Читать книгу Growth of a Man - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 10

THE loss of the money staggered the Gowers. It put the elopement of Laura Page completely out of their heads till, hours later, Esther suddenly connected the two events. Everyone had been saying that the thief was a tramp who had been prowling about and discovered that there was no one at home.

“What about Shaw?” Letitia had asked. “He was here.”

“What use is he?” said Mark. “He’d sit gaping while a gang of thieves robbed the house.”

“Where were you all day, Shaw?”

“Were you deaf and blind?”

“Hadn’t you the gumption to know when a tramp came round?”

The questions came slowly, in the thick, country enunciation. The faces that were turned on him showed scarcely any expression.

“It was my ear,” he said, while his heart beat heavily and a terrible suspicion troubled his mind.

“Well, you’d two ears, hadn’t you?” said Luke.

“I guess I slept some of the time.”

“What if it was that hired man! That Jack Searle!” said Esther. She was the shrewd one. Her opinions were treated with respect.

Luke clapped his thigh. “Esther’s hit the nail on the head! It’s our money the pair have eloped on!”

There was dead silence while this idea was absorbed. Then Beaty began to laugh immoderately. Between outbursts she got out the words—“And they called her their ewe lamb!”

Everyone knew what she meant. The Pages had had six sons, then had come Laura, the youngest, the most precious, a spoilt child, everyone said.

“Run off with a hired man! And she always so stuck-up!”

“And on money stolen from us!”

“Well, I guess those Pages will never hold up their heads again.”

The Gowers were swayed between dismay at the loss of the money and triumph at the complete downfall of their neighbors. Then Herbert, the eldest son, a dour man who seldom spoke, said:—

“You must put the police on their trail, Pa.”

Jane Gower was knitting fiercely in outlet for her emotion, but now her needles were charmed into immobility. “The police,” she muttered; “my goodness, we might get our money back!”

“And whack the pair of them into jail!” said Esther.

All looked at Roger Gower. His spectacles were pushed back on his bald forehead. His wide blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He ignored his family for a space, then his voice came ponderously through his beard:—

“No, I’ll not do that. They’ll not go to jail because of me.”

“But the money, Pa!”

“And how mean old Page was about the boundary!”

“Laura Page has had three dresses to our one.”

“And now we’re paying for her honeymoon!”

“Honeymoon with a hired man!” gasped Beaty. “She always acted as though no one was good enough for her.”

Luke’s attentions to Laura had been nipped in the bud. He was embarrassed. He said, reddening a little:—

“But surely you’ll have Searle arrested.”

Roger Gower was immovable. Something in him rejected the idea of setting the law after his neighbor’s daughter’s lover, even though the neighbor was an enemy.

It seemed to Shaw that the talk about the stolen money and the elopement would never end. He had an oppressive sense of guilt. He remembered how he had gone to the dairy and left Searle alone in the sitting room. It was then that Searle had gone through the drawers of the chest and taken his grandfather’s money. Shaw remembered the handsome little Jersey and her calf, the satisfaction at the price they had brought. If his grandparents knew how he had been thick with Searle he was sure he would get the worst punishment any boy had ever had.

Yet almost as strong as his sense of guilt was his curiosity about Searle and the girl he had run away with. Why did they do it? Where were they now?

According to Mr. Blair they were bound straight for hell. He came to tea one day and, as the Pages were not members of his congregation, he was free to say exactly what he thought of the elopers. The Gowers wondered what he would have said if he had known of the stolen money. It was a bitter thing to Jane and her daughters when Roger forbade them to speak of the theft outside the family circle.

For many nights Shaw tossed on his bed, sleeping only in snatches because of his guilty connection with Searle. If he had not made friends with him on the sly, Searle would never have thought of coming to the house. Had he come with the idea of stealing in his mind or had he been tempted when he was left alone with the chest of drawers? Shaw brooded on the hired man and Laura. Why had she run away with him—left her mother, who had called her “the ewe lamb,” to go off with a stranger? What were they doing now? Shaw’s share in the affair set him still more apart from the family. He was glad when school opened.

He began the term with the fixed resolution to pass into the class above him at Christmas, to pass to the next one at Easter, to achieve the entrance to the high school that summer. Miss McKay saw the resolution in his face and felt sorry for him because she was certain that he could not do it. No child could.

