ADAM
"A thousand deaths have fed my roots--yet to what end?"--_The Murmuring
Pine_.
The days slipped by, as days will, even though they are grief laden.
Slowly and inarticulately for the most part, Lydia struggled to adjust
herself to her new loss. She went back to school, after the quarantine
was lifted and the familiar routine there helped her. She was a good
student and was doing well in the eighth grade. During school hours
her books absorbed her, and she worried through the evenings reading or
sewing, with Florence Dombey always in her lap.
Florence Dombey was a great comfort to the child. She slept at night
with her black head beside Lydia's yellow one. Sometimes she slipped
into the middle of the bed and fat Lizzie rolled on her and woke with a
groan.
"I'd just as soon sleep with a cannon-ball at my back," the good soul
told Lydia. But she never uttered a more violent protest.
Lydia never entered the locked bedroom off the kitchen. Amos,
self-absorbed and over-worked, asked no questions, but one night in
April, John Levine saw Lydia at work on a night dress for Florence
Dombey.
"Where does the young lady sleep?" he asked.
Lydia explained and Lizzie uttered her mild plaint, adding, "Lydia
ought to be getting back to her own bed, now warm weather will be
coming in."
Lydia caught her lower lip in her teeth but said nothing. Levine
scrutinized the curly head bent over the sewing, then went on with his
conversation with Amos. He was working quietly on his campaign, a year
hence, for the office of sheriff and Amos, who was an influential
Mason, was planning to use his influence for his friend. Lydia,
absorbed in sad little memories over her sewing or happily drugged in
some book, heeded these discussions only subconsciously.
Just before leaving, John asked for a drink of water and Amos went to
the pump to bring in a fresh pail. He stopped while there to fuss over
a barrel in which he had an old hen setting on some eggs he had got
from Mrs. Norton. Lizzie had gone to bed early.
"Young Lydia," said John, as soon as they were alone, "come here."
When she was perched in her old place on his knee, "Don't you think
it's time for you to get back to your own bedroom with its view of the
lake?" he asked.
Lydia looked at him dumbly.
"You don't like to sleep in that stuffy bedroom with Lizzie, do you,
dear?"
"No," replied the child. "She's fat and snores and won't have the
window open--but--"
"But what?" Levine's voice was gentle.
"I'm afraid to sleep alone."
"Afraid? Lydia--not of any memory of dear little Patience!"
"No! No! but I have nightmares nearly every night--she--she's choking
and I--I can't help her. Then I wake up and catch hold of Lizzie. Oh,
don't make me sleep alone!"
"Why, my dear little girl--" John caught the child's thin hands in a
firm, warm grip. She was trembling violently and her fingers twitched.
"This won't do! That's what keeps the dark rings round your eyes, is
it? Of course you shan't sleep alone! How does school go?"
"Fine," answered the child. "I hate grammar and diagramming, but the
rest is easy."
"And what book are you reading now?"
"I'm starting 'David Copperfield.'"
"Here comes your father. It's bedtime, isn't it? Good night, my dear."
Lydia picked up Florence Dombey and went slowly off to bed as her
father came in with a glass of water.
"That fool hen isn't fully convinced she wants a family," he said.
The bedroom door closed after Lydia.
"Amos," said John, "that child's nerves are all shot to pieces." He
related his conversation with Lydia.
"What can I do?" asked Amos, with a worried air. "Seems to me she's
just got to wear it out. It's awful hard she's had to be up against
these things--but, I swan!--"
Levine grunted and put on his hat. "I wish she was my daughter," he
said. "If you'll ask Brown to come around to the Elks Club to-morrow,
I'll talk to him."
Amos nodded and John mounted his bicycle and rode away. On the Friday
afternoon following when Lydia got home from school, she found the
house apparently deserted. But there issued from the neighborhood of
the kitchen a yipping and ki-yi-ing that would have moved a heart of
stone. Lydia ran into the kitchen. The puppy wails came from behind
the door of the old bedroom.
"Who's in there!" she called.
The yipping changed to deep barks of joy. Lydia tried the door. It
opened easily and a great, blundering puppy hurled himself at her.
Lydia was a dog lover.
"You love! You lamb!" she cried. She squatted on the floor and the
pup crowded his great hulk into her lap, licking her face and wagging
his whole body.
