Читать книгу Drowsy - John Ames Mitchell - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Seven years have passed.

Under the arching elms in a Massachusetts village, one Sunday morning in July, various persons were moving toward a house of worship. The house of worship was white, with a portico of Ionic columns.

Among the branches of the elms a noisy congregation of non-sectarian birds seemed to be laughing at the Orthodox bells.

Dr. Alton, leading his little son by the hand, was walking beside the parson. Dr. Alton was but little over thirty years of age. His son was nearly seven. When the older physician died, two months ago, this younger Dr. Alton, his only child, had returned from Europe and announced his intention of continuing his father's practice. Why an attractive young man, shining with honors from the medical schools of Paris and Vienna, should be willing to hide his talents in a village like Longfields was an interesting mystery. Some argued that the death of his young wife had broken his heart and killed ambition. But this morning, as he walked to church, beneath the singing elms, he took cheerful notice of the things about him. He enjoyed the greetings of old friends of his boyhood.

Some yards behind, in this progress toward the church, came Mr. and Mrs. David Snell. Mr. Snell was listening to the discourse of his wife. He listened with the patience and the fortitude attained by long experience and by force of will. His beard was gray, his eyes were blue, his shoulders narrow and his figure slight. Also, he had a gentle voice and gentle manners. But it was known among his friends that this gentleness was by no means a manifestation of any inward weakness. While patient and much enduring, there were times when he became more determined, more "cantankerously sot" and unchangeable than the movements of the planets. Deacon Babbit once said, "Compared with David when he gets his dander up the Rock of Ages is a weather-cock. The only safe thing to do is to stand from under and let him be." But these transformations were rare, and often forgotten.

"I don't care," Mrs. Snell was saying, "people have a right to gossip when a handsome young man comes home from Europe with a child like that and refuses to open his mouth about its mother. I don't believe it had a mother."

"P'r'aps not. P'r'aps it grew on a pumpkin tree and the doctor jest picked it."

"You know what I mean, David. We never heard of his being married durin' those six years he was over there—over there studyin' medicine. Studyin' medicine! I guess he studied a good many things besides medicine."

"Been a fool if he hadn't. Medicine ain't the only interestin' thing in this world."

"Don't be coarse, David, and excusing vice. You know very well he should not deceive people about it."

"How has he deceived anybody?"

"By saying he was married to this boy's mother—and she died."

"Well, ain't it true?"

"No."

"How do you know it ain't?"

"Because if it was true he wouldn't be so secretive about it. There's nothing to be ashamed of in marrying an honest woman and having a child."

"No," said Mr. Snell. "Nuthin' specially surprisin' about that. Good folks have done it."

"Then why be hiding something? All his old friends are naturally interested in his wife and he'd naturally tell us—unless there was something he was ashamed of."

"Ashamed of? Well, Rebecca, you certainly can talk like a fool when you put your mind on it."

Mrs. Snell flushed. "Really! Indeed! So you think it's perfectly natural for a man to hide from his old friends all knowledge of his marriage—as he would a murder?"

"Yes, if he wants to."

"Well, I don't. And that's the difference. And we'll see what other people in this village are going to think about it."

Mr. Snell stopped, laid a hand on his wife's arm and wheeled her about. He spoke in a low voice, but his words were metallic in their clearness. "Now look here, Rebecca Snell, you jest go slow on startin' that kind of talk. Dr. Alton's a good man. We are mighty lucky to have him in the old doctor's shoes. Longfields is a mighty small village for a man with such an education as he's got. And if it ever got to his ears that you'd been insultin' his dead wife's memory—well—you'll get jest exactly what you deserve, and I'll help give it to yer. I mean it. Now shut up."

Mrs. Snell glanced at the light blue angry eyes now looking steadily into her own. Between those eyes and her own face, a long and bony finger, quivering with anger, was moving slowly, to and fro. It came very near her face. She blinked, tightened her lips and took a backward step. Then her husband, in a low voice, husky with rage, the vibrating finger almost touching her nose, spoke once more.

"And you stay shut up!"

After a pause, just long enough for his message to be acknowledged by a nod of obedience he started on toward the church.

Mrs. Snell followed after.

In that congregation were persons who came to worship their Creator—the ostensible purpose of the gathering. Miss Susan Pendexter, on the other hand, a somewhat emotional spinster, came to worship the preacher, Rev. George Bentley Heywood. She was thrilled by the originality, the power and the beauty of the sermon which to his own wife seemed, as usual, prosy and commonplace. Many were present because afraid to stay away. Among these were the young men. Children, of course, were present under compulsion, accepting the sermon as a punishment.

No gathering could be more democratic. These descendants of the Pilgrims were not encumbered by class distinctions. Judge Dean, for instance, the most influential citizen of the village, would never presume to patronize either Abner Phillips, the harness maker or Elisha Bisbee, the blacksmith. Uncle Hector, who kept the store, would have snubbed all the reigning monarchs of the earth had he suspected them of willful condescension. The somewhat restless man in a side pew, he whose stiff hair stands straight on end, who snuffs and clears his throat and looks pleasantly around the church, is Lemuel Cobb, the stage driver. He is a descendant of a famous Governor of Plymouth Colony and has a brother who is now President of a Western College. And the two Allen "girls," Nance and Fidelia—now over sixty—have one of the best pews in Church. The fact of their being largely dependent for food and clothing, rent and fuel, on the bounty of their neighbors, lessens in no degree the courtesy they receive.

