  Produced by Al Haines. THE WEB OF TIME By ROBERT E. KNOWLES Author of "St. Cuthbert's," "The Undertow," New York Chicago Toronto Copyright, 1908, by New York: 158 Fifth Avenue To ELIZABETH ELLIS KNOX KNOWLES whose gentle hands, guided CONTENTS
THE WEB OF TIME I THE ASHES ON THE HEARTH "No, father's not home yet—go to sleep, dear," and the mother-hand tucked the clothes securely about the two snuggling forms; "don't ask any more, Harvey, or you'll waken Jessie—and go to sleep." Mrs. Simmons went back to the kitchen, crooning softly to the wakeful baby in her arms. Glancing at the clock, she marked, with an exclamation of surprise, how late it was. "He might be in any minute now," she said to herself as she thrust in another stick for the encouragement of the already steaming kettle. Then she busied herself a few minutes about the table; a brief pause, as if pondering, ended in her moving quickly towards the pantry, emerging a moment later with some little luxury in her hand. "Poor Ned, this night-work seems so hard—if he's working at all," she thought to herself, "and he'll be cold and tired when he comes in—hush, baby, isn't that your father?" as she laid a finger on the crowing lips. The footfall came nearer, firm and steady, too—at which the anxious face lighted up; but a moment later it was gone, and silence reigned again. The baby seemed, in some mysterious way, to share the disappointment; in any case, it became suddenly quiet, the big blue eyes gazing up at the mother's. The unfathomed depths, as such depths are prone to do, seemed to start some hidden springs of thought in the woman's mind; for the anxious eyes that peered into them were now suffused with tears, then bright again with maternal fondness as she clasped the infant to her breast. For she dreaded the home-coming of her husband, even while she longed for it. The greatest of all books assures us that fear is cast out by love—but love may still fear something in the very one it loves above all others; some alien habit, some sin that changes the whole complexion of a soul. And thus was it with the wife who now awaited her husband's coming with a troubled heart. It had not been ever thus. Far different had it been in the happy days with which her thoughts were busy now as she moved hither and thither, doing what deft and loving hands could do to make all bright and cheery before her husband should arrive. Those vanished days had been happy ones indeed, with nothing to cloud their joy. When Edward Simmons first crossed her path, she knew that her hour of destiny had come. He was then a journeyman printer—and he was handsome and chivalrous and fascinating; sensitive to the last degree, imperious by nature, but tender in the expression of his love for her. And how rapturously sure of the happiness that lay before them both! Passionate in temper he undoubtedly was—but tideful natures ever are. And he was slower to forgive himself than others. She had been little more than a girl, a fatherless girl, when first she met Edward Simmons—Ned, as his friends all called him—and in less than a year after their meeting she gave herself to him forever. Then her real life began, she thought; but before a year had passed, it was new-quickened and enriched beyond all of which she had ever dreamed. Her first-born son came to swell the fullness of her joy, and Eden itself broke into flower at his coming. The anguish and the ecstasy of motherhood had come twice again since then—and she marvelled at the new spring of love that each new baby hand smites in the wilderness of life. But the sky had darkened. When at its very brightest, the clouds had gathered. Steady employment and good wages and careful management had enabled her to garner a little, month by month; womanlike, she was already taking thought of how Harvey should be educated. And just when everything seemed prosperous, that awful trouble had come among the printers—between the masters and the men. Then came strikes and idleness—work by spasmodic starts, followed by new upheavals and deepening bitterness—and Ned had been more with the muttering men than with his Annie and the children. And—this was so much worse—he had gradually fallen a victim to a sterner foe. A tainted breath at first; later on, thick and confused utterance when he came home at night; by and by, the unsteady gait and the clouded brain—one by one the dread symptoms had become apparent to her. She had known, when she married, that his father had been a drinker; and one or two of her friends had hinted darkly about hereditary appetite—but she had laughed at their fears. Hereditary or not, the passion was upon him—and growing. Lack of work proved no barrier. Little by little, he had prevailed on her to give him of her hard-saved treasure, till the little fund in the post-office savings was seriously reduced. But there was another feature, darker still. It had changed him so. His whole moral nature had suffered loss. No wonder the woman's face bore tokens of anxiety as she waited and watched through the long midnight hours; for drink always seemed to clothe her husband with a kind of harshness foreign to his nature, and more than once she had trembled before his glance and shuddered at his words. Against this, even her love seemed powerless to avail; for—and it is often so with the mysterious woman-heart—she seemed but to love him the more devotedly as she felt him drifting out to sea. She could only stretch vain hands towards the cruel billows amid which she could see his face—but the face she saw was ever that of happier days. Suddenly she started, her heart leaping like a hunted hare as she heard, far-off, clear sounding through the stillness of the night, the footfall she was waiting for. The child's eyes seemed to fasten themselves upon the mother's as if they caught the new light that suddenly gleamed within them; she held her babe close as she went swiftly to the door and slipped out into the night. The silent stars looked down on the poor trembling