Over in Sabbath Valley quiet sweetness brooded, broken now and again by
the bell-like sound of childish laughter here and there. The birds were
holding high carnival in the trees, and the bees humming drowsy little
tunes to pretend they were not working.
Most of the men were away at work, some in Monopoly or Economy, whither
they went in the early morning in their tin Lizzies to a little store or
a country bank, or a dusty law office; some in the fields of the fertile
valley; and others off behind the thick willow fringe where lurked the
home industries of tanning and canning and knitting, with a plush mill
higher up the slope behind a group of alders and beeches, its ugly stone
chimneys picturesque against the mountain, but doing its best to
spoil the little stream at its feet with all colors of the rainbow, at
intervals dyeing its bright waters.
The minister sat in his study with his window open across the lawn
between the parsonage and the church, a lovely velvet view with the old
graveyard beyond and the wooded hill behind. He was faintly aware of
the shouting of the birds in glad carnival in the trees, and the busy
droning of the bees, as he wrote an article on Modern Atheism for a
magazine in the distant world; but more keenly alive to the song on the
lips of his child, but lately returned from college life in one of the
great universities for women. He smiled as he wrote, and a light came
in his deep thoughtful eyes. She had gone and come, and she was still
unspoiled, mentally, physically, or spiritually. That was a great deal
to have kept out of life in these days of unbelief. He had been almost
afraid to hope that she would come back the same.
In the cool sitting-room his wife was moving about, putting the house
in order for the day, and he knew that on her lips also was the smile of
the same content as well as if he were looking at her beloved face.
On the front veranda Marilyn Severn swept the rugs and sang her happy
song. She was glad, glad to be home again, and her soul bubbled over
with the joy of it. There was happiness in the curve of her red lips,
in the softly rounded freshness of her cheek and brow, in the eyes that
held dancing lights like stars, and in every gleaming tendril of her
wonderful bright hair that burst forth from under the naive little
sweeping cap that sat on her head like a crown. She was small, lithe,
graceful, and she vibrated joy, health, eagerness in every glance of her
eye, every motion of her lovely hands.
Down the street suddenly sounded a car. Not the rattling, cheap affairs
that were commonly used in those parts for hard work and dress affairs,
with a tramp snuffle and bark as they bounced along beneath the maples
like house dogs that knew their business and made as much noise about it
as they could; but a car with a purr like a soft petted cat by the fire,
yet a power behind the purr that might have belonged to a lion if the
need for power arose. It stole down the street like a thing of the
world, well oiled and perfect in its way, and not needing to make any
clatter about its going. The very quietness of it made the minister
look up, sent the minister's wife to raise the shade of the sitting-room
window, and caused the girl to look up from her task.
The morning flooded her face, the song was stayed, a great light came
into her eyes.
The man who was driving the car had the air of not expecting to stop
at the parsonage. Even when he saw the girl on the porch he held to his
way, and something hard and cold and infinitely sad settled down over
his face. It even looked as though he did not intend to recognize her,
or perhaps wasn't sure whether she would recognize him. There was a
moment's breathless suspense and the car slid just the fraction past
the gate in the hedge, without a sign of stopping, only a lifting of
a correct looking straw hat that somehow seemed a bit out of place in
Sabbath Valley. But Lynn left no doubt in his mind whether she would
recognize him. She dropped her broom and sped down the path, and the
car came to an abrupt halt, only a hair's breadth past the gate,--but
still--that hair's breadth.
“Oh, Mark, I'm so glad to see you!” she cried genuinely with her hand
out in welcome, “They said you were not at home.”
The boy's voice--he had been a boy when she left him, though now he
looked strangely hard and old like a man of the world--was husky as he
answered gravely, swinging himself down on the walk beside her:
“I just got in late last night. How are you Lynn? You're looking fine.”
