ours can boast of," said the Judge. "I want you to study the look in
that mother's face, not that it is unusual. I have seen the like of it
a hundred times. Almost every young mother with a child in her arms has
that look or ought to have it--the most beautiful and mysterious thing
in the world. The light of that old star which led the wise men is in
it, I sometimes think. Study it and you may hear voices in the sky as
did the shepherds of old."
So the boy acquired the companionship of those divine faces that looked
down at him from the wall near his bed and had something to say to him
every day.
Also, another friend--a very humble one--had begun to share his
confidence. He was the little yellow dog, Christmas. He had come with
his master, one evening in March, to spend a night with the sick
Shepherd. Christmas had lain on the foot of the bed and felt the loving
caress of the boy. He never forgot it. The heart of the world, that
loves above all things the touch of a kindly hand, was in this little
creature. Often, when Hiram was walking out in the bitter winds,
Christmas would edge away when his master's back was turned. In a jiffy,
he was out of sight and making with all haste for the door of the Widow
Moran. There, he never failed to receive some token of the generous
woman's understanding of the great need of dogs--a bone or a doughnut or
a slice of bread soaked in meat gravy--and a warm welcome from the boy
above stairs. The boy always had time to pet him and play with him. He
was never fooling the days away with an axe and a saw in the cold wind.
Christmas admired his master's ability to pick up logs of wood and heave
them about and to make a great noise with an axe but, in cold weather,
all that was a bore to him. When he had been missing, Hiram Blenkinsop
found him, always, at the day's end lying comfortably on Bob Moran's
bed.
May had returned with its warm sunlight. The robins had come back. The
blue martins had taken possession of the bird house. The grass had
turned green on the garden borders and was now sprinkled with the golden
glow of dandelions. The leaves were coming but Pat Crowley was no longer
at work in the garden. He had fallen before the pestilence. Old Bill
Rutherford was working there. The Shepherd was at the open window every
day, talking with him and watching and feeding the birds.
Now, with the spring, a new feeling had come to Mr. Hiram Blenkinsop. He
had been sober for months. His Old Self had come back and had imparted
his youthful strength to the man Hiram. He had money in the bank. He was
decently dressed. People had begun to respect him. Every day, Hiram was
being nudged and worried by a new thought. It persisted in telling him
that respectability was like the Fourth of July--a very dull thing
unless it was celebrated. He had been greatly pleased with his own
growing respectability. He felt as if he wanted to take a look at it,
from a distance, as it were. That money in the bank was also nudging and
calling him. It seemed to be lonely and longing for companionship.
"Come, Hiram Blenkinsop," it used to say. "Let's go off together and get
a silk hat and a gold headed cane an' make 'em set up an' take notice.
Suppose you should die sudden an' leave me without an owner?"
The warmth and joy of the springtime had turned his fancy to the old
dream. So one day, he converted his bank balance into "a roll big enough
to choke a dog," and took the early morning train to Hazelmead, having
left Christmas at the Widow Moran's.
In the mill city he bought a high silk hat and a gold headed cane and a
new suit of clothes and a boiled shirt and a high collar and a red
necktie. It didn't matter to him that the fashion and fit of his
garments were not quite in keeping with the silk hat and gold headed
cane. There were three other items in the old dream of splendor--the
mother, the prancing team, and the envious remarks of the onlookers. His
mother was gone. Also there were no prancing horses in Hazelmead, but he
could hire an automobile.
In the course of his celebration he asked a lady, whom he met in the
street, if she would kindly be his mother for a day. He meant well but
the lady, being younger than Hiram and not accustomed to such
familiarity from strangers, did not feel complimented by the question.
They fled from each other. Soon, Hiram bought a big custard pie in a
bake-shop and had it cut into smallish pieces and, having purchased pie
and plate, went out upon the street with it. He ate what he wanted of
the pie and generously offered the rest of it to sundry people who
passed him. It was not impertinence in Hiram; it was pure generosity--a
desire to share his riches, flavored, in some degree, by a feeling of
vanity. It happened that Mr. J. Patterson Bing came along and received a
tender of pie from Mr. Blenkinsop.
"No!" said Mr. Bing, with that old hammer whack in his voice which
aroused bitter memories in the mind of Hiram.
