- errand was, it was possibly not a patriotic one. Three of these red,
- thinnecked mares and a stallion were on exhibition at the Hamilton County
- Fair of '76. Notable men of the county were there, mingled with turfmen of
- all shades of notoriety; several immaculately groomed gentlemen,
- tall-hatted, long-coated, and saying little, but pointed out with
- provincial awe as coming from New York and worth watching; a few lean
- Kentuckians, the redness of whose noses was in direct ratio with their
- knowledge of the business, and whose artistic profanity had a mercantile
- value in expressing contempt for Yankee horse-flesh. There was the
- Honorable Gerald and the some-say Dishonorable Morgan Map, originally
- natives of Hagar, with young Jacob Lorn between them undergoing astute
- initiation into the ways of the world and its manner of furnishing
- amusement to young men of wealth; both conversing affably with Gypsy John
- of not even doubtful reputation, at present booming Canadian stock in
- favor of certain animals that may or may not have seen Canada. Thither
- came the manager of the opera troupe resident in Hamilton during the Fair,
- and the Diva, popularly known as Mignon, a brown-haired woman with a quick
- Gallic smile and a voice, “By gad, sir, that she can soak every note of it
- in tears, the little scamp,” quoth Cassidy, observing from a distance.
- Cassidy was a large fleshy man with a nickel shield under his coat.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- “A face to launch a thousand ships,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- And burn the topless towers of Ilium''
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- misquoted a tall, thin personage with an elongated face and sepulchral
- voice. “The gods made you poetical, Mr. Cassidy. Do you find your gift of
- sentiment of use on the force?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir,” shouted Cassidy, inadvertently touched on one of innumerable
- hobbies and beginning to pound one hand excitedly with the fist of the
- other. “In fine cases, sir, the ordinary detective slips up on just that
- point. Now let me tell you, Mr. Mavering—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me whether that is not Mignon's 'mari.' What sort of a man is he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mignon's what? Oh—Manager Scott. He isn't married, further than
- that he's liable to rows on account of Mignon, who—has a face to
- upset things as you justly observe, not to speak of a disposition
- according. At least, I don't know but what they may be married. If they
- are, they're liable to perpetuate more rows than anything else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Does something smack, something grow to, has a kind of taste?”'
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eh?” said Cassidy, inquiringly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson, standing silently by, as silently turned and walked toward the
- crowd drifting back and forth in front of the stables. Portly Judge Carter
- of Gilead, beaming through gold-rimmed glasses, side-whiskered and
- rubicund, stopped him to remark tremendously that he had issued an
- injunction against the stallion going out of the state. “A matter of local
- patriotism, Joe, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hear, hear,” commented the Honorable Gerald Map. A crowd began to gather
- anticipating a conference of notables. Sanderson extricated himself and
- walked on, and two small boys eventually smacked each other over the
- question whether Judge Carter was as great a man as Mr. Sanderson.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mavering's eyes followed him speculatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's the particular combination that troubles the manager's rest?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eh?” said Cassidy. “Oh, I don't know. Bob Sutton mostly. He's here
- somewhere. Swell young fellow in a plush vest, fashionable proprietor of
- thread mills.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The yellow, dusty road ran between the stables and a battle line of
- sycamores and maples. Over the stables loomed the brick wall of the
- theatre, and at the end of them a small green door for the private use of
- exhibitors gave exit from the Fair Grounds. Sanderson stopped near a group
- opposite it, where Mignon stood slapping her riding-boot with her whip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Sanderson,” said Mignon, liquidly, “how can I get out through that
- door?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson considered and suggested opening it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it's locked! Ciel! It's locked!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson considered again. “Here's a key,” he said hopefully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There!” shouted the plush vest. “I knew there'd be some solution. You
- see, mademoiselle, what Ave admire in Sanderson is his readiness of
- resource. Mademoiselle refused to melt down the fence with a smile or
- climb over it on a high C, and we were quite in despair.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Outside the gate, in the paved courtyard between the theatre and the
- hotel, Mignon lifted her big brown eyes which said so many things,
- according to Cassidy, that were not so, and observed demurely, “If you
- were to leave me that key, Mr. Sanderson, well, I should steal in here
- after the performance tonight and ride away on the little red mare,
- certainly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson gravely held out the key, but Mignon drew back in sudden alarm
- and clasped her hands tragically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no! You would be on guard and, what! cut up? Yes. Ah, dreadfully! You
- are so wise, Mr. Sanderson, and secret.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Jack Mavering, following slowly after, chuckled sepulchrally to
- himself. “Pretty cool try sting. Peace to the shades of Manager Scott. I
- couldn't have done it better myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Fair Grounds were as dark and lonely at eleven o'clock as if the
- lighted street were not three hundred feet away with its gossipy multitude
- going up and down seeking some new thing. The stands yawned indifferently
- from a thousand vacant seats and the race-track had forgotten its
- excitement. Horses stamped and rustled spectrally in their stalls. The
- shadow under the maples was abysmal and the abyss gave forth a murmur of
- dialogue, the sound of a silken voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” it sighed in mock despair, “but Americans, they are so very
- impassive. Look! They make love in monosyllables. They have no passion, no
- action. They pull their mustachios, say 'Damn!'—so, and it is
- tragedy. They stroke their chins, so, very grave. They say 'It is not bad,
- and it is comedy. Ah, please, Joe, be romantique!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why,” drawled the other voice, “I'll do whatever you like, except have
- spasms.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indifferent! Bah! That's not romantique. How would I look in the house of
- your fathers?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'd look like thunder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would I?” The silken voice sank low and was quiet for a moment. “Well
- then, listen. This shall you do. You shall give me that key and an order
- to your man that I ride the little mare of a Sunday morning, which is
- to-morrow, because she is the wind and because you are disagreeable. Is it
- not so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- A ripple of low laughter by the green door, and “There then. You drive a
- hard bargain in love, monsieur.” The door opened and she stepped with a
- rustle of skirts into and through the paved courtyard, now unlit by lamps
- at the theatre entrance, dark enough for the purposes of Manager Scott, in
- an angle of the entrance pulling his mustache and speaking after the
- manner described by Mignon as tragedy.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the valley of the Wyantenaug many stopped and listened breathlessly by
- barn-yard and entry door to a voice that floated along the still air of
- the Sabbath morning, now carolling like a bobolink, now fluting like a
- wood-thrush, now hushed in the covert of arching trees, and now pealing
- over the meadows by the river bank; others only heard a rush of hoofs and
- saw a little red horse and its rider go by with the electric stride of a
- trained racer. Each put his or her interpretation thereon, elaborately
- detailed after the manner of the region, and approximated the fact of
- Mignon and her purposes as nearly as might be expected. Delight in the
- creation of jewelled sounds as an end in itself; delight in the clear
- morning air of autumn valleys, the sight of burnished leaves and hills in
- mad revelry of color; delight in following vagrant fancies with loose
- rein, happy, wine-lipped elves that rise without reason and know no law;
- delight in the thrill and speed of a sinewy horse compact of nerves;
- however all these may have entered in the purposes of Mignon, they are not
- likely to have entered the conjectures of the inhabitants of Wyantenaug
- Valley, such pleasures of the flesh. Mignon let the mare choose her road,
- confining her own choice to odd matters of going slow or fast or not at
- all, pausing by the river bank to determine the key and imitate the
- quality of its low chuckle, and such doings; all as incomprehensible to
- the little red mare as to the inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley.
- </p>
- <p>
- The valley is broad with cup-shaped sides, save where the crowding of the
- hills has thrust one forward to stand in embarrassed projection. Some
- twenty miles above Hamilton rises Windless Mountain on the right, guarding
- from the world the village of Hagar behind it. Northward from Windless lie
- irregular hills, and between them and the long westward-inclining tumulus
- of the Cattle Ridge a narrow gorge with a tumbling brook comes down. Up
- this gorge goes a broad, well-kept road, now bridging the brook, now
- slipping under shelving ledges, everywhere carpeted with the needles of
- pines, secret with the shadows of pines, spicy and strong with the scent
- of pines, till at the end of half a mile it emerges from beneath the pines
- into Sanderson Hollow. The little red mare shot from the gloom into the
- sunlight with a snort and shake of the head that seemed to say: “Oh, my
- hoofs and fetlocks! Deliver me from a woman who makes believe to herself
- she is n't going where she is, or if she is that it's only accidental.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Cullom Sanderson ponderously made ready for church, not with a mental
- preparation of which the minister would have approved unless he had seen
- as clearly as Mrs. Cullom the necessity of denouncing in unmeasured terms
- the iniquity of Susan. Susan was a maid who tried to do anything that she
- was told, and bumped her head a great deal. Her present iniquity lay in
- her fingers and consisted in tying and buttoning Mrs. Cullom and putting
- her together generally so that she felt as if she had fallen into her
- clothes from different directions. A ring at the door-bell brought Mrs.
- Cullom down from heights of sputtering invective like an exhausted
- sky-rocket, and she plumped into a chair whispering feebly, “Goodness,
- Susan, who's that?” Susan vaguely disclaimed all knowledge of “that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might find out,” remonstrated Mrs. Cullom, the reaction precluding
- anything but a general feeling of injury. Susan went down-stairs and
- bumped her head on the chandelier, opened the door and bumped it on the
- door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ouch,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Please, ma'am, Miss
- Sanderson wants to know, who's that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” said the trim little lady in riding-habit, “will you so kindly ask
- Miss Sanderson that I may speak to her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Mrs. Cullom was already descending the stairs, each step appearing to
- Mignon to have the nature of a plunge. “My goodness, yes. Come in.” Mignon
- carried her long skirt over the lintel.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am quite grieved to intrude, mademoi—” Mrs. Cullom's matronly
- proportions seemed to discountenance the diminutive, “a—madame. Mr.