form as she stood and waited, shivering some—but not with cold—listening for the verdict her ears must be the first to catch. She had not long to wait; and the verdict would have been plain to any who could have seen her face as she turned a moment later and crept back into the house. The stamp of anguish was upon it; yet, mechanically, the babe's eyes still on hers, she took up the little teapot and poured in the boiling water—the kettle went on with its monotonous melody. She had just time to hurry up and steal a glance at the children; they were asleep, thank God. The baby turned its eyes towards the door as the shambling feet came up to it and the unsteady hand lifted the latch. The mother pretended to be busied about the table, but the eager eyes stole a quick glance at her husband, darkening with sorrow as they looked. The man threw off his coat as soon as he entered. "I'm hungry," he said in a thick, unnatural voice. "I've got your supper all ready, dear," the woman's low voice returned. She tried hard to keep it steady; "and I'll just pour the tea. Are you tired, Ned?" He did not answer. Staggering towards the table, he began eating greedily, still upon his feet. "To-day's been the devil," he muttered; "I can't eat, I tell you—there's only one thing I want, and I've had too much of that. But I've got to have it." "You didn't speak to baby, Ned," she said timidly, trying to come closer to him, yet shrinking instinctively; "see how she jumps in my arms—she knows you, Ned." "I wish she'd never been born," the man said brutally; "it'll only be another hungry mouth—how much have we left in the savings?" "And she was trying to say 'daddy' to-day—and once I'm sure she did," the mother went on, fearful of his quest and hoping to beguile him thus. "What's that got to do with it?" he demanded angrily, commanding his words with difficulty. "The strikers had to give in—and we went back to-day. An' the bosses won't take us on again—they've sacked us, damn them, and every man of us has to come home to his hungry kids. How much is left out o' what we've saved?" he repeated, tasting a cup of tea, only to let it fall from his shaking hand so suddenly that it was spilled about the table. "There's about three hundred, Ned," she said hesitatingly. "We did have nearly five, you know—we've used such a lot of it lately." "I want some of it," he said gruffly. "I've got to pay into the fund for the men—and anyhow, I want money. Who earned it if it wasn't me?" "Oh, Ned," she began pleadingly, "please don't—please don't make me, dear. It's all we've got—and it's taken so long to save it; and if times get worse—if you don't get work?" The pitiful debate was waged a little longer. Suddenly she noticed—but could not understand—a peculiar change that came slowly over his countenance. "Maybe you're right," he said at last, a leer of cunning on his face. "There ain't goin' to be any quarrellin' between us, is there? We'll see about it to-morrow." His whole tactics changed in a moment, the better to achieve his purpose. "You've always stood by me, Annie, an' you won't go back on me now. Hello, baby," as he tried to snap his limp fingers, coming closer to the two. The child laughed and held out its arms. The father's feet scraped heavily on the floor as he shuffled towards it. "It knows its dad all right," he said in maudlin merriment; "glad to see its old dad—if he did get fired. Come, baby, come to your old dad," and he reached out both hands to take it. The mother's terror was written in her eyes. "Oh, don't, Ned—don't, please," she said; "she'll catch cold—I've got her all wrapped up." "I'll keep the blanket round her," he mumbled; "come to your old dad, baby," his voice rising a little. But his wife drew back. "Please don't to-night, Ned," she remonstrated; "it'll only excite her more—and I can't get her to sleep," she pleaded evasively. His heavy eyes flashed a little. "I want that young 'un," he said sullenly, advancing a little; "I ain't goin' to eat her." The mother retreated farther, her lips white and set, her eyes leaping from the babe's face to its father's. "I can't, Ned," she said; "let us both carry her, dear; come, we'll make a chair of our hands, like we used to do for Harvey—and I'll keep my arm about her, so," and she held out one hand, holding the baby firm with the other. He struck it down. "Give me that young 'un," he said, his nostrils dilating, his voice shaky and shrill. She stood like a wild thing at bay. "I won't, Ned, I won't," her voice rang out; "good God, Ned, it isn't safe—go back," she cried, her voice ringing like a trumpet as she held the now terrified infant to her breast, the child rising and falling as her bosom heaved in terror. His eyes, unsteady now no longer, never left her face as he moved with a strange dexterity nearer and nearer to them both. The woman glanced one moment into the lurking depths, all aflame with the awful light that tenderness and madness combine to give, saw the outstretched hand, felt the fumes outbreathing from the parted lips—and with a low gurgling cry she sprang like a wounded deer towards the door. But he was too quick for her, flinging himself headlong against it. Aroused and inflamed by the fall, he was on his feet in an instant, clutching at her skirt as he arose. "Give me that young 'un," he said hoarsely; "we'll see whose child this is." The woman's lips surged with the low moaning that never ceased as the unequal struggle raged a moment, the helpless babe contributing its note of sorrow. Suddenly the man got his hands firmly on the little arms; and the mother, her instinct quick and sensitive, half relaxed her hold as she felt the dreadful wrenching of the maddened hands. With a gasp he tore the baby from her, reeling backward as the strain was suddenly relaxed. Struggling desperately, he strove to recover himself. But the strain had been too much for the ruined nerves. The child fell from his hands, the man's arms going high into the air; an instant later he slipped and tottered