There was a note tied to his collar. Lydia untied it: "Dearest Young
Lydia:--Here is a friend who wants to share your bedroom with you. You
must bring him up to be a polite, obedient dog, and a credit to your
other friend, John Levine."
"Oh!" squealed Lydia. "Oh! but why did they tie you in here!" She
looked about the room. The old bed had been moved out and the
dining-room couch moved in. The bureau had been shifted to another
corner. There was nothing to be seen of all little Patience's
belongings. It did not look like the same room.
As she clung to the squirming puppy and stared, Lizzie came in.
"Ain't it nice?" she asked. "Mr. Levine came out with the dog this
afternoon and suggested the change. He helped me. We stored all the
other things up in the attic. See the old quilt in the corner? That's
for the dog to sleep on. Ain't he as big as an elephant! I'm afraid
he'll eat as much as a man."
"He can have half of my food," cried Lydia. "Oh, Lizzie, isn't he
beautiful!"
"Well, no," replied Lizzie, truthfully. "He looks to me as if some one
had stepped on his face. You'd better take him out for a run."
John Levine never did a wiser or a kinder thing than to give the
brindle English bulldog to Lydia. He was a puppy of nine months, well
bred and strong. Lydia took him into her empty little heart with a
completeness that belongs to the natural dog lover and that was
enhanced by her bereavement. And he, being of a breed that is as
amiable and loyal as it is unlovely to look upon, attached himself
unalterably and entirely to Lydia. She and Kent cast about some time
before deciding on a name. At first they thought seriously of naming
him John, after the donor, but decided that this might lead to
confusion. Then they discovered that Levine's middle name was Adam,
and Adam the brindle bull became, forthwith.
Lydia made no objection to returning to the old room. It had lost its
familiar outlines. And Adam, refusing the quilt on the floor,
established himself on the foot of the couch where all night long he
snuffled and snored and Lydia, who had objected to Lizzie's audible
slumbers, now, waking with nightmares, heard Adam's rumbling with a
sigh of relief, pressed her feet for comfort against his warm,
throbbing body, and went off to sleep immediately.
In May the garden was planted and in June, Lydia graduated from the
eighth grade, and the long summer vacation had begun. Margery
Marshall, although Lydia's age, was not a good student and was two
grades below her. After the episode of the note, Lydia made a
conscientious effort to play with Margery at recess and when vacation
began, she called for the banker's daughter regularly every week to go
swimming.
Occasionally Elviry would invite her into the house to wait for
Margery. At such times Lydia would stare with wondering delight at the
marvels of the quartered oak, plush upholstered furniture, the
"Body-Brussels" rugs, and the velour portières that adorned the parlor.
Outwardly this summer was much like the previous one, except that there
was a quiet contentment about Amos in spite of his real mourning for
his baby daughter, that had been foreign to him for years. It was the
garden that did this. Not only was it a wonderful garden to look on
and to eat from, but with it Amos paid for milk and butter from the
Nortons and for a part of his groceries. This made possible the year's
interest and payment on the note.
Lydia sewed for Florence Dombey, climbed trees, swam and played pirates
with Kent. But as a matter of fact, the old childish zest for these
things had gone. For Lydia's real childhood had left her that December
night she had spent under the far corner of her father's bed. She had
not prayed since then. Her young faith in the kindness and sweetness
of life, badly shaken by her mother's death, had been utterly destroyed
when little Patience had been taken from her.
With Adam at her heels, she took to solitary tramping through the
neighboring woods where at times she met Indians from the
reservation--a buck asleep on a log--a couple of squaws laughing and
chatting while they ate food they had begged--an Indian boy, dusty and
tired, resting after a trip to Lake City. Lydia was a little afraid of
these dark folk, though they always smiled at her. She would jerk at
Adam's collar and cuff his ears for growling, then make off toward home.
It was a walk of just a mile from the cottage to the High School.
Lydia was very nervous about her first day at High School. Kent was
entering at the same time and she would have liked to have asked to go
with him but she knew he would resent violently being associated with a
girl on so important an occasion.