Yet, as the weeks went on, she began to wonder if after all it might be possible. It was amazing how Shaw stored away knowledge. He came to school each morning with the last line of his homework done, word-perfect in what was to be memorized. She could not decide whether he was abnormally receptive or was really working far too hard. There was no color in his face. There were blue shadows beneath his eyes. But he was active physically and at the recess she saw him running and scuffling with the other boys, apparently as strong as any of them. He was growing fast.

It was disconcerting to Miss McKay to find his eyes fixed on her face when she was teaching a senior class. She wondered if, with the crude curiosity of childhood, he was staring at her latest disfigurement. She would lay one of her lovely hands over the spot and return his stare with severity. Then he would smile a little and drop his eyes to his book. But soon she would catch him staring again.

One day she swooped down on him. He was hiding something on his desk, holding his hands over it.

“Let me see what you have, Shaw!”

“I don’t want to, Miss McKay.”

“You must.”

She raised his hands and saw the exercise for the senior class written out carefully. He had been making corrections in it from the lesson in progress. Her eyes filled with tears. She had been teaching for fifteen years and such a thing had never happened to her before.

After that she opened the fount of her learning to him, let him pick up all he could from the other classes. She even began to include him in her teaching of them, for his serious stare fascinated her.

His tenth birthday came and a parcel addressed to him from his mother. He had never before had a parcel of his own and an unaccustomed color warmed his cheeks as he tugged with trembling fingers at the string.

“Here, let me do it!” said Jane Gower, her bony fingers eager above the knot.

“No! I want to! Please!”

The four women stood watching while he undid the parcel.

It was a new suit of navy-blue serge and two pair of long black stockings knitted by his mother. A letter from her was pinned with a black pin to the stockings.

“Well, I call that a fine present,” said his grandmother. “And a good piece of serge. Cristabel must have paid a good deal for that.”

“It’s about time he had it,” said Letitia. “He looks awful in his old one.”

“Look at his wrists! They’re sticking out half a mile!” And Beaty began to laugh.

“This suit must be kept for Sundays,” declared Jane.

“Oh, Grandma, can’t I wear it to school—just once—to show the boys?”

“And spill ink on it! You can not! Go and hang it up and lay the stockings in a drawer. Let’s see what your mother says in the letter.” She unpinned it from the stockings and opened it. “Cristabel hadn’t much sense, wasting an envelope on it.”

He stood with his hands clenched while she read the letter slowly aloud. He wanted to fling himself on her and tear it from her hands. It was his own private letter, written by his mother to him—the first he had ever had!

“DEAR SHAW,

I am sending you this suit for a birthday present and the stockings too. Of course I knit them, but I bought the suit at Bunting’s—”

“My goodness, to think of her buying it at Bunting’s!” exclaimed Esther. “Why didn’t she go to some cheaper place?”

“Cristabel always had big ideas,” said her mother. She read on:—

“It is a good suit and I hope you will be careful of it. When you take it off lay it flat in the drawer and don’t put things in the pockets. I got it a large size because Ma tells me you are growing so fast. I do hope you are being a good boy and trying to help all you can on the farm. It is very kind of your grandpa and grandma to have you there and I hope you are showing them that you are grateful.”

Jane Gower took her eyes from the letter to look at Shaw. There was accusation in her eyes. The three young women also looked at him. Letitia said:—

“I haven’t seen much gratitude in him.”

“He thinks it doesn’t cost anything to keep a big lump of a boy,” added Esther.

“He sleeps while a thief sneaks in and steals our money,” said Beaty.

“Shaw knows he is welcome here,” said their mother, “but it’s just as Cristabel says, he might show a little gratitude.”

Shaw felt the blood rising to his head. He felt dizzy under the scrutiny of the four pairs of pale searching eyes. He looked helpless, like a young trapped animal. Jane Gower finished the letter:—

“You are ten years old and you must begin to look forward to being a man. I do hope and pray that you are working hard at your books. It’s my ambition to see you a respected man and in a good position. I hope to be home for the weddings and I’ll see my dear little boy then.

“Your affectionate Mother”

“Well, that’s good news,” said Jane. “I was afraid Cristabel mightn’t be able to get away.”

“I wonder if she’ll bring us wedding presents.”

“I’ll bet she won’t! She’ll have spent all she can afford on Shaw’s suit.”

“Well, it’ll be pretty mean if she doesn’t.”

“She’ll bring you presents all right. Don’t you worry,” Jane comforted Letitia and Beaty.

