Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's First Job; Or, At the Foot of the Ladder - Burt L. Standish - Страница 8

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Toward evening Frank walked out to the village cemetery that lay on the hillside. The sun was letting fall its slanting rays on the marble shafts and white tombstones. Below the hill was a small, pretty lake.

Hat in hand, Frank Merriwell stood beside his mother’s grave, which was marked by a beautiful slender marble shaft, at the apex of which was a pure white dove.

The grave was well kept, as Frank had instructed that it should be. All the grass had been neatly trimmed by a lawn-mower, and the flowers of early autumn were growing there.

A long, long time the young man stood with his head bowed by the grave. His thoughts were of the tenderest and saddest nature. Once again he, a little boy, was standing beside the chair of his dear, sweet-faced mother, and he seemed to feel her arm about him, while he laid his head against her shoulder. How plainly he saw her as she looked fondly into his eyes and told him one of the many stories that he begged her to tell over and over, day after day. Not one of these stories but had a moral and taught a lesson, and yet they were so skillfully constructed and so beautifully told that they were his delight. He realized that with the aid of these little stories she had helped shape his future character, for they had taught him patience, perseverance, truthfulness, honesty, kindness and forgiveness.

He thought it all over now as he stood there in the last rays of the setting sun, and his heart swelled with gratitude and love for that mother of whom he had been so proud and who had been so proud of him. He knew that her whole life had been pure and tender and patient, and her memory was an inspiration.

The tears dimmed his eyes and ran down his cheeks, but on his face was a look of mingled sadness and happiness. Oh, it was good to have such a mother to remember.

Down by the grave he knelt, and he prayed to his mother in heaven. He felt that she was looking down on him and blessing him. He knew her spirit would hover near him and guide him. She had been an angel on earth, and it did not seem that she could be any purer now that she was an angel in heaven.

At last he rose. There had been a pain in his heart, but it was gone; there had been a sadness in his soul, but it was gone. He felt calm and at peace with all the world. From the grave he plucked a few sprigs, and with them in his hand he turned away.

The sun had set, and purple twilight lay in the valleys. Far across the meadows cows were lowing, while the boy, driving them homeward, whistled a merry strain. It seemed that there was nothing but peace and tranquillity in all the world.

Along the road came a horseman at a canter. Frank paid little notice to him till he was near, and then, happening to look at the person, he saw it was Dyke Conrad.

The fellow recognized Frank at the same moment. There was no sidewalk at this point, and Merry was walking along the road. With a muttered exclamation, Dyke cut the horse with his whip, and the spirited animal leaped straight at Frank.

It was an attempt to run Merry down, and Frank did not leap out of the way. Instead, with a swift movement and a grasp of iron, he caught the animal by the bit and set it on its haunches, with a single wrench, causing it to snort with terror and bringing Dyke tumbling into the dust.

Conrad sprang up, snarling forth angry words.

“What do you mean, you dog!” he almost shouted. “Why, I’ll—I’ll——”

“Be good enough to mount your horse and go on your way,” came quietly from Frank. “I do not wish to lift my hand in anger against you—now.”

“But you caught my horse by the bit and made me lose my seat.”

“I was forced to do it to protect myself when you tried to run me down.”

“You might have got out of the way!”

“There was little time for that. Come, do as I asked. I do not wish a quarrel with you now.”

Dyke took this as a symptom of fear.

“Oh, no, you don’t want a quarrel! I know that! But I think I’ll cut you across the face a few times with my whip, just so you will remember me.”

“Stop! Don’t force me to give you a drubbing now, for I have just come from my mother’s grave, and—I——”

“If your mother was like you——” The fellow got no further.

Releasing the horse, Frank sprang like a tiger upon him, caught him by the collar till Dyke choked and grew purple, then swiftly said:

“Take it back! You may insult me, but your lips shall not breathe a word about my mother! Take it back—quick!”

There was a look in Merry’s eyes that frightened Dyke as he had never been frightened before. Before he realized it, he was cowering and whimpering:

“I didn’t mean to say anything against your mother—honest, I didn’t. I spoke before I thought. Of course I wouldn’t say anything against anybody that is dead! Don’t! You choke!”

“You are not worth thrashing!” said Frank, in contempt. “But have a care! It is well you found me in my present mood, or I would not have let you off so easy. Go!”

He released the fellow and walked away, not once turning his head to see what Conrad was doing.

When Frank reached the house he found the place in confusion. The nurse had been driven from the professor’s room by the raving man, and she said he had a revolver, with which he said he was hunting for Horace Scotch, whom he would shoot on sight.

“He is crazy!” declared the excited woman. “He must be taken care of, or he will murder somebody.”

Frank unhesitatingly went up to the room, opened the door and entered. The professor was standing before a long mirror in his nightdress, with the revolver in his hand, talking wildly to himself.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed, shrilly. “So I have found you at last! You thought you could get away, you robber! Ha! ha! ha! There is no escape for such as you! You robbed the boy who trusted you! You deserve to die, and now you shall!”

Then he lifted the revolver and fired straight into the center of the mirror.

Frank reached him with a rush and grappled with him, attempting to hold him still and wrest the revolver from his grasp. But the professor developed the strength of a maniac for a time, and a terrible struggle ensued, in which the revolver was twice discharged, although neither of the bullets did any harm.

At last Frank secured the revolver, but even then the maniac fought on, screaming:

“He deserves death! He shall not escape! Let me go! I will kill him! I will kill him!”

“Be quiet, professor!” commanded Frank, as he finally forced the man down upon a chair and held him there. “Be still, I tell you! You know me. I am Frank.”

“Then why didn’t you let me kill him?” panted the man, giving up at last. “You are the one he robbed. He should die, as he deserves! He was a coward! Once he stood up to shoot himself with that very pistol, but his nerve failed him, and he ran away, leaving me here in his place. I have been watching for him to come back. Ha! ha! ha! Oh, he can’t escape!”

Frank talked soothingly to the man, and finally got him back into the bed. The professor was deathly white, and his eyes fairly burned. His hands were hot and cold by turns.

Frank sat by the bedside till the doctor came and gave the sick man something that put him to sleep.

When the physician heard Frank’s story, he shook his head, saying:

“I am afraid he is done for. There is every indication that his reason is shattered. If he has another violent spell, you will be forced to have him taken to a place where he can be properly cared for.”

“As long as there is a ray of hope, doctor, he shall remain here, and I will care for him myself.”

That night Frank slept in a room near at hand, with the door standing open, so that he could hear the nurse if she called. At intervals he awoke and listened. Midnight passed, morning approached. Frank was sleeping in the gray light of dawn when the nurse awoke him and said:

“He is awake now and a great change has come over him. He is asking for you.”