That tone was a great piece of imprudence. There was a menacing gesture
and a rapid succession of footsteps on the pavement. Mr. Bing's retreat
was not, however, quite swift enough to save him. The pie landed on his
shoulder. In a moment, Hiram was arrested and marching toward the lockup
while Mr. Bing went to the nearest drug store to be cleaned and scoured.
A few days later Hiram Blenkinsop arrived in Bingville. Mr. Singleton
met him on the street and saw to his deep regret that Hiram had been
drinking.
"I've made up my mind that religion is good for some folks, but it won't
do for me," said the latter.
"Why not?" the minister asked.
"I can't afford it."
"Have you found religion a luxury?" Mr. Singleton asked.
"It's grand while it lasts, but it's like p'ison gettin' over it," said
Hiram. "I feel kind o' ruined."
"You look it," said the minister, with a glance at Hiram's silk hat and
soiled clothing. "A long spell of sobriety is hard on a man if he quits
it sudden. You've had your day of trial, my friend. We all have to be
tried soon or late. People begin to say, 'At last he's come around all
right. He's a good fellow.' And the Lord says: 'Perhaps he's worthy of
better things. I'll try him and see.'
"That's His way of pushing people along, Hiram. He doesn't want them to
stand still. You've had your trial and failed, but you mustn't give up.
When your fun turns into sorrow, as it will, come back to me and we'll
try again."
Hiram sat dozing in a corner of the bar-room of the Eagle Hotel that
day. He had been ashamed to go to his comfortable room over the garage.
He did not feel entitled to the hospitality of Mr. Singleton. Somehow,
he couldn't bear the thought of going there. His new clothes and silk
hat were in a state which excited the derision of small boys and audible
comment from all observers while he had been making his way down the
street. His money was about gone. The barkeeper had refused to sell him
any more drink. In the early dusk he went out-of-doors. It was almost as
warm as midsummer and the sky was clear. He called at the door of the
Widow Moran for his dog. In a moment, Christmas came down from the
Shepherd's room and greeted his master with fond affection. The two went
away together. They walked up a deserted street and around to the old
graveyard. When it was quite dark, they groped their way through the
weedy, briered aisles, between moss-covered toppling stones, to their
old nook under the ash tree. There Hiram made a bed of boughs, picked
from the evergreens that grow in the graveyard, and lay down upon it
under his overcoat with the dog Christmas. He found it impossible to
sleep, however. When he closed his eyes a new thought began nudging him.
It seemed to be saying, "What are you going to do now, Mr. Hiram
Blenkinsop?"
He was pleased that it seemed to say Mr. Hiram Blenkinsop. He lay for a
long time looking up at the starry moonlit sky, and at the marble,
weather-spotted angel on the monument to the Reverend Thaddeus Sneed,
who had been lying there, among the rude forefathers of the village,
since 1806. Suddenly the angel began to move. Mr. Blenkinsop observed
with alarm that it had discovered him and that its right forefinger was
no longer directed toward the sky but was pointing at his face. The
angel had assumed the look and voice of his Old Self and was saying:
"I don't see why angels are always cut in marble an' set up in
graveyards with nothing to do but point at the sky. It's a cold an'
lonesome business. Why don't you give me a job?"
His Old Self vanished and, as it did so, the spotted angel fell to
coughing and sneezing. It coughed and sneezed so loudly that the sound
went echoing in the distant sky and so violently that it reeled and
seemed to be in danger of falling. Mr. Blenkinsop awoke with a rude jump
so that the dog Christmas barked in alarm. It was nothing but the
midnight train from the south pulling out of the station which was near
the old graveyard. The spotted angel stood firmly in its place and was
pointing at the sky as usual.
It was probably an hour or so later, when Mr. Blenkinsop was awakened by
the barking of the dog Christmas. He quieted the dog and listened. He
heard a sound like that of a baby crying. It awoke tender memories in
the mind of Hiram Blenkinsop. One very sweet recollection was about all
that the barren, bitter years of his young manhood had given him worth
having. It was the recollection of a little child which had come to his
home in the first year of his married life.
"She lived eighteen months and three days and four hours," he used to
say, in speaking of her, with a tender note in his voice.
Almost twenty years, she had been lying in the old graveyard near the
ash tree. Since then the voice of a child crying always halted his
steps. It is probable that, in her short life, the neglected, pathetic
child Pearl--that having been her name--had protested much against a
plentiful lack of comfort and sympathy.