So it was that one of the teachers observed a child in a faded but
clean galatea sailor suit, with curly blond hair barely long enough to
tie in her neck, standing in one of the lower halls after the mob of
seven or eight hundred boys and girls had been successfully herded into
the great Assembly room.
"What is your name, my dear?" asked the teacher.
Lydia silently presented her promotion card. The teacher nodded.
"Come along, Miss Dudley, or you'll miss the principal's speech."
She seated Lydia near her in the Assembly room, then looked her over
curiously. The child's face was remarkably intelligent, a high bred
little face under a finely domed head. The back of her ears and the
back of her neck were dirty, and her thin hands were rough as if with
housework. The galatea sailor suit was cheap and coarse.
"A sick mother or no mother," was the teacher's mental note. "I must
inquire about her. Almost too bashful to breathe. Precocious
mentally, a child physically. I'll look out for her to-day."
Miss Towne had the reputation of an unfeeling disciplinarian among the
pupils, but Lydia did not know this. She only knew that by some
miracle of kindness she came to understand the classroom system of
recitations, that she was introduced to different teachers, that she
learned how to decipher the hours of her recitations from the
complicated chart on the Assembly room blackboard, and that at noon she
started for home with a list of textbooks to be purchased, and a
perfectly clear idea of what to do when she returned on the morrow.
The streets were full of children of all ages flocking toward the book
stores. Lydia walked along slowly, thinking deeply. She knew that her
list of books came to something over five dollars. She knew that this
sum of money would floor her father and she knew that she would rather
beg on the streets than start Amos on one of his tirades on his poverty.
She pegged along homeward, half elated over the excitement of the day,
half depressed over her book problem. When she turned into the dirt
road. Billy Norton overtook her. He was wearing a very high starched
collar and a new suit of clothes. Billy was a senior and felt his
superiority. Nevertheless, he wanted to tell his troubles--even to a
first year pupil.
"Gee, don't I have the luck!" he groaned. "I could get on the School
football team, I know it, if I didn't have to come home right after
school to deliver milk. Hang it!"
Lydia looked at him quickly. "How much milk do you have to deliver?"
"Aw, just a snag. Two quarts up the road to Essers' and two to
Stones'. They both got babies and have to have it. Think of putting
me off the school team for four quarts of baby milk!"
"Oh, Billy," gasped Lydia, "I'll do it for you--if--Billy, have you got
your freshman textbooks still?"
"Sure," answered the boy. "They're awful banged up, but I guess all
the pages are there."
Lydia was breathless with excitement. "Billy, if you'll let me have
your books, I'll carry the milk for you, all winter."
The big boy looked at the little girl, curiously.
"They're a ratty lot of old books, Lydia. Half the fun of having
school books is getting new ones."
"I know that," she answered, flushing.
"Hanged if I'll do it. Let your dad get you new ones."
"He'd like to as well as any one, but he can't right now and I'm going
to look out for my own. Oh, Billy, let me do it!"
"You can have 'em all and welcome," exclaimed Billy, with a sudden
huskiness in his voice. "Gosh, you're awful little, Lydia."
Lydia stamped her foot. "I won't take anything for nothing. And I'm
not little. I'm as strong as a horse."
"Well," conceded Billy, "just till after Thanksgiving is all I want.
Come on along home now and we'll fix it up with Ma."
Ma Norton twisted Lydia around and retied her hair ribbon while she
listened. They all knew Lydia's pride, so she quenched the impulse to
give the child the books and said, "Till Thanksgiving is plenty of pay,
Billy, and when the snow comes, the two mile extra walking will be too
much. Get the books out of the parlor closet. You got a--a--ink on
the back of your neck, Lydia. Wait till I get it off for you."
She wet a corner of a towel at the tea kettle and proceeded to scour
the unsuspecting Lydia's neck and ears. "Children in the high school
are apt to get ink in the _back_ of their necks and _ears_," she said.
"_Always_ scrub there, Lydia! Remember!"
"Yes, Ma'm! Oh, gosh, what a big pile! Thank you ever so much, Billy.
I'll be here right after school to-morrow, Mrs. Norton."
Lydia spent a blissful evening mending and cleaning Billy's textbooks,
with Adam snoring under her feet and her father absorbed in his
newspaper.
