"Indeed I do," she exclaimed, "can we go on our wheels?"
"Yes, that's the best way, though it's rough in some places."
"I don't mind that," she answered, "come early in the morning and we'll
stay all day."
That afternoon he went to the village store to buy his week's
provisions. Half-a-dozen men who were loafing in front of it asked
no better sport than to get him into a corner, so that he could not
escape, and fling at him taunts and jeers about his crooked body. It
was fun to see the sensitive face flush with anger, or quiver with
pain, and it was not until his self-control was entirely gone and he
sank in a sobbing heap on the floor, that they let him go.
The night was one of torture to him. It was not the mother he had
never seen who could comfort him now, but Miss Atherton. His idea of
heaven was a place where he might always be within the sound of her
voice, within reach of her hand, and where she would look kindly upon
him.
He was thankful that the way to her house lay beyond the village and
not through it. He would never dare to show himself there on his wheel.
And the road to the lilies ran through the woods; none would see
to-morrow when he went there with her.
She was already on the veranda in her bicycle suit when he rode up the
next morning. She tied a basket of lunch to his wheel and a book to her
own.
"You see we are going to stay all day," she said, "and I couldn't think
of starting without refreshment for body and mind. My brother has an
armful of new books which came from the city yesterday, and he didn't
even hear me when I said good-bye."
They started, Miss Atherton chatting busily and Tony too happy to speak
except in monosyllables. A turn in the road brought them to a branch
of the river, white with lilies in full bloom. She dismounted with a
little cry of delight. "Oh, how white and sweet they are!"
Tony found a boat moored by the side of the stream and they soon
had gathered a great sheaf of the golden-hearted censers, rich with
fragrance, which they covered with cool ferns in the shade of the trees
until they should be ready to take them home. Being collected early in
the day they were fresher and sweeter than if they had been allowed to
feel the heat of the later morning sun.
The lilies well cared for, they sat down under a tree and she read to
him the story of Launcelot. His brave deeds and manly service, his love
for Guenevere, and the spirit of romance and knightly courage which
seemed to fairly breathe from the pages, held Tony spellbound.
"Miss Atherton," he said wistfully, as she finished, "I'd like to be
one of those fellows."
"You can be," she answered.
"How?" he asked, his eyes wide open in astonishment.
"Any man is a knight," she said, "who does what is given him to do,
wisely and well. It's not the horses and the armour, Tony, it's the
man, and you can be as brave and true as Launcelot, if you only will.
Never permit yourself to speak, or even think slightingly of a woman,
and if you have the opportunity to help one, do it at any cost. That's
the foundation of true knighthood and true manhood, too. See, I give
you my colours; be my knight if you will," and she leaned forward
smilingly to tie a white fragrant scarf around his arm.
But to her surprise, Tony burst into tears. And then a part of his
dream came true, for Miss Atherton put her arm around him and drew him
close to her. "Tony, dear, what is it? Tell me!" With his face half
buried in the sweet comforting place he had longed for, but had never
known, he sobbed out all the bitterness of his heart. He told her of
the taunts and jeers which made his crooked life a burden--of all the
loneliness before he knew her, and someway too, he told her of his
longing for his mother whom he had never seen, and whose place he had
tried to fill with the picture of the Madonna.
That day in the woods gave Tony undreamed-of strength. He even offered
to do Miss Atherton's errands at the store.
They did not know that he was a knight bearing his lady's colours--that
he was in her service and would be to the very end of the world, for
even death, he thought, could never make any difference in his loyalty
to her. He was Launcelot and she was Guenevere--it was his secret, and
even she must never know.
Toward the end of the summer he rode up to Miss Atherton's with a great
bunch of goldenrod, which only he knew where to find. She came to the
door white and worried. "My brother is very ill, Tony," she said, "and
I have sent my groom for the doctor, but he has been gone so long that
I fear something may have happened to him. Would you go--on your wheel?"
For a moment, as the vision of the village store, on the only street
that led to the doctor's house, with its crowd of loafers came before
him, Tony hesitated. Would Launcelot hesitate with Guenevere in need?