So Mr. Blenkinsop's agitation at the sound of a baby crying somewhere
near him, in the darkness of the old graveyard, was quite natural and
will be readily understood. He rose on his elbow and listened. Again he
heard that small, appealing voice.
"By thunder! Christmas," he whispered. "If that ain't like Pearl when
she was a little, teeny, weeny thing no bigger'n a pint o' beer! Say it
is, sir, sure as sin!"
He scrambled to his feet, suddenly, for now, also, he could distinctly
hear the voice of a woman crying. He groped his way in the direction
from which the sound came and soon discovered the woman. She was
kneeling on a grave with a child in her arms. Her grief touched the
heart of the man.
"Who be you?" he asked.
"I'm cold, and my baby is sick, and I have no friends," she sobbed.
"Yes, ye have!" said Hiram Blenkinsop. "I don't care who ye be. I'm yer
friend and don't ye fergit it."
There was a reassuring note in the voice of Hiram Blenkinsop. Its
gentleness had in it a quiver of sympathy. She felt it and gave to
him--an unknown, invisible man, with just a quiver of sympathy in his
voice--her confidence.
If ever any one was in need of sympathy, she was at that moment. She
felt that she must speak out to some one. So keenly she felt the impulse
that she had been speaking to the stars and the cold gravestones. Here
at last was a human being with a quiver of sympathy in his voice.
"I thought I would come home, but when I got here I was afraid," the
girl moaned. "I wish I could die."
"No, ye don't neither!" said Hiram Blenkinsop. "Sometimes, I've thought
that I hadn't no friends an' wanted to die, but I was just foolin'
myself. To be sure, I ain't had no baby on my hands but I've had
somethin' just as worrisome, I guess. Folks like you an' me has got
friends a-plenty if we'll only give 'em a chance. I've found that out.
You let me take that baby an' come with me. I know where you'll git the
glad hand. You just come right along with me."
The unmistakable note of sincerity was in the voice of Hiram Blenkinsop.
She gave the baby into his arms. He held it to his breast a moment
thinking of old times. Then he swung his arms like a cradle saying:
"You stop your hollerin'--ye gol'darn little skeezucks! It ain't decent
to go on that way in a graveyard an' ye ought to know it. Be ye tryin'
to wake the dead?"
The baby grew quiet and finally fell asleep.
"Come on, now," said Hiram, with the baby lying against his breast. "You
an' me are goin' out o' the past. I know a little house that's next door
to Heaven. They say ye can see Heaven from its winders. It's where the
good Shepherd lives. Christmas an' I know the place--don't we, ol' boy?
Come right along. There ain't no kind o' doubt o' what they'll say to
us."
The young woman followed him out of the old graveyard and through the
dark, deserted streets until they came to the cottage of the Widow
Moran. They passed through the gate into Judge Crooker's garden. Under
the Shepherd's window, Hiram Blenkinsop gave the baby to its mother and
with his hands to his mouth called "Bob!" in a loud whisper. Suddenly a
robin sounded his alarm. Instantly, the Shepherd's room was full of
light. In a moment, he was at the window sweeping the garden paths and
the tree tops with his search-light. It fell on the sorrowful figure of
the young mother with the child in her arms and stopped. She stood
looking up at the window bathed in the flood of light. It reminded the
Shepherd of that glow which the wise men saw in the manger at Bethlehem.
"Pauline Baker!" he exclaimed. "Have you come back or am I dreaming?
It's you--thanks to the Blessed Virgin! It's you! Come around to the
door. My mother will let you in."
It was a warm welcome that the girl received in the little home of the
Widow Moran. Many words of comfort and good cheer were spoken in the
next hour or so after which the good woman made tea and toast and
broiled a chop and served them in the Shepherd's room.
"God love ye, child! So he was a married man--bad 'cess to him an' the
likes o' him!" she said as she came in with the tray. "Mother o' Jesus!
What a wicked world it is!"
The prudent dog Christmas, being afraid of babies, hid under the
Shepherd's bed, and Hiram Blenkinsop lay down for the rest of the night
on the lounge in the cottage kitchen.