Leslie had been forward in his courtship and there was to be a double wedding at the farm in October.

“Can I have the letter?” asked Shaw.

Jane Gower was folding and refolding it in her fingers, which were so used to work that they must constantly be moving. Almost grudgingly she handed him the letter. He had the string in his pocket and gathered the new garments into his arms.

“Grandma,” he said, “can I wear the suit to school tomorrow?”

“I’ve told you—no! Don’t ask again.”

“But I do want to!”

“Then want will be your master!” She turned away, dismissing him.

He carried the new possessions to his room and laid them on the bed. He caressed the navy-blue serge with his hand. He ran to the top of the stairs and shouted:—

“Grandma, can I try them on—just for a minute?”

“Yes.” Her voice came from the pantry. “Come down here and let me see you in them.”

He tore off his clothes, attached his braces to the new trousers, and put on the new suit. He could scarcely believe in himself. His eyes were bright with wonder as he examined what portion of himself he could in the little cracked looking glass.

Cristabel had indeed provided room for growth. The trousers were halfway down the calf, the sleeves reached his knuckles. There was a new white handkerchief, with a border of blue dots, folded in the breast pocket.

“How good you are, Mamma,” he said, out loud. “How good you are to me!”

He marched proudly down the stairs to show himself.

Jane Gower saw nothing ridiculous in the fitting of the suit. She looked him over with approval. Esther called from the kitchen:—

“Ma, I want Shaw to carry this cake to the Manse! It’s got to go soon if it’s to be in time for the social.”

“He’s all dressed up!”

“It won’t hurt the suit to go that far in it. Ma, my cake will be late if I don’t watch out!” There was a blubbering note in her voice. Jane gave in at once.

“All right, Shaw, you can take the cake to Mrs. Blair, but don’t stay any longer than you need to.”

Shaw could scarcely believe in his good fortune as he trudged down the lane carefully carrying the cake. He could smell its sweet richness, feel a delicate warmth from it. He wondered if possibly Ian and Elspeth would see him, and what they would think of his fine new suit? He thought he must look at least fifteen in it. The lane seemed very long. He broke into a jogtrot, but still holding the cake carefully. His arms ached when he reached the Manse, two miles away. Mrs. Blair opened the door.

“It’s a cake for the social,” he said, putting it into her hands, “from Esther. It’s iced.”

“Thank you, Shaw. Why, how you’re growing! Does Esther want the plate returned now?”

“Yes, please.” It would keep him waiting a little if the plate were returned.

“Come into the dining room. The children are there.” She led him in and herself went on to the kitchen.

The walls of the Manse were newly papered and the brass gaseliers were dazzlingly brilliant to Shaw. The carpet of the dining room was a rich red. Elspeth was sitting at the table drawing pictures and coloring them from a box of water-color paints. She looked sweet and good. A newspaper was spread before Ian and on it he was whittling a boat from a piece of pine. The grain of the wood was rosy in the sunlight. Ian’s freckles stood out on his fair skin, giving him a roguish look.

“Hello! Hello!” they greeted Shaw. “Come and see what we’re doing! What do you think of this for a boat?”

He stood staring, dazzled by the contrast to his own life. Then Ian began to laugh.

“Look at Shaw! Look at the suit! Look at the three-quarter pants, Elspeth!”

Shaw grinned sheepishly. He did not feel hurt. This was Ian’s way of being friendly. They made room for him at the table. He was proud of the long sleeves that reached to his knuckles.

In the kitchen Mrs. Blair discovered that the cake, in its soft freshness, had been joggled to pieces. Some instinct told her that this disaster must be kept a secret from the Gowers. Almost an hour passed before she returned with the plate to the dining room. She found three heads touching above the table. Shaw was in possession of the paints.

“Come, children,” she said, “you must dress for the social. Shaw, won’t you wait and go with us? I see that you’re quite ready.”

Shaw sprang up aghast at the passage of time. “I must go home. I’m not going to the social. I was to hurry home.”

“I don’t think your grandma’d mind if you came with us.”

“I must go home,” said Shaw sullenly.

He was at the gate when Elspeth came running after him. She pushed the paintbox into his hand.

“I want to give it to you,” she said, shyly but firmly. “It’s a birthday present.”

“Give it to me! Why—you couldn’t do that! Your mother wouldn’t let you!”

“She would! I can do what I like with my own things. I want you to have the paints.” Before he could say anything more she had run back into the house.

