Days, months, years. They had forgotten that Hugo was different. Almost,
for a while, he had forgotten it himself. He was popular in school. He
fostered the unexpressed theory that his strength had been a phenomenon
of his childhood--one that diminished as he grew older. Then, at ten, it
called to him for exercise.
Each day he rose with a feeling of insufficiency. Each night he retired
unrequited. He read. Poe, the Bible, Scott, Thackeray, Swift, Defoe--all
the books he could find. He thrilled with every syllable of adventure.
His imagination swelled. But that was not sufficient. He yearned as a
New England boy yearns before he runs away to sea.
At ten he was a stalwart and handsome lad. His brow was high and
surmounted by his peculiarly black hair. His eyes were wide apart, inky,
unfathomable. He carried himself with the grace of an athlete. He
studied hard and he worked hard for his parents, taking care of a cow
and chickens, of a stable and a large lawn, of flowers and a vegetable
garden.
Then one day he went by himself to walk in the mountains. He had not
been allowed to go into the mountains alone. A _Wanderlust_ that came
half from himself and half from his books led his feet along a narrow,
leafy trail into the forest depths. Hugo lay down and listened to the
birds in the bushes, to the music of a brook, and to the sound of the
wind. He wanted to be free and brave and great. By and by he stood up
and walked again.
An easy exhilaration filled his veins. His pace increased. "I wonder,"
he thought, "how fast I can run, how far I can jump." He quickened his
stride. In a moment he found that the turns in the trail were too
frequent for him to see his course. He ran ahead, realizing that he was
moving at an abnormal pace. Then he turned, gathered himself, and jumped
carefully. He was astonished when he vaulted above the green covering of
the trail. He came down heavily. He stood in his tracks, tingling.
"Nobody can do that, not even an acrobat," he whispered. Again he tried,
jumping straight up. He rose fully forty feet in the air.
"Good Jesus!" he exulted. In those lonely, incredible moments Hugo found
himself. There in the forest, beyond the eye of man, he learned that he
was superhuman. It was a rapturous discovery. He knew at that hour that
his strength was not a curse. He had inklings of his invulnerability.
He ran. He shot up the steep trail like an express train, at a rate that
would have been measured in miles to the hour rather than yards to the
minute. Tireless blood poured through his veins. Green streaked at his
sides. In a short time he came to the end of the trail. He plunged on,
careless of obstacles that would have stopped an ordinary mortal. From
trunk to trunk he leaped a burned stretch. He flung himself from a high
rock. He sped like a shadow across a pine-carpeted knoll. He gained the
bare rocks of the first mountain, and in the open, where the horror of
no eye would tether his strength, he moved in flying bounds to its
summit.
Hugo stood there, panting. Below him was the world. A little world. He
laughed. His dreams had been broken open. His depression was relieved.
But he would never let them know--he, Hugo, the giant. Except, perhaps,
his father. He lifted his arms--to thank God, to jeer at the world. Hugo
was happy.
He went home wondering. He was very hungry--hungrier than he had ever
been--and his parents watched him eat with hidden glances. Samson had
eaten thus, as if his stomach were bottomless and his food digested
instantly to make room for more. And, as he ate, Hugo tried to open a
conversation that would lead to a confession to his father. But it
seemed impossible.
Hugo liked his father. He saw how his mother dominated the little
professor, how she seemed to have crushed and bewildered him until his
mind was unfocused from its present. He could not love his mother
because of that. He did not reason that her religion had made her blind
and selfish, but he felt her blindness and the many cloaks that
protected her and her interests. He held her in respect and he obeyed
her. But often and wistfully he had tried to talk to his father, to make
friends with him, to make himself felt as a person.
Abednego Danner's mind was buried in the work he had done. His son was a
foreign person for whom he felt a perplexed sympathy. It is significant
that he had never talked to Hugo about Hugo's prowess. The ten-year-old
boy had not wished to discuss it. Now, however, realizing its extent, he
felt he must go to his father. After dinner he said: "Dad, let's you and
me take a walk."
Mrs. Danner's protective impulses functioned automatically. "Not
to-night. I won't have it."
"But, mother--"
Danner guessed the reason for that walk. He said to his wife with rare
firmness: "If the boy wants to walk with me, we're going."
After supper they went out. Mrs. Danner felt that she had been shut out
of her own son's world. And she realized that he was growing up.
Danner and his son strolled along the leafy street. They talked about
his work in school. His father seemed to Hugo more human than he had
ever been. He even ventured the first step toward other conversation.
"Well, son, what is it?"
Hugo caught his breath. "Well--I kind of thought I ought to tell you.
You see--this afternoon--well--you know I've always been a sort of
strong kid--"