eben holden-第23节

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'Now　take　yer　time；'　said　Uncle　Eb　coolly；　a　frown　upon　his　face。

'They'll　drown；'　said　I。

'Don't　care　if　they　do；　consam　'em；'　he　answered。　'They're　some　o'　them　St　Regis　devils；　an'　when　they　git　whisky　in　'em　they'd　jes'　soon　kill　ye　as　look　at　ye。　They　am'　no　better　'n　rats。'

We　kept　on　our　way　and　by　and　by　a　wind　came　up　that　gave　us　both　some　comfort；　for　we　knew　it　would　soon　blow　them　ashore。　Ab　Thomas　had　come　to　our　camp　and　sat　with　Tip　and　Gerald　when　we　got　there。　We　told　of　our　adventure　and　then　Ab　gave　us　a　bad　turn；　and　a　proper　appreciation　of　our　luck；　by　telling　us　that　they　were　a　gang　of　cut…throats　…　the　worst　in　the　wilderness。

'They'd　a　robbed　ye　sure；'　he　said。　'It's　the　same　gang　'at　killed　a　man　on　Cat　Mountain　las'　summer；　an'　I'll　bet　a　dollar　on　it。'

Tip　had　everything　ready　for　our　journey　home。　Each　day　Gerald　had　grown　paler　and　thinner。　As　we　wrapped　him　in　a　shawl　and　tenderly　helped　him　into　the　wagon　I　read　his　doom　in　his　face。　We　saw　so　much　of　that　kind　of　thing　in　our　stern　climate　we　knew　what　it　meant。　Our　fun　was　over。　We　sat　in　silence；　speeding　down　the　long　hills　in　the　fading　light　of　the　afternoon。　Those　few　solemn　hours　in　which　I　heard　oniy　the　wagon's　rumble　and　the　sweet　calls　of　the　whip…poor…will…waves　of　music　on　a　sea　of　silence…started　me　in　a　way　of　thought　which　has　led　me　high　and　low　these　many　years　and　still　invites　me。　The　day　was　near　its　end　when　we　got　to　the　first　big　clearing。　From　the　top　of　a　high　hill　we　could　see　above　the　far　forest；　the　red　rim　of　the　setting　sun；　big　with　winding　from　the　skein　of　day；　that　was　now　flying　off　the　tree…tops　in　the　west。

We　stopped　to　feed　the　horses　and　to　take　a　bite　of　jerked　venison；　wrapped　ourselves　warmer；　for　it　was　now　dunk　and　chilly；　and　went　on　again。　The　road　went　mostly　downhill；　going　out　of　the　woods；　and　we　could　make　good　time。　It　was　near　midnight　when　we　drove　in　at　our　gate。　There　was　a　light　in　the　sitting…room　and　Uncle　Eb　and　I　went　in　with　Gerald　at　once。　Elizabeth　Brower　knelt　at　the　feet　of　her　son；　unbuttoned　his　coat　and　took　off　his　muffler。　Then　she　put　her　arms　about　his　neck　while　neither　spoke　nor　uttered　any　sound。　Both　mother　and　son　felt　and　understood　and　were　silent。　The　ancient　law　of　God；　that　rends　asunder　and　makes　havoc　of　our　plans；　bore　heavy　on　them　in　that　moment；　I　have　no　doubt；　but　neither　murmured。　Uncle　Eb　began　to　pump　vigorously　at　the　cistern　while　David　fussed　with　the　fire。　We　were　all　quaking　inwardly　but　neither　betrayed　a　sign　of　it。　It　is　a　way　the　Puritan　has　of　suffering。　His　emotions　are　like　the　deep　undercurrents　of　the　sea。