An hour after daylight, when the Judge was walking in his garden, he
wondered why the widow and the Shepherd were sleeping so late.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN WHICH HIGH VOLTAGE DEVELOPS IN THE CONVERSATION
It was a warm, bright May day. There was not a cloud in the sky. Roger
Delane had arrived and the Bings were giving a dinner that evening. The
best people of Hazelmead were coming over in motor-cars. Phyllis and
Roger had had a long ride together that day on the new Kentucky saddle
horses. Mrs. Bing had spent the morning in Hazelmead and had stayed to
lunch with Mayor and Mrs. Stacy. She had returned at four and cut some
flowers for the table and gone to her room for an hour's rest when the
young people returned. She was not yet asleep when Phyllis came into the
big bedroom. Mrs. Bing lay among the cushions on her couch. She partly
rose, tumbled the cushions into a pile and leaned against them.
"Heavens! I'm tired!" she exclaimed. "These women in Hazelmead hang on
to one like a lot of hungry cats. They all want money for one thing or
another--Red Cross or Liberty bonds or fatherless children or tobacco
for the soldiers or books for the library. My word! I'm broke and it
seems as if each of my legs hung by a thread."
Phyllis smiled as she stood looking down at her mother.
"How beautiful you look!" the fond mother exclaimed. "If he didn't
propose to-day, he's a chump."
"But he did," said Phyllis. "I tried to keep him from it, but he just
would propose in spite of me."
The girl's face was red and serious. She sat down in a chair and began
to remove her hat. Mrs. Bing rose suddenly, and stood facing Phyllis.
"I thought you loved him," she said with a look of surprise.
"So I do," the girl answered.
"What did you say?"
"I said no."
"What!"
"I refused him!"
"For God's sake, Phyllis! Do you think you can afford to play with a man
like that? He won't stand for it."
"Let him sit for it then and, mother, you might as well know, first as
last, that I am not playing with him."
There was a calm note of firmness in the voice of the girl. She was
prepared for this scene. She had known it was coming. Her mother was hot
with irritating astonishment. The calmness of the girl in suddenly
beginning to dig a grave for this dear ambition--rich with promise--in
the very day when it had come submissively to their feet, stung like the
tooth of a serpent. She stood very erect and said with an icy look in
her face:
"You young upstart! What do you mean?"
There was a moment of frigid silence in which both of the women began to
turn cold. Then Phyllis answered very calmly as she sat looking down at
the bunch of violets in her hand:
"It means that I am married, mother."
Mrs. Bing's face turned red. There was a little convulsive movement of
the muscles around her mouth. She folded her arms on her breast, lifted
her chin a bit higher and asked in a polite tone, although her words
fell like fragments of cracked ice:
"Married! To whom are you married?"
"To Gordon King."
Phyllis spoke casually as if he were a piece of ribbon that she had
bought at a store.
Mrs. Bing sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands for
half a moment. Suddenly she picked up a slipper that lay at her feet and
flung it at the girl.
"My God!" she exclaimed. "What a nasty liar you are!"
It was not ladylike but, at that moment, the lady was temporarily
absent.
"Mother, I'm glad you say that," the girl answered still very calmly,
although her fingers trembled a little as she felt the violets, and her
voice was not quite steady. "It shows that I am not so stupid at home as
I am at school."
The girl rose and threw down the violets and her mild and listless
manner. A look of defiance filled her face and figure. Mrs. Bing arose,
her eyes aglow with anger.
"I'd like to know what you mean," she said under her breath.
"I mean that if I am a liar, you taught me how to be it. Ever since I
was knee-high, you have been teaching me to deceive my father. I am not
going to do it any longer. I am going to find my father and tell him the
truth. I shall not wait another minute. He will give me better advice
than you have given, I hope."
The words had fallen rapidly from her lips and, as the last one was
spoken, she hurried out of the room. Mrs. Bing threw herself on the
couch where she lay with certain bitter memories, until the new maid
came to tell her that it was time to dress.
She was like one reminded of mortality after coming out of ether.
"Oh, Lord!" she murmured wearily. "I feel like going to bed! How _can_ I
live through that dinner? Please bring me some brandy."
Phyllis learned that her father was at his office whither she proceeded
without a moment's delay. She sent in word that she must see him alone
and as soon as possible. He dismissed the men with whom he had been
talking and invited her into his private office.
"Well, girl, I guess I know what is on your mind," he said. "Go ahead."
Phyllis began to cry.
