 | Ged |  |
II
TO SAY that the woods were wild would be to apply too unkind an epithet to them. They were merely unspoiled woods, with plenty of underbrush, some fallen logs, a slope that rose happily to the sunset, and a pellucid stream, creeping secretively into a green maze, and mingling indistinguishably with the shadows. And it was as quiet as the dawn of creation.
The house which Stoddard had purchased — tentatively, as he had pointed out — had belonged to a man who, worn out with the Roar of town, had gone in search of peace. He found it, but at the fourth week of his seclusion spelled incarceration out of peace, and had gone back to the Roar and died in it, quite happy, and hopeful of urban joys in the world to come. The furniture in the house was simple, but in good taste, and when Mrs. Stoddard had applied her scrupulous and decorative housekeeping, the house became almost as oppressively perfect as if it had been in civilized parts.
The programme of life was, however, quite bucolic. Breakfast was early, and after that the usual thing was a drive to the village along the pleasant country road. They got home in time to refresh themselves before luncheon, and after that they took naps, and then the grown-up persons read while Elizabeth played with her dolls. They had an early dinner — Elizabeth did not dine with her parents — and afterward Stoddard and Anita spent the evening in somewhat constrained sociability. Sometimes Anita played on the piano, and now and then Stoddard sang to her accompaniment. If there was moonlight they walked about the little garden or they conversed with each other rather elaborately. Then they ate a little luncheon and their day was concluded.
For almost a fortnight Stoddard made no effort to break through the quickly established rules of the house. There was an impeccable propriety about his deportment — even Elizabeth could have found nothing in him to criticise. Little Elizabeth had not ventured much beyond the gateway, though she sometimes looked down the silent wood paths with something of awe in her eyes. These paths were indeed full of moving shadows, and it almost seemed at moments as if tiny creatures bounded out of the fern-jungles and scampered across the gold blotches on the trodden way. But that, of course, must have been a mistake. Elizabeth mentioning nothing of it to her elders, was yet quite sure what their verdict would have been. She knew positively that there was nothing eldrich in the strange, strange woodland. And yet —
Stoddard coming out of the house one fair morning found her peering through the gateway in this fashion. Her gray eyes were large with wonder; there was a soft pallor about her delicate face. Stoddard's heart gave a sort of leap when he saw her there.
"Bess," he said, "what do you say to running away with me into the woods? Come on! We will go away and no one will be able to find us. Very likely we may meet with a — a — I don't know what exactly, but almost certainly we shall meet with something. Shall we go?"
"Then mamma would have to drive alone to the village," said Elizabeth gravely. "I think we'd better not go, papa."
"Mamma might come with us," ventured Stoddard, somewhat lamely. Elizabeth smiled.
"Mamma doesn't like walking all among the briers and bushes," she said. "Besides, there is the marketing to do."
The child knew all about the bounden duties of life, undeniably. Her father looked at her half in anger and half in pity.
"Poor little baby!" he said at last. "Here, kiss me, Bess, and run in and tell your mamma that I shall not join her in her drive this morning. Perhaps I shall not be back at lunch, either."
"Yes, papa," said Elizabeth, with quick obedience. Then she added: "But where shall I say you have gone, papa?"
"Gone?" Stoddard frowned and shook his head darkly. "I haven't an idea what you are to say, Bess. I can't even imagine where I am going, and the only way for you to find out is to come along."
He meant to put a suggestion of mystery into his voice, and perhaps succeeded in doing so; but it had no effect on the little maid. She ventured no further remarks, but went dutifully on her errand.
Stoddard, with a sort of fury in his air, made his way to the stable.
"Give me my fishing-rods, Watkins," he said. Watkins complied, and Stoddard made his selection carelessly.
"At one o'clock, Watkins, if I'm not home, bring me out a little lunch, will you?"
"Yessir. Where'll you be, sir?"
"Along the river-bank somewhere. Whistle through your fingers, Watkins. I say, you know how, don't you? Well, I'm glad of that. You were a boy once, I see, in spite of evidences to the contrary."
"Sir?" said Watkins, with dignity.