The delivering of the milk was no task at all, though had it not been
for Adam trudging beside her with his rolling bulldog gait and his
slavering ugly jaw, she would have been afraid in the early dusk of the
autumn evenings.
The High School was a different world from that of the old ward school.
The ward school, comprising children of only one neighborhood with the
grades small, was a democratic, neighborly sort of place. The High
School gathered together children from all over town, of all classes,
from the children of lumber kings and college professors, to the
offspring of the Norwegian day laborer and the German saloon keeper.
There were even several colored children in the High School as well as
an Indian lad named Charlie Jackson. In the High School, class feeling
was strong. There were Greek letter societies in the fourth grade,
reflecting the influence of the college on the lake shore. Among the
well-to-do girls, and also among those who could less well afford it,
there was much elaborate dressing. Dancing parties were weekly
occurrences. They were attended by first year girls of fourteen and
fifteen as well as by the older girls, each lass with an attendant lad,
who called for her and took her home unchaperoned.
It took several months for Lydia to become aware of the complicated
social life going on about her. She was so absorbed while in school in
adjusting herself to the new type of school life,--a different teacher
for each study, heavier lessons, the responsibility of collateral
reading--that the Christmas holidays came before she realized that
except in her class room work, she had nothing whatever in common with
her classmates.
All fall she saw very little of Kent. He was on the freshman football
squad and this was a perfectly satisfactory explanation of his
dereliction--had he cared to make any--as far as Saturdays went. In
the Assembly room because he had chosen the Classical course, his seat
was far from Lydia's, who had chosen the English course.
Saturday was a busy day for Lydia at home. Old Lizzie, who was nearing
sixty, was much troubled with rheumatism and even careless Lydia felt
vaguely that the house needed a certain amount of cleaning once a week.
So, of a Saturday morning, she slammed through the house like a small
whirlwind, leaving corners undisturbed and dust in windrows, but
satisfied with her efforts. Saturday afternoon, she worked in the
garden when the day was fair, helping to gather the winter vegetables.
Before little Patience's death she had gone to Sunday School, but since
that time she had not entered a church. So Sunday became her feast
day. She put in the entire morning preparing a Sunday dinner for her
father and nearly always John Levine. After dinner, the three, with
Adam, would tramp a mile up the road, stopping to lean over the bars
and talk dairying with Pa Norton, winter wheat with Farmer Jansen, and
hardy alfalfa with old Schmidt. Between farms, Amos and John always
talked politics, local and national, arguing heatedly.
To all this, Lydia listened with half an ear. She loved these walks,
partly because of the grown up talks, partly because Adam loved them,
mostly because of the beauty of the wooded hills, the far stretch of
the black fields, ready plowed for spring and the pale, tender blue of
the sky that touched the near horizon. If she missed and needed
playmates of her own age, she was scarcely conscious of the fact.
Christmas came and went, sadly and quietly. Lydia was glad when the
holidays were over and she was back in school again. On her desk that
first morning lay a tiny envelope, addressed to her. She opened it.
In it was an invitation from Miss Towne to attend a reception she was
tendering to the members of her Algebra and Geometry classes, freshmen
and seniors.
For a moment Lydia was in heaven. It was her first formal invitation
of any kind. Then she came rapidly to earth. She had nothing to wear!
It was an evening party and she had no way to go or come. She put the
precious card in her blouse pocket and soberly opened her Civil
Government.
At recess, she sat alone as she was rather prone to do, in the window
of the cloak room, when she heard a group of girls chattering.
"Who wants to go to grouchy old Towne's reception when you can go to a
dance? I've got two bids to the Phi Pi's party," said a
fourteen-year-old miss.
"Oh, we'll have to go or she'll flunk us in Algebra," said another
girl. "I'll wear my pink silk organdy. What'll you wear?"
"My red silk. Maybe she'll let us dance. I suppose Charlie and
Kent'll both want to take me."
"Terrible thing to be popular! Hasn't Kent the sweetest eyes! Do you
know what he said to me the other night at the Evans' party?"
The girls drifted out of the cloak room. Lydia sat rigid. Pink
organdy! Red silk! Kent's "sweetest eyes"! Then she looked down at
the inevitable sailor suit, and at her patched and broken shoes. So
far she had had few pangs about her clothes. But now for the first
time she realized that for some reason, she was an alien, different
from the other girls--and the realization made her heart ache.