"All right! You do the crying and I'll do the talking," he went on. "I
feel like doing the crying myself, but if you want the job I'll resign
it to you. Perhaps you can do enough of that for both of us. I began to
smell a rat the other day. So I sent for Gordon King. He came here this
morning. I had a long talk with him. He told me the truth. Why didn't
you tell me? What's the good of having a father unless you use him at
times when his counsel is likely to be worth having? I would have made a
good father, if I had had half a chance. I should like to have been your
friend and confidant in this important enterprise. I could have been a
help to you. But, somehow, I couldn't get on the board of directors. You
and your mother have been running the plant all by yourselves and I
guess it's pretty near bankrupt. Now, my girl, there's no use crying
over spilt tears. Gordon King is not the man of my choice, but we must
all take hold and try to build him up. Perhaps we can make him pay."
"I do not love him," Phyllis sobbed.
"You married him because you wanted to. You were not coerced?"
"No, sir."
"I'm sorry, but you'll have to take your share of the crow with the rest
of us," he went on, with a note of sternness in his tone. "My girl, when
I make a contract I live up to it and I intend that you shall do the
same. You'll have to learn to love and cherish this fellow, if he makes
it possible. I'll have no welching in my family. You and your mother
believe in woman's rights. I don't object to that, but you mustn't think
that you have the right to break your agreements unless there's a good
reason for it. My girl, the marriage contract is the most binding and
sacred of all contracts. I want you to do your best to make this one a
success."
There was the tinkle of the telephone bell. Mr. Bing put the receiver to
his ear and spoke into the instrument as follows:
"Yes, she's here! I knew all the facts before she told me. Mr. Delane?
He's on his way back to New York. Left on the six-ten. Charged me to
present his regrets and farewells to you and Phyllis. I thought it best
for him to know and to go. Yes, we're coming right home to dress. Mr.
King will take Mr. Delane's place at the table. We'll make a clean
breast of the whole business. Brace up and eat your crow with a smiling
face. I'll make a little speech and present Mr. and Mrs. King to our
friends at the end of it. Oh, now, cut out the sobbing and leave this
unfinished business to me and don't worry. We'll be home in three
minutes."
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN WHICH JUDGE CROOKER DELIVERS A FEW OPINIONS
The pride of Bingville had fallen in the dust! It had arisen and gone on
with soiled garments and lowered head. It had suffered derision and
defeat. It could not ever be the same again. Sneed and Snodgrass
recovered, in a degree, from their feeling of opulence. Sneed had become
polite, industrious and obliging. Snodgrass and others had lost heavily
in stock speculation through the failure of a broker in Hazelmead. They
went to work with a will and without the haughty independence which, for
a time, had characterized their attitude. The spirit of the Little
Shepherd had entered the hearts and home of Emanuel Baker and his wife.
Pauline and the baby were there and being tenderly loved and cared for.
But what humility had entered that home! Phyllis and her husband lived
with her parents, Gordon having taken a humble place in the mill. He
worked early and late. The Bings had made it hard for him, finding it
difficult to overcome their resentment, but he stood the gaff, as they
say, and won the regard of J. Patterson although Mrs. Bing could never
forgive him.
In June, there had been a public meeting in the Town Hall addressed by
Judge Crooker and the Reverend Mr. Singleton. The Judge had spoken of
the grinding of the mills of God that was going on the world over.
"Our civilization has had its time of trial not yet ended," he began.
"Its enemies have been busy in every city and village. Not only in the
cities and villages of France and Belgium have they been busy, but in
those of our own land. The Goths and Vandals have invaded Bingville.
They have been destroying the things we loved. The false god is in our
midst. Many here, within the sound of my voice, have a god suited to
their own tastes and sins--an obedient, tractable, boneless god. It is
my deliberate opinion that the dances and costumes and moving pictures
we have seen in Bingville are doing more injury to Civilization than all
the guns of Germany. My friends, you can do nothing worse for my
daughter than deprive her of her modesty and I would rather, far rather,
see you slay my son than destroy his respect for law and virtue and
decency.
"The jazz band is to me a sign of spiritual decay. It is a step toward
the jungle. I hear in it the beating of the tom-tom. It is not music. It
is the barbaric yawp of sheer recklessness and daredevilism, and it is
everywhere.
"Even in our economic life we are dancing to the jazz band and with
utter recklessness. American labor is being more and more absorbed in
the manufacture of luxuries--embroidered frocks and elaborate millinery
and limousines and landaulets and rich upholstery and cord tires and
golf courses and sporting goods and great country houses--so that there
is not enough labor to provide the comforts and necessities of life.