The gate clicked behind him. He was alone in the road. He felt dizzy with joy. Clutching cake plate and paintbox to his breast, he ran along the quiet road. A flaming afterglow set the seal of the day’s magic on the sky. Everything was transformed. The cedar trees were pointed black towers. The pines were waving black banners. The cattle in the fields were deer grazing in a king’s park. A locomotive, whistling in the distance, sent a shiver of exaltation through his nerves. He would travel! He would go to the ends of the earth! But now, here in his hand was this paintbox, this treasure, this birthday gift! Never before, never in his ten years of life, had he been given anything that was not practically useful,—clothes, boots, school books,—and now, here was this miracle, this box packed with glorious color! It seemed to him that he had been wishing for a long while for a paintbox, that he had wanted one more than anything else. Yet he had no talent for drawing, no definite craving was satisfied by the acquisition of the paints. It was the unexpected munificence of the gift, its complete lack of practical use, that made it so spectacular.

There was the sharpness of coming frost in the air. There was the poignancy of parting in the sweet scents offered by the dusky earth. A power came upward from it that made walking easy, made a boy’s body light as air. The flaming color in the west did not dim till Shaw reached the gate of the farm. Then the lane darkened as he ran along it. He was glad to see the orange square of a lighted window.

Then, remembering how long he had been away, he was frightened. What would his grandmother say? He stole to the window.

Roger Gower was sitting by the dining table, the newspaper spread open before him. He sat, solid and tranquil, absorbing its columns. As his invisible lips moved, the hairs of his beard quivered as though by some electric volition of their own. It was much later than Shaw had thought. Everyone but his grandfather had gone to the social.

He went into the room very quietly, his eyes fixed fearfully on the old man. He found his schoolbag and laid his homework on the table. He brought a chair and slid silently on to it.

Roger Gower’s large blue eyes were not diverted from their attention to the newspaper. The delicate vibration of his beard continued without interruption.

Shaw’s nerves relaxed in a sigh. He tried to fasten his attention on his homework. But he could not forget the paintbox. It was on his knees and he caressed it as he bent his eyes to his books. He felt that he must see inside it. It was new. The colors were no more than faintly hollowed by the brush. The delicate range of them awaited his exploring. He remembered that he had to draw a map for to-morrow’s geography lesson. Like an inspiration the thought came that he would color it. He would hide his work from his grandfather behind a heap of books.

The map was of Asia. He gave himself up to doing nothing else that evening. He would make a map that should be the wonder of the school. Carefully he drew the outlines of the different countries. He brought a saucer of water from the kitchen and set at the joyful task of coloring.

Orange for India, purple for Persia, yellow for China, red for Japan—masterfully he chose the colors. The ocean should be light blue, with a deeper blue at the verge. The mountains should be a lovely green, but cruel Siberia black as night. In one of Shaw Gower’s books of travel there was a map with ships and beasts on it.

He had always admired these and now he decided to introduce them into his map. He tiptoed up the stairs and brought down the old calf-bound book. From it he copied the drawing of a tall square-rigger and put it off the coast of Java. He set dolphins at play in the Indian Ocean and a whale in mid-Pacific. He was so absorbed that the passage of time was nothing to him. He forgot his grandfather’s existence.

Suddenly he was startled by the old man’s voice.

“That’s a funny-looking map you’ve made.”

Guiltily Shaw tried to conceal it with his hands.

“Don’t cover it up. I want to see it.”

“I’m—just coloring it,” stammered Shaw.

“Where did you get those paints?”

“They—were lent to me.” Fear made him hedge.

“Hmph. I never heard of lending paint. What book is that?”

“It belonged to—I think it was your father, Grandpa. I’m not hurting it.”

Roger Gower stretched out a short strong hand and took the book. He felt the smoothness of the cover and stared at the faded signature on the flyleaf. “He was a queer sort of man,” he said. “I’d forgotten there were any of his books about.”

He pushed the book across the table to Shaw. He took a handful of his beard and twisted it in his fingers. Suddenly his mouth opened wide in a yawn. A sleepy moisture came into his eyes. “It looks,” he said, “as if those folks are going to stay the night at the church.”

In his stocking feet he stumped across the floor to the tall clock and began to wind it. Never before had Shaw and he had intimate conversation together. Shaw had a sudden feeling of security. He felt older and stronger and as though he had a place of his own in the house. He replied, in a gruff tone:—

“I’d rather stay at home and read or paint than go to a silly old social, wouldn’t you?”