- Sanderson permitted me to ride one of his horses. He is so generous. And
- the horse brought me here, oh, quite decisively,” and Mignon laughed such
- a soft, magical laugh that Susan grinned in broad delight. “It is such a
- famous place, this, is it not,—Back Meadows? I thought I might be
- allowed to—to pay tribute to its fame.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Cullom's cordiality was such that if, strictly speaking, two hundred
- pounds can flutter, she may be said to have fluttered. She plunged through
- two sombre-curtained parlors, Mignon drifting serenely in the wake of her
- tumult. Something in the black, old colonial furniture sent a feeling of
- cold gruesomeness into her sunny veins, and she was glad when Mrs. Cullom
- declared it chilly and towed her into the dining-room, where a warm light
- sifted through yellow windows of modern setting high over a long,
- irregular sideboard, and mellowed the portraits of departed Sandersons on
- the walls: honorables numerous of colonial times (Blake, first of the
- horse-breeding Sandersons, booted and spurred but with too much thinness
- of face and length of jaw for a Squire Western type), all flanked by
- dames, with a child here and there, above or below—all but the late
- Israel, whose loneliness in his gilt frame seemed to have a certain
- harmony with his expression.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was Joseph's father, my brother Israel,” said Mrs. Cullom, as
- Mignon's eyes travelled curiously along and rested on the last. “Joseph
- keeps his mother hung up in his den.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hung up? Den?” cried Mignon, with a recurrence of the gruesome feeling of
- the parlors. “Oh, ciel! What does he keep there? Bones?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bones! Goodness no. Books.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Cullom pushed open a door to the right and entered a long, low room
- piled to the ceiling and littered with books, which, together with the
- leathern chair and red-shaded lamp before the fireplace, gave a decided
- air of studious repose, nothing suggesting a breeder of fancy stock. An
- oil painting of a lady hung over the mantel, and near it some mediæval
- Madonna, not unresembling the portrait in its pale cheeks, unworldly eyes,
- and that faint monastic air of vigil and vision and strenuous yearning of
- the soul to throw its dust aside. Nevertheless the face of the lady was a
- sweet face, quiet and pure, such as from many a Madonna of the Old World
- in tawdry regalia looks pityingly down over altar and winking tapers,
- seeming to say with her tender eyes, “Is it very hard, my dear, the
- living? Come apart then and rest awhile.” Mignon turned to Mrs. Cullom.
- “You are dressed for going out, madame,” she said, looking at that lady's
- well-to-do black silk. “Am I not detaining you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I was going to church. Goodness, are n't you going to church?” A
- sudden thought struck her and she added severely: “And you've been riding
- that wicked little mare on Sunday. And she might have thrown you, and
- how'd you look pitched headfirst into heaven dressed so everybody ud know
- you weren't going to church!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” cried Mignon, “but I was good when I was a child. Yes! I went to
- mass every day, and had a little prie-dieu, oh, so tiny!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mass!” gasped Mrs. Cullom. “Well, I declare. What's a pray-do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mignon surveyed her riding-skirt regretfully. “Would it not be
- appropriate, madame? I should so like to go with you,” she said
- plaintively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Goodness! I'll risk it if you will. I'd like to see the woman who'd tell
- me what to wear to church.” She plunged suddenly out of the room, leaving
- Mignon thinking that she would not like to be the woman referred to. She
- listened to the ponderous footsteps of Mrs. Cullom climbing the stairs,
- and then sank into the leathern chair facing the picture. Possibly the
- living and the dead faced each other on a point at issue; they seemed to
- debate some matter gravely and gently, as is seldom done where both are
- living. Possibly it was Mignon's dramatic instinct which caused her to
- rise at last, gathering up her riding-skirt, at the approaching footsteps
- of Mrs. Cullom, and bow with Gallic grace and diminutive stateliness to
- the pure-faced lady with the spiritual eyes. “C'est vrai, madame,” she
- said, and passed out with her small head in the air.
- </p>
- <p>
- The congregation that day in the little church of the bended weather-vane,
- where Hagar's cross-roads meet, heard certain ancient hymns sung as never
- before in the church of the bended weather-vane. “Rock of Ages, cleft for
- me,” pleaded the silken voice, like a visitant invisible, floating from
- fluted pillar to fluted pillar, calling at some unseen door, “Let me in!
- Ah, let me in!” Somewhat too much of rose leaves and purple garments in
- the voice for that simple, steadfast music. The spirit seemed pleading
- rather for gratification than rest. The congregation stopped singing, save
- Mrs. Cullom, who flatted comfortably on unnoticed. Deacon Crockett frowned
- ominously over his glasses at a scandalous scene and a woman too
- conspicuous; Captain David Brett showed all the places where he had no
- teeth; Mr. Royce looked down from the pulpit troubled with strange
- thoughts, and Miss Hettie Royce dropped her veil over her face,
- remembering her youth.
- </p>
- <p>
- How should Mignon know she was not expected to be on exhibition in that
- curious place? Of course people should be silent and listen when an artist
- sings. Mignon hardly remembered a time when she was not more or less on
- exhibition. That volatile young lady cantered along the Windless Mountain
- Road somewhat after twelve o'clock not in a very good humor. She
- recognized the ill humor, considered ill humor a thing both unpleasant and
- unnecessary and attributed it to an empty stomach; dismounted before an
- orchard and swung herself over the wall reckless of where her skirts went
- or where they did not.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Them apples is mine,” growled a gray-bearded person behind a barn-yard
- fence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why didn't you get them for me, pig?” returned Mignon sharply, and
- departed with more than her small hands could conveniently carry, leaving
- the gray-bearded person turning the question over dubiously in his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- It happened to have occurred to Sanderson that certain business of his own
- pointed to Back Meadows that Sunday morning. The up-train on Sunday does
- not leave till after eleven, and he took the valley road on the red
- stallion of uncertain temper. The inhabitants of Wyantenaug Valley heard
- no more carolling voices, or fitful rush and clatter of hoofs. The red
- stallion covered his miles with a steady stride and the rider kept his
- emotions, aesthetic or otherwise, to himself. The twain swung into the
- Hollow about eleven o'clock, and Sanderson presently found himself in his
- leathern chair debating a question at issue with the lady of the spiritual
- eyes. What passed between them is their own secret, quite hopeless of
- discovery, with one end of it on the other side of the “valley of the
- shadow,” and the other buried in close coverts of Sanderson reserve. When
- the door-bell rang and Susan appearing bumped her head against the casing
- and announced, “Mr. Joe, it's a red-haired gentleman,” having no dramatic
- instinct, he passed into the dining-room without salutation to the lady of
- the spiritual eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How are you, Scott? Sit down,” he drawled placidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose you know what I'm here for,” said the other, with evident
- self-restraint.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't say I do,” returned Sanderson, cheerfully. “It needn't be anything
- in particular, need it?” He sat down, stretched his legs under the
- dining-room table and his arms on top of it. Manager Scott paced the floor
- nervously. Suddenly he stooped, picked up something and flung it on the
- table—a strip of thin gray veil. “You can save yourself a lie, Mr.
- Sanderson.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson gravely regarded the delicate article which seemed to be put
- forth both as an accusation and a proof of something. Then he leaned
- forward and rang the bell. “I will overlook that implication for the
- present, Mr. Scott,” he remarked. “If it's a bluff, it's a good one. I
- take it it is n't. Susan, has any one been here this morning?” as that
- maiden tumbled into the room in a general tangle of feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir, and she's gone. My! She ain't comin' back to dinner! Lady rode
- the little mare and she went to church with Miss Sanderson.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mademoiselle Mignon,” drawled Sanderson, turning to Manager Scott, “asked
- permission to ride the mare this morning. I was not aware she intended
- making an excursion to Back Meadows or I should have asked permission to
- attend her. It seems she went to Hagar with my aunt and proposes to ride
- back to Hamilton from there. It's my turn now, old man, and I'd like to
- know what was the necessity of making your visit so very tragic.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I presume I'm an ass,” returned the other, with a noticeable nervous
- twitching of the mouth and fingers, “and I presume I owe you an apology. I
- shall probably shoot the man that comes between Mignon and me, if he
- doesn't shoot first, which is all very asinine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Quite irrespective of what mademoiselle may think about it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, quite.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Sanderson, after a pause, “I rather sympathize with your way
- of looking at it. I shouldn't wonder if I had some of that primeval
- brutality myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, Sanderson,” said the manager. “Without going into humiliating
- details as to how I came by the fact, which I don't know why you take so
- much pains to conceal, I know as well as you do that the issue is between
- you and me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't mean to threaten, do you, Scott?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no. I'm going back to Hamilton. I was looking for a row, and you
- don't give me enough to go on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't do it just now, old man,” said Sanderson, gently, shaking hands
- with him at the door. “I'll let you know when I can. In that case we 'll
- have it out between us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The manager strode off across the Hollow and down the Gorge to the valley
- station, and Sanderson mounted and took the road to Hagar. He passed the
- village about one. The red stallion thundered through the pine avenues at
- the foot of Windless and swept around the curve into Wyantenaug Valley,
- but it was not till within a few miles of Hamilton that the speedy little
- mare, even bothered as she was by her rider's infirmity of purpose,
- allowed herself to be overtaken. The road there turned away from the river
- and went covered with crisp autumn leaves through chestnut woods. Mignon
- looked up and laughed, and the two horses fell sympathetically into a
- walk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you think you owe me an explanation?” asked Sanderson, in a low
- tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed, sir, I owe you nothing, not even for this ride. It was paid for,”
- rippled the silken voice, and stopped suddenly in a little sob. Sanderson
- turned quickly and bent over her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By the living God,” he said solemnly, “I swear I love you. What barrier
- is strong enough to face that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is because you do not know me, that. Listen, Joe. I have not been what
- you call good nor pure in the past and shall not in the future. No, hush.
