A GRIPPING wave of nausea recalled Anthony to consciousness; a deathly
sickness spreading from the pit of his stomach through his entire being;
his prostrate head, seeming stripped of its skull, was tortured by the
dragging fronds of the ferns among which he lay. He sat up dizzily.
Through the leafy opening the fleeting forms of the clouds shifted
over the sunny hills. The stream slipped silently through the grass. He
staggered down the slight incline, and, falling forward upon the ground,
let the water flow over his throbbing head. The cool shock revived him,
and he washed away a dark, clotted film from his forehead and cheek.
His wallet, with his ticket to California and store of money were gone.
He started in instant, unsteady pursuit of the man who had struck him
down and robbed him. But, at the edge of the wood he paused--how long
had he lain among the ferns? the sun was now high over his head, the
morning lapsed, the other might have had three, four hours' start.
He might now be entrained, bound for California, searching for Alfred
Lukes. A sudden weakness forced him to sit at the roadside; he lost
consciousness again for a moment. Then, summoning his youth, his
vitality, he rose, and walked unsteadily in search of assistance.
He had proceeded an intolerable mile, wiping away a thin trickle of
blood that persisted in crawling into his eye, when he saw a low roof
amid a tangle of greenery. He stopped with a sobbing breath of relief.
He was delirious, he thought, for peering at him through the leaves he
saw the countenance and beautiful, bare body of a child, as dark and
tense as bronze. A cloud of black hair overhung a face vivid as a
flower; her crimson lips trembled; then, with a startled cry, the figure
vanished.
He made his way with difficulty over a short path, overgrown with vines
and twisted branches, and came abruptly upon a low, white house and
wide, opened door. An aged and shapeless woman sat on a chair without a
back, cutting green beans into a bright tin basin. When she saw him
she dropped the pan with a clatter, and an unfamiliar exclamation of
surprise.
“I've been hurt,” Anthony explained; “knocked silly and robbed.”
“Gina!” she called excitedly; “Dio mio! _Gina!_” A young woman, large
and loosely molded, with a lusty baby clasped to her bared breast,
appeared in the doorway. When she saw Anthony she dropped the baby into
the elder's arms. “Poverino!” she cried; “come in the house, little
mister.” She caught him by the arm, almost lifting him over the doorstep
into a cool, dark interior. He had a brief glimpse of drying vegetables
strung from the ceiling, of a waxen image of the virgin in faded pink
silk finery against the wall; then, with closed eyes, he relaxed
into the charge of soothing and skilled fingers. His head rested on a
maternal arm while a soft bandage was fixed about his forehead.
“Ecco!” she ejaculated, her ministration successful. She led him to a
rude couch upon the floor, and gently insisted upon his lying down. He
attempted to thank her, but she laid her large, capable hand over his
mouth, and he sank into an exhausted, semi-conscious rest. Once she bent
over him, dampening the bandage, once he saw, against the light of the
door, the shape, slim and beautiful as an angel, of the child. Outside
a low, liquid murmur of voices continued without a break, strange and
quieting.
He slept, and woke up refreshed, strengthened. The dusk had thickened in
the room, the strings of vegetables were lost in the shadows, a dim
oil lamp cast a feeble glow on rude walls. He lay motionless for a few,
delightful seconds, folded in absolute peace, beneficent quietude. The
amazing idea struck him that, perhaps, he had died, and that this was
the eternal tranquillity of the hymn books, and he started vigorously
to his feet in an absurd panic. The homely figure of a man entering
dispelled the illusion--he was a commonplace Italian, one of the
multitude who labored in the ditches of the country, stood aside in
droves from the tracks as trains whirled past.
“What hit your head?” he asked, his mobile face displaying sympathetic
interest, concern.
“A leaded stick,” Anthony explained. “I was knocked out, robbed.”
“Birbanti!” he laid a heavy hand upon Anthony's shoulder. “You feel
better now, gia?” The latter, confused by such open attention, shook
the hand from its friendly grip. “He was crazy,” he awkwardly explained;
“and looking for a man who had killed his son; he wanted to get to
California and I told him I had a ticket west.”
The laborer led Anthony to a room where a rude table was spread with
homely fare--a great, rough loaf of bread, a deep bowl of steaming,
green soup, flakey white cheese, and a bottle of purple wine. An open
door faced the western sky, and the room was filled with the warm
afterglow; it hung like a shining veil over the man, the still, maternal
countenance of the woman, like an aureole about the baby now sleeping
against her breast, and graced the russet countenance of an aged
peasant. The child that Anthony had seen first, now in a scant white
slip, seemed dipped in the gold of dreams.
As he consumed the savory soup, the creamy cheese and wine, the scene
impressed him as strangely significant, familiar. He dismissed an idle
effort of memory in order to consider the unfortunate aspect assumed by
his immediate affairs. Concerning one thing he was determined--he would
ask his father to assist him no further toward his western destination.
He must himself pay for the initial error, together with all its
consequences, of having followed Hartmann: California was his object,
he would not write to Ellerton until his westward progress was once more
assured.
Two courses were open to him--he could “beat” his way, getting meals
when and how he was able, riding, when possible, on freight cars, doing
casual jobs on the way. That he dismissed in favor of a second, which
in the end, he judged, would prove more speedy. He would make his way
to the nearest city, find employment in a public or private garage as
chauffeur or mechanic, and, in a month at most, have the money necessary
for the continuation of his journey.
The household conversed vigorously in their native idiom, giving his
thoughts full freedom. The glow in the west faded, sank from the room,
but, suddenly, he recognized the familiar quality of his surroundings.
It resembled a picture of the Holy Family on the wall of his mother's
room; the bare interior was the same, the rugged features of Joseph the
carpenter, the brooding beauty of Mary. He almost laughed aloud at the
absurd comparison of the exalted scene of Christ's infancy with this
commonplace but kindly group, the laborer with soiled and callous hands
and winestained mouth, the material young woman with the string of cheap
blue beads.
The meal at an end the chairs were pushed back and the old woman noisily
assembled the dishes. Anthony's head throbbed and burned. In passing,
the mother's fingers rested upon his brow. “Not too hot,” she nodded
contentedly.
A consultation followed. Anthony might remain there for the night; or,
if he insisted, he might drive into the city with “Nono,” who left in
a few hours with a wagonload of greens for the morning market. He chose
the latter, with a clumsy expression of gratitude, impatient to resume
active efforts in his rehabilitation in his own mind.
“Niente!” they disclaimed in chorus.