“There was a time when I liked them,” answered Roger Gower. “And there’ll come a time when you’ll like them—when you get running after a girl.”

Shaw gave a superior smile. “I’ll never do that,” he answered.

“What about the time you chased Louie Adams on the road?”

Shaw was staggered. He almost dropped the books he had gathered up. So—Mr. Blair had told of him! He stared openmouthed at his grandfather, who went on serenely winding the clock. Mr. Blair had told and nothing had been done to him!

“I think I’ll go to bed, Grandpa,” he mumbled; “I’m pretty tired.”

“I s’pose you are. I guess we’d both better go.”

In his room Shaw gazed in rapture at his map of Asia. He found a pin and pinned it on the wall where he could see it first thing in the morning. He had quite forgotten that he still wore his new suit, but now he took it off carefully and laid it flat in a drawer. He lay long awake repeating in his mind the happiness of the day.

The next morning on the way to school he overtook Ian and Elspeth. He smiled shyly at Elspeth, eager to tell her about his map, but she turned her head away and began to walk very quickly. She almost ran. Ian took him by the sleeve and drew him back.

“Say,” he said, “you know that paintbox?”

“Yes.”

“Elspeth had no right to give it away. She got scolded. Our Aunt Jean gave the paintbox to her. Why did she give it to you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it much. I’ll give it back.”

Ian looked relieved. “All right. When will you bring it?”

“To-morrow.”

“Bring it to school, will you?”

“Yes. I don’t want it. I don’t know why Elspeth gave it to me.”

They walked on in troubled silence, kicking stones before them along the dusty road. Then Ian threw off his embarrassment and gave Shaw a thump between the shoulders. “I’ll race you to the school!”

Sitting at his desk, Shaw looked cautiously at Elspeth. Her head was resting on her hand, in the attitude of a dejected little woman. He could see tears on her round cheek. Miss McKay went and sat beside her and put her arm about her, but Elspeth would not say what was wrong. Ian spoke for her:—

“She ate too much potato salad at the social.”

A giggle ran across the room.

“Would you like to go out in the air for a little while by yourself, Elspeth?”

Elspeth began to sob and Miss McKay led her outdoors.

Ian sang:—

“After the ball is over,

After the break of day—”

By the time Miss McKay returned there was pandemonium. When she had established order she asked for the maps to be handed in. Shaw’s lay in his desk, the map that was to astonish them all, carefully rolled and tied with a bit of grey yarn.

“I haven’t done one,” he said.

“Not drawn a map! I suppose you had too much potato salad too.”

“I wasn’t at the social.”

“Then what is your excuse?”

He had none. And he had done none of his homework. All day he was stupid and careless. Miss McKay could not make him out. The next morning he left early for school so that he should not meet the Blairs. He carried the paintbox wrapped in newspaper. He kept saying to himself—“I don’t want it much. A paintbox is no good to me. I don’t want it at all.” He went to Elspeth’s desk and put the box inside.

Now he strained toward the day of the double wedding, hoping, hoping that then he would see his mother. He determined to write her a letter. He wrote it on a leaf of his exercise book. He asked his grandmother for a stamp for it.

“Give it to me,” she said, “and I’ll put it in with mine. I’m going to write this week.”

“But I want it to go right away.”

“Then want will be your master,” she returned coldly.

The next day at school he said to Ian:—

“Ian, I bet you can’t jump from the roof of the shed.”

Ian stared. “The school woodshed?”

“Yes. I bet you a postage stamp you can’t jump off it clear across the mud puddle. I bet you’re afraid to try.”

“You wait and see! I’ll jump across it and land three feet beyond the puddle.”

All the boys were impressed. No boy had ever jumped off the roof of the shed. It was steep and high and the mud puddle beside it was edged by a rough stony space. Ian capered like a Red Indian, rousing himself to recklessness.

“I bet Shaw can’t jump across the puddle! I bet he can’t! He’ll fall in on his head! I bet you a postage stamp you can’t do it, Shaw!”

“You go first.”

School was over. The teacher and the girls were gone. The boys jumped and shouted in their excitement.

Ian mounted the roof from the fence that stood behind. Up there it was slippery and steep. For an instant his courage failed. Then he took a flying leap, his fair hair on end, and landed in the middle of the puddle.

He clambered out plastered with mud, and did a war dance. The other boys were delighted. Only one thing was lacking, to see Shaw in the same condition.