He took her offered hand, and clasped it for a brief instant in a
warm strong pressure, but dropped it again and there was a quick cold
withdrawing of his eyes that she did not understand. The old Mark Carter
would never have looked at her coolly, impersonally like that. What was
it, was he shy of her after the long separation? Four years was a long
time, of course, but there had been occasional letters. He had always
been away when she was at home, and she had been home very little
between her school years. There had been summer sessions twice and once
father and mother had come to her and they had taken a wonderful trip
together. But always there had seemed to be Mark Carter, her old friend
and playmate, in the background. Now, suddenly he seemed to be removed
to indefinite distances. It was as if she were looking at a picture that
purported to be her friend, yet seemed a travesty, like one wearing a
mask. She stood in the sunlight looking at him, in her quaint little cap
and a long white enveloping house apron, and she seemed to him like a
haloed saint. Something like worship shone in his eyes, but he kept
the mask down, and looked at her with the eyes of a stranger while he
talked, and smiled a stiff conventional smile. But a look of anguish
grew in his young face, like the sorrow of something primeval, such as a
great rock in a desert.
The minister had forgotten his article and was watching them through the
window, the tall handsome youth, his head bared with the glint of the
sun on his short cropped gold curls making one think of a young prince,
yet a prince bound under a spell and frozen in a block of ice. He was
handsome as Adonis, every feature perfect, and striking in its manly
beauty, yet there was nothing feminine about him. The minister was
conscious of all this as he watched--this boy whom he had seen grow
up, and this girl of his heart. A great still question came into the
father's look as he watched.
The minister was conscious of Lynn's mother standing in the doorway just
behind him, although she had made no noise in entering. And at once she
knew he was aware of her presence.
“Isn't that Mark Carter?” she asked just above a breath.
He nodded.
“And she doesn't know! You haven't told her?”
The minister shook his head.
“He will tell her. See, he is telling her now!”
The mother drew a shade nearer.
“But how do you know? See, she is doing the talking. You think he will
tell her? _What_ will he tell her, Graham?”
“Oh, he will not tell her in words, but every atom of his being is
telling her now. Can't you see? He is telling her that he is no longer
worthy to be her equal. He is telling her that something has gone
wrong.”
“Graham, what do you _think_ is the matter with him? Do you think he
is--BAD?” She lifted frightened eyes to his as she dropped into her low
chair that always stood conveniently near his desk.
A wordless sorrow overspread the minister's face, yet there was
something valiant in his eyes.
“No, I can't think that. I must believe in him in spite of everything.
It looks to me somehow as if he was trying to be bad and couldn't.”
“Well, but--Graham, isn't that the same thing? If he wants to be?”
The minister shook his head.
“He doesn't want to be. But he has some purpose in it. He is doing
it--perhaps--well--it might be for _her_ sake you know.”
The mother looked perplexed, and hesitated, then shook her head.
“That would be--preposterous! How could he hurt her so--if he cared. It
must be--he does not care--!”
“He cares!” said the man.
“Then how do you explain it?”
“I don't explain it.”
“Are you going to let it go on?”
“What can be done?”
“I'd do something.”
“No, Mary. That's something he's got to work out himself. If he isn't
big enough to get over his pride. His self-consciousness. His--whatever
he calls it--If he isn't big enough--Then he isn't _big_ enough--!” The
man sighed with a faraway patient look. The woman stirred uneasily.
“Graham,” she said suddenly lifting her eyes in troubled question, “When
your cousin Eugenie was here, you remember, she talked about it one
day. She said we had no right to let Lynn become so attached to a mere
country boy who would grow up a boor. She said he had no education,
no breeding, no family, and that Lynn had the right to the best social
advantages to be had in the world. She said Lynn was a natural born
aristocrat, and that we had a great responsibility bringing up a child
with a face like hers, and a mind like hers, and an inheritance like
hers, in this little antiquated country place. She said it was one thing
for you with your culture and your fine education, and your years of
travel and experience, to hide yourself here if you choose for a few
years, pleasing yourself at playing with souls and uplifting a little
corner of the universe while you were writing a great book; but it was
quite another for us to allow our gifted young daughter to know no other
life. And especially she harped on Lynn's friendship with Mark. She
called him a hobbledehoy, said his mother was 'common', and that coming
from a home like that, he would never amount to anything or have an
education. He would always be common and loaferish, and it wouldn't make
any difference if he did, he would never be cultured no matter how much
education he had. He was not in her _class_. She kept saying that over.
She said a lot of things and always ended up with that. And finally she
said that we were perfectly crazy, both of us. That she supposed
Lynn thought she was christianizing the boy or something, but it was
dangerous business, and we ought to be warned. And Graham, _I'm afraid
Mark heard it!_ He was just coming up on the porch as she finished and
I'm almost sure he heard it!”