It was natural that Dr. Alton and his son, this morning, should be objects of lively interest. This interest was all the greater from certain unexplained events in Europe kindly referred to by Mrs. Snell. But other persons were less suspicious than this lady. Nearly all the members of the congregation—and of the township for that matter—were old friends of this Dr. Alton's father. Few among those here present failed to recall, with gratitude and affection, the dead physician. The older members he had either sustained in sickness or had postponed their departure to realms above. The younger ones he had ably assisted into our merry world. This younger Dr. Alton, now present, bore some resemblance to his father. He had a good expression and a pleasant smile, but he was, of course, too young to carry those deeper lines of study, of work and kindly deeds that marked his father's face.

So high were the backs of the pews that the smaller children were almost invisible. Only the tops of their heads were in sight. But Dr. Alton's son, for a wider knowledge of this new world, folded his short legs beneath him and sat upon his heels. This was welcomed—in silence—by many persons in the congregations. They could now satisfy their curiosity as to his appearance. And the face was disappointing. His eyes, as they moved in a drowsy way over the faces about him, seemed dull and almost stupid. They seemed half closed by heavy lids. And his short, cherubic mouth might indicate a want of decision. His hair, short, thick and dark grew in a straight line across his forehead. Altogether, with his stiff hair, plump cheeks, short neck and placid manner, he seemed a different type from the little Yankee boys of Longfields.

Mrs. Waldo Bennett, the tall, straight woman with startled eyebrows, said to herself, as she watched his slow moving eyes, studying in mild surprise the church and the people about him, "That little heathen was never in a house of God before." But she was wrong. This was, to be sure, his first experience in a New England church, but he had been in cathedrals. And he was surprised at the difference in size between this cathedral and those at Milan and Canterbury. Leisurely, and with no embarrassment or self-consciousness, his eyes wandered slowly over various persons who were watching him. But when his eyes encountered Mrs. Snell they opened a trifle wider. There, in surprise, they rested for a moment. For in this lady's face he found, not the amiable curiosity of his grandfather's grateful friends, but a pious disapproval of his very existence. Almost threatening was her look of hostility, of reprobation and contempt. There was censure in it, and condemnation. She was studying him as one of the Higher Angels might study the meanest imp of Satan. For Mrs. Snell, while not impervious to the consolations of religion, found more solace, just at present, in believing Dr. Alton a special envoy from Sodom and Gomorrah. As for the boy, she detected, in his evil eyes and voluptuous mouth, an agent of the devil for the future debauchery of Longfields. She was not especially prophetic in other matters but, for this boy, she predicted an unspeakable career.

And the boy, while unable to divine all her thoughts or to realize this blighting forecast, did not fail to catch the general message. For a moment he returned her gaze, calmly and undisturbed; then as calmly looked away. He was seeking refuge in the thought that perhaps she hated all other boys just as much. Perhaps the women in this new country were fiercer than those in Europe.

The very next minute, however, something happened—something so much more thrilling that he forgot completely the square jawed, ominous woman. As he looked away from her hostile glare he encountered the eyes of the parson's daughter. And such eyes! How different from Mrs. Snell's! These eyes were the two most astonishing things he had ever seen. They were not far away—in a pew at right angles to his own—and they were looking straight at him! They had thick, dark lashes. They, also, were severe, but in a different way from Mrs. Snell's. They certainly were frowning at him. From Mrs. Snell's eyes he felt like running away—for safety. These other eyes seemed more surprised than angry—as if demanding an apology for something. Although but six years old they were remarkably effective for weapons with so little experience. Not that she was a flirt at that age: she was nothing more than a rather willful little girl, already somewhat spoiled: one of those clever females intended by nature to succeed, from the cradle up, in getting whatever they desire.

The boy's eyebrows went up and he smiled, involuntarily, in spite of her frown, and his slumbrous eyelids opened a little wider. He enjoyed beautiful things, in whatever form, and those eyes, whether hostile or friendly, were wondrous things. Then, when he had just begun to stare at them, comfortably, came one of the surprises of his life. It was more than a surprise: it was a blow, a shock, a humiliation. For, this girl, with no warning, made a face at him! She wrinkled up her nose, slightly raised her chin and stuck out her tongue. And, while he gazed in wonder, she unfolded the legs upon which she was elevated and sank from his vision like a mermaid beneath the waves. He was more astonished than angry. That such an affront, so undeserved, so undignified and so insulting should come from so angelic a face was something new in his experience. In his desire to see more of this novelty he forgot his surroundings, and to the surprise of neighboring worshipers, and before his father could stop him, he clambered to his feet and stood up on the seat of the pew.