“Your turn, Shaw! Go it! Why are you turning down your stockings, Shaw?”

“I don’t want to tear the knees when I land on the stones.”

He clambered on to the roof. His face was surprisingly pale and set as he looked down on his schoolfellows. He gathered himself together and, collecting all his strength, jumped from the roof, clear across the puddle, and landed on hands and knees on the dry stony ground. It was well that he had turned down his stockings, for his knees were cut and bleeding. So were his palms. He pressed his hands together and faced Ian.

“I’ve won,” he said. “Don’t forget the stamp.”

As Ian’s landing in the puddle and his capers afterward had endeared him to the other boys, Shaw’s victory and his unsmiling reminder to Ian estranged them. There was something about him they could not understand and consequently disliked.

Ian answered teasingly—“I’m not allowed to bet. It’s wicked. I’m a minister’s son.”

“You bet me,” said Shaw fiercely, “and you’ve got to pay!”

“Skinflint! Skinflint! Greedy-guts!” shouted the boys, beginning to be hostile.

Ian laughed. “Dinna fash yersel’, laddie,” he said, in broad Scots. “Sairtainly I’ll pay.”

The next morning he brought the stamp, stuck to an envelope for safety, to school.

“I’m on the steep downward path,” he said. “First I bet and then I stole.”

“Did you steal the stamp?” asked Shaw.

“Well, I sort of took it.”

That day Shaw posted the letter to his mother. It read:—

DEAR MAMMA,

Thank you for the new suit. I wore it to the Manse to take Esther’s cake. I am working hard at my lessons. I am the head of my class especially in arithmetic and history. I hope you are getting on well too.

Your loving son,

SHAW MANIFOLD

P.S. I hope you will come to the girls’ wedding. They hope you will bring them presents.

After the posting of the letter Shaw waited with impatience for some news of his mother. No one seemed to know whether or not she was coming. Every spare moment was given to preparations for the double event. Curtains were washed, windows cleaned, carpets beaten. Masses of muslin, organdie, and homemade lace hung on the backs of chairs and sprawled over tables. It seemed to Shaw that, if he woke in the middle of the night, he heard women’s voices talking below. The prospective grooms seemed suddenly of no account. Letitia and Beatrice were everything.

The household was caught up in a strange spell. Shaw might not have existed for all the notice that was taken of him. He worked almost ceaselessly at his school books.

Then, as though without warning, the wedding day was upon them. It was a fair day in October, with ruddy sunshine and a sighing breeze. Along the ditches and in the corners of the fields the dusky yellow of the goldenrod blazed. Pyramids of red and yellow apples rose beneath the orchard trees. Roger Gower said, at breakfast:—

“Someone’s got to meet Cristabel. Her train arrives at nine o’clock.”

Shaw’s heart seemed to turn over in its sudden wild beating. “Can I go to the station too?” he pleaded.

Luke put in—“I’ve got a lot to do.”

“I don’t see how I can meet her,” said Mark.

“Shaw can drive the buggy to the station as well as not,” said Herbert. “Let him go by himself.”

At that moment Shaw loved Herbert. Roger Gower considered the matter in deep silence for a space. Then he said:—

“Harness the mare to the buggy, Shaw, and meet your mother. Be there in plenty of time.”

“And no monkey tricks on the way,” said Herbert.

“For goodness’ sake,” cried Letitia, looking at the clock. “It’s six o’clock already!”

Shaw was at the railway station long before the train was due. He could scarcely believe in himself, walking up and down the platform like a man, now and again stopping before the door of the waiting room to glance in at the clock.

The time of waiting did not seem long. As he paced up and down the platform he saw the scattered few who waited like himself look long at his trousers and sleeves, impressed by them. Over and over again he wondered what his mother would say when she saw him. She would scarcely know him, grown as he was and wearing the new suit. She would probably take him for Mark or Luke.

He heard the whistle of the train at the next crossing. The people moved closer to the platform, gripping their packages. Shaw’s heart beat quickly.

Now the wheels spun into view, a shining streak beneath the bulk of the locomotive. The freight cars thundered in, laden with bales and fat steers going to market. There were only two passenger cars and when the train stopped Shaw ran alongside, getting in people’s way, looking for his mother.