The eyes of the minister gave a startled flicker and then grew
comprehending. “I wondered why he gave up college after he had worked so
hard to get in.”
“But Graham! Surely, if he had heard he would have wanted to show her
that she was wrong.”
“No, Mary. He is not built that way. It's his one big fault. Always to
be what he thinks people have labeled him, or to seem to be. To be that
in defiance, knowing in his heart he really isn't that at all. It's a
curious psychological study. It makes me think of nothing else but when
the Prince of the Power of the Air wanted to be God. Mark wants to be a
young God. When he finds he's not taken that way he makes himself look
like the devil in defiance. Don't you remember, Mary, how when Bob Bliss
broke that memorial window in the church and said it was Mark did it,
how Mark stood looking, defiantly from one to another of us to see if we
would believe it, and when he found the elders were all against him
and had begun to get ready for punishment, he lifted his fine young
shoulders, and folded his arms, and just bowed in acquiescence, as if
to say yes, he had done it? Don't you remember, Mary? He nearly broke
my heart that day, the hurt look in his eyes; the game, mistaken, little
devil! He was only ten, and yet for four long months he bore the blame
in the eyes of the whole village for breaking that window, till Bob told
the truth and cleared him. Not because he wanted to save Bob Bliss, for
everybody knew he was a little scamp, and needed punishment, but because
he was _hurt_--hurt way down into the soul of him to think anybody had
_thought_ he would want to break the window we had all worked so hard to
buy. And he actually broke three cellar windows in that vacant store by
the post office, yes, and paid for them, just to keep up his character
and give us some reason for our belief against him.”
The wife with a cloud of anxiety in her eyes, and disapproval in her
voice, answered slowly:
“That's a bad trait, Graham. I can't understand it. It is something
wrong in his nature.”
“Yes, Mary, it is sin, original sin, but it comes at him from a
different direction from most of us, that's all. It comes through
sensitiveness. It is his reaction to a deep and mortal hurt. Some men
would be stimulated to finer action by criticism, he is stimulated to
defy, and he does not know that he is trying to defy God and all the
laws of the universe. Some day he will find it out, and know that only
through humility can he make good.”
“But he is letting all his opportunities go by.”
“I'm not so sure. You can't tell what he may be doing out in the world
where he is gone.”
“But they say he is very wild.”
“They were always saying things about him when he was here, and most
of them were not true. You and I knew him, Mary. Was there ever a finer
young soul on earth than he with his clear true eyes, his eager tender
heart, his brave fearlessness and strength. I can not think he has sold
his soul to sin--not yet. It may be. It may be that only in the Far
Country will he realize it is God he wants and be ready to say, 'I have
sinned' and 'I will arise.'”
“But Graham, I should think that just because you believe in him you
could talk to him.”
“No, Mary. I can't probe into the depths of that sensitive soul and
dig out his confidence. He would never give it that way. It is a matter
between himself and God.”
“But Lynn--”
“Lynn has God too, my dear. We must not forget that. Life is not all for
this world, either. Thank God Lynn believes that!”
The mother sighed with troubled eyes, and rose. The purring of the
engine was heard. Lynn would be coming in. They watched the young man
swing his car out into the road and glide away like a comet with a wild
sophisticated snort of his engine that sent him so far away in a flash.
They watched the girl standing where he had left her, a stricken look
upon her face, and saw her turn slowly back to the house with eyes
down--troubled. The mother moved away. The father bent his head upon his
hand with closed eyes. The girl came back to her work, but the song
on her lips had died. She worked silently with a far look in her eyes,
trying to fathom it.
The eyes of her father and mother followed her tenderly all that
day, and it was as if the souls of the three had clasped hands, and
understood, so mistily they smiled at one another.