heavily to the floor, the woman springing towards them as his outclutching hands seized her and bore her heavily down, the man now between the two, the silent infant beneath the struggling pair. She was on her feet in the twinkling of an eye, tearing him aside with superhuman strength. But the baby lay in the long last stillness; its brief troubled pilgrimage was at an end. And the little dreamers up-stairs still slept on in uncaring slumber—nor knew that their long rough journey was at hand. And the kettle on the stove still murmured its unconscious song. * * * * * * The evil spirit had departed from the man. It had gone forth with the destroying angel, both with their dread work well performed. And the man knew—with preternatural acuteness he interpreted his handiwork in an instant. And they knelt together—that is the wonder of it—together, above the baby form. Both noted the dimpled hand, and the rosebud mouth—both touched the flaxen hair. No word of chiding fell—from the mother's lips nothing but an inarticulate broken flow, sometimes altogether still, like the gurgling of an ice-choked brook. But he was the first to declare that the child was dead, maintaining it fiercely, his eye aglow now with anguished pity, so different from the weird lustre that it had displaced. And she would not believe it, dropping one tiny hand that she might chafe the other, lest death might get advantage in the chase. She was still thus engaged when he arose and looked about the room for his hat. It was lying where he had flung it when he came in an eternity ago. "Good-bye—till—till the judgment day," he said huskily, standing above her, something of the wildly supernatural in the tone. He waited long—but she spoke no word, nor lifted her eyes from the dead face, nor relinquished her stern struggle with the complacent Conqueror. He went out—and was gone with steady step. She knew it not. Perhaps it was about half an hour later when he returned, opening the door gently and passing her swiftly by. A father's yearning sat upon the ashen face—he went quickly and softly up the stairs. Then he lighted a match, shading it at first with his hands lest it should wake the shut eyes—and while it lent its fleeting light the stricken man drank deep of his children's faces. Then the darkness swallowed them up, and he groped his way down-stairs and passed out into the night. It was still dark when she at last surrendered—but to God. And the fire was black and the house was cold when she too went out, closing the door carefully behind her. She groped about the little porch, feeling in every corner; and she examined the tiny veranda, and searched through all the neglected garden; she even noticed the fragrance of some simple flowers—they had planted them together, and the children had helped in turn, having one toy spade between them. But it was all empty, all still. "Oh, Ned," she cried softly, passionately, her hands outstretched beneath the all-seeing stars, her face now the face of age, "oh, Ned, come back—you didn't mean to do it and you didn't know. Come back, Ned," she cried a little louder, "come back to Harvey and Jessie—they'll never know. Oh, Ned," as the outstretched hands were withdrawn and pressed quickly against her bosom. For it pained her—with its mother-burden—and she turned to go back to her baby. Then she saw its still face in the darkness—and her hands went out again towards the night. The silent stars looked down, pitying, helpless; she went back to her fatherless and her God. II THE WINE-PRESS ALONE "The woman's name's Simmons, sir—an' she took the whole o' this half plot. She keeps a little store, mostly sweeties, I think," said Hutchins, as he laid his spade against the fence. "An' there wasn't no funeral—just her an' her two children; she brought the little one here from the city—that's where it was buried afore she came here to live." His chief asked the labourer a question in a low voice. "Oh, yes, that was all right," the man answered, picking an old leaf from a geranium plant as he spoke. "She showed me the original certificate she got in the city—or a copy of it, leastways; it said the baby came to its death from a fall on the floor. So that was all right—I asked the chairman. I couldn't help feelin' sorry for the woman, sir; she took on as bad as if it was new. An' the two little shavers was playin' hide an' seek round the tombstones afore I got the little grave filled in—she seemed to be terribly alone. It's funny, sir, how hard it is to get used to this business—I often says to my missus as how no man with kids of his own has any license to hire here," and the kindly executioner went off, spade in hand, to make a new wound in the oft-riven bosom of God's hospitable earth. 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. III LOVE'S LABOURER "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. "Oh, David," answered his wife, her tone indicating a measure of shock, "you're so vivid with your illustrations. It isn't artistic—I mean about—about those inside matters," as she smiled, rather than frowned, her mild reproof. "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. "He's the best man in the world," the girl amended fervently; "and Cecil says his father's a member of the Church and mine isn't," she went on more vehemently; "he said father didn't believe the right things—and I just told him they weren't the right things if my father didn't believe them, and I wouldn't believe them either," the youthful heretic affirmed. "Lally Kerr told me Cecil's father made some poor people give him money for rent that they needed for a stove—I didn't want to tell Cecil that, but when he said his father believed all the right things I told him my father did all the good things, and he was kind to the poor—and I told him he was kind to them because he was poor once himself and used to work so hard with his hands, and——" "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. |
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