- I know what I am and what I shall be always. If I swore by your living God
- that I loved you now, it would not mean that I should to-morrow, and the
- next day, oh, not at all. There are no deeps in me, nor what you call a
- faith or principle in life. Listen, Joe. That lady whose portrait I saw is
- your guardian angel. Look, I reverence now. To-morrow I shall mock both
- her and you. This that I speak now is only a mood. The wind is now one
- thing and then quite another, Joe. It has no centre and no soul. I am an
- artist, sir. I have moods but no character. Morals! I have none. They go
- like the whiff of the breeze. Nothing that I do lowers or lifts me. It
- passes through me and that is all. Do you not understand?” which indeed
- was hard to do, for the brown eyes were very soft and deep.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If any one else had told me this,” said Sanderson, between his teeth,
- “man or woman, it would never have been said but once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is harder for you than for me, for to-morrow I shall not care and you,
- you will care perhaps a long time. You are fast like these hills. Listen.
- Now, sir, this is our last ride together. We are a cavalier and his lady.
- They are gallant and gay. They wear life and love and death in their hair
- like flowers. They smile and will not let their hearts be sad, for they
- say, 'It is cowardly to be sad: it is brave only to smile.' Is it not so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sanderson's New England reserve fled far away, and he bent over her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It shall be as you say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And to-morrow seemed far enough away, and an hour had its eternal value.
- But the steady old hills could not understand that kind of chronology.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- TWO ROADS THAT MEET IN SALEM
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Salem Road is a
- dusty road. Perhaps it is not really any dustier than other roads, but it
- is straighter than most roads about Hagar. You can see more of it at a
- time, and in that way you can see more dust. Along this road one day many
- years ago came Dr. Wye of Salem in his buggy, which leaned over on one
- side; and the dust was all over the buggy-top, all over the big, gray,
- plodding horse, and all over the doctor's hat and coat. He was tired and
- drowsy, but you would not have suspected it; for he was a red-faced,
- sturdy man, with a beard cut square, as if he never compromised with
- anything. He sat up straight and solid, so as not to compromise with the
- tipping of the buggy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come, Billy,” said the doctor, “no nonsense, now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He prided himself on being a strict man, who would put up with no
- nonsense, but every one knew better. Billy, the gray horse, knew as well
- as any one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come now, Billy, get along.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A tall, dusty, black-bearded man rose up beside the road, and Billy
- stopped immediately.
- </p>
- <p>
- A large pack lay against the bank.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ain't seen a yeller dog?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said the doctor, gruffly. He was provoked with Billy. “There aren't
- any yellow dogs around here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He hadn't no tail,” persisted the stranger, wistfully. “And there were a
- boy a-holdin' him. He chopped it off when he were little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who chopped it off?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hey? He's a little cuss, but the dog's a good dog.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Get up, Billy,” growled the doctor. “All boys are little cusses. I have
- n't seen any yellow dog. Nonsense! I wonder he did n't ask if I'd seen the
- tail.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But somehow the doctor could not get rid of the man's face, and he found
- himself looking along the roadside for boys that were distinctly “little
- cusses” and yellow dogs without tails, all the rest of the day.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the evening twilight he drove into Salem village. Very cool and
- pleasant looked the little white house among the trees. Mother Wye stood
- on the porch in her white apron and cap, watching for him. She was flying
- signals of distress—if the word were not too strong—she was
- even agitated. He tramped up the steps reassuringly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” whispered Mother Wye, “you've no idea, Ned! There's a boy and a dog,
- a very large dog, my dear, on the back steps.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said the doctor, gallantly, “they've no business to be anywhere
- frightening my little mother. We'll tell them to do something else.” The
- doctor tramped sturdily around to the back steps, Mother Wye following
- much comforted.
- </p>
- <p>
- The dog was actually a yellow dog without any tail to speak of—a
- large, genial-looking dog, nevertheless; the boy, a black-eyed boy, very
- grave and indifferent, with a face somewhat thin and long. “Without
- doubt,” thought the doctor, “a little cuss. Hullo,” he said aloud, “I met
- a man looking for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy scrutinized him with settled gravity. “He's not much account,” he
- said calmly. “I'd rather stay here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you would!” grumbled the doctor. “Must think I want somebody around
- all the time to frighten this lady. Nice folks you are, you and your dog.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy turned quickly and took off his cap. “I beg your pardon, madam,”
- he said with a smile that was singularly sudden and winning. The action
- was so elderly and sedate, so very courtly, surprising, and incongruous,
- that the doctor slapped his knee and laughed uproariously; and Mother Wye
- went through an immediate revulsion, to feel herself permeated with
- motherly desires. The boy went on unmoved.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's an easy dog, ma'am. His name's Poison, but he never does anything;”—which
- started the doctor off again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They said you wanted a boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” said the doctor, growing grave, “that's true; but you're not the
- boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy seemed to think him plainly mistaken. “Stuff!” growled the doctor,
- “I want a boy I can send all around the country. I know a dozen boys that
- know the country, and that I know all about. I don't want you. Besides,”
- he added, “he said you were a little cuss.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy paid no attention to the last remark. “I'll find it out. Other
- boys are thick-headed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's true,” the doctor admitted; “they are thick-headed.” Indeed this
- young person's serenity and confidence quite staggered him. A new
- diplomatic idea seemed to occur to the young person. He turned to Mother
- Wye and said gravely: “Will you pull Poison's ear, ma'am, so he'll know
- it's all right?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mother Wye, with some trepidation, pulled Poison's ear, and Poison wagged
- the whole back end of himself to make up for a tail, signifying things
- that were amicable, while the doctor tugged at his beard and objected to
- nonsense.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, young man, we'll see what you have to say for yourself. Tut! tut!
- mother,”—to Mrs. Wye's murmur of remonstrance,—“we'll have no
- nonsense. This is a practical matter;” and he tramped sturdily into the
- house, followed by the serious boy, the amicable dog, and the appeased, in
- fact the quite melted, Mother Wye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, boy,” said the doctor, “what's your name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jack what? Is that other fellow your father?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I reckon maybe he is,” returned Jack, with a gloomy frown. “His name's
- Baker. He peddles.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The doctor tugged at his beard and muttered that “at any rate there
- appeared to be no nonsense about it. But he's looking for you,” he said.
- “He'll take you away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's looking for the dog,” said Jack, calmly. “He can't have him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The East End Road, which circles the eastern end of the Cattle Ridge, is
- not at all like the Salem Road. It is wilder and crookeder, to begin with,
- but that is a superficial matter. It passes through thick woods, dips into
- gullies, and changes continually, while along the Salem Road there is just
- the smoky haze on the meadows and dust in the chalices of the flowers;
- there too the distance blinks stupidly and speculation comes to nothing.
- But the real point is this: the Salem Road leads straight to Hagar and
- stops there; the East End Road goes over somewhere among the northern
- hills and splits up into innumerable side roads, roads that lead to
- doorways, roads that run into footpaths and dwindle away in despair, roads
- of which it must be said with sorrow that there was doubt in Salem whether
- they ever ended or led anywhere. Hence arose the tale that all things
- which were strange and new, at least all things which were to be feared,
- came into Salem over the East End Road; just as in Hagar they came down
- from the Cattle Ridge and went away to the south beyond Windless Mountain.
- </p>
- <p>
- Along this road, a month later than the last incident, came the
- black-bearded peddler with his pack, whistling; and indeed his pack,
- though large, seemed to weigh singularly little; also the peddler seemed
- to be in a very peaceful frame of mind. And along this road too came the
- plodding gray horse, with the serious boy driving, and the yellow dog in
- the rear; all at a pace which slowly but surely overtook the peddler. The
- peddler, reaching a quiet place where a bank of ferns bordered the
- brushwood, sat down and waited, whistling. The dog, catching sight of him,
- came forward with a rush, wagging the back end of himself; and Billy, the
- gray horse, came gently to a standstill.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How goes it?” said the peddler, pausing a moment in his whistling.
- “Pretty good?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mostly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The peddler took a cigar-case from his pocket, a cigar wrapped in tin-foil
- from the case, and lay back lazily among the ferns, putting his long thin
- hands behind his head. “My notion was,” he murmured, “that it would take a
- month, a month would be enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The serious boy said nothing, but sat with his chin on his fists looking
- down the road meditatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My notion was,” went on the peddler, “that a doctor's boy, particularly
- that doctor's boy, would get into all the best houses around—learn
- the lay of things tolerably neat. That was my notion. Good notion, wasn't
- it, Jack?” Jack muttered a subdued assent. The peddler glanced at him
- critically. “For instance now, that big square house on the hill north of
- Hagar.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack shook his head. “Nothing in it. Old man, name Map, rich enough,
- furniture done up in cloth, valuables stored in Hamilton; clock or two
- maybe; nothing in it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” said the other, “just so;” and again he glanced critically through
- his half-closed eyes. “But there are others.” Again Jack muttered a
- subdued assent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The apparent peddler smoked, quite at his ease among the ferns, and seemed
- resolved that the boy should break the silence next.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you banking on this business, dad?” said the latter, finally.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah—why, no, Jack, not really. It's a sort of notion, I admit.” He
- lifted one knee lazily over the other. “I'm not shoving you, Jack. State
- the case.” A long silence followed, to which the conversation of the two
- seemed well accustomed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never knew anything like that down there,” nodding in the direction of
- Salem. “Those people.—It's different.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's so,” assented the apparent peddler, critically. “I reckon it is.
