The old Silver place stood back from the street just far enough for
privacy and not far enough to seem exclusive.
The General Silver who built it in Revolutionary times had been a
democratic soul, and his sons who had followed him were of like mind.
The last grandson, Standish Silver, now sleeping in the quiet churchyard
just below the bend of the hill, was the friend and counsellor of every
one in the village, his home alike the rendezvous and refuge of all
classes. Perhaps it was the habit of the house through the long years
that had given it that genial attitude, wide-spread and welcoming as it
stood among its trees and old-fashioned shrubs, with the same dignity
and gentleness of bearing it had worn in the days when its owners were
living within, as if it had a character to maintain in the name of the
family, though all its immediate members were gone.
There were many newer houses in Silver Sands that boasted modern
architecture, and in their ornate and pretentious decorations made claim
to be the finest houses in town, but still the old Silver place held its
own with dignity and gentle grace, as if it had no need for pretension.
Like a strong, handsome old man of high birth, it lifted its
distinguished head among all the others of the place. There was
something classic about its simple lines, its lofty columns reaching to
the roof, its ample windows with wide drawn snowy curtains giving of old
a glimpse of companionable firelight blazing on a generous hearth. It
had a home-like, friendly look that drew the eye of a visitor as home
draws the soul. It had always been kept in perfect repair, and the
well-made bricks of which it was built had been painted every year a
clear cream-white, always white with myrtle-green blinds, so that old
age had only mellowed it and made the color a part of the material. It
had the air of well-preserved age, like an old, old person with
beautiful white hair who still cared to keep himself fine and
distinguished.
About its feet the myrtle crept, with blue starry blossoms in summer;
and lush beds of lilies-of-the-valley, generation after generation of
them, clustering, occupied the spaces between the front walk and the end
verandas, giving forth their delicate fragrance even as far as the dusty
street. A tall wall of old lilacs made a background behind the verandas
at each end. A gnarled wistaria draped a pergola at one end while a rich
blooming trumpet vine flared at the other, miraculously preserved from
the devastation of painters each year. A row of rare peonies bordered
the walk down to the box hedge in front, and the grass was fine and
velvety, broken here and there by maples, a couple of lacy
hemlock-trees, and the soft blending plumes of the smoke-bush. In the
back yard there were roses and honeysuckle, snowballs and bridal-wreath,
bittersweet vines, mountain-ash trees, and a quaint corner with walks
and borders, where sweet-williams, Johnny-jump-ups, canterbury-bells,
and phlox still held sway, with heliotrope, mignonette, and clove-pinks
cloying the air with their sweetness, and in their midst an
old-fashioned sun-dial marking the marching of the quiet hours. Almost
hidden in the rose-vines was a rustic arbor of retreat, where one might
go to read, and be undisturbed save by the birds who dared to nest above
it and sing their lullabies unafraid. One would scarcely have dreamed
that there was left a spot so sweet, so quaint, so true and peaceful in
this twentieth century rushing world.
Across the road a meadow stretched far down to misty vapors rising from
the little stream, whose sand, of a peculiar fine and white variety,
suitable for use in manufacturing fine grades of sandpaper, had given to
the Silver family its prosperity; and helped to give a name to the place
started by the first old family—“Silver Sands.”
The meadow was rimmed with trees, and here and there a group broke the
smoothness of its green, but for the most part the view was kept open,
down across its rippling smoothness of close-cropped grass in summer, or
glistening whiteness of deeplaid snow in winter, open down to the
gleaming “river” as they sometimes dignified the little stream. And one
looked back to the owners of that strip of land with gratitude that they
had done this thing for the house and for all who should sojourn
therein, to give this wide stretch of beauty untouched, with room for
souls who had vision to grow.
Down beyond the meadow, off to the right, camouflaged now and again by a
casual tree, or a cropping of rocks, huddled the heterogeneous group of
buildings which had come to be known as Frogtown. It was really
originally called “the Flats” of Silver Sands, but since the factories
had gone up, the iron-foundry, the glass-works, the silk-mill, and like
mushrooms, a swarm of little “overnight houses” filled with a motley
foreign and colored population, it had somehow grown into the name of
Frogtown, and one felt that if the original Silver who had held the
land, and planned the view across the long misty meadow, could have
looked ahead far enough he would have planted a row of tall elms or
maples like a wall to shut _in_ his view as well as out. For Frogtown in
winter lifted stark, grim chimneys of red brick, and belched forth
volumes of soft black smoke, which, when it got into the picture, was
enough to spoil any view.
But in summer the kindly trees had spread more and more to shut out the
ugliness of the dirty little tenements and stark red chimneys, and the
tall grass reached up and blended the town till one could almost forget
it was there. Especially at evening could one look out from the windows
of the dignified old Silver mansion and see the river winding smoothly
like a silver ribbon just beyond the stretch of misty green without a
thought of dirty laborers, blazing furnaces, flaring pots of molten
glass and metal. It was like a vision of Peaceful Valley in its still
natural beauty.