Chapter　17

If　I　were　writing　a　novel　merely　I　should　try　to　fill　it　with　merriment　and　good　cheer。　I　should　thrust　no　sorrow　upon　the　reader　save　that　he　might　feel　for　having　wasted　his　time。　We　have　small　need　of　manufactured　sorrow　when；　truly；　there　is　so　much　of　the　real　thing　on　every　side　of　us。　But　this　book　is　nothing　more　nor　less　than　a　history；　and　by　the　same　token　it　cannot　be　all　as　I　would　have　wished　it。　In　October　following　the　events　of　the　last　chapter；　Gerald　died　of　consumption；　having　borne　a　lingering　illness　with　great　fortitude。　I；　who　had　come　there　a　homeless　orphan　in　a　basket；　and　who；　with　the　God…given　eloquence　of　childhood　had　brought　them　to　take　me　to　their　hearts　and　the　old　man　that　was　with　me　as　well；　was　now　the　only　son　left　to　Elizabeth　and　David　Brower。　There　were　those　who　called　it　folly　at　the　time　they　took　us　in；　I　have　heard；　but　he　who　shall　read　this　history　to　the　end　shall　see　how　that　kind　of　folly　may　profit　one　or　even　many　here　in　this　hard　world。

It　was　a　gloomy　summer　for　all　of　us。　The　industry　and　patience　with　which　Hope　bore　her　trial；　night　and　day；　is　the　sweetest　recollection　of　my　youth。　It　brought　to　her　young　face　a　tender　soberness　of　womanhood　…　a　subtle　change　of　expression　that　made　her　all　the　more　dear　to　me。　Every　day；　rain　or　shine；　the　old　doctor　had　come　to　visit　his　patient；　sometimes　sitting　an　hour　and　gazing　thoughtfully　in　his　face；　occasionally　asking　a　question；　or　telling　a　quaint　anecdote。　And　then　came　the　end。

The　sky　was　cold　and　grey　in　the　late　autumn　and　the　leaves　were　drifted　deep　in　the　edge　of　the　woodlands　when　Hope　and　I　went　away　to　school　together　at　HilIsborough。　Uncle　Eb　drove　us　to　our　boarding　place　in　town。　when　we　bade　him　goodbye　and　saw　him　driving　away；　alone　in　the　wagon；　we　hardly　dared　look　at　each　other　for　the　tears　in　our　eyes。

David　Brower　had　taken　board　for　us　at　the　house　of　one　Solomon　Rollin　…　universally　known　as　'Cooky'　Rollin；　that　was　one　of　the　first　things　I　learned　at　the　Academy。　It　seemed　that　many　years　ago　he　had　taken　his　girl　to　a　dance　and　offered　her；　in　lieu　of　supper；　cookies　that　he　had　thoughtfully　brought　with　him。　Thus　cheaply　he　had　come　to　life…long　distinction。

'You　know　Rollin's　Ancient　History；　don't　you？'　the　young　man　asked　who　sat　with　me　at　school　that　first　day。

'Have　it　at　home；'　I　answered；　'It's　in　five　volumes。'

'I　mean　the　history　of　Sol　Rollin；　the　man　you　are　boarding　with；'　said　he　smiling　at　me　and　then　he　told　the　story　of　the　cookies。

The　principal　of　the　HilIsborough　Academy　was　a　big；　brawny　bachelor　of　Scotch　descent；　with　a　stem　face　and　cold；　grey；　glaring　eyes。　when　he　stood　towering　above　us　on　his　platform　in　the　main　room　of　the　building　where　I　sat；　there　was　an　alertness　in　his　figure；　and　a　look　of　responsibility　in　his　face；　that　reminded　me　of　the　pictures　of　Napoleon　at　Waterloo。　He　always　carried　a　stout　ruler　that　had　blistered　a　shank　of　every　mischievous　boy　in　school。　As　he　stood　by　the　line；　that　came　marching　into　prayers　every　morning　he　would　frequently　pull　out　a　boy；　administer　a　loud　whack　or　two；　shake　him　violently　and　force　him　into　a　seat。　The　day　I　began　my　studies　at　the　Academy　I　saw　him　put　two　dents　in　the　wall　with　the　heels　of　a　young　man　who　had　failed　in　his　algebra。　To　a　bashful　and　sensitive　youth；　just　out　of　a　country　home；　the　sight　of　such　violence　was　appalling。　My　first　talk　with　him；　however；　renewed　my　courage。　He　had　heard　I　was　a　good　scholar　and　talked　with　me　in　a　friendly　way　about　my　plans。　Both　Hope　and　I　were　under　him　in　algebra　and　Latin。　I　well　remember　my　first　error　in　his　class。　I　had　misconstrued　a　Latin　sentence。　He　looked　at　me；　a　smile　and　a　sneer　crowding　each　other　for　possession　of　his　face。　In　a　loud；　jeering　tone　he　cried：　'Mirabile　dictu！'