Accelerated by his father's hand and by a whispered word, he came down to his proper level. But Mrs. Snell had seen the act. It strengthened her conviction that this future corrupter of youth had no respect for the House of God, and was already dead to any religious influence. For a time the Corrupter of Youth kept his eyes on the place where the eyes had vanished; but in vain. They seemed to have disappeared forever. So, being a boy, he found interest in other things.

The tall windows of the church were open at the top, and those members of the congregation, not enthralled by the sermon, could see snowy clouds drifting idly across a bright blue sky. Through these open windows came the song of birds;—voices of the heathen birds already mentioned; good singers but with little reverence for the Gospel Word. To the Corrupter of Youth, also, the Gospel Word had little interest. He was looking up, through the open windows, at the floating clouds, the swallows and the white pigeons. One swallow, less discerning than his friends, flew into the church and fluttered about before escaping. He was followed, with envious eyes, by the Corrupter of Youth, who decided there and then—a decision often made before—that when he grew to be a man, and could do as he pleased, he also would fly:—up from the earth, high up into the clouds like a bird!

Perhaps it was the warm day and the preacher's voice, but after a while he began to feel sleepy. And, anyway, why should a bird be so much better off than men and other animals? Why stick so tight to the ground? It didn't seem fair. Why should a hen—just a hen—have wings and not a boy? If he himself had wings—my gracious!—he would rise and sail up through the open window, up and far away above the clouds, into the blue sky itself! Among the gods and angels he would float around. And just to show what he could do, he would astonish them with extraordinary evolutions. For speed, originality and distance, his flights, with curves and sudden stops, would startle even sparrows themselves. There was pleasure, too, in swooping down, and showing his contempt for these heavy, easily satisfied persons all huddled together between the bare walls of this foolish little Longfields cathedral. Darting downwards, but in easy curves, to the very window through which he had been looking up and out, he now looked down and in. Hovering at the open window, his body without, his head within, he frowned upon the upturned, startled faces of the earth-bound congregation. Then he entered. Gracefully he floated over their heads. For a moment he hovered over Mrs. Snell, who uttered a loud scream, then fell dead from terror. Next, above the girl with the wonderful eyes he moved slowly to and fro, as fishes move in water. This just to show her what kind of a floating boy he was. Descending a little, until his face was close to hers, he looked straight into her startled eyes and wiggled his nose like a rabbit. And it frightened her almost to death!

"GRACEFULLY HE FLOATED OVER THEIR HEADS"—Page 29

'Twas a great thought!

He smiled as he reveled in it. But there are dreams too beautiful to be true. And when, at last, his soul rejoined his body he saw the preacher had folded his hands upon the Bible in front of him, and was praying. The members of the congregation, with bowed heads, were listening in solemn silence. Then the dreamer, now wide awake, slid from his seat, stood up, put his mouth to his parent's ear and whispered:

"Father, quick! His eyes are shut. Let's get away!"

Parents can be dull. On this occasion his father certainly missed a golden opportunity. He merely shook his head and failed to act.

However, the weary service was almost over. The prayer ended; the congregation stood up and joined in the final hymn. The dreamer also stood up. Also, he opened his cherubic mouth, and sang. The words he knew not, but he sang without them. His unfamiliar voice surprised Miss Martha Lincoln, a middle-aged maiden just in front of him. Twice a week she gave music lessons in Worcester. Now, involuntarily she looked behind. Her surprise was great when she discovered the performer to be a small boy whose diminutive mouth could hardly open wide enough to put forth the music that was in him. Clearly this courageous singer possessed an ear and a sense of harmony that were a part of himself, and not acquired.

At last, the benediction finished, the people came slowly out of the pews into the aisle, and moved toward the open doors. Greetings occurred between people who lived miles apart and seldom met, except on Sundays. The boy stuck close to his father. One of his hands kept a tight grip on Dr. Alton's coat. As the top of his head was not above the waists of people about him he received little attention. Many persons overlooked him. But just before reaching the vestibule he heard a voice close to his ear, on his own level. It said, distinctly, but in a tone too low for the taller people to hear:

"How do you do, little stupid?"

He turned. There was the girl with the wondrous eyes! But now the eyes glistened with malicious triumph. For an instant he was too surprised, too disconcerted, to grasp the situation. Like a ship that receives a raking broadside from an unexpected quarter and reels beneath the shock, but recovers and prepares for action, so Cyrus Alton pulled himself together, blinked and faced the foe. Then it was that the maiden herself received a shock. For this boy, instead of "sassing back" as she expected, inclined his head and body in a ceremonious bow—as elaborate as the skirts and legs of the surrounding grown-ups permitted, and inquired politely:

"Why do you say that?"

So surprised was the girl, so startled by this unprecedented, this unheard of politeness in a human boy, that her expression swiftly changed to one of comic dismay. She was dumb. The miracle stupefied her. In their wonderment the beautiful eyes became yet larger and more beautiful. But the lips were speechless. Then, once again she vanished, this time behind her mother's skirt.

And that is how the acquaintance began between Cyrus Alton and Ruth Heywood.