- We make a point not to be low. Polish is our strong point, Jack. But we're
- not in society. We are not, in a way, on speaking terms with society.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It ain't that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn't,” corrected the other, gently. “Isn't, Jack. But I rather think it
- is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Jack, “it's different, and”—with gloomy decision—“it's
- better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The apparent peddler whistled no more, but lay back among the ferns and
- gazed up at the drooping leaves overhead. The gray horse whisked at the
- wood-gnats and looked around now and again inquiringly. The yellow dog
- cocked his head on one side as if he had an opinion worth listening to if
- it were only called for.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose now,” said the apparent peddler, softly, “I suppose now they're
- pretty cosy. I suppose they say prayers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You bet.”.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mean that they do, Jack. I suppose,” he went on dreamily, “I suppose
- the old lady has white hair and knits stockings.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She does that,” said Jack, enthusiastically, “and pincushions and mats.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And pincushions and mats. That's so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The lowing of cattle came up to them from hidden meadows below; for the
- afternoon was drawing near its close and the cattle were uneasy. The
- chimney and roof of a farmhouse were just visible through a break in the
- sloping woods. The smoke that mounted from the chimney seemed to linger
- lovingly over the roof, like a symbol of peace, blessing the hearth from
- which it came. The sentimental outcast puffed his excellent cigar
- meditatively, now and again taking it out to remark, “Pincushions and
- mats!” indicating the constancy of his thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- The serious boy motioned in the direction of Salem. “I think I'll stay
- there,” he said. “It's better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Reckon I know how you feel, Jack,—know how you feel. Give me my
- lowly thatched cottage, and that sort of thing.” After a longer silence
- still, he sat up and threw away his cigar. “Well, Jack, if you see your
- way—a—if I were you, Jack,” he said slowly, “I wouldn't go
- half and half; I'd go the whole bill. I'd turn on the hose and inquire for
- the ten commandments, that's what I'd do.” He came and leaned lazily on
- the carriage wheel. “That isn't very plain. It's like this. You don't
- exactly abolish the old man; you just imagine him comfortably buried;
- that's it, comfortably buried, with an epitaph,—flourishy, Jack,
- flourishy, stating”—here his eyes roamed meditatively along Billy's
- well-padded spine—“stating, in a general way, that he made a point
- of polish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The serious boy's lip trembled slightly. He seemed to be seeking some
- method of expression. Finally he said: “I'll trade knives with you, dad.
- It's six blades”; and the two silently exchanged knives.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Billy, the gray horse, plodded down the hill through the woods, and
- the apparent peddler plodded up. At one turn in the road can be seen the
- white houses of Salem across the valley; and here he paused, leaning on
- the single pole that guarded the edge. After a time he roused himself
- again, swung his pack to his shoulder, and disappeared over the crest of
- the hill whistling.
- </p>
- <p>
- The shadows deepened swiftly in the woods; they lengthened in the open
- valley, filling the hollows, climbed the hill to Salem, and made dusky Dr.
- Wye's little porch and his tiny office duskier still. The office was so
- tiny that portly Judge Carter of Gilead seemed nearly to fill it, leaving
- small space for the doctor. For this or some other reason the doctor
- seemed uncomfortable, quite oppressed and borne down, and remonstrating
- with the oppression. The judge was a man of some splendor, with gold
- eye-glasses and cane.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There really is no doubt about it,” he was saying, with a magnificent
- finger on the doctor's knee, “no doubt at all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The conversation seemed to be most absorbing. The doctor pulled his beard
- abstractedly and frowned.
- </p>
- <p>
- The serious boy drove by outside in the dusk, and after a while came up
- from the bam. He sat down on the edge of the porch to think things over,
- and the judge's voice rolled on oracularly. Jack hardly knew yet what his
- thoughts were; and this was a state of mind that he was not accustomed to
- put up with, because muddle-headedness was a thing that he especially
- despised. “You don't exactly abolish the old man,” he kept hearing the
- peddler say; “you just imagine him comfortably buried—with an
- epitaph—flourishy—stating—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clever, very,” said the judge. “Merriwether was telling me—won't
- catch him, too clever—Merri-wether says—remarkable—interesting
- scamp, very.” The doctor growled some inaudible objection.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did he show himself!” exclaimed the judge. “Why, see here. Observe
- the refined cleverness of it! It roused your interest, didn't it? It was
- unique, amusing. Chances are ten to one you would n't have taken the boy
- without it. Why, look here—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stuff!”—Here the doctor raised his voice angrily. “The boy ran away
- from him, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the judge, soothingly. “But there are other
- things—looks shady—consider the man is known. Dangerous,
- doctor, dangerous, very. You ought to be careful.” Then the words were a
- mere murmur.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack sat still on the porch, with his chin on his hands. Overhead the
- night-hawks called, and now and then one came down with a whiz of swooping
- wings. Presently he heard the chairs scrape; he rose, slipped around to
- the back porch and into the kitchen.
- </p>
- <p>
- The little bronze clock in the dining-room had just told its largest stint
- of hours,—and very hard work it made of it. It was a great trial to
- the clock to have to rouse itself and bluster so. It did not mind telling
- time in a quiet way. But then, every profession has its trials. It settled
- itself again to stare with round, astonished face at the table in the
- centre of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack sat at the table by a dim lamp, the house dark and silent all around
- him, writing a letter. He leaned his head down almost on a level with the
- paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I herd him and you,” he wrote in a round hand with many blots. “I lied
- and so did he I mean dad. I can lie good. Dad sed I must learn the ten
- comandments. The ten comandments says diferent things. You neednt be
- afrad. There dont anithing happen cep to me. I do love Mother Wye tru.”
- The clock went on telling the time in the way that it liked to do,
- tick-tick-tick. Overhead the doctor slept a troubled sleep, and in Gilead
- Judge Carter slept a sound sleep of good digestion.
- </p>
- <p>
- Far off the Salem Road led westward straight to Hagar, and stopped, and
- the moonlight lay over it all the way; but the East End Road led through
- the shadows and deep night over among the northern hills, and split up
- into many roads, some of which did not seem ever to end, or lead anywhere.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack dropped from the window skilfully, noiselessly, and slid away in the
- moonlight. At the Corners he did not hesitate, but took the East End Road.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- A VISIBLE JUDGMENT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e bore the name of
- Adam Wick. There seemed to be something primitive in his temperament to
- fit it. By primitive we mean of such times as may have furnished
- single-eyed passions that did not argue. He was a small, thin, stooping
- man, with a sharp nose and red-lidded eyes. Sarah Wick, his daughter, was
- a dry-faced woman of thirty, and lived with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- His house stood on a hill looking over the village of Preston Plains,
- which lay in a flat valley. In the middle of the village the
- church-steeple shot up tapering and tall.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a bickering community. The church was a centre of interest. The
- outlines of the building were clean and shapely, but in detail it stood
- for a variety of opinions. A raised tracery ran along the pseudo-classic
- frieze of its front, representing a rope of flowers with little cupids
- holding up the loops. They may have been cherubs. The community had
- quarrelled about them long ago when the church was building, but that
- subject had given way to other subjects.
- </p>
- <p>
- The choir gallery bulged over the rear seats, as if to dispute the
- relative importance of the pulpit. That was nothing. But it needed
- bracing. The committee decided against a single pillar, and erected two,
- one of them in the middle of Adam Wick's pew.
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam looked at things simply. It seemed to his simplicity that the
- community had conspired to do him injustice. The spirit of nonconformity
- stirred within him. He went to the minister.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Andrew Hill, nor any other man, nor committeeman's got no rights in my
- pew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister was dignified.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The pew, Mr. Wick, belongs to the church.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No such thing! I sat twenty-four years in that pew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But that, though very creditable—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No such thing! I'll have no post in my pew, for Andrew Hill nor no
- minister neither.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Wick—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You take that post out o' my pew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stumped out of the minister's green-latticed doorway and down the
- gravel path. His eyes on either side of his sharp nose were like those of
- an angry hawk, and his stooping shoulders, seen from behind, resembled the
- huddled back of the hawk, caged and sullen.
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister watched him. Properly speaking, a primitive nature is an
- unlimited monarchy where ego is king, but the minister's reflections did
- not run in these terms. He did not even go so far as to wonder whether
- such primitive natures did not render the current theory of a church
- inaccurate. He went so far as to wonder what Adam Wick would do.
- </p>
- <p>
- One dark, windy night, near midnight, Adam Wick climbed in at the
- vestibule window of the church, and chopped the pillar in two with an axe.
- The wind wailed in the belfry over his head. The blinds strained, as if
- hands were plucking at them from without. The sound of his blows echoed in
- the cold, empty building, as if some personal devil were enjoying the
- sacrilege. Adam was a simple-minded man; he realized that he was having a
- good time himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was three days before the church was opened. What may have been Adam's
- primitive thoughts, moving secretively among his townsmen? Then a sudden
- rumor ran, a cry went up, of horror, of accusation, of the lust of strife.
- Before the accusation Adam did not hesitate to make his defiance perfect.
- The primitive mind was not in doubt. With a blink of his red eyelids, he
- answered:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You tell Andrew Hill, don't you put another post in my pew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A meeting was held; a majority voted enthusiastically to strike his name
- from the rolls for unchristian behavior and to replace the pillar. A
- minority declared him a wronged man. That was natural enough in Preston
- Plains. But Adam Wick's actions at this point were thought original and
- effective by every one.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat silently through the proceedings in the pew with the hacked pillar,
- his shoulders hunched, his sharp eyes restless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Wick,” said the minister, sternly, “have you anything to say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I put fifty-six dollars into this meetin'-house. Any man deny that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- No man denied it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Humph!” said Adam.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took the hymn-book from the rack, lifted the green cushion from the
- seat, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out.