"Bring enough lunch for yourself," said Watkins's master. "Put in a liberal allowance. My fishing appetite is not my usual appetite. And — you might bring along a rod if you were so minded."
"Thank you, sir."
It was an impersonal tone, and conveyed no anticipation. Watkins was too well mannered to permit himself anticipation. Such things were for his betters, no doubt. He was, however, somewhat surprised to notice that his master went off swearing under his breath. There did
He went on down the road and into the forest, but the mood in which he had addressed himself to his daughter had left him. He walked hastily now, and impatiently, and in his face, frankly confessed, was discontent. Whether the expression was that of a hurt man or an angry one the casual observer would have had difficulty in determining. But there was, apparently, no observer, casual or otherwise. The paths of the forest were secret; the ways of the squirrel through the trees were ultra private affairs — as much so as the underground passage of a king to the escape in the murk river-way. The birds knew the paths of the air, no doubt, but none others did. Here might a man walk unmasked, and this one, young, but mask-accustomed, dropped his for once, and was homesick without reserve — homesick for —
But that was where the mischief came in. He had not the least idea why he was wretched.
Man, employing that term, not in its generic, but the specific sense, is not an analytical creature, at least when it comes to a question of self. Like a babe, he feels his pain, but cannot locate it. Ralph Stoddard, striding through the woods, involuntarily drew a sponge over the slate of memory and wiped from it all recent events and contemporary personages; and he sketched upon it with lightning-swift strokes of the heart certain scenes and persons out of the vanished years. A wood-colored house, hospitable and simple, a walk between poplars, a gate with a stone weight, a hundred details of a comfortable, old-fashioned farm; a mother who laughed as she worked; a father who kept his boys out of the fields till they had their growth; a dog that barked a welcome from a faithful heart; a boy with bare legs — a boy whose will was "the wind's will." Yet sometimes the boy wept — he involuntarily recalled some of these occasions, and the reasons for them. He remembered, too, how he had been consoled; with what low laughter and broken words and impulsive caressings. For — O, yes, quite undeniably — the boy had been himself, as he was in the large, fair days! Life had held no distinctions then. All men were equal, differing in his estimation merely according to their degree of friendliness toward him. And almost every one had been friendly. It was curious, all things considered, how he had slipped out of that friendly world, little by little, into a formal, arranged, and stultified one, where he moved by direction, and was expected to feel according to recipe! Now little Elizabeth, poor child —
But what was that rustling in the bushes? Not a fox, surely? Was not the wild too little a wild for that? Besides, the rustling seemed an accompaniment of his steps. He noticed, then, that his steps had grown slower. Thinking of that boy who used to trail his way through the forest like a serpent, for very love of solitude and the green earth, he had involuntarily slackened his pace. He had been congratulating himself upon being beyond the reach of observers, yet, mysteriously, he felt himself under surveillance. And there, surely, a figure crouched!
Well, it was a simple matter to find out what that meant!
Stoddard wheeled suddenly and reached into the bushes. He encountered something which came off in his hand — a boy's straw hat, all but brimless.
"The dickens!" said Stoddard. He felt as if he recognized it — as if it had been the faded past that he had reached into, and recovered this much from oblivion. For surely this was the same hat he had worn in those unforgotten days. But that head, reaching up, alert as a turtle's! Was that also the head of the boy of the other days? Not at all — not at all, for by the hues of the rainbow no head that ever he had beheld before, in the mirror or out of it, could match in brilliancy the head now rising from the bushes. It was the purple head of the ancients, the carrot locks of the moderns. But neither ancient nor modern ever had such a tangle of it before, surely! It seemed, in general design, to resemble a patch of pusley with its twistings and knottings and intricate loopings.
"Come on," said Stoddard eagerly, "come out here. Let's see who you are!"
The head lifted higher. It revealed a
Moreover, in one hand was a fishing-rod. And now, grinning apologetically, he held it up for Stoddard to behold. It marked him of the brotherhood of anglers — for remember that Stoddard carried his complicated and expensive rod in his inert hand. Now, for the first time, he became actively conscious of that rod. He smiled back at the boy.
