Read Ebook: The Web of Time by Knowles Robert E Robert Edward

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Ebook has 1774 lines and 104733 words, and 36 pages

The hired helper had told about all that was known in Glenallen concerning their new townswoman. Indeed, rather more; for comparatively few knew anything of the little family gathering that had stood one early morning beside the tiny grave. The village was small--Glenallen had not yet achieved its fond hope that it would outgrow the humiliating state of villagehood--and its inhabitants were correspondingly well posted in the source, and antecedents, and attendant circumstances of all who came to dwell among them. But almost all they could ascertain regarding Mrs. Simmons was that she had come from the city, that she had two children living--as far as they could learn, their father was dead--that she had some scanty means with which she had embarked on the humble enterprise that was to provide her daily bread.

And thus far they were correct enough. For the first darkness of the great tragedy had no sooner overswept her than she began to shrink with an unspeakable aversion from all that was associated with the old life that had now no memory but pain. Her heart turned with wistful yearning towards some spot where she might live again the simple country life she had known in the early days of childhood. The cold selfishness of the city chilled her to the soul. She longed for some quiet country place--such as Glenallen was--where she might make a living, and live more cheaply; where her children might have a chance; where the beauty of God's world might do its share of healing.

She had known but few in the city, simple folk--and they had seemed to care but little. Yet they had to be kept in the dark; and the careful story of her baby's fall had been an often crucifixion. They thought her husband had suddenly been crazed with grief, hinting sometimes at the cowardice of his desertion--and she made no protest, dissembling with ingenious love for his sake and her children's. Few were aware when she left the city, and fewer seemed to care. She had little to bring--one sacred treasure was her chiefest burden--and it slept now beside her. And Harvey and Jessie must not know that their father was alive--not yet. They would have enough to bear; and moreover, who could tell? In any case, was he not dead to them?

She never knew exactly what was the cause of it--whether blow or shock--nor did she care; but she trembled for her children as it became more and more certain that her eyesight was failing. It had begun to be impaired soon after that very night. Yet she went bravely on, clinging to her little ones, clinging to life, clinging to hope--even to joy, in a dim, instinctive way. And ever, night and day, she guarded the dread secret; ever, night and day, she cherished the hope that her eyes might look again, if God should spare their light, upon the face she had last seen with that awful look upon it as it came nearer and nearer to her own. So her lips were set tight, lest any revealing word should escape to any soul on earth.

And it was not long till the curious residents of Glenallen felt that the stranger among them was acquainted with grief--but of what sort it was, the most vigilant never knew. Thus did she tread the wine-press alone, pressing silently along the upward path of pain.

And thus had the years gone by.

"Cut him off another piece, mother--a bigger piece; that there chunk wouldn't satisfy a pigeon. Fruit-cake isn't very fillin'--not to a boy, leastways, and there's nothin' lonelier than one piece of cake inside of a boy that's built for nine or ten."

Mr. Borland's merry eyes turned first upon his wife's face as he made his plea, then wandered towards a distant field, resting upon the diminutive figure of a boy.

"That's all right, mother; it's true to life, anyhow--an' it all deals with his inner bein'; it tells of sufferin' humanity," rejoined her husband. "The smaller the boy, the bigger the hunk--that's a safe rule when you're dealin' in cake. Bully for you, mother--that there slice'll come nearer fittin' him," he concluded jubilantly, as his wife completed a piece of surgery more generous than before.

"Who was it hired Harvey to pick potatoes, father?" inquired Mrs. Borland. "How can he eat this without washing his hands?" she continued, almost in the same breath; "it's such dirty work."

"You just watch him; that won't trouble him much. Boys love sand. It was me that hired him, Martha. He come right up to me on the street an' took off his hat like I was an earl: 'Can you give me any work to do, Mr. Borland?' he says. 'I'm going to make enough money to make mother's eyes well,' an' the little fellow looked so earnest an' so manly, I fair hated to tell him the only kind of job I could give him. I just hated to. But I told him I wanted some one to pick potatoes. An' Harvey brightened right up. 'All right, Mr. Borland,' he says, 'I'll come. I'm awful fond of potatoes, an' I can pick two at a time--three, if they're not too big,' he says, an' I couldn't keep from laughin' to save myself."

"What's the matter with his mother's eyes?" asked Mrs. Borland, as she tore the front page from the weekly paper, preparing to wrap it about the cake.

"I didn't like to ask him. The little fellow seemed to feel real bad about it--an' I never did like to probe into things that hurt," replied her husband. "Even when I was a boy at school, I never could stand seein' a fellow show where he stubbed his toe," continued the homely philosopher, reaching out his hand for the little parcel. "There was one thing about the boy that took me wonderful," he went on; "I asked him would he work by the day or by the bushel, an' he said right quick as how he'd do it by the bushel--I always like those fellows best that prefers to work by the job. Hello, there, old sport," he suddenly digressed as a noise from behind attracted him, "an' where did you come from? You're always turnin' up at cake time. I thought you were goin' to ride to Branchton," glancing as he spoke at the riding whip the girl held in her hand.

