Reginald Hawthorne lay upon a couch on the wide veranda of his lovely
home. The birds held high carnival around him,--nesting in the large
cherry tree, playing hide and seek among the fragrant apple blossoms and
making the air melodious with their merry songs. Brilliant orioles
flashed to and fro like gleams of gold in the sunlight, as they built
their airy hammocks high among the swaying branches of the great willow,
and one inquisitive robin swept boldly through the clustering vines
which screened the front of the veranda and perched upon his shoulder.
He heard the merry hum of the bees at work and the strident call of the
locusts, mingled with the distant neighing of horses and the soft lowing
of the cows, but all the sweetness of nature was powerless to lift the
gloom which seemed to envelop him as in a shroud. His face was white and
drawn with pain and there were heavy rings beneath his eyes. Reginald
Hawthorne would be a cripple for life.
The College Football Club had met a New York team in the yearly
contest, which was looked forward to as one of the events in the
athletic world, and Reginald had been foremost among the leaders of the
play. Fierce and long had been the fight and the enthusiastic spectators
had shouted themselves hoarse with applause or groaned in despair when
the honor of Marlborough seemed likely to be lost. Then had come a
mighty onward rush and the opposing forces concentrated into one
seething mass of struggling humanity. When they drew apart at last the
College boys had made the welkin ring with shouts of victory, but their
bravest champion lay white and still upon the field.
Long days and nights of pain had followed, when John and Mrs. Hawthorne
were at their wits' end to alleviate the sufferings of the unfortunate
boy. Now the pain had resolved itself into a dull aching but Reginald
would never walk without a crutch again.
The mortification to his father was extreme. A passionate man, he had
centred all his hopes upon his son, whose position in life he fondly
expected to repay him for his years of unremitting toil, and this was
the end of it all! He grew daily more overbearing and hard to please,
and his ebullitions of disappointment and rage were terrible to witness.
He vented his anger most frequently upon John, the sight of whose
superb strength goaded the unhappy man into a frenzy, and John's
forbearance was tried to the utmost, but there was a sweet patience
growing in his soul which made it possible to endure in silence, however
capricious or unreasonable the commands of his master might be, and
Reginald, watching him critically, marvelled at the mysterious inner
strength of his friend.
He came along now with his quick, light step and drew a chair up beside
Reginald's couch. He planned his work so as to be with the invalid as
much as possible, and his constant sympathy and cheer were all that made
the days bearable to him.
"Well, Rege, how goes it?" he asked in tones as tender as a woman's.
Reginald looked up at him with envious eyes. There was such a freshness
about this strong young life, as if every moment were a separate joy.
"I wish I was dead!" he answered moodily.
"Don't dare to wish that!" said John quickly, "until you have made the
most of your life."
"The most of my life!" echoed Reginald contemptuously. "That's well put,
John, I must say! What is my life worth to me now? You see what my
father thinks of it. A useless log, as valuable as a piece of waste
paper. I believe it would have pleased him better if I had been killed
outright. He wouldn't have had the humiliation of it always before his
eyes. If it had been any sort of a decent accident, I believe I could
bear it better, but to be knocked over in a football match, like the
precious duffer that I am--bah!"
The concentrated bitterness of the last words made John's heart ache.
"Looking backward, Rege," he said quietly, "will never make a man of
you. It is only a waste of time and vital tissue. But there are lots of
noble lives in spite of limitations. Paul had his thorn in the flesh,
you know, and Milton his blindness. Difficulties are a spur to the best
that is in us."
"Difficulties, John. You never look at them, do you?"
John laughed. "It is not worth while except to see how to surmount
them."
"I wish you could be idle just for an hour," said Reginald peevishly,
"you make me nervous."
John took another stitch in the halter he was mending. "Old Father
Time's spoiling tooth is never still, Rege. I have to work to keep pace
with it."
"I should think you would need a month of loafing to made up for the
sleep you have lost. You're ahead of Napoleon, John, for he only kept
one eye open, but I've never been able to catch you napping once. How
have you stood it, man?"
"Forty winks is a fair allowance sometimes, Rege."