"We're going to the same place, I see," he said. The boy nodded and held out his hand for his hat. Stoddard clapped it on the red head. Then they went on together down the path, the boy leading the way. Neither of them spoke. It was, indeed, quite unnecessary that they should. The boy set a good pace, and after a time Stoddard began to remember that it always took a long time to get to a good fishing place. He felt very thirsty — thirstier than he had all summer. Somehow, he liked it, too. About this time the boy turned and looked at Stoddard.
"Ain't you dry?" he asked.
"I am," admitted Stoddard. "Ar'n't you?"
"Well, you bet! But I allus drink when I git down here a bit."
"Good," said Stoddard, and knew better than to ask questions.
The boy turned, presently, into a small side-path, and Stoddard followed. Some young beeches were growing there, and their leaves were all but transparent, which caused a vernal glow to suffuse itself round about. Presently the boy stopped.
"Git down on the groun'," he said, hospitably, as if he were bidding Stoddard welcome to a place where he was host, "an' drink all yuh want!"
"Thanks," said Stoddard, and he got down on his knees. He sank into ferny lushness and heard a ripple as soft as a fairy's song. A rock arose, lichen-covered and embroidered with vines and air-plants; and out of its base, well hidden by the summer's luxuriance, purled a stream.
Stoddard laid avid lips to it, and drank and drank. It was deliciously cool, but not with the uncongenial chill of artificially cooled water.
When he arose, the boy took his place. He lay flat on his stomach, lifted his heels in the air, and drank like a colt. Then he got up, and the two marched on again.
Sometimes the boy peered into the forest sharply, and whenever he did this, Stoddard peered too. He was jealous lest the boy should see something he did not — not actual things, which are of comparatively little account, but those witching things of the invisible world which wait for children in the wood. For when one is eight all forests are enchanted. The shadows had, indeed, a strange purple depth; and now and then they hung like curtains before the bower of a wild-wood princess. But, after all, was it of such hackneyed things that the boy with the torn hat amused himself? Children are not hackneyed. Stoddard knew, after some reflection, that it would be futile for him to try to summon the dreams of boyhood out of that rustling solitude. They were hidden in the uttermost purple recesses, and could be called forth only by the summons of another child. For dreams know their masters, and will not come at the bidding of those who have lost their right to call.
They got to the river, and were matter-of-fact and business-like in the extreme. The boy had a Laocoon writhe of worms in a tin can, and he offered them to Stoddard with as much grace as if he had been a gentleman of the old school extending his gold snuff-box. Stoddard accepted the attention with no less courtesy, and selected his wriggling victim with care. It was a fat one, and he regarded it with appreciation.
"Yuh got a bully one," congratulated the boy.
Stoddard grunted sociably. They began to fish. After a time, and very casually, Stoddard asked the boy his name. He said it was Ged Angel.
"I guess you think I look it," he snickered.
"Look what?"
"An angel!" He was ready with his self-scorn and enjoyed it.
"I don't know much about angels. I don't believe I'd like to go fishing with one."
"Well," said the boy consolingly, "you ain't doing it, so don't fret."
Stoddard ventured to tell a little about himself — just enough to serve as cement for friendship.
"Huh," said the boy, contemptuously, "I know all that. I know who you be. I've seen you goin' an' comin'. I like your hosses."
"I'm glad you like them. I do too."
"Yes," said the boy, somewhat patronizingly, "them's good hosses. Onct I thought I wus goin' to hev a hoss. Pa said when it wus born I could call it mine. But he sold it when it wus two years ole."
"I see. That was a great pity."
"Yep." He returned to his fishing, but he was pensive. At eleven o'clock he took two sandwiches with hard fried ham between them from out the inside of his shirt, where they had reposed in the slack of the cloth.
"Have one?" he said to Stoddard.
"Thank you, but I'm expecting my own lunch at one."
"One!" Ged actually gasped. "You couldn't stand it till then, could you?"
"Perhaps not," said Stoddard, tickled with unaccountable mirth. He took the sandwich out of its paper wrapping, and ate it to the last crumb.
"I'll give you half of mine when it comes," he promised.
They landed some good fish, and they said very little. The boy exuded a warm, sunny odor, and he seemed intensely human. It seemed to Stoddard that he had not for years been in intimate association with anything so riotously human. They sat rather close together and radiated companionship.