Full of merry laughter were the eyes, so like his own, that sparkled upward towards her father's face. The wild sweet breath of happy girlhood came panting from her lips, half breathless with eager haste; while the golden hair, contrasting well with the rosy tide that suffused her cheek, and falling dishevelled on her shoulders, and the very aroma of health and vitality that distilled from her whole form, tall and lithe and graceful as it was, might amply justify the pride that marked her father's gaze.

"So I was," the chiming voice rejoined. "But I turned back. I despise a coward." The eyes flashed as she spoke. "And Cecil Craig's one--he's a real one," she elaborated warmly. "We met a threshing engine half-way out--and of course I was going to ride past it. But he wouldn't--he got off and tied his horse to a tree. And it broke the lines and got away. I was so glad--and I rode on, and Doctor threw me," rubbing her knee sympathetically as she spoke; "that's what made me so glad his own horse got away," she affirmed savagely, "and the two engine men stopped and caught Doctor for me and I got on him again--astride this time--and I made him walk right up and smell the engine; and Cecil had to walk home. The men told him to touch himself up with his whip and it wouldn't take him long--and that made him awful mad. You see, they knew he was a coward. Who's that fruit-cake for?" she inquired suddenly, flinging her gloves vigorously towards the hat-stand. "I'll just try a piece myself--fruit-cake's good for a sore knee," and she attacked it with the dexterity that marks the opening teens.

"It's for a little boy that's workin' in the field--little Harvey Simmons. He's pickin' potatoes, an' I thought a little refreshment wouldn't hurt him," her father answered, pointing fieldward as he spoke.

"I know him," the maiden mumbled, her mouth full of the chosen remedy; "he goes to school--and he always spells everybody down," she added as enthusiastically as the aforesaid treatment would permit. "Let me take it out to him, father," the utterance clearing somewhat.

The father was already handing her the dainty parcel when her mother intervened. "No, Madeline, it's not necessary for you to take it. It's hardly the correct thing, child; I'll call Julia--she can take it out."

"'Tisn't necessary, mother," quoted her husband. "I want this here cake to mean something. I'll just take it myself," and in a moment he was striding energetically across the intervening paddock, the untiring form of the little labourer alternately rising and falling as he plied his laborious toil.

"Your father is the best-hearted man in the county, Madeline," Mrs. Borland ventured when her husband was out of hearing.

"Why, child," and the mother frowned a little, "where did you get that idea? Who told you that?"

"Father told me," replied the child promptly. "He told me himself, and I think I heard him telling Cecil's father that once too--Cecil's father wanted not to give so much money to the men that worked for him. I think they were talking about that, and that was when father said it," the unconscious face looking proudly up into her mother's.

"You don't need to speak about it, dear; it doesn't sound well to be--to be boasting about your father, you know. Now run away and get ready for lunch; father 'll be back in a minute."

The child turned to go upstairs, singing as she went, forgetful of the mild debate and blissfully ignorant of all the human tumult that lay behind it, conscious only of a vague happiness at thought of the great heart whose cause she had championed in her childish way. Less of contented joy was on the mother's face as she looked with half exultant eyes upon the luxury about her, trophies of the wealth that had been so welcome though so late.

Prompted by the conversation with Madeline, her mind roamed swiftly over the bygone years; the privations of her early married life, the growing comfort that her husband's toil had brought, the trembling venture into the world of manufacture, the ensuing struggle, the impending failure, the turning tide, the abundant flow that followed--and all the fairy-land into which increasing wealth had borne her. Of all this she thought as she stood amid the spoils--and of the altered ways and loftier friends, of the whirl and charm of fashion, of the bewildering entrance into such circles of society as their little town afforded, long envied from afar, now pouring their wine and oil into still unhealing wounds. Dimly, too, it was borne in upon her that her husband's heart, lagging behind her own, had been content to tarry among the simple realities of old, unspoiled by the tardy success that had brought with it no sense of shame for the humble days of yore, and had left unaltered the simplicity of an honest, kindly heart.

Her husband, in the meantime, had arrived at the side of his youthful employee, his pace quickening as he came nearer to the lad, the corners of his mouth relaxing in a sort of unconscious smile that bespoke the pleasure the errand gave him. Absorbed in his work, and hearing only the rattle of the potatoes as they fell steadily into the pail beside him, the boy had not caught the approaching footfalls; he gave a little jump as Mr. Borland called him by his name.

"Here's a little something for you, my boy--the missus sent it out."

Harvey straightened himself up, clapped his hands together to shake the dust from them, and gravely thanked his employer as he received the little package. Slowly unwrapping it, his eye brightened as it fell on a sight so unfamiliar; in an instant one of the slices was at his lips, a gaping wound in evidence as it was withdrawn. A moment later the boy ceased chewing, then slowly resumed the operation; but now the paper was refolded over the remaining cake, and Harvey gently stowed it away in the pocket of his blouse.

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Borland anxiously. "Aren't you well--or isn't it good?" The boy smiled his answer; other reply was unnecessary and inadequate.

"Goin' to take it home?" the man asked curiously.