He saw her coming toward him smiling. He felt himself suddenly weak at the sight of her, as though he were a tiny child again. But when she put her arm about his shoulder and kissed his cheek, strength surged into him. He tore the suitcase from her hand and led the way to the buggy. He tingled with self-consciousness, knowing how her eyes must be fixed on the new suit.

But when they had reached the buggy and he looked up into her eyes he saw that they were swimming in tears.

“Mamma,” he asked wistfully, “don’t you think the suit fits me?”

“I think it’s beautiful on you,” she said.

His heart sang as the mare eagerly trotted homeward.

“Weren’t you surprised when I met you at the station?”

“I was awfully surprised.”

“I guess you thought I was one of the big fellows.”

“Well, I pretty near did.”

“I guess you thought you’d a grown-up son when you saw these pants.”

“I guess I did.”

“I guess you were sort of puzzled about who the young man was.”

“I had to think hard for a minute.”

“Oh, Mamma, did you really?” He laughed joyously. He took the whip from the socket and flicked the mare on the shoulder. Her big hoofs sent up a cloud of dust.

“I suppose all the folks are working hard getting ready for the wedding,” she said.

“They’re making a terrible fuss about it.” He spoke patronizingly. “Just as though two women never got married before. They’ve made hundreds and hundreds of clothes, and dozens of sheets and towels, and millions of pumpkin pies and lemon tarts and coconut cakes. Did you bring them presents?”

“Yes. I brought them each six pillowcases with lace insertion. Of course, I crocheted the lace myself.”

“Did you sit up at night doing it?”

“Yes.”

“I guess you got pretty tired.”

“Yes. I got very tired.”

“Is it hard work being a housekeeper?”

“Well, Shaw, I find it pretty hard. I don’t think I’m quite so strong since your father died.”

“My work is very hard too,” he said, making his voice deep. “And I’m at the top of my class and I’m going to try to pass into the entrance class at Christmas.”

“You are a good boy, Shaw.”

Bowling along the road, he felt as though they two floated in a golden haze of happiness. They were enthroned on the seat of the buggy talking freely, intimately, of their lives, unburdening their hearts without fear.

When they reached the gate he flung down the reins, leaped out, bawled “Whoa” in true farmer fashion to the mare as she hastened through; slammed the gate, clambered back over the wheel, and let her have her head.

Jane Gower met her daughter at the door and kissed her. Jane always moistened her lips before kissing, so their imprint remained a moment as though an affectionate wave had touched the shore. Shaw lugged the suitcase after.

Already the house was swarming and every hour brought more of the old couple’s descendants. By midday all thirteen of their children were there, with sons and daughters-in-law. Shaw was always losing his mother in the crowd. When he found her he pressed close to her, rubbing his cheek against her.

“You’d think you were a gatepost, Cristabel, and Shaw was a calf,” remarked one of her brothers.

She gave Shaw a tenderly reproving look and gently pushed him away.

He could not stay away. He could not bear her out of his sight. His eyes seemed to her to be always staring into her face. What were the thoughts behind those gravely staring eyes? What was in the mind of her queer little boy?

But she was proud of him. He was different from the other grandchildren, clever, like his father. She took Shaw up to his room when it was time to get ready for church. She carried a jug of hot water and from it filled the basin. “Take off your coat,” she said; “I must wash your head. I do think that Ma or the girls might have seen to it. Indeed, you’re old enough yourself.”

“Ain’t I clean?” he asked, surprised.

“You just wait and see the water that comes off you.”

He pulled off his jacket and gave himself up. He surrendered himself utterly to the bliss of being handled by her loved hands. She lathered his head and with soapy washcloth sought the intricacies of his ears. He did not mind the suds. He did not mind feeling half drowned under the rinsing. As she vigorously rubbed his hair he looked up at her lovingly like a docile little dog.

“My goodness, Shaw, how you stare! You’d think you’d never seen me before.”

“I can’t help it, Mamma,” he said. “I sort of want to remember what you’re like.”

“Now I call that a clean head!” she exclaimed, running her fingers through his thick hair. “That’s the way I’d like to see you kept.”

He caught her hand and turned the wedding ring on her thin finger.

“I wish we could be always together, Mamma.”

“I wish we could, dear. You must work as hard as you can. That’s the only way. Then some day the two of us will make a home. Unless you’ll want to get married as soon as you’re grown up, like some boys.”

“Not me! I’ve seen enough of weddings to last me the rest of my life.”