At last a distant halloo disturbed the slumberous air.
"Watkins!" cried Stoddard joyfully, and he yodelled at the top of his lungs. So out of the purple chambers of the wood there came presently the respectable form of Watkins, hamper-laden. Stoddard gave him a hearty greeting.
"Glad to see you brought a pole, my boy. It's tolerably good catching, isn't it, sir?" he addressed Ged. Ged nodded, and kept hungry eyes on the hamper. Stoddard undid it, and revealed a feast.
"By gum!" said Ged.
"It is moving," admitted Stoddard. He felt shaken again with that senseless, infantile mirth. Ged began to roll over and over on the bank in sheer delight at prospect of the banquet, and Stoddard would have given a great deal to have imitated it. Instead, he helped Watkins spread the repast.
"Come, fill up!" he called joyously to Ged. The boy rolled over and over till he reached the Elysian fare. Then he ate, and a silence fell on the world.
Afterward they lazed on the bank — that is, Ged and Stoddard did. Watkins, politely reticent, fished. Stoddard took a notion to tell a story. It had to do with a by-gone day, a dog, and himself. Ged followed with a frog story; and Watkins, much emboldened, and almost willing to smile, rounded up with a story about a horse he knew once. It was a good story, as mysterious and interesting as if it had not been true. Then shadows began slanting. Birds bestirred themselves from their quietude. They seemed to be announcing some event — perhaps it was the close of day.
"I'm afraid we'll be late for dinner, sir," said Watkins.
Stoddard ran his bared arm deep into the amber stream. The water rippled about him with exquisite delicacy, singing softly.
"Why, we never had a swim, Ged!" he cried.
"Well," said Ged, apologetically, "I didn't know as you'd — "
"Did you take me for an Egyptian mummy?" queried Stoddard with boyish anger.
"I didn't know," said Ged. To have a quarrel was even more of intimacy than he had hoped for.
They walked homeward together, but Ged had to pass Stoddard's gate and go on up the hill and over it.
"If I should chanct to be hangin' 'round to-morrow 'bout nine," he said, "do yeh think yeh might catch up with me somewheres?"
"I should think," said Stoddard, subtly, "that there was a good chance that I might."
They looked straight in each other's eyes. Ged opened and shut his mouth as if he were trying to say something. Stoddard perceived telepathically that the boy was wishing to express his enjoyment of the day. He anticipated him.
"I've had a bully time," he said to Ged. He lifted his hat. Ged did the same, in spite of the flopping rim. They smiled once more and parted; and then, with a straightening of the shoulders, Stoddard turned toward the house.
Twenty minutes later he was out of his tub and in white linens. Mrs. Stoddard and Elizabeth were awaiting him in the dining-room. They were quiet, but courteous. He could see they felt his desertion of them. Mrs. Stoddard kept the conversation on the safe topic of the summer magazines. Elizabeth took her bread and milk and left in charge of her nurse. The dinner was served silently, and it was delicious; and Stoddard smiled, remembering the sandwich the boy had taken from within his shirt. What would Anita think of such fare? He dare not incur her disgust by telling the story. He tried to make amends by reading aloud to her that evening, but they retired early. And that night he dreamed he had a son. He was not a beautiful child like little Elizabeth. He had thick red hair, amazingly tangled, and he was standing away down on a valley of earth and looking up at Elizabeth, who sat on the edge of a golden cloud, quoting from "A Child's Garden":
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.
And now at last the sun is going down behind wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good.
Then the boy, who had a chain of angle-worms about his neck, tried to climb up a golden ladder to sit beside Elizabeth, but he slipped on the rungs, and fell back in a mud puddle, and lay there laughing, while a whole company of frogs shouted with hoarse, batrachian laughter.
Stoddard awoke with a sense of grief, but at what he could not tell; and having a haunting fear that something might have happened to little Elizabeth, he stole into her room. She was sleeping with one white hand under her softly rounded cheek, and beside her, on an embroidered pillow, lay a doll in a night-dress with fluted ruffles. He looked at his dainty babe for a moment, and then, sighing gently, went back to his bed.
| Ged | |