But it was most mysterious just after the sun had set, and the “trailing
clouds of glory” left behind were lying in lovely tatters across a field
of jade, above the pearly shadows where the river pulsed in dusk, and a
single star pricked out like a living thing and winked to show the night
alive.
For the last fifteen years, since the death of Standish Silver, few had
looked at this particular view from the angle of the Silver house for
the reason that there had seldom during that period been any one
occupying the house except the three old servants, who lived in the back
part, and went “front” only to clean and air it. They cared little for
views. For this reason it was all the more wonderful that the house had
kept its atmosphere of home, and its air of alert friendliness, its
miracle of distinction from all other houses of the town that sat upon
it with a kind of pride.
But on this night, after all the years, the old house seemed to smile
with content as the evening settled down upon it, and nestled among its
shrubbery with an air of satisfaction. Back in the inner rooms soft
lights began to glow under quiet shades, and there seemed a warmth and
life about the place as if it had wakened because the owner had come
home.
As Patterson Greeves stood at the window surrounded by this sweetness of
the night, this peace of home, his raging soul could not but feel the
calm of it all, the balm, the beauty. The sweet air stole in upon his
troubled senses and his soul cried out for comfort. Why couldn’t they
have left him in peace to get what inspiration there was in this quiet
old spot for the hard work that he had before him?
The spell of the meadow came upon him, the mist stealing up from the
river in wreaths till he felt the blue eyes of the violets from their
hiding places as if they were greeting him, sensed the folded wings of a
butterfly poised for the night on a dandelion, began to gather up and
single out and identify all the delicate smells and sounds and stirrings
in the meadow that he used to know so long ago. Even without going he
could seem to know where a big flat stone could be lifted up to show the
scurrying sawbugs surprised from early sleep. His anger began to slip
from him, his bitterness of soul to be forgotten. A desire stirred in
him to steal out and find the particular tree-toad that was chirping
above his mates, and watch him do it. He drank in the night with its
clear jade sky, littered with tatters of pink and gold. He answered the
wink of the single star, his old friend from boyhood—and then he
remembered!
Out there was the meadow and the mist and the silver sand in the
starlight, but off down the street in the quiet churchyard were two
graves! Out the other way was a dead schoolhouse where other boys played
ball and bluffed their way through lessons. He was not a boy. He had no
part nor lot in this old village life. He had been a fool to come. His
life was dead. He had thought he could come to this old refuge for
inspiration to write a book that would add to the world’s store of
wisdom and then pass on—out—Where? How different it all was from what
he had dreamed in those happy boy days!
Even the old church with its faith in God, in love, in humanity and
life, in death and resurrection! What were they now but dead fallacies?
Poor Aunt Lavinia with her beautiful trust! How hard she strove to teach
him lies! Poor Uncle Standish, clean, kind, loving, severe, but fatherly
and Christian—always _Christian_! How far he had gone from all that
now! It seemed as different, the life he had been living since Alice
died, as a wind-swept, arid desert of sand in the pitch-dark would be
from this living, dusky, mysterious, pulsing meadow under the quiet
evening sky. And yet—! Well, he _believed_ in the meadow of course
because he _knew_ it, had lived with the bugs and butterflies and bits
of growing things. If he had only read about it or been taught of it he
might perhaps think the earth all arid. He had a passing wish that he
might again believe in the old faith that seemed to his world-weary
heart like an old couch whereon one might lie at peace and really rest.
But of course that was out of the question. He had eaten of the tree of
knowledge and he could not go back into Eden. Poor credulous Uncle
Standish, poor Aunt Lavinia! Strong and fine and good, but woefully
ignorant and gullible! How little they knew of life! How pleasant to
have been like them! And yet, they stagnated in the old town, walking in
grooves their forebears had carved for them, even thinking the thoughts
that had been taught them. That was not life.
Well, why not? He had seen life. And what had it given him? Dust and
ashes! A bitter taste! Responsibilities that galled! Hindrances and
disappointments! Two daughters whom he did not know! An empty heart and
a jaded soul! Ah! Why live?
Into the midst of his bitter thoughts a crimson stain flared into the
luminous gray of the evening sky as if it had been spilled by an impish
hand, and almost simultaneously out from the old bell-tower in the
public square there rang a clang that had never in the years gone by
failed to bring his entire forces to instant attention. The red flared
higher, and down behind the tall chimneys beside the silver beach, a
little modern siren set up a shriek that almost drowned out the hurried
imperious clang of the firebell. Another instant and the cry went up
from young throats down the street, where the voices of play had echoed
but a second ago, and following upon the sound came the gong of the
fire-engine, the pulsing of the engine-motor, the shouts of men, the
chime of boys’ voices, hurried, excited, dying away in a breath as the
hastily formed procession tore away and was lost in the distance,
leaving the tree-toads to heal over the rent air.
It took Patterson Greeves but an instant to come to life and answer that
call that clanged on after the firemen had gone on their way. He stayed
not for hat nor coat. He flung open the front door, swung wide the white
gate, made one step of the road, and vaulted the fence into the meadow.
