To conduct him to his new home, Mrs. Crewdson gave up the whole of
the morning she was supposed to spend in sleep after her all-night
vigil. The home was in a little town a short distance up the Hudson.
Though the railway journey was not long, it was the longest he had ever
taken, and, once the river came within view, it was not without its
excitements. His spirits began to rise with a sense of new adventure.
There were things to look at, bridges, steamers, a man-o'-war at
anchor, lumber yards, coal sheds, an open-air exhibit of mortuary
monuments, and high overhead the clear cold blue of a January sky.
On the other side of the river the wooded heights made a bold brown
bastion, flecked here and there with snow.
As he had not asked where they were going, or the composition of the
family with whom the Guardian of State Wards was placing him, his
protectress permitted him to make his own discoveries. New faces, new
contacts, new necessities, would help him to forget the old.
They got out at the station of Harfrey. Mrs. Crewdson carried the
suitcase containing the wardrobe rescued when they had searched the
rooms which he and his mother had occupied last. In front of the
station they got on a ramshackle street car, which zigzagged up the
face of the bank, rising steeply from the river, so reaching the
little town. They turned sharply at the top of the ridge to run through
the one long street. It was a mean-looking street of drab wooden
dwellings and drab wooden shops, occupied mostly by people dependent
on the grand seigneurs of the neighboring big "places." An ugly
schoolhouse, an ugly engine house, two or three ugly churches, further
defied that beauty of which God had been so generous.
Having got out at a corner at which the car stopped, they walked to a
small wooden house with a mansard roof, standing back from the street.
It was a putty-colored house, with window and door frames in flecked,
anæmic yellow. Perched on the edge of the ridge, it had three stories
at the back and but two in front. What had once been an orchard had
dwindled now to three or four apple trees, the rest of the ground being
utilized as a chicken run. As the day was sunny, a few Plymouth Rocks
were scratching and pecking in the yard.
Having turned in here, they found themselves expected, the front
door opening before they reached the cement slab in front of it. The
greetings were all for Mrs. Crewdson, who was plainly an old friend.
The boy went in only because Mrs. Crewdson went in, and in the same way
proceeded to a cheery, shabby sitting room. Here there were books and
magazines about, while a canary in a cage began to sing as soon as he
heard voices. To a homeless little boy the haven was so sweet that he
forgot to take off his cap.
The first few minutes were consumed in questions as to this one
and that one, relatives apparently, together with data given and
received as to certain recognized maladies. Mrs. Crewdson was getting
better of her headaches, but Mrs. Tollivant still suffered from her
varicose veins. Only when these preliminaries were out of the way and
Mrs. Crewdson had thrown off her outer wraps, was the introduction
accomplished.
"So I've brought you the boy! Tom, dear, this is Mrs. Tollivant who's
going to take care of you. Your cap, Tom! I imagine," she continued,
with an apologetic smile, "you'll find manners very rudimentary."
Obliged to take an early train back to New York, Mrs. Crewdson talked
with veiled, confidential frankness. A boy of seven could not be
supposed to seize the drift of her cautious phraseology, even if he
heard some of it.
"So you know the main features of the case.... I told them it wouldn't
be fair to you to let you assume so much responsibility without your
knowing the whole.... With children of your own to think of, you
couldn't expose them to a harmful influence unless you were put in
a position to take every precaution against.... Not that we've seen
anything ourselves.... But, of course, after such a bringing up there
can't but be traces.... And such good material there.... I'm sure
you'll find it so.... Personally, I haven't seen a human being in
a long time to whom my heart has gone.... Only there it is.... An
inheritance which can't but be...."
He didn't feel betrayed. He had nothing to resent. Mrs. Crewdson had
proved herself his friend, and he trusted her. Without knowing all the
words she used, he caught easily enough the nature of the sentiments
they stood for. These he accepted meekly. He was a bad boy. His mother
and he had been engaged in wicked practices. Dimly, in unallayed mental
discomfort, he had been convinced of this himself; and now it was clear
to everyone. If they hadn't known what to do with him it was because a
bad boy couldn't fit rightly into a world where everyone else was good.
A young evildoer, he had no rôle left but that of humility.
He was the more keenly aware of this after Mrs. Crewdson had bidden him
farewell, and he was face to face with his new foster mother. A wiry
little woman, quick in action and sharp in tongue, she would be kind
to him, with a nervous, nagging kindness. He got this impression, as
he got an odor or a taste, without having to define or analyze. Later
in life, when he had come to observe something of the stamp which
professions leave on personalities, he was not surprised that she
should have worn herself out in school-teaching before marrying Andrew
Tollivant, a book-keeper. As he sat now, just as Mrs. Crewdson had left
him, his overcoat still on his back, his cap in his hand, his feet
dangling because the chair was too high for him, she treated him as if
he were a class.
"Now, little boy, before we go any farther, you and I had better
understand each other."
With this brisk call to his attention, she sat down in front of him,
frightening him to begin with.
"You know that this is now to be your home, and I intend to do my duty
by you to the best of my ability. Mr. Tollivant will do the same. If
you take the children in the right way I'm sure you'll find them
friendly. They were very nice to the last little boy the Board of
Guardians sent to us."
Staring in fascinated awe at the starry brightness of her eyes, and the
wrinkles of worry around them, he waited in silence for more.
"But one or two things I hope you'll remember on your side. Perhaps
you haven't heard that the Board has found it hard to get anyone to
take you. You're old enough to know that where there are children in a
family people are shy of a boy who's had just your history. But I've
run the risk. It's a great risk, I admit, and may be dangerous to my
own. Do you understand what I mean?"
"No, ma'am," he said, blankly.
"Then I'll tell you. There are two things children must learn as soon
as they're able to learn anything. One is to be honest; the other is to
tell the truth. You know what telling the truth is, don't you?"
He did know, but paralyzed by her earnestness, he denied the fact. "No,
ma'am."
"So there you are! And I don't suppose you've been taught anything
about honesty."
"No, ma'am."
"Then you must begin to learn."
He began to learn that minute. Still treating him as a class, she
delivered a little lecture, such as a child of tender years could
understand, on the two basic virtues of which he had pleaded ignorance.
He listened as in a trance, his eyes fixed on her vacantly. Though
seizing a disconnected word or two, fear kept him from getting the
gist of it all, as he generally did.
"It's your influence on the children that I want you to beware of.
Arthur is older than you, but he's only ten; and a boy with your
experience could easily teach him a good deal of harm. Cilly is eight,
and Bertie only five. You'll be careful with them, won't you? Do you
know that if we lead others astray God will call us to account for it?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well, He will; and I want you to remember it, and be afraid. Unless
you're afraid of God you'll never grow into the good boy I hope we're
going to make of you."
The homily finished, he was instructed in the ways of the upper floor,
where, in the sloping space under the eaves, he was to have his room.
After this he came back to the sitting room, not knowing what else to
do. He was in a daze. It was as if he had dropped on another planet
where nothing was familiar. Whether to stand up or sit down he didn't
know. He didn't know what to think, or what to think about. Cut loose
from his bearings, he floated in mental space.
As standing seemed to commit him to least that was wrong, he stood.
Standing implied looking out of the window, and looking out of the
window showed him, about half past twelve, a well-built boy, rosy with
the cold, noisy from exuberance of spirit, swinging in at the gate and
brandishing a hockey stick. From her preparation of the dinner his
mother ran to meet him at the door. She spoke in a loud whisper that
easily reached the sitting room.
"Now be careful, Arthur. He's come. He's in there."