The bell rang and she went to her recitation. It was in Civil
Government. Lydia sat down dejectedly next to Charlie Jackson, the
splendid, swarthy Indian boy of sixteen.
"Did you learn the preamble?" he whispered to Lydia.
She nodded.
"He didn't say we had to," Charlie went on, "but I like the sound of
it, so I did."
The rest of the class filed in, thirty youngsters of fourteen or
fifteen, the boys surreptitiously shoving and kicking each other, the
girls giggling and rearranging their hair. Mr. James rapped on his
desk, and called on young Hansen.
"Can you give the preamble to the Constitution?" he asked, cheerfully.
The boy's jaw dropped. "You never told us to learn it," he said.
"No, I merely suggested that as Americans, you ought to learn it. I
talked to you during most of yesterday's period about it. I wondered
if you were old enough to take suggestions and not be driven through
your books. Miss Olson?"
Miss Olson, whose hair was done in the latest mode, tossed her head
pertly.
"I was too busy to learn anything extra."
Mr. James' eyebrows went up. "A dance last night, I suppose." He
continued with his query half way round the class, then paused with a
sigh. "Has any one in the class learned it?"
A muscular brown hand shot up, boldly. A thin white one timidly
followed.
"Ah!" Mr. James' face brightened. "Miss Dudley, try it."
Lydia clutched the back of the seat before her and began timidly. Then
the dignity and somewhat of the significance of the words touched her
and her voice became rich and full.
"'We, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect
union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the
common defence, promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of
liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this
Constitution for the United States of America.'"
"Good. Try it, Mr. Jackson."
The young Indian rose and began. "We, the people of the United
States--" He too was letter perfect.
After he was seated, the teacher, a gray-haired, stern-faced man,
looked at the two attentively.
"Miss Dudley," he said finally, "does the preamble _mean_ anything to
you?"
Lydia's round childish eyes regarded him steadfastly. "Two of my
ancestors were delegates to the first Convention," she said
hesitatingly. "One of 'em lived in a log farmhouse with loop holes in
it. They used to shoot Indians--" she paused and looked at Charlie
Jackson, then went on. "I--I like the sound of the words."
The teacher nodded. "And you, Jackson?"
The boy scowled. "I know the words are lies as far as Indians are
concerned. And I know they needn't have been if whites weren't natural
hogs. Anyhow, I'm the only real American in the class."
Lydia looked up at the brown face eagerly, questioningly. Mr. James
nodded. "Quite right, Jackson."
Young Hansen spoke up. "We're all Americans. What's he giving us?"
"Has your father been naturalized, Hansen?" asked the teacher.
The Norwegian boy shook his head, shamefacedly.
"And were you born in this country?"
"I was a baby when they came over."
"Well then, are you an American, or aren't you? You don't really know,
do you? And you haven't enough interest in the country you've lived in
fourteen years to find out--or to know what was the impulse that gave
birth to our laws, the thing that makes an American different from a
Norwegian, for instance. The two people in the class who needed the
preamble least are the ones that have learned it. I'm disappointed.
We'll go on to the lesson. Reisenweber, what is a demesne?"
Lydia sat looking from the teacher's face to Charlie Jackson, and from
Charlie to the blond faces of the other pupils. Vague wonderments were
stirring in her mind; the beginnings of thoughts she never had had
before. Tramping home that night through the snowy road she had a new
set of thoughts. What had made her stiffen and at the same time feel
sorry and ashamed when Charlie Jackson had said the Preamble was a lie
for Indians! And could she, could she possibly in the two weeks before
Miss Towne's reception make herself a dress that would be presentable?
Adam, slavering and slobbering, was waiting for her as usual by the
front gate. His deep brown eyes always showed phosphorescent glimmers
of excitement when Lydia came. He lunged up against her now with howls
of delight and she knelt in the snow, as she always did, and hugged
him. Then he seized her book strap and lugged her Algebra and English
Composition up to the house.
Lizzie was as excited as Lydia when she heard of the invitation.
"There's that gray serge of your mother's," she said. "It's awful
faded. And there's a piece of a light blue serge waist she had, Lydia,
let's get 'em dyed red. Smitzky's will do it in a couple of days for
us. They did lots of work for me in bygone days and I'll pay for it
out of the grocery money."