Down through the dear old mysterious meadow he bounded, finding the way
as if he were a boy again, his eye on the crimson flare in the sky. Once
he struck his foot against a boulder and fell full length, his head
swimming, stars vibrating before his eyes, and for an instant he lay
still, feeling the cool of the close-cropped grass in his face, the
faint mingle of violet and mint wafted gently like an enchantment over
him, and an impulse to lie still seized him, to give up the mad race and
just stay here quietly. Then the siren screeched out again and his
senses whirled into line. Footsteps were coming thud, thud across the
sod. He struggled half up and a strong young arm braced against him and
set him on his feet:
“C’mon!” breathed the boy tersely. “It’s _some fire_!”
“What is it?” puffed the scientist, endeavoring to keep pace with the
lithe young bounds.
“Pickle factory!” murmured the youth, taking a little stream with a
single leap. “There goes the hook ’n ladder! We’ll beat ’em to it. Job
Trotter cert’nly takes his time. I’ll bet a hat the minister was running
the engine. He certainly can make that little old engine hump herself!
Here we are! Down this alley an’ turn to yer right—!”
They came suddenly upon the great spectacle of leaping flames ascending
to heaven, making the golden markings of the late-departed sun seem dim
and far away as if one drew near to the edge of the pit.
The crude framework of the hastily built factory was already writhing in
its death-throes. The firemen stood out against the brightness like
shining black beetles in their wet rubber coats and helmets. The faces
of the crowd lit up fearfully with rugged, tense lines and deep shadows.
Even the children seemed old and sad in the lurid light. One little
toddler fell down and was almost crushed beneath the feet of the crowd
as a detachment of firemen turned with their hose to run to another spot
farther up the street where fire had just broken out. The air was dense
with shouts and curses. Women screamed and men hurried out of the
ramshackle houses bearing bits of furniture. Just a fire. Just an
ordinary fire. Thousands of them happening all over the land every day.
Nothing in it at all compared to the terror of the war. Yet there was a
tang in the air, a stir in the pulses, that made him thrill like a boy
to the excitement of it. He wondered at himself as he dived to pick up
the fallen child and found his young companion had been more agile. The
baby was restored to her mother before her first outcry had fully left
her lips.
“Good work, Blink!” commended a fireman with face blackened beyond
recognition, and a form draped in dripping mackintosh.
“That’s the minister!” breathed the boy in Patterson Greeves’ ear, and
darted off to pounce upon a young bully who was struggling with his baby
sister for possession of some household treasures.
Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the fire was gone; the homeless
families parcelled out among their neighbors; the bits of furniture
safely disposed of for the night, and the fire company getting ready to
depart.
“Ain’t you goin’ to drive her back?” the boy asked of the tall figure
standing beside him.
Patterson Greeves warmed to the voice that replied:
“No, son, I’m going back across the fields with you if you don’t mind. I
want to get quiet under the stars before I sleep, after all this crash.”
They tramped it together, the three, and there was an air of
congeniality from the start as of long friendship. The boy was quiet and
grave as if bringing his intelligence up to the honored standard of his
friend, and the new man was accepted as naturally as the grass they
walked upon or a new star in the sky. There was no introduction. They
just began. They were talking about the rotten condition of the homes
that had just burned and the rottener condition of the men’s minds who
were the workers in the industries in Frogtown. The minister said it was
the natural outcome of conditions after the war, and it was going to be
worse before it was better, but it was going to be better before a fatal
climax came, and the scientist put in a word about conditions on the
other side.
When they had crossed the final fence and stood in the village street
once more Patterson Greeves waved his hand toward the house and said:
“You’re coming in for a cup of coffee with me,” and the tone included
the boy cordially.
They went in quite as naturally as if they had been doing it often and
the minister as he laid aside his rubber coat and helmet remarked with a
genial smile:
“I thought it must be you when I first sighted you at the Flats. They
told me you were coming home. I’m glad I lost no time in making your
acquaintance!”
Blink stuffed his old grimy cap in his hip pocket and glowed with pride
as he watched the two men shake hands with the real hearty handclasp
that betokens liking on both sides.
The old servants joyfully responded to the call for coffee, and speedily
brought a fine old silver tray with delicate Sèvres cups, and rare
silver service, plates of hastily made sandwiches—pink with wafer-thin
slices of sweetbriar ham, more plates of delicate filled cookies, crumby
with nuts and raisins. Blink ate and ate again and gloried in the feast,
basking in the geniality of the two men, his special particular “finds”
in the way of companions. “Gee! It was great!” He wouldn’t mind a fire
every night!
The coffee-cups were empty and the two men were deep in a discussion of
industrial conditions in foreign lands when suddenly, with sharp
insistence the telephone-bell rang out and startled into the
conversation. With a frown of annoyance Patterson Greeves finished his
sentence and turned to take down the receiver.
“Western Union. Telegram for Patterson Greeves!” the words smote across
his consciousness and jerked him back into his own troubled life. “Yes?”
he breathed sharply.
“Too late! Athalie already on her way. She should reach you tomorrow
morning.”
Signed “Lilla.”
It seemed to him as he hung up the receiver, a dazed, baffled look upon
his face, that he could hear Lilla’s mocking laughter ringing out
somewhere in the distance. Again she had outwitted him!