"No, sir. I'm just going to keep it a little while," the youngster replied, looking manfully upward as he spoke, a little gulp bespeaking the final doom of the morsel he had taken. "You don't mind, sir?" he added respectfully.

"Me mind! What would I mind for? You're quite right, my boy--it's a mighty good thing when a fellow finds out as young as you are that he can't eat his cake and have it too; it takes most of us a lifetime to learn that. How old are you, Harvey--isn't that your name?"

"Yes, sir. I'm most fourteen," the boy answered, stooping again to resume his work.

"Do you go to school?" the man inquired presently.

"Mostly in the winter, sir; not very much in the summer. But I do all I can. You see, I have to help my mother in the store when she needs me. But I'm going to try the entrance next summer," he added quickly, the light of ambition on his face.

"Where is your mother's store?" asked Mr. Borland.

"It's that little store on George Street, next to the Chinese laundry. It has a red door--and there's a candy monkey in the window," he hastened to add, this last identification proffered with much enthusiasm.

A considerable silence followed, broken only by the rattling potatoes as they fell. "Mr. Borland, could you give me work in your factory?" the boy inquired suddenly, not pausing for an instant in his work.

"In the factory!" echoed Mr. Borland. "I thought you were going to school."

"I could work after four," replied the boy. "There's two hours left."

Mr. Borland gazed thoughtfully for a moment. "'Twouldn't leave you much time to play," he said, smiling down at Harvey.

"I don't need an awful lot of play," the boy returned gravely; "I never got very much used to it. Besides, I've got a lot of games when I'm delivering little parcels for mother--games that I made up myself. Sometimes I play I'm going round calling soldiers out because there's going to be a war--and sometimes I play I'm Death," he added solemnly.

"Play you're Death!" cried the startled man. "What on earth do you mean by that? I thought no one ever played that game but once," he concluded, as much to himself as to the boy.

"Oh, it's this way, you see--it's one of the headlines in the copy-book that pale Death knocks with--with--impartial steps at the big houses and the little cottages--something like that, anyhow. And it's a good deal the same with me," the boy responded gravely, looking up a moment as he spoke. "It's a real interesting game when you understand it. Of course I'm not very pale," he continued slowly, "but I can feel pretty pale when I want to," he concluded, smiling at the fancy.

Mr. Borland was decidedly interested. And well he might have been. For there was just enough of the same mystic fire in his own heart, untutored though it was, to reveal to him the beauty that glowed upon the boyish face before him. The lad was tall for his years, well-formed, lithe, muscular; dishevelled by his stooping toil, a wealth of nut-brown hair fell over an ample forehead, almost overshading the large blue eyes that were filled with the peculiar shining light which portrays the poetic mind. His features were large, not marked by any particular refinement, significant rather of the necessity--yet also of the capacity--for moral struggle; distended nostrils, marking fullness of life and passion, sensitive to the varying emotions that showed first in the wonderful eyes; a deep furrow ran from nose to lips, the latter large and full of rich red blood, but finely formed, curving away to delicate expression at either side, significant of a nature keenly alive to all that life might have to give--such lips as eloquence requires, yet fitted well together, expressive of an inner spirit capable of the firmness it might sorely need.

"Could you drive a horse, lad?" the man suddenly inquired, after a long survey of the unconscious youth.

Harvey hesitated. "I think I could, sir, if the horse was willing. Sometimes we play horse at school, and I get along pretty well."

Mr. Borland looked keenly, but in vain, for any trace of merriment on the half-hidden face. "I drove the butcher boy's horse once or twice, too. And I managed all right, except when it backed up--I hate to drive them when they're backing up," the boy added seriously, with the air of an experienced horseman.

Mr. Borland laughed. "That's jest where it comes in," he said; "any one can drive anything when it's goin' ahead--it's when things is goin' back that tries your mettle. I'll see what I can do. Some of our horses drives frontwards--horses is pretty evenly divided between the kind that goes frontwards and them that won't," he mused aloud as he walked away. "I've struck a heap of the last kind--they backed up pretty hard when I was your age," Harvey could just overhear as he plucked the dead vines from another mound and outthrew its lurking treasures.

The retreating figure had no sooner gained the house in the distance than Harvey began to cast glances, eager and expectant, towards the road that skirted the outer edge of the field in which he was working. Once or twice he straightened up, wincing a little with the ache that long stooping brings, and peered intently towards the top of a distant hill beyond which he could not see. Suddenly his eye brightened, and a muffled exclamation of pleasure broke from his lips, for the vision he longed for had appeared. Yet it was commonplace enough--only a coloured sunbonnet, some four or five feet from the ground, and swaying a little uncertainly in the noontide light. But it was moving nearer, ever nearer, to the waiting boy, who knew the love that lent strength to the little feet and girded the tiny hands which bore something for himself.

The girlish form was now well beyond the curving hill, trudging bravely on; and Harvey saw, or thought he saw, the happy smile upon the eager face, the pace quickening as she caught sight of her brother in the distance. Harvey's eyes filled with tenderness as he gazed upon the approaching child; for the poor, if they love and are loved again, know more of life's real wealth than the deluded rich.

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