It was the very next morning that Ruth's father, the Rev. George
Bentley Heywood, received an urgent appeal from China to fill a vacancy
in the missionary field. Ten days after receiving the message he, his
wife and tearful daughter, were on a train for San Francisco.
The days that followed were solemn days for Cyrus. And it so happened
that the next ten years were solemn years for Longfields. A new
railroad carried through a neighboring town left the village stranded.
The young men began to leave. When a house burned there was no
rebuilding. The tottering sheds behind the weed-grown cellar of the
Baptist Church were typical of the town's decay. It was significant
that when Philetus Bisbee died--house and carriage painter--his
business had so shrunk that no one took his place. The burning of the
inn meant that Longfields as a resting place for travelers was to be
forgotten.
People died in Longfields, but few were born. Pupils at the little red
school house dwindled to about a dozen. The teacher's pay was so small
that to accept the position became an act of charity to the village.
When Judge David Lincoln moved away he expressed sincere regret: "I am
sorry to go, but lawyers cannot thrive on memories alone."
Wits of neighboring towns referred to the sleeping village as Pompeii,
Old Has Been and Long Memories. The main street with its overhanging
elms was always silent. And the common, once noisy with excited
children, was solemn in its stillness. Every day seemed Sunday.
In short, Longfields went the way of many other New England villages.
It became a restful and picturesque reminder of better days. But, after
all, it was merely following, in its decay, the example of famous
queens of fashion, Troy, Babylon and Thebes.
This gentle retirement to oblivion affected Cyrus less than his father.
For Dr. Alton sent him away to school, to prepare for college, and the
absent boy almost forgot the tragedies of his home. Moreover, Cyrus
found much excitement in his new surroundings; much to learn--and
unlearn--from contact with so many others of his age. They came from
town and country and from almost every state. What he got from books
was least in interest and often the least in value. That million-sided
problem, Human Nature, was, as usual, the hardest to understand, the
last to be solved.
Rarely does a boy with Anglo Saxon blood in his veins find it
necessary to cure himself of too much polish. But even in this case
Old Human Nature was triumphant. When away from Longfields Cyrus
found his ceremonious courtesy was misapplied, misunderstood and
almost a misdemeanor. His eighteenth century bows were regarded by his
chambermaid as ironical; by his classmates as a silly affectation,
and were resented by his instructors as efforts to be funny at their
expense.
Further discouragement came one day in the friendly warning of an older
boy. "You know, Drowsy, or you don't know, that those salaams of yours
give the impression that before you came to this academy you were the
colored porter on a parlor car."
The result was that before the end of the first term his manners were
only a trifle better than those of other boys. Except, of course, when
taken off his guard, as in his interview with the wife of a certain
prosperous citizen who slipped and fell in coming out of the post
office. She was a sensitive lady, irascible and of massive proportions.
As she landed on the sidewalk, two snow white stockings with stalwart
limbs inside waved briefly before the public eye. They resembled the
whitened limbs of a billiard table. Letters fell from one of her
hands. With the other she clung convulsively to a large umbrella. Three
girls involuntarily laughed aloud.
As the lady climbed to her feet two light blue eyes shot fury from a
purple face. When Cyrus stepped forward to gather up the scattered
letters he forgot all his recent training, raised his cap, moved it
gracefully in the air and bent low and reverentially--as the First
Lord of the Bed Chamber might salute his Sovereign. But the boiling
lady identified this seeming mockery with the laughter of the maidens.
She brought the fat umbrella hard down upon the head of Cyrus, and
she struck with all her might. Luckily for the recipient her hand was
quivering with rage, and no physical damage was accomplished. But the
damage to his pride was serious. As he straightened up and looked the
lady in the face his cheeks were hot. The erstwhile drowsy eye showed
astonishment--and anger. His cherubic lips had parted: "Then pick 'em
up yourself, you stupid old----"
At that instant he recalled an injunction of his father. "Whatever may
happen, Cyrus, always be a gentleman." He had not been told just how a
gentleman should behave when beaten on the head with an umbrella--and
in public. But he closed his lips without even beginning the sentence.
He bowed again, and this bow was even more elaborate than the first.
"I beg your pardon, madam