Billy Gaston, refreshed by a couple of chocolate fudge sundaes, a banana
whip, and a lemon ice-cream soda, was seated on the bench with the
heroes of the day at the Monopoly baseball grounds. He wore his most
nonchalant air, chewed gum with his usual vigor, shouted himself
hoarse at the proper places, and made casual grown-up responses to the
condescension of the team, wrapping them tenderly in ancient sweaters
when they were disabled, and watching every move of the game with a
practised eye and an immobile countenance. But though to the eyes of the
small fry on the grass at his feet he was as self-sufficient as ever,
somehow he kept having strange qualms, and his mind kept reverting
to the swart fat face of Pat at the Junction, as it ducked behind the
cypress and talked into the crude telephone on the mountain. Somehow he
couldn't forget the gloat in his eye as he spoke of the “rich guy.” More
and more uneasy he grew, more sure that the expedition to which he was
pledged was not strictly “on the square.”
Not that Billy Gaston was afraid. The thrill of excitement burned along
his veins and filled him with a fine elation whenever he thought of the
great adventure, and he gave his pocket a protective slap where the “ten
bones” still reposed intact. He felt well pleased with himself to have
made sure of those. Whatever happened he had that, and if the man wasn't
on the square Pat deserved to lose that much. Not that Billy Gaston
meant to turn “yellow” after promising, but there was no telling whether
the rest of the twenty-five would be forthcoming or not. He fell to
calculating its worth in terms of new sweaters and baseball bats. If
worst came to worst he could threaten to expose Pat and his scheme.
During the first and second innings these reflections soothed his soul
and made him sit immovable with jaws grinding in rythmic harmony with
the day. But at the beginning of the third inning one of the boys from
his Sunday-school class strolled by and flung himself full length on the
grass at his feet where he could see his profile just as he had seen it
on Sunday while he was listening to the story that the teacher always
told to introduce the lesson. He could see the blue of Lynn Severn's
eyes as she told it, and strangely enough portions of the tale came
floating back in trailing mist across the dusty baseball diamond and
obscured the sight of Sloppy Hedrick sliding to his base. It was a tale
of one, Judas, who betrayed his best Friend with a kiss. It came with
strange illogical persistence, and seemed curiously incongruous with the
sweet air of summer blowing over the hard young faces and dusty diamond.
What had Judas to do with a baseball game, or with Billy Gaston and what
he meant to do on the mountain that night?--and earn good money--! Ah!
That was it. Make good money! But who was he betraying he would like to
know? Well if it wasn't on the square perhaps he was betraying that
same _One_--Aw--Rats! He wasn't under anybody's thumb and Judas lived
centuries ago. He wasn't doing any harm helping a man do something he
wasn't supposed to know what. Hang it all! Where was Mark Carter anyway?
Somehow Cart always seemed to set a fella straight. He was like Miss
Lynn. He saw through things you hadn't even told him about. But this was
a man's affair, not a woman's.
Of course there was another side to it. He _could_ give some of the
money to Aunt Saxon to buy coal--instead of the sweater--well, maybe
it would do both. And he _could_ give some to that fund for the Chinese
Mission, Miss Lynn was getting up in the class. He would stop on the way
back and give her a whole dollar. He sat, chin in hand, gazing out on
the field, quite satisfied with himself, and suddenly some one back by
the plate struck a fine clean ball with a click and threw the bat with
a resounding ring on the hard ground as he made for a home run. Billy
started and looked keenly at the bat, for somehow the ring of it as it
fell sounded curiously like the tinkle of silver. Who said thirty pieces
of silver? Billy threw a furtive look about and a cold perspiration
broke out on his forehead. Queer that old Bible story had to stick
itself in. He could see the grieving in the Master's eyes as Judas gave
Him that kiss. She had made the story real. She could do that, and
made the boy long somehow to make it up to that betrayed Master, and he
couldn't get away from the feeling that he was falling short. Of course
old Pat had _said_ the man had money _belonging_ to _him_, and you had
to go mostly by what folks _said_, but it did look shady.
The game seemed slow after that. The two captains were wrangling over
some point of rule, and the umpire was trying to pacify them both. Billy
arose with well feigned languor and remarked, “Well, I gotta beat it.
Guess we're gonta win all right. So long!” and lounged away to his
wheel.
He purchased another soda at the drug store to get one of his fives
changed into ones, one of which he stowed away in his breast pocket,
while the remainder was stuffed in his trousers after the manner of a
man. He bent low over his handle bars, chewing rythmically and pedaled
away rapidly in the direction of Sabbath Valley.