I　looked　at　him　in　doubt　of　his　meaning。

'Mirabile　dictu！'　he　shouted；　his　tongue　trilling　the　r。

I　corrected　my　error。

'Perfect！'　he　cried　again。　'Puer　pulchre！　Next！'

He　never　went　further　than　that　with　me　in　the　way　of　correction。　My　size　and　my　skill　as　a　wrestler；　that　shortly　ensured　for　me　the　respect　of　the　boys；　helped　me　to　win　the　esteem　of　the　master。　I　leamed　my　lessons　and　kept　out　of　mischief。　But　others　of　equal　proficiency　were　not　so　fortunate。　He　was　apt　to　be　hard　on　a　light　man　who　could　be　handled　without　over…exertion。

Uncle　Eb　came　in　to　see　me　one　day　and　sat　awhile　with　me　in　my　seat。　While　he　was　there　the　master　took　a　boy　by　the　collar　and　almost　literally　wiped　the　blackboard　with　him。　There　was　a　great　clatter　of　heels　for　a　moment。　Uncle　Eb　went　away　shortly　and　was　at　Sol　Rollin's　when　I　came　to　dinner。

'Powerful　man　ain't　he？'　said　Uncle　Eb。

'Rather；'　I　said。

'Turned　that　boy　into　a　reg'lar　horse　fiddle；'　he　remarked。　'Must　'ave　unsot　his　reason。'

'Unnecessary！'　I　said。

'Reminded　me　o'　the　time　'at　Tip　Taylor　got　his　tooth　pulled；'　said　he。　'Shook　'im　up　so　'at　he　thought　he'd　had　his　neck　put　out　o'　ji'nt。'

Sol　Rollin　was　one　of　my　studies　that　winter。　He　was　a　carpenter　by　trade　and　his　oddities　were　new　and　delightful。　He　whistled　as　he　worked；　he　whistled　as　he　read；　he　whistled　right　merrily　as　he　walked　up　and　down　the　streets　…　a　short；　slight　figure　with　a　round　boyish　face　and　a　fringe　of　iron…grey　hair　under　his　chin。　The　little　man　had　one　big　passion　…　that　for　getting　and　saving。　The　ancient　thrift　of　his　race　had　pinched　him　small　and　narrow　as　a　foot　is　stunted　by　a　tight　shoe。　His　mind　was　a　bit　out　of　register　as　we　say　in　the　printing　business。　His　vocabulary　was　rich　and　vivid　and　stimulating。

'Somebody　broke　into　the　arsenic　today；'　he　announced；　one　evening；　at　the　supper　table。

'The　arsenic；'　said　somebody；　'what　arsenic？'

'Why　the　place　where　they　keep　the　powder；'　he　answered。

'Oh！　the　arsenal。'

'Yes；　the　arsenal；'　he　said；　cackling　with　laughter　at　his　error。　Then　he　grew　serious。

'Stole　all　the　ambition　out　of　it；'　he　added。

'You　mean　ammunition；　don't　you；　Solomon？'　his　wife　enquired。

'Certainly；'　said　he；　'wasn't　that　what　I　said。'

When　he　had　said　a　thing　that　met　his　own　approval　Sol　Rollin　would　cackle　most　cheerfully　and　then　crack　a　knuckle　by　twisting　a　finger。　His　laugh　was　mostly　out　of　register　also。　It　had　a　sad　lack　of　relevancy。　He　laughed　on　principle　rather　than　provocation。　Some　sort　of　secret　comedy　of　which　the　world　knew　nothing；　was　passing　in　his　mind；　it　seemed　to　have　its　exits　and　its　entrances；　its　villain；　its　clown　and　its　miser　who　got　all　the　applause。

While　working　his　jo