"Do you think we can fix it so it won't look made over?" asked Lydia,
torn between hope and doubt.
"Of course we can. You choose your pattern tomorrow and I'll get in to
town in the morning with the goods, rheumatiz or no rheumatiz."
Amos heard of the invitation with real pleasure. Nor did the clothes
problem trouble him. "Pshaw, wear that green Sunday dress of yours.
You always look nice, Lydia; whatever you wear. And I'll take you up
there and call for you. If all the boys in school was running after
you, I wouldn't let one of 'em beau you round before you was eighteen.
So put that kind of a bee out of your bonnet for good and all."
Lydia lived the next two weeks in the clouds. The new-old dress was
finished the day before the reception. There had been minutes of
despair in creating this festive garment. The dyeing process had
developed unsuspected moth holes. The blue and the gray serge did not
dye exactly the same shade, nor were they of quite the same texture.
However, by twisting and turning and adding a yoke of black silk, which
had for years been Lizzie's Sunday neck scarf, a result was produced
that completely satisfied the little dressmaker and old Lizzie.
Miss Towne was the only daughter of one of the old New England families
of Lake City. Teaching was an avocation with her and not a bread and
butter necessity. She lived in one of the fine old stone houses that
crowned the lake shore near the college. At eight o'clock on a
Saturday evening, Amos left Lydia at the front door of the house, and
in a few minutes Lydia was taking off her hat and coat in the midst of
a chattering group of girls. The pink organdy was there as well as the
red silk,--so were blue organdies and white, as well as dainty slippers.
After a general "Hello," Lydia slipped downstairs to find her hostess.
Miss Towne, the grouchy, the strict and the stern Miss Towne, moving
among her guests, saw the thin little figure hesitating in the doorway,
saw the cobbled red dress, with skirt that was too short and sleeves
that were too long and neck that was too tight, saw the carefully
blacked school shoes, saw the intelligent high bred head nobly set on
straight shoulders and the wonderful dusty gold of the curly hair, and
the puzzled, bashful blue eyes.
"Oh, Lydia!" cried the grouchy Miss Towne, "weren't you a dear to come
clear into town for my party. Mother---" this clearly for all the
children to hear, "this is the pupil I've told you of, the one of whom
we're all so proud. Come over here, Lydia."
Lydia moved carefully. Her most moth eaten breadth was at the back and
it was difficult to cross the room without unduly exposing that back.
But she reached the safe haven of Miss Towne's side before the bevy of
multi-colored organdies entered the room.
Kent was there. He had brought the pink organdy. He waved a gay hand
to Lydia, who waved back, gaily too. Her cheeks were beginning to burn
scarlet, partly because a real party was a wonderful thing and partly
because of the multi-colored organdies. Charlie Jackson was there. He
lived with Dr. Fulton as office boy and general helper and the doctor
was clothing and educating him. Charlie was half-back of the school
football team, a famous player and a great favorite. The girls flirted
with him. The boys were jealous of his favor. Even in the snob-ridden
High School there was here a hangover of the pure democracy of
childhood.
Miss Towne had provided games and refreshments bountifully. The
elocution teacher recited some monologues and the music teacher sang.
But it was a difficult matter to entertain these youngsters already
accustomed to a grown up social life. Miss Towne had declared that
there should be no dancing. But the games were neglected and the
guests stood about in frankly bored groups. So when a bevy of
organdies begged for permission to dance, Miss Towne, with obvious
reluctance, gave in.
From that moment, the party was an assured success. Lydia, who had
stuck like a little burr at Miss Towne's side all the evening, looked
on with wonder and a growing lump in her throat.
"Don't you dance, my dear?" asked Mrs. Towne.
"Of course she doesn't, Mother," answered Miss Towne, "she's just a
child. There's time enough for those things after High School. I
don't know what's going to become of this generation."
This was small comfort to Lydia, watching the pretty groups twirl by.
Kent, hugging the pink organdy, stopped on the far side of the room
from Lydia to get a drink of lemonade.
"Isn't Lydia's dress a scream," said Olga.
"Huh?" asked Kent in surprise. He followed his partner's glance across
the room.