"I'll go, Miss Atherton," he said quietly.
Terror struck him as he came in sight of the store and saw the men he
most feared, sitting in front of it. Mutely praying for help, he bent
to his pedals. But they had seen him, and rushed out into the street
with a shout. It was an easy matter for them to stop his wheel.
"Let me go! Let me go!" he cried, "Miss Atherton's brother is sick, and
I'm going for the doctor!"
"That's a likely story," said one of them. "Bet a hat you stole this
velocipede. She wouldn't send a hunchy like you anywheres."
"Mebby she might," said the keeper of the store. "That's the city gal
he's goin' to marry. I seen her in the woods kissin' him!"
White with rage, not for himself, but that the dear name of his Lady
should be soiled by their lips, Tony raised his slender arm to strike.
"Say what you please to me," he muttered between his clenched teeth,
"but if you dare to even _speak_ of her, I'll----"
Tony said no more, for one of the men half crazed with liquor, lifted
the bicycle suddenly, and with a single blow across the curve between
his shoulders, dashed him heavily to the ground. Thoroughly frightened,
the crowd dispersed leaving Tony in the dusty road, amid the wreck of
his wheel.
Meanwhile the doctor had arrived with Miss Atherton's servant. In half
an hour the invalid was resting quietly, and as the doctor took his
leave, Miss Atherton told him how she had sent Tony after him on his
bicycle only a few minutes before he arrived.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said. "There's a rough crowd of men
in the town, and they are very likely to harm the little chap if they
have half a chance. I'll look for him as I go home and have him come
and tell you that he is safe."
Not a man was in sight when the doctor found Tony, and even the shades
of the store windows were closely drawn.
After vainly knocking at the door, he smashed in the window with a
strong stick, and entering, found the men who were wont to loaf in
front of the store, huddled in a corner of it. With the voice of one
accustomed to command, he made them improvise a stretcher under his
directions, and three of them helped him carry Tony home.
The doctor shook his head gravely when questioned as to the extent of
the injury. "Some one must stay with him to-night," he said.
One of the men volunteered, but a look of such helpless terror came
into Tony's eyes, that he sent them all away, telling the last one to
go for Miss Atherton.
It was from him that she learned the whole story and fairly trembling
with indignation, turned upon him.
"There isn't one of you in this whole village worthy to touch even the
hand of the boy you have killed to-day. He was a man--you are nothing
but brutes. Now go, and never let me see your face again."
The doctor met her at the door of Tony's little house. "You'd better
stay with him," he said in a low tone. "He can't last until morning,
and your brother will be perfectly safe with the nurse. I'll go up to
your house and send down anything you may need. My man will come and
stay within call."
Miss Atherton gave him a note to the nurse, and then went in to Tony.
His eyes brightened at the sight of her, and he tried to speak.
"Hush, dear," she said, "it's all right. The doctor came just after you
left, and my brother is in no danger now. I've come to stay with you."
Her cool hand brushed back the hair from his forehead, and moved by
an impulse of womanly pity, she knelt beside him and laid her cheek
against his own. He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
Her eyes wandered around the little room. A table stood in the corner
of it. A cabinet photograph of herself in a pasteboard frame, around
which Tony had painted a wreath of pond-lilies, stood in the centre of
it beside a cracked cup filled with early autumn flowers. The flute lay
straight across the front, like a votive offering, and underneath the
photograph was written in his large, unformed hand: "My Guenevere."
At last she understood, and feeling that his little shrine was too holy
for even her eyes to see, she turned them away.
Tony stirred, and she slipped her arm under his shoulders.
"Miss Atherton?"
"Yes, dear."
"Did--did--they--tell you--what they said?"
"Yes, dear." Her eyes filled.
"I didn't mind--for myself--but----"
"Hush, dear; I know."
Feeling herself unworthy in the presence of a true knightly soul, Miss
Atherton held him untiringly in her arms. When he cried out with pain,
she drew him close to her, and pillowed his head upon her breast.
"Am--I--going to--die--Miss Atherton?"