- </p>
- <p>
- No man spoke against it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's no further business before this meeting,” said Chairman Hill.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a Sunday in August and nearly noon. From the side porch of Adam
- Wick's house on the hill the clustered foliage of the village below was
- the centre of the landscape. The steeple and ridgepole of the church rose
- out of the centre of the foliage.
- </p>
- <p>
- The landscape could not be fancied without the steeple. The dumb materials
- of the earth, as well as the men who walk upon it, acquire habits. You
- could read on the flat face of the valley that it had grown accustomed to
- Preston Plains steeple.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the side porch stood a long, high-backed bench. It was a close
- imitation of the pews in the church below among the foliage, with the long
- green cushion on the seat and a chair facing it with a hymn-book on it.
- Adam sat motionless on the bench. His red-lidded eyes were fixed intently
- on the steeple.
- </p>
- <p>
- A hen with a brood of downy yellow chickens pecked about the path. A
- turkey strutted up and down. The air was sultry, oppressive. A low murmur
- of thunder mingled with the sleepy noises of creaking crickets and
- clucking hen.
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam Wick's bench and rule of Sabbath observance had been common talk in
- Preston Plains. But it had grown too familiar, for subjects of dispute
- ever gave way there to other subjects. Some one said it was pathetic. The
- minority thought it a happy instance to throw in the face of the bigoted
- majority, that they had driven from the church a man of religious feeling.
- The minister had consulted Andrew Hill, that thick-set man with the dry
- mouth and gray chin-beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not take out that pillar!” said Andrew Hill. “Ah,” said the minister,
- “I'm afraid that wouldn't do. It would seem like—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wouldn't move that pillar if the whole town was sidin' with him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, now—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not while I'm alive. Adam Wick, he's obstinate.” Mr. Hill shut his mouth
- grimly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Religious! Humph! Maybe he is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister moved away. They were a stiff-necked people, but after all he
- felt himself to be one of them. It was his own race. He knew how Andrew
- Hill felt, as if something somewhere within him were suddenly clamped down
- and riveted. He understood Adam too, in his private pew on the side porch,
- the hymn-book on the chair, his eyes on Preston Plains steeple, fixed and
- glittering. He thought, “We don't claim to be altogether lovely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam was in his own eyes without question a just man suffering injustice.
- His fathers in their Genesis and Exodus had so suffered, faced stocks,
- pillory, the frowning edge of the wilderness, and possessed their souls
- with the same grim congratulation. No generation ever saw visions and
- sweat blood, and left a moderate-minded posterity. Such martyrs were not
- surer that the God of Justice stood beside them than Adam was sure of the
- injustice of that pillar in that pew, nor more resolved that neither death
- nor hell should prevail against the faithfulness of their protest.
- </p>
- <p>
- And the turkey strutted in the yard, the chickens hurried and peeped, the
- thunder muttered at intervals as if the earth were breathing heavily in
- its hot sleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- The church-bell rang for the end of the morning service. It floated up
- from the distance, sweet and plaintive.
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam rose and carried the cushion, chair, and hymn-book into the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- The storm was rising, darkening. It crouched on the hills. It seemed to
- gather its garments and gird its loins, to breathe heavily with crowded
- hate, to strike with daggers of lightning right and left.
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam came out again and sat on the bench. The service being over, it was
- no longer a pew.
- </p>
- <p>
- Carriages, one after another, drove out of the foliage below, and along
- the five roads that ran out of Preston Plains between zigzag fences and
- low stone walls. They were hurrying, but from that distance they seemed to
- crawl.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Wick carriage came up the hill and through the gate—creaking
- wheels, a shambling white horse, Sarah jerking the reins with monotonous
- persistence. She stepped down and dusted off her cotton gloves. Adam
- walked out to take the horse.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wherefore do ye harden your hearts as the Egyptians and Pharaoh hardened
- their hearts?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam seemed puzzled, blinked his eyes, seemed to study carefully the
- contents of his own mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do' know,” he said at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “First Samuel, seven, six,” said Sarah.
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam led the horse away despondently. Halfway to the bam he stopped and
- called out:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did he preach at me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister had chosen a text that Adam did not know, and made no
- reference to him, although the text was a likely one. Adam felt both
- slights in a dim way, and resented them. He came back to the house and sat
- in the front room before the window.
- </p>
- <p>
- The valley was covered with a thick veil of gray rain. The black cloud
- above it cracked every moment with sudden explosions, the echoes of them
- tumbling clumsily among the hills. Preston Plains steeple faded away and
- the foliage below it became a dim blot. A few drops struck the window-pane
- at Adam's face, then a rush and tumult of rain. Dimmer still the valley,
- but the lightning jabbed down into it incessantly, unseen batteries
- playing attack and defence over Preston Plains steeple.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a swift, sudden storm, come and gone like a burst of passion. The
- imminent crack and crash of the thunder ceased, and only rumblings were
- heard, mere memories, echoes, or as if the broken fragments of the sky
- were rolling to and fro in some vast sea-wash. The valley and the village
- trees came slowly into view.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dinner's ready,” said Sarah, in the next room.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had a strident voice, and said dinner was ready as if she expected
- Adam to dispute it. There was no answer from the window.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pa! Aren't you comin'?”
- </p>
- <p>
- No answer. Sarah came to the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pa!”
- </p>
- <p>
- His face was close to the rain-washed window-pane. Something rattled in
- his throat. It seemed like a suppressed chuckle. He rested his chin on his
- hand and clawed it with bony fingers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pa!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned on her sternly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You needn't be shoutin' on the Lord's day. Meetin'-house steeple's
- a-fire.”
- </p>
- <p>
- From Adam Wick's nothing could be seen but the slow column of smoke rising
- and curling around the slender steeple. But under the foliage Preston
- Plains was in tumult.
- </p>
- <p>
- By night the church was saved, but the belfry was a blackened ruin within.
- The bell had fallen, through floor, cross-beams, and ceiling, and smashed
- the front of the choir gallery, a mass of fallen pillar, railing, and
- broken plaster on the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- Andrew Hill called a meeting. Adam Wick came, entered his cluttered pew
- and sat on the pillar that lay prostrate across it. He perched on it like
- a hawk, with huddled back and red-lidded eyes blinking. It was the sense
- of the meeting that modern ideas demanded the choir should sit behind the
- minister. The ruined gallery must be removed. Adam Wick rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've got no place in this meetin',” said Andrew Hill. “Set down.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Adam kept his place scornfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't I subscribe twenty dollars to this church?” The chairman stroked
- his beard and a gleam of acrid humor lit his face for a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose you can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the eyes of all present looked on Adam Wick favorably.
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister rose to speak the last word of peace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My friends, the Lord did it. He is righteous—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's my idea!” said Adam Wick, like a hawk on his fallen pillar,
- red-lidded, complacent. “He did what was right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister coughed, hesitated, and sat down. Andrew Hill glowered from
- his chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's no further business before this meetin'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE EMIGRANT EAST
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he old book-shop
- on Cripple Street in the city of Hamilton was walled to its dusky ceiling
- with books. Books were stacked on the floor like split wood, with alleys
- between. The long table down the centre was piled with old magazines and
- the wrecks of paper-covered novels. School arithmetics and dead
- theologies; Annuals in faded gilt, called “Keepsake,” or “Friendship's
- Offering”; little leathern nubbins of books from the last century, that
- yet seemed less antique than the Annuals which counted no more than forty
- years—so southern and early-passing was the youth of the Annual;
- Bohn's translations, the useful and despised; gaudy, glittering prints of
- the poets and novelists; all were crowded together without recognition of
- caste, in a common Bohemia. Finding a book in that mystical chaos seemed
- to establish a right to it of first discovery. The pretty girl, who sat in
- one of the dim windows and kept the accounts, looked Oriental but not
- Jewish, and wore crimson ribbons in her black hair and at her throat. She
- read one of the Annuals, or gazed through the window at Cripple Street. A
- show-case in the other window contained stamp collections, Hindoo,
- Chinese, and Levantine coinage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Far back in the shop a daring explorer might come upon a third window,
- gray, grimy, beyond which lay the unnamable backyards between Cripple and
- Academy Streets. It could not be said to “open on” them, for it was never
- opened, or “give a view” of them, being thick with gray dust. But if one
- went up to it and looked carefully, there in the dim corner might be seen
- an old man with a long faded black coat, rabbinical beard, dusky,
- transparent skin, and Buddha eyes, blue, faint, far away, self-abnegating,
- such as under the Bo-tree might have looked forth in meek abstraction on
- the infinities and perceived the Eightfold Principle. It was always
- possible to find Mr. Barria by steering for the window. So appeared the
- old bookshop on Cripple Street, Mr. Barria, the dealer, and his
- granddaughter, Janey.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull; for the hand of man,
- working through generations, is the hand of nature, as surely as in nature
- the oriole builds its nest or the rootlets seek their proper soil. Cripple
- Street ran from Coronet to Main Street and its paving was bad. There were
- a few tailors and bookbinders, a few silent, clapboarded houses.
