In one of these persons Cyrus recognized the girl who made faces at
him in church. As they stood smiling, brimming over with mischief, he
arose, lifted his hat and made a sweeping bow, as d'Artagnan might have
saluted Anne of Austria. It was so well done, with so much grace and
solemnity, that the two girls were startled. Things of that sort had
never occurred in Longfields. The girls giggled. They believed he was
"showing off" to amuse them. But he was not showing off. It was merely
his usual manner of saluting ladies. When the hat was again on his
head, he looked calmly at the girl with the eyes and inquired:
"Why did you call me stupid?"
For an instant she was taken aback. Then with a smile of defiance:
"Because you _look_ stupid."
"But I am not."
"Well you look so, anyway; doesn't he, Martha?"
Martha nodded and giggled endorsement. But Ruth Heywood herself stopped
giggling, and said more seriously:
"It's your eyes that are funny. They are half awake. They are so drowsy
they make me sleepy to look at them. Can't you open them wider?"
Cyrus made no answer because he could think of nothing to say. But
as the heavy lidded eyes looked into Ruth Heywood's, with their
supernatural tranquility, it seemed to the maiden as if the accumulated
wisdom of mankind was rebuking and despising her. The same expression
came into her face that came there in church; a rapid change from
bantering gayety to doubt and misgiving. But she wheeled about, with
an air of indifference, and walked away, leading the devoted Martha. A
little way off she turned her head and called to him:
"Good-by, Drowsy!"
With that they both scampered away as fast as they could run.
After this interview the acquaintance marched--or rather jumped
ahead--with all the velocity of youth. Cyrus passed her house every
time he went to the village and interviews were frequent. All
discourtesy in their first meetings was forgiven--and forgotten. To his
ceremonious salutations, with their astonishing bows, Ruth Heywood soon
became accustomed. Also, she ceased being impressed by his judicial
gaze, for she soon learned that the heavy lidded eyes concealed neither
disdain nor supernatural wisdom. She discovered, in short, that he was
just a boy. But he proved neither sleepy nor stupid.
Certain traits, however, quite at variance with those in other children
of her own age, made him an object of her special concern. She began
to regard him as her own personal property, something to be watched
over, guided and protected. Although she had known but six years of
terrestrial life, some feminine, kindly instinct was already prompting
her to be mother and grandmother to him, also aunt and sister and all
the female blessings that he missed at home. He was, to be sure, just
about her own age, but he was shorter and less assertive. And there
certainly is--at times--a distinct advantage in being able to look down
upon the person you are trying to impress.
When Ruth wanted a thing she wanted it very much, and at once. With
strangers she always got it. Her beauty, combined with her manner--when
she chose--were irresistible, it appeared, to all human males between
the ages of ten and one hundred. She could smile the smile that routed
reason and paralyzed all powers of resistance. This smile, as she grew
older, with the sensitive mouth and conquering eyes, never lost its
charm. And the unsuspecting Cyrus was either brave or timid, patient or
angry, happy or unhappy, at the witch's will.
Moreover, his mental processes were quite different from those of Ruth.
He was slower in reaching conclusions. Her own swift decisions amazed
him. She dazzled him at times, by a mysterious intuitive agency whose
lightning turns he did not pretend to follow.
Cyrus, more than other boys, was a lover of beautiful things. Flowers,
pictures, music, color, all gave him pleasure. In the presence of an
American sunset he would sit in solemn adoration. To this lover of
beautiful things Ruth's eyes were as windows of heaven. Into them he
could look and wonder; quit the earth and imagine all things. They
soothed and stirred his fancy like summer skies and solemn woods--or
flowers and thunderstorms. And when they rested on him, in reproach,
they filled him with delectable guilt.
Ruth and Truth were one and inseparable. Truth was part of herself.
Truth and Cyrus, on the other hand, sometimes parted company. And they
parted easily. Truth was a good thing--he knew that. But there seemed
to be occasions when Truth and Wisdom did not pull together; when the
immediate results were disastrous. When those moments came he preferred
the exercise of his own wits; the triumphs of his own invention. And
his invention was rich and ready.
On one occasion, when rebuked by his father for telling a lie, he
replied, after a moment's thought, and with earnest conviction:
"I don't see any fun in telling the truth all the time. Anybody can do
it."
However, aside from this little matter of despising Truth, he was a
reliable boy. He kept his promises. And it should be said in justice
that, while an easy and successful liar, his mind was open to reason
and he could be made to realize the sin and folly of his ways. His
interview with Uncle Hector, for instance, showed a willingness to see
the light.
Uncle Hector kept the store. He was seventy-five years old, tall, very
erect, wore a green wig and was a bachelor. The wig was not really
green, but certain tints of its original golden brown had changed, in
the passing years, to a peculiar greenish yellow. His own original
virtues, however, had not deteriorated. He was honest and true.
Everybody liked him, and all the children called him Uncle. He wore
dark clothes, and a stiff, old fashioned collar--a sort of dickey--for
he had a hired man to do the rough work about the place.
Toward noon, one February day, Cyrus and Ruth entered the store. Uncle
Hector was off at the further end talking with a customer:--Mrs.
Bennett. Nobody else was there. While waiting for Mrs. Bennett to
finish her business Cyrus and Ruth admired, as usual, the wonders
about them, and inhaled the intoxicating air; an air heavy laden with
odors of molasses and vinegar, of coffee, calico and oranges, of the
spices of Araby and the rubber boots of New England. On the top of
the counter, which was on a level with the nose of Cyrus, lay a dollar
bill. Cyrus saw it, and by standing on his toes he could reach over
and take it--which he did. He held it in the fingers of both hands and
drank in its beauties. Then he held it closer to Ruth's face, that she,
too, might admire it.
"Just think!" he said. "A dollar is a hundred cents; we can buy a
hundred sticks of that candy you like!"
Ruth had doubts of his ownership. Yet she considered the discoverer's
feelings.
"But, Cyrus, it isn't yours."
"Yes it is!"
"Oh, no!"
"Yes. Findin's is keepin's."
Ruth had never heard this principle before, but she accepted it because
it came from Cyrus. And Cyrus, this fortune in his fingers, felt as all
men feel when raised, without warning, from poverty to wealth.
Mrs. Bennett departed and at last Uncle Hector towered behind the
counter smiling down upon the two upturned, excited faces.
"Well, Miss Ruth Heywood, and Mr. Cyrus Alton, what can I do for you
this morning?"
Again Cyrus raised himself upon his toes, pushed the dollar bill as far
over on the counter as he could reach, and exclaimed:
"A whole dollar's worth of that red candy with the white stripes!"
Uncle Hector's genial smile gave way, for a moment, to an expression of
surprise.
"Where did you get this money, Cyrus?"
"Father gave it to me."
"Oh, Cyrus!" exclaimed Ruth.
The liar turned and looked at Ruth, not in anger at being exposed, but
in a sort of calm amazement that so sensible a girl should ruin so good
a plan. Ruth, however, was not the person to compromise with sin.
"Cyrus Alton! How _can_ you say such a thing?"
Kindly but sadly Uncle Hector looked down upon the boy.
"Tell the truth, Cyrus."
Cyrus, unabashed, met Uncle Hector's reproving gaze. He even smiled, as
any honest man might smile, to show his spirit was above defeat.
"I found it just now, right here on this counter."