Reginald groaned. "Your pluck is worth a king's ransom, John. I wish I
had it."
John began to whistle softly as he drew his waxed ends in and out.
"I declare, John, I can't fathom you!" and Reginald moved impatiently
upon his couch. "You are invulnerable as Achilles. I never saw a fellow
get so much comfort out of everything as you do, and yet your life is a
steady grind. What does it all mean?"
"It means," said John softly, "that I am a Christ's man, and he has
lifted me above the power of circumstances. Jesus is centre and
circumference with me now, Rege.
"You were talking yesterday about some men wanting the earth. I _own_
the earth, because it belongs to my Father,--the best part of it, you
know,--there is a truer giving than by title deeds to material
acres--and the world has grown very beautiful since my Father made me
heir of all things through his Son. The birds' songs have a new note in
them, and the sunlight is brighter, and there is a different blue in
the sky. I'm monarch of all I survey because I get the good out of
everything,--mere earthly possession doesn't amount to much, a man has
to leave the finest estates behind him,--but I get the concentrated
sweetness of it all wherever I am. It is God's world, you know, and he
is my Father."
John was called away just then to attend to some gentlemen who had come
to look at the horses, and Reginald waited for his return in vain. He
heard his father's voice once, raised high in stormy wrath, then all was
still again. Some time afterwards, through the leafy curtain of his
veranda, he saw Mr. Hawthorne drive past with a face so distorted with
passion that he shivered.
"There's been no end of a row this time," he soliloquized. "It is a
mystery to me why John puts up with it. He's free to go when he chooses.
I'm sure I'd clear out if I wasn't such a good-for-nothing. The governor
is getting to be more like a bear than a human being, it's a dog's life
for everybody unlucky enough to be under the same roof with him."
* * * * *
Down at the bend of the river a tall figure lay stretched upon the moss.
The river laughed and the birds sang, but John Randolph's face was
buried in his arms.
To leave Hollywood--that very night! The place whose very stones were
dear to him, where he had learned all he knew of home. To be turned off
like a beggar, without a moment's warning, after all his years of toil!
To say good-bye forever to the human friends who loved him, and the
dear, dumb friends whom he had fondled and tended with such constant
care. Never again to swing along through the sweet freshness of the
morning before the sun was up to find the earliest snowdrops for Mrs.
Hawthorne, or take a spin in the moonlight with every nerve a-tingle
across the frozen bosom of the lake, or wander in delight along the wood
roads when every tree was clad in the witching beauty of a silver thaw,
or sweep across the wide stretching country in the very poetry of
motion, or hear the soft swish of the tall grass as it fell in fragrant
rows before the mower, or the creak of the vans as they bore its ripened
sweetness towards the great barns, while bird and bee and locust joined
in the harmony of the Harvest Home, until the sun sank to rest amidst
cloud draperies of royal purple and crimson and gold and the
sweet-voiced twilight soothed the world into peace.
On and on the hours swept while John fought his battle. At length he
rose, and with long, lingering glances of good-bye to every tree and
rock and flower, began his homeward way. He would think of it so while
he could. In a few short hours he would be a wanderer upon the face of
the earth. A sudden joy crept into the weary eyes. So was Jesus Christ!
"Why, John, what has happened!" cried Reginald, as his faithful nurse
came to make him comfortable for the night. "You look like a ghost, and
you have had no dinner! What the mischief is to pay? You must have been
precious busy to leave me alone the whole afternoon."
"I have been, Rege," said John quietly, "very busy."
"I declare, John, I'd make tracks for freedom if I were in your shoes.
You're a regular convict, and, since you've had me on your hands, a
galley slave is a gentleman of leisure in comparison! Why don't you go,
John? You've had nothing but injustice at Hollywood."
John fell on his knees beside the bed. "I am going, Rege. Your father
has ordered me away."
When the thought which has floated--nebulous--across our mental vision,
suddenly resolves itself into tangible form and becomes a solid fact to
be confronted and battled with, the shock is greater than if no shadowy
premonition had ever haunted the dreamland of our fancy. Reginald gave a
low cry, then he lay looking at John with eyes full of a blank horror.