- </p>
- <p>
- But two doors from the corner on Coronet Street stood Station No. 4, of
- the Fire Brigade, and Cripple Street was the nearest way to Main Street,
- whither No. 4 was more likely to be called than elsewhere. So that, though
- nature made Cripple Street to be calm and dull, No. 4, Fire Brigade,
- sometimes passed it, engine, ladder, and hose, in the splendor of the
- supernatural, the stormy pageantry of the gods; and one Tommy Durdo drove
- the engine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Durdo first came into Mr. Barria's shop in search of a paper-covered novel
- with a title promising something wild and belligerent. It was a rainy,
- dismal day, and Janey sat among the dust and refuse of forgotten
- centuries.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My eyes!” he thought. “She's a peach.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He lost interest in any possible belligerent novel, gazed at her with the
- candor of his youthfulness, and remarked, guilefully:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I bet you've seen me before now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You drive the engine,” said Janey, with shining eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, this is my pie,” thought Durdo, and sat down by her on a pile of old
- magazines. He was lank, muscular, with a wide mouth, lean jaws, turn-up
- nose, and joyful eyes. The magazines contained variations on the loves of
- Edwards, Eleanors, and other people, well-bred, unfortunate, and possessed
- of sentiments. Durdo was not well-bred, and had not a presentable
- sentiment in his recollection. He had faith in his average luck, and went
- away from Mr. Barria's shop at last with a spot in the tough texture of
- his soul that felt mellow.
- </p>
- <p>
- “J. Barria, bookdealer,” he read from the sign. “J! That's Janey, ain't
- it? Hold on. She ain't the bookdealer. She ain't any ten-cent novel
- either. She's a Rushy bound, two dollar and a half a copy, with a
- dedication on the fly-leaf, which”—Tommy stopped suddenly and
- reflected—“which it might be dedicated to Tommy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It came near to being a sentiment. The possibility of such a thing rising
- from within him seemed impressive. He walked back to No. 4 thoughtfully,
- and thrust himself into a fight with Hamp Sharkey, in which it was proved
- that Hamp was the better man. Tommy regained his ordinary reckless
- cheerfulness. But when a man is in a state of mind that it needs a
- stand-up and knock-down fight to introduce cheerfulness, he cannot hope to
- conceal his state of mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cripple Street drowsed in the sunshine one August afternoon. A small boy
- dug bricks out of the sidewalk with a stick. It seemed to emphasize the
- indifferent calm that no one took that interest in Cripple Street to come
- and stop him. The clangor of the fire-bells broke across the city. For a
- moment the silence in Cripple Street seemed more deathly than before. Then
- the doors of the tailors and bookbinders flew open. The Fire Company came
- with leap and roar, ladder, engine, and hose, rattle of wheels and thud of
- steam. Passing Mr. Barria's Durdo turned his head, saw Janey in the door,
- and beamed on her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hooray,” he shouted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Tommy's girl,” thundered Hamp Sharkey, from the top of his jingling
- ladders. Fire Brigade No. 4 cheered, waved its helmet, wherever it had a
- hand free, and in a moment was gone, leaving the drift of its smoke in the
- air, the tremble of its passing, and Janey flushed and thrilled. Hook and
- ladder and all had hailed her with honor as Tommy's girl. A battalion of
- cavalry, with her lover at the head, dashing up to salute, say, her
- battlemented or rose-embowered window—both terms occur in the
- Annuals—and galloping away to the wars, might have been better
- theoretically, but Janey was satisfied. She had no defence against such
- battery. Power, daring, and danger were personified in Tommy. He had
- brought them all to her feet. This it was to live and be a woman. She
- turned back into the dim shop, her eyes shining. The backs of the dusty
- books seemed to quiver and glow, even those containing arithmetic, dead
- philosophies, and other cool abstractions, as if they forgot their figures
- and rounded periods, and thought of the men who wrote them, how these once
- were young.
- </p>
- <p>
- Durdo found it possible, by spending his off hours in Mr. Barria's shop,
- to keep cheerful without fighting Hamp Sharkey. A row now and then with a
- smaller man than Hamp was enough to satisfy the growing mellowness of his
- soul. His off hours began at four. He passed them among the Annuals and
- old magazines in a state of puzzled and flattered bliss. He fell so far
- from nature as to read the Annuals where Janey directed, to conclude that
- what was popularly called “fun” was vanity and dust in the mouth; that
- from now on he would be decent, and that any corner or hole in the ground
- which contained Janey and Tommy would suit him forever. No doubt he was
- wrong there.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Barria's memories of all that had befallen him within or without, in
- the journey of this life, before his entry on the Path of Quietness, and
- his consciousness of all external objects and occurrences since, were
- clear enough, but only as little white clouds in the open sky are clear,
- whose business it is to be far away and trouble us with no insistent
- tempest. They never entered the inner circle of his meditation. They
- appeared to be distant things. He had no sense of contact with them. His
- abstractions had formed a series of concentric spheres about him. In some
- outer sphere lay a knowledge of the value of books as bought and sold,
- which enabled him to buy and sell them with indifferent profit, but it
- entered his central absorption no more than the putting on and off of his
- coat.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was not absorbed in books. He did not seem to care for them, beyond the
- fourscore or more worn volumes that were piled about his table by the gray
- window, many of them in tattered paper covers bearing German imprints,
- some lately rebound by a Cripple Street bookbinder. He did not care for
- history or geography, not even his own. He did not care where he was born
- or when, where he was now, or how old.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once—whether forty years gone or four hundred, would have seemed to
- him a question of the vaguest import—he had taught Arabic and Greek
- in a university town, which looks off to mountains that in their turn look
- off to the Adriatic Sea. There was a child, a smaller Julian Barria.
- Somewhere about this time and place he began explorations in more distant
- Eastern languages. The date was unnoted, obscure, traditional. The
- interest in language soon disappeared. It was a period of wonder and
- searching. After the moral fierceness of the Arab and Mohammedan, the
- Hindoo's and Buddhist's calm negations and wide mental spaces first
- interested him by contrast, then absorbed him. He began to practise the
- discipline, the intense and quiet centring on one point, till the sense of
- personality should slip away and he and that point be one. There was no
- conviction or conversion, for the question never seemed put to him, or to
- be of any value, whether one thing was true and another not true. But the
- interest gradually changed to a personal issue. All that he now heard and
- saw and spoke to, objects in rest or in motion, duties that called for his
- performance, became not so much vaguer in outline as more remote in
- position. In comparison with his other experiences they were touched with
- a faint sense of unreality. The faces of other men were changed in his
- eyes. He sometimes noticed and wondered, passingly, that they seemed to
- see no change in him, or if any change, it was one that drew them more
- than formerly to seek his sympathy. He observed himself listening to
- intimate confessions with a feeling of patient benevolence that cost him
- no effort, and seemed to him something not quite belonging to him as a
- personal virtue, but which apparently satisfied and quieted the troubled
- souls that sought him.
- </p>
- <p>
- About this later time—a reference to the histories would fix the
- date at 1848—a civil war swept the land, and the University was
- closed. The younger Julian Barria was involved in the fall of the
- revolutionists and fled from the country. The late teacher of Greek and
- Arabic crossed the ocean with him. It was a matter of mild indifference.
- He gave his sympathy to all, gently and naturally, but felt no mental
- disturbance. Neither did the change of scene affect him. Everywhere were
- earth beneath and sky above, and if not it were no matter. Everywhere were
- men and women and children, busy with a multitude of little things,
- trembling, hurrying, crying out among anxieties. It was all one, clear
- enough, but remote, touched with the same sense of unreality, and like
- some sad old song familiar in childhood and still lingering in the memory.
- </p>
- <p>
- The book-shop on Cripple Street at one time dealt also in newspapers and
- cigars. They were more to the younger Barria's talent, more to his taste
- the stirring talk of men who live in their own era and congregate wherever
- there are newspapers and tobacco. Afterward he went away into the West,
- seeking a larger field for his enterprise than Cripple Street, and the
- newspaper and cigar business declined and passed away. The show-case fell
- to other uses. The elder Barria sat by the square rear window, and the
- gray dust gathered and dimmed it. Ten years flowed like an unruffled
- stream; of their conventional divisions and succeeding events he seemed
- but superficially conscious. Letters came now and then from the West,
- announcing young Barria's journeys and schemes, his marriage in the course
- of enterprise, finally his death. The last was in a sprawling hand, and
- said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jules missus is ded to an thars a kid. Jules sez take her to the ol man
- Jake when ye go est in the spring. I am Jake. He is wooly in his hed sez
- he but he is a good man sez he. He got a soul like Mondays washin on
- Tewsday mornin sez he spekin in figgers an menin you. Them was Jules last
- word.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The large, bony person called Jake, slouch-hatted and rough-bearded,
- brought the child in time, and departed, muttering embarrassment. She
- stood among the Annuals and old magazines with a silver dollar from Jake
- clasped in each hand, and a roll of fifty-dollar bills in her tiny pocket,
- probably representing young Barria's estate and the end of Jake's duties
- as executor. She might have been two or three years old. That was not a
- matter of interest to Mr. Barria, in whose conception the soul of every
- creature was, in a way, more ancient than the hills.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed to believe in his good intentions and came to him gravely. She
- did not remember any mother, and for her own name it had apparently been
- “chicken” when her father had wanted her, and “scat” when he did not. Mr.
- Barria envied a mind so untrammelled with memories, and named her Jhana,
- which means a state of mystical meditation, of fruitful tranquillity, out
- of which are said to come six kinds of supernatural wisdom and ten powers.
- The name sometimes appeared to him written Dhyana, when his meditations
- ran in Sanskrit instead of Pali. Cripple Street called her Janey, and
- avoided the question with a wisdom of its own. It had grown used to Mr.