The departure for the church was frantic. The brides mislaid first one thing, then another. Their sisters and sisters-in-law, helping them to dress, filled the small rooms to suffocation with starched petticoats and healthy, perspiring womanhood. At the last moment Beaty’s garter broke. She sat down on the stairs, weeping loudly.

“It’s a bad sign,” she sobbed. “I know it’s a bad sign.”

“Nonsense, Beaty, it’s a good sign,” comforted her mother. “It’s a warning you’d forgotten to wear something borrowed. Here, one of you, lend Beaty a garter.”

A garter was pulled from a plump leg; a safety pin substituted. From every room the wedding party poured out. The sunburnt faces of Mark and Luke were like hardy flowers above the stiff white stems of their starched collars. Their hair was plastered flat and parted in the middle.

Jane Gower had a new black silk dress and a bonnet trimmed with jet for the occasion. Against the rich blackness her pink face, her clear light eyes, her snow-white hair, had an air of benign tranquillity. Roger’s beard had been washed and combed for the occasion. He led his two daughters down the aisle of the church with solemnity, as though giving them away were a cause of sadness to him. But, in truth, he was glad to be spared the expense (as he thought) of them. It was Jane who would have to make up for their hard work in house and dairy. She and Esther.

Jane in her black silk was not to compare with Becky in her wine-colored velvet, with cherries nodding on her bonnet and the rosy bow beneath her chin making her sallow little face more sallow. She and Merton, parents of one of the grooms, occupied a front pew. It was many years since they had been in any but a Church of England. Becky wore an expression of lofty unacquaintance with the forms of the Presbyterian Church and Merton’s beard twitched his amused tolerance. Neither felt that their son would be properly wed by the ceremony. Both thought he was making a poor marriage.

Leslie himself was dapper and composed, in contrast to the flurried and somewhat disheveled aspect of the other groom. The faces of the brides beamed beneath their veils like harvest moons through mist. Mr. Blair’s address was so eloquent that Roger was moved to give looks of pride across the aisle at Merton, who stared back with an unconvinced, even truculent expression. Becky sniffed continuously, patting her eyes with a laced-edged handkerchief. Jane’s heavy upper lip quivered in bearable grief at the loss of Letitia and Beaty.

Shaw drank in all that passed, his ears and eyes missing no word or movement, his mind a strange jumble of impressions. And always at the back of his mind was the aching consciousness that he must part with his mother that evening.

All the way through the wedding breakfast he sat close to her, feeling her nearness in his every fibre. He wanted little to eat and that worried her. She bent over him, urging him and laying tempting bits on his plate. When he found that in this way he could hold her attention he ate next to nothing, nibbling languidly and staring into her face.

“Whatever is the matter with you!” she whispered, under cover of one of Leslie’s jokes.

“When will you come again, Mamma?”

“Oh, bless me, I don’t know!” She could have cried to see the expression in his eyes. “You must sleep on a piece of the wedding cake and wish to see me soon.”

“Will that help—truly?”

“It may.”

“I’ll wish on it every night till you come.”

Inexorably the time for her leaving drew nearer, swallowing up all color and movement in his surroundings, making him feel still and remote and despairing, but not quite without a hope. He hoped to go with her to the station, to see her go away in the train.

Perhaps the thought of Shaw at the railway station was more than Cristabel could bear. Whatever the reason, there was no room for him in the crowded democrat wagon. He kissed her quietly, grasping her suitcase in his hands. He had taken no part in the rice throwing at the newly married pairs. Now they were gone and a subdued silence had fallen on those who were left.

“I hope Shaw will grow up to be a comfort to you, Cristabel,” said Aunt Becky. “But boys seldom do. You fasten all your hopes on them and wear yourself to the bone for them and they disappoint you.”

“You’ll miss the train if we don’t get a move on,” said Luke.

“Good-bye! Roger, that was a terrible sermon your minister preached!”

“Good-bye, Jane, don’t worry about the girls!”

“Good-bye, Pa!”

“Good-bye, Grandpa and Grandma!”

“Good-bye, Shaw! The child looks half asleep!”

He stared after the democrat, then broke into a run. He ran as fast as he could down the farm lane, but he could not overtake it. It became a swiftly moving blur in the frosty twilight that followed the Indian-summer day. The hoofbeats of the two horses rang out loud and clear.

He stopped stock-still. A thought pierced him. He had forgotten something—something he had wanted terribly to do! He had forgotten to show his mother the beautiful colored map he had drawn.