His mind utterly refused to grasp the situation.
"You see, Rege, it is this way," said John gently. "Your father seems to
have taken a dislike to me and lately I have fancied he was only waiting
for an excuse to turn me off. As soon as those fellows began to talk to
him about the horses I saw there was trouble brewing. Everything I did
was wrong, and once he swore at me. He would order me to bring one horse
and then change his mind before I got half across the field, and then he
would rail at me for not having brought the first one.
"They pitched on Neptune at last, and asked if he had been registered. I
said 'No,' so then they refused to pay the price your father asked, and
he had to come down on him. He was furious, and, as soon as the men's
backs were turned, he ordered me out of his sight forever. He says I
have ruined the reputation of Hollywood," John's voice broke.
"But, John, you mustn't go!" cried Reginald. "You cannot! My father is
out of his mind. People don't pay any attention to the ravings of a
lunatic."
John shook his head sadly. "He is master here, Rege. There is nothing
else for me to do."
"But, John, it is impossible--preposterous! Why, everything will go to
ruin without you, and I will take the lead."
"No, no!" said John quickly. "You will be a rich man some day, Rege.
Wealth is a wonderful opportunity. Prepare yourself to use it well."
"I tell you I can't do anything without you, John. I am like a ship
without a rudder. It is no use talking. I cannot spare you. You must not
go!"
"If you take the great Pilot aboard, Rege, you will be in no danger of
drifting. It is only when we choose Self for our Captain that the ship
runs on the rocks."
* * * * *
"Don, Don!" The child heard his step in the hall long before he reached
the door. He was coming, as he did every night, to give her a ride in
his arms before she went to by-by. She held out her little arms from
which the loose sleeves had fallen back. John lifted her up, for the
last time.
He laid his strong, set face against the rosy cheek, and looked into the
laughing eyes which the sand man had already sprinkled with his magic
powder. "Nansie, baby, I have come to say good-bye."
"Not dood-bye, Don, oo always say dood-night."
"But it is good-bye this time, little one, there will be no more
good-nights for you and me. I am going away."
A bewildered look swept over the child's face. "Away!" she echoed, "to
leave Nan an' Pwimwose an' the horsies? Me'll do too, Don. He'll do
anywhere wid oo, Don."
"I wish I could take you!" and John strained her to his breast. "But
there is no Neptune to carry us now, little one. Your father sold him
this afternoon."
"My nice Nepshun!" The child's lip quivered, but something in the
suffering face above her made her say quickly, "Me'll be dood, Don, an'
when oo turn back, me'll be waitin' at de gate."
She patted his cheek confidingly. "Nice Don! Nan loves oo, dear, an'
Desus. Nan loves Desus 'cause oo do, Don."
John's voice choked. "Keep on loving, Nansie."
"Yes, me will. Does Desus carry de little chil'en in his arms like oo
do, Don? Me's so comf'able. Me loves Desus."
The little arm, soft and warm, crept closer around his neck, while the
golden curls swept his cheek. "Oo's my bootiful man, Don. Me'll marry oo
when me gets big," and then, all unconscious of the sorrow which should
greet her in the morning, the baby slept.
To and fro across the floor John trod lightly with his precious burden.
His arms never felt the weight. They would be such empty arms
bye-and-bye! Then at last he laid her down, and, taking a pair of
scissors from his pocket, he carefully severed one of the golden rings
of hair, and laid it within the folds of the handkerchief which he still
carried in his vest pocket. The fair girl and the little child. These
should be his memory of womanhood.
[Illustration: 'ME'LL DO ANYWHERE, WIV OO, DON.]
* * * * *
In Reginald's room kind-hearted Mrs. Hawthorne was weeping bitterly. She
loved John as her own son, but no one ever dreamed of disputing the
tyrannical dictates of the master of Hollywood, however unjust they
might be.
Reginald lay as John had left him with his face buried in the pillows
and utterly refused to be comforted. What comfort could there be if
John was going away? It never occurred to him that his mother needed
cheer as much as he. Like all selfish souls his own pain completely
filled his horizon.