- Barria. Scholars came from near-by universities to consult him, and
- letters from distant countries to Herr, Monsieur, or Signor Doctor Julian
- Barria, but Cripple Street, if it knew of the matter, had no stated theory
- to explain it and was little curious. His hair and beard grew white and
- prophetic, his skin more transparent. A second decade and half a third
- glided by, and Janey and Tommy Durdo sat hand in hand among the Annuals.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must ask him, Tommy,” Janey insisted, “because lovers always ask
- parents.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An' the parents is horty and they runs away hossback. Say, Janey, if his
- whiskers gets horty, I 'll faint. Say, Janey, you got to go 'n ask my ma
- if you can have me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would she be haughty?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Janey always bubbled with pleasure, like a meadow spring, when Tommy “got
- on a string,” as he called it, fell to jesting circumstantially. “You bet.
- She'd trun you down. An' yet she's married second time, she has,” he went
- on, thoughtfully, “an' she didn't ask my consent, not either time. I would
- n't a given it the first, if she had, 'cause dad was no good. I'd a been
- horty. I'd a told her he wa'n't worthy to come into any family where I was
- comin', which he wa'n't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Tommy!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yep. Dad was more nuisance'n mosquitoes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Barria came out of the distant retreat of his meditation slowly, and
- looked up. It did not need all the subtle instinct of a pundit to read the
- meaning of the two standing hand in hand before him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Tommy looked and felt as one asking favors of a spectre, and Mr. Barria
- had fallen into a silent habit of understanding people.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Little Jhana iss a woman so soon?” he said softly. “She asks of her
- birthright.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose and looked quietly, steadily at Tommy, who felt himself growing
- smaller inside, till his shoes seemed enormous, even his scalp loose and
- his skull empty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr.—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Tommy Durdo,” said Janey.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will always remember to be a little kinder than seems necessary, Mr.
- Durdo? It iss a good rule and very old.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He didn't ask whether I was a burglar or a lunatic by profesh,” grumbled
- Tommy, later. “Ain't a reasonable interest. He might a asked which.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind,” said Janey. “I'll tell that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There were four rooms over the shop, where the three lived in great peace.
- Tommy never made out whether Mr. Barria thought him a burglar or a
- lunatic. As regards Janey he felt more like a burglar, as regards Mr.
- Barria more like a lunatic. He dodged him reverentially. Only at the
- station, where his duties kept him for the most part, did he feel like a
- natural person and a fireman. He confided in Hamp Sharkey, and brought him
- to the shop and the little up-stairs sitting-room for the purpose of
- illustration. Hamp's feelings resembled Tommy's. They fell into naïve
- sympathy. Hamp admired Tommy for his cleverness, his limber tongue, the
- reckless daring of his daily contact with Mr. Barria and Janey, two
- mysteries, differing but both remote. She was not like the shop-girls on
- Main Street. Hamp would carry away the memory of her shining eyes lifted
- to Tommy's irregular, somewhat impish face, and growl secretly over his
- mental bewilderment. Tommy admired Hamp for his height and breadth and
- dull good-nature.
- </p>
- <p>
- On an afternoon in the early summer the fire-bells rang call after call.
- Engine No. 4 went second. The freight houses by the harbor were burning,
- and the tall furniture factory that backed them. About dusk the north wall
- of the factory fell into the street with a roar and rattle of flying
- bricks.
- </p>
- <p>
- The book-shop was dark in the centre. The two lamps in the front windows
- were lit, and Mr. Barria's lamp in his hidden corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- It came upon Mr. Barria in his absorption that there had been a moment
- before the sound of the trampling of heavy feet in the front of the shop,
- and a sudden cry. The trampling continued and increased. He came forward
- with his lamp. Men were crowding up the narrow stairs that began in the
- opposite corner. One of them swung a lantern overhead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Twere a brick,” said some one in the dark centre of the shop. “Took him
- over the ear. Dented him in like a plug hat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where's some water?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Knocked her over quicker 'n the brick.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sh! What's that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's the old man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The light of the lamp, lifted in Mr. Barria's hand, fell over his head
- with its flowing white hair, rabbinical beard, and spectral face.
- Three-men, one of them a policeman, drew back to one side of the shop,
- looking startled and feebly embarrassed. On the other side the window lamp
- shone on Janey, where she lay fallen among the old Annuals.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lifted her head and muttered:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jhana, Jhana.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The three men slipped through the door; those above came down; a doctor
- bustled in, satchel in hand, and after him several women; Janey was
- carried up; the shop was empty, except for Mr. Barria sitting by his lamp
- and muttering softly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She could not find it, the peace that is about, and her little happiness
- it would not stay beside her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently the doctor spoke over him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think Mrs. Durdo should be taken to the hospital. St. James, you know.
- It's not far.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You think—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is approaching confinement, and the shock, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whatever iss desirable, Herr Doctor. There iss no need, sir, of the
- economy in respect to—to whatever iss desirable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Quite right, Mr. Barria. Quite right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This was in June. Late in the fall Janey came back from St. James's
- Hospital, pale, drooping, and alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- She sat in a black dress by the front window and kept the accounts as
- before, gazed through the dim panes at Cripple Street, which was made by
- nature to be dull, but read the Annuals no more, which was perhaps a pity.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Barria from the rear of the shop watched Janey, sitting among the
- Annuals and looking out on Cripple Street. He had not entered on the Path
- himself as a cure for sorrow and suffering; he had come to it from another
- direction. Yet the first purpose of its system had been the solution of
- these. It was written:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sorrow and suffering will be overcome when this thirst for life is
- quenched, which makes for continuance, and that desire of separateness and
- hunger after selfhood are put aside. They will fall away as drops from a
- lotus leaf.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Janey was a type of them as they walk abroad. The measure of her
- trouble was the measure of the yearning and attainment that had been hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Desire not more then of yearning or attainment, of sight or touch, of
- life in variety or abundance, but desire none at all, and turning within,
- the dwelling you build there dwell in it, until both desire and
- separateness shall in turn disappear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He went forward and drew a chair beside her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Little Jhana,” he said, “there wass once a woman and young who brought
- her dead child to the wisest of men, and asked so of him, 'Do you know one
- medicine that will be good for this child?' It was the custom then for the
- patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the doctors require,
- so that when she asked what herbs he would wish, and he answered,
- 'Mustard-seed,' she promised with haste to bring it, for it wass a common
- herb. 'And it must come,' he said, 'only from some house where no child,
- no hussband, no wife, no parent, no friend hass died.' Then she went in
- great hope, carrying the dead child; but everywhere they said, 'I have
- lost,' and again, 'We have lost,' and one said, 'What iss this you say;
- the living are few but the dead are many.' She found so no house in that
- place from which she might take the mustard-seed. Therefore she buried the
- child, and came, and she said, 'I have not found it; they tell me the
- living are few and the dead many.' And he showed her how that nothing
- endured at all, but changed and passed into something else, and each wass
- but a changing part of a changing whole, and how, if one thought more of
- the whole, one so ceased to be troubled much of the parts, and sorrow
- would fade away quietly.” Janey stared at him with wide, uncomprehending
- eyes. There was a certain comfort always in Mr. Barria himself, however
- oddly he might talk. She dropped her head on his knee and whispered:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know about all that. I want Tommy and the baby.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He touched her hair with thin fingers gently. “Then I wonder, little
- Jhana,” he said, looking to the magazines and Annuals, “if you have found
- among these one, a poet of the English, who calls it to be better to love
- and lose than not to love.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know. I don't remember.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He smoothed her hair again and went away. The winter passed and the spring
- came with a scatter of sunshine and little showers. Janey still sat by the
- window. If she had been able to generalize, to see that Tommy and the baby
- represented hunger after life, and that this was the root of sorrow, it
- would perhaps have still seemed to her that love and loss were the better
- choice. Perhaps not. But she could not generalize. Her thoughts were
- instincts, fancies, and little shining points of belief. She could not see
- herself in any figure of speech; that she was one of a multitude of
- discordant notes in the universe, whose business it was to tune themselves
- to the key of a certain large music and disappear in its harmony, where
- alone was constant happiness. It did not seem to mention Tommy or the
- baby, and if not there was no point in it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Spring slipped away. Cripple Street was filled to the brim with bland
- summer. Janey went every day to the cemetery with flowers. In September
- she began to come back with flowers in her belt.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a rainy, dismal day in October. Mr. Barria had a remote sense of
- hearing Janey's laugh. It seemed to him there was a strange presence in
- the shop. He peered out, and saw Hamp Sharkey outlined against the window,
- large, slow-moving, and calm, a man who seemed to avoid all troubles of
- the flesh by virtue of having enough flesh, and solid bone beneath. Janey
- looked up at him and laughed. Around her were the old Annuals, containing
- the loves of Edwards and Eleanors.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Barria leaned back in his chair. Some untraced suggestion led him to
- counting his years idly. He made them out to be nearly eighty. They seemed
- suddenly to rest on his shoulders like a weight. If one considered them at
- all, they were heavy, the years. And for this human life, it was only
- intelligible in the abstract. Of its details there were too many.
