University of Virginia Library

2. "CHAPTER II"

A beech wood in October. Beyond, down a sheer bluff, West Water, with the sun low. In the midst of the wood an old house, and walking slowly toward it a woman leading a blind child by the hand. The soft pelt of the gold-bright leaves makes only the faintest sound.

"Donald, the place looks as if it were enchanted! It is gold everywhere — the beeches, the water, the very air, are gold. Take off your hat, my son. Mother wants to see your golden head fit into the picture."

"It's hard walking through these leaves, isn't it, mother? They're up to my knees."

"I never saw them lie so thick. You're tired, no doubt. Shall we sit down and rest? Sink right down on the leaves — lie back in them. Isn't that good? It's a mile through the orchard and along the drive, and you've been up since early morning and not had half enough to eat! We ran away home, didn't we?"

"Yes. What a queer thing it was to do! What made you do that, mother?"

"I was afraid of something."

"Were you? If you had told me I'd have comforted you."

"You do comfort me — just as much as if I'd told you."

"Oh, do I? May I put flowers in your lap? There is a sweet smell to your dress — like flowers. And I like you to pat my face like that. Your hands aren't any larger than mine — not so large!"

"Isn't it still? There's not a soul in the house! You ought to see how peaceful it looks. The windows are gold — those toward the northwest. From where I sit, Donald, I can see the door!"

"Can you? We'll unlock it in a minute, mother."

"It looks as kind as ever."

"What fun it will be to open it!"

"Yes. And when it is opened this time, I swear it shall never be locked again. Not while we live, Donald. Some one shall be there to answer if any one knocks. In your father's time, and your grand-father's, and your great-grandfather's, it was never locked against any one who came. Great men and beggars came to it, and none of them was turned away."

"I never fall when I go in and out of that door. It's the best old door in the world!"

"Yes, it is. Do you know, I'm going to have teachers come to help you grow up a wise, good man."

"But then I'm blind. I can't do the way other boys do."

"Perhaps you'll do better than others. You will own miles of good land — meadows, pastures, wheatland, orchards, forests. You will have cattle and sheep, horses and fowls. It will take a good man and one who knows a great deal to look after these things. I shall have you taught many things. Besides, you shall have a great deal of pleasure. I have been

thinking all day of ways in which you and I were to have pleasure together."

"Mother, I never knew you to be the way you are to-day!"

"Am I different?"

"Yes — oh, yes. I love you, mother."

"Do you, Donald? Do you, indeed?"

"If you were always like this, I'd never be cross the way I have been."

"I am going to be with you always like this, my son."

The gold grows delicate in the west. The glimmerings of the sun path fade away. The boy sleeps lightly for a few moments, while the woman fixes her eyes upon the door, which seems to invite her to enter. She reaches out her arms as she might to her mother. The tears fall on her cheeks. She seems to make silent confession to the door. Of all she thinks, but one sentence finds utterance:

"I have been bereft of almost everything, but now I have found that worth all I lost!" The soft gloom grows. The water becomes shadowy. Mystery is abroad in the woods. The woman rouses the boy with a kiss.

"It is growing dark," she says. "We must go in."

The boy laughs. He does not mind the darkness. He makes his way up through the leaves to the steps, climbs them gaily and puts his hand on the knob.

"It is locked," says his mother, "and the leaves are thick all about the threshold." The boy still laughs. She gives him the key and he puts it in the great lock. The wide door swings open with a friendly sound. The boy makes his way swiftly through the rooms, touching everything with eager hands. His laughter comes out softly, like spring water from the earth. The woman gropes about in the gloom, searching for a light. After a time a lamp is burning. Madeline throws open the windows to admit the mellow air. The darkness has deepened and wraps the old house about like a cloak.

"How curious!" she cries. "We have orchards and bees and cattle, and not a mouthful that we may eat or drink!"

But as she speaks there is a knocking at the door, then a hearty voice crying:

"Welcome! Welcome! What a surprise!"

Madeline stops in the middle of the floor and stares at the farmerlike, capable figure which confronts her. Her face is flushed, her eyes shy like those of a child who has done wrong and is now determined to be good.

"It's Carl!" cries the boy. "It's that Carl Brandenberg."

He gathers the blind boy in his arms and hugs him with rough tenderness. He runs his hands through the boy's hair and pulls at his ears.

"Wasn't your home-coming very sudden?" he asks.

"Nothing could have been more sudden," says the woman, half-defensively. "And we are alone — and we've no food."

The man mocks them: "The Camerons of Cameron Meadow starving! The bins empty, the cupboards bare!"

He waves his hand and is gone.

"He will bring us our supper," says the boy, nodding his head sagely. Madeline begins tidying the house. She spreads the table and lays places for three.

"We must have fresh water," she declares, and runs into the darkness. The boy throws himself in his chair by the window and rocks back and forth contentedly. He can hear the lake muttering its ancient tale below the cliff; hear the fall of the leaves; hear the soft wild noises of birds. Then, after a time, a mingling of voices in the darkness. He knows that his mother and the farmer are bringing in the water cold from the well, the milk warm from the cow, the bread, the honey and the fruit. A sweet home-consciousness steals over him, and a breeze, rich with odors of the wood and the night, reaches him from the open door.