- </p>
- <p>
- The shop grew duskier, and the rain beat on the windows with an incessant
- pattering, a multitude of tiny details, sounding accordingly as one might
- listen. For either it would seem a cheerful, busy sound of the kindly
- water, humble and precious and clean, needful in households, pleasant in
- the fulness of rivers, comfortable, common, familiar; or it was the low
- sigh of the driven rain, the melancholy iteration and murmur of water
- circling like everything else its wheel of change, earth and ocean and
- sky, earth and ocean and sky, and weary to go back to its vague, elemental
- vapor, as before the worlds were shaped.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Barria turned back to his volume, bound in gray paper with a German
- imprint. To his ears the sound of the two voices talking became as
- abstract as the rain. Hamp Sharkey's laugh was like the lowing of a
- contented ox, and Janey's, as of old, like the ripple of a brook in a
- meadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- TOBIN'S MONUMENT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was a student
- then and lived on the second floor of a brick dormitory with foot-worn
- stones and sagging casements. The windows looked across one end of the
- campus on ivy-covered walls of other buildings, on a bronze statue whose
- head was bent to indicate that the person represented had taken life
- seriously in his day. Near at hand was a street of unacademic noises,
- horse-cars, shops, German bands, newsboys, people who bought and sold
- without higher mathematics and seldom mentioned Horatius Flaccus.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there were drifts and eddies of the street that would turn aside and
- enter the dormitories commercially. Tobin was one of these. He came to my
- door by preference, because of the large crack in the panel. For, if one
- entered the dormitory commercially and knocked at the doors, one never
- knew—it might be Horatius Flaccus, a volume of size and weight. But
- with a crack in the panel one could stand outside at ease and dignity,
- looking through it, and crying, “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i> Peanuts!” Then, if
- anything arrived, without doubt it arrived. A man might throw what he
- chose at his own door.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was thin in the legs and shoulders, but round of face and marked there
- with strange designs that were partly a native complexion; but, if one is
- a candy boy, in constant company with newsboys, shiners, persons who carry
- no such merchandise but are apt to wish for it violently, one's complexion
- of course varies from day to day.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, but I hit <i>him!</i> He bled on his clo's.” Tobin sometimes made
- this comment, “him” meaning different persons. There was a vein of fresh
- romance in him. Did not Sir Balin, or his like, smite Sir Lanceor, so that
- the blood flowed over his hauberk, and afterward speak of it with
- enthusiasm?
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a cold December day in the year 188-, when the snow whirled without
- rest from morning chapel till the end of the day was signified by the
- first splutter of gas-jets. Among the hills where I was born that office
- was left to the sunsets and twilights, who had a manner of doing it, a
- certain broad nobility, a courtesy and grace. “One of God's days is over.
- This is our sister, the night.” The gas-jets were fretful, coquettish,
- affected. “It is an outrage! One is simply turned on and turned off!”
- Horatius Flaccus was social and intimate with me that day. “<i>Exegi
- monumentum</i>,” he remarked. “You will find it not easy to forget me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Monuments! At the University we lived among commemorative buildings; many
- a silent dusty room was dim with accumulation of thought; and there men
- labored for what but to make a name?
- </p>
- <p>
- The statue outside represented one who took life seriously in his day, now
- with the whirling snow about it, the gas-jet in front snapping petulantly.
- “One is simply turned on and turned off!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Exegi monumentum</i>,” continued Horatius Flac-cus. “This is my work,
- and it is good. I shall not all die, <i>non omnis moriar</i>.” It seemed
- natural to feel so. But how honorably the sunsets and twilights used to go
- their ways among the hills, contented and leaving not a wrack behind.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a better attitude and conduct, that serene security of clouds in
- their absolute death. “<i>Non omnis moriar</i>” was not only a boast, but
- a complaint and a protest.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still, as to monuments, one would rather be memorialized by one's own work
- than by the words of other men, or the indifferent labor of their chisels.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come in, Tobin!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the door and said, tentatively, “Peanuts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He always spoke in a more confident tone of the candy than of the peanuts.
- There was no good reason for his confidence in either.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tobin,” I said, “you don't want a monument?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He kicked his feet together and murmured again, “Peanuts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His shoes were cracked at the sides. The cracks were full of snow.
- </p>
- <p>
- The remark seemed to imply that he did not expect a monument, having no
- confidence in his peanuts. As a rule they were soggy and half-baked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Tobin's life, I thought, was too full of the flux of things; candy melted,
- peanuts decayed, complexion changed from day to day, his private wars were
- but momentary matters. I understood him to have no artificial desires.
- Death would be too simple an affair for comment. He would think of no
- comment to make. Sunsets and twilights went out in silence; Tobin's half
- of humanity nearly as dumb. It was the other half that was fussy on the
- subject.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your feet are wet, Tobin. Warm them. Your shoes are no good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Tobin picked the easiest chair with good judgment, and balanced his feet
- over the coals of the open stove, making no comment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won't buy your peanuts. They're sloppy. I might buy you another pair of
- shoes. What do you think?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at me, at the shoes, at the wet basket on his knees, but nothing
- elaborate seemed to occur to him. He said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “A'right.” He had great mental directness. I had reached that point in the
- progress of young philosophy where the avoidance of fussiness takes the
- character of a broad doctrine: a certain Doric attitude was desired. Tobin
- seemed to me to have that attitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I give you the money, will you buy shoes or cigarettes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shoes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, then. Got anything to say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put the bill into his pocket, and said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yep, I'll buy 'em.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His attitude was better than mine. The common wish to be thanked was pure
- fussiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, look here. You bring me back the old ones.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Even that did not disturb him. The Doric attitude never questions other
- men's indifferent whims.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A'right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I heard him presently on the lower floor, crying, “<i>M'las ca-andy!</i>
- Peanuts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be spoken of,” continued Horatius Flaccus, calmly, “by that wild
- southern river, the Aufidus, and in many other places. I shall be called a
- pioneer in my own line, <i>princeps Æolium carmen deduxisse</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The night was closing down. The gas-light flickered on the half-hidden
- face of the statue, so that its grave dignity seemed changed to a shifty,
- mocking smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- I heard no more of Tobin for a month, and probably did not think of him.
- There were Christmas holidays about, and that week which is called of the
- Promenade, when one opens Horatius Flaccus only to wonder what might have
- been the color of Lydia's hair, and to introduce comparisons that are
- unfair to Lydia.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was late in January. Some one came and thumped on the cracked panel. It
- was not Tobin, but a stout woman carrying Tobin's basket, who said in an
- expressionless voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oi! Them shoes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You give 'im some shoes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tobin. That's so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm Missus Tobin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was dull-looking, round-eyed, gray-haired. She fumbled in the basket,
- dropped something in wet paper on a chair, and seemed placidly preparing
- to say more. It seemed to me that she had much of Tobin's mental
- directness, the Doric attitude, the neglect of comment. I asked: “How's
- Tobin?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oi! He's dead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am very sorry, Mrs. Tobin. May I—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oi! Funeral's this afternoon. He could'n' be round. He was sick. Five
- weeks three days.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She went out and down the stair, bumping back and forth between the wall
- and the banister.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the misty afternoon of that day I stood on that corner where more than
- elsewhere the city and the University meet; where hackmen and newsboys
- congregate; where a gray brick hotel looks askance at the pillared and
- vaulted entry of a recitation hall. The front of that hall is a
- vainglorious thing. Those who understand, looking dimly with halfshut
- eyes, may see it change to a mist, and in the mist appear a worn fence, a
- grassless, trodden space, and four tall trees.
- </p>
- <p>
- The steps of the hall were deserted, except for newsboys playing tag among
- the pillars. I asked one if he knew where Tobin lived.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's havin' a funeral,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “10 Clark Street.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you know him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The others had gathered around. One of them said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tobin licked him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The first seemed to think more than ordinary justice should be done a
- person with a funeral, and admitted that Tobin had licked him.
- </p>
- <p>
- No. 10 Clark Street was a door between a clothing shop and a livery
- stable. The stairway led up into darkness. On the third landing a door
- stood open, showing a low room. A painted coffin rested on two chairs.
- Three or four women sat about with their hands on their knees. One of them
- was Mrs. Tobin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Funeral's over,” she said, placidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The clergyman from the mission had come and gone. They were waiting for
- the city undertaker. But they seemed glad of an interruption and looked at
- me with silent interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to ask you to tell me something about him, Mrs. Tobin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Tobin reflected. “There ain't nothin'.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He never ate no candy,” said one of the women, after a pause.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Tobin sat stolidly. Two large tears appeared at length and rolled
- slowly down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It made him dreadful sick when he was little. That's why.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The third woman nodded thoughtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He said folks was fools to eat candy. It was his stomach.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oi!” said Mrs. Tobin.
- </p>
- <p>
- I went no nearer the coffin than to see the common grayish pallor of the
- face, and went home in the misty dusk.
- </p>
- <p>
- The forgotten wet bundle had fallen to the floor and become undone.
- </p>
- <p>
- By the cracks in the sides, the down-trodden heels, the marks of keen
- experience, they were Tobin's old shoes, round-toed, leather-thonged,
- stoical, severe.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Tobin had not commented. She had brought them merely, Tobin having
- stated that they were mine.
- </p>
- <p>
- They remained with me six months, and were known to most men, who came to
- idle or labor, as “Tobin's Monument.” They stood on a book-shelf, with
- other monuments thought to be <i>aere perennius</i>, more enduring than
- brass, and disappeared at the end of the year, when the janitor reigned
- supreme. There seemed to be some far-off and final idea in the title, some
- thesis which never got itself rightly stated. Horatius Flaccus was kept on
- the shelf beside them in the notion that the statement should somehow be
- worked out between them. And there was no definite result; but I thought
- he grew more diffident with that companionship.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Exegi monumentum</i>. I suppose there is no doubt about that,” he
- would remark. “<i>Ære perennius</i>. It seems a trifle pushing, so to
- trespass on the attention of posterity. I would rather talk of my Sabine
- farm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE CONCLUSION BY THE WAYFARERS
- </h2>
- <p class="indent15">
- All honest things in the world we greet
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- With welcome fair and free;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- A little love by the way is sweet,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- A friend, or two, or three;
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Of the sun and moon and stars are glad,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Of the waters of river and sea;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- We thank thee, Lord, for the years we've had,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- For the years that yet shall be.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- These are our brothers, the winds of the airs;
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- These are our sisters, the flowers.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Be near us at evening and hear our.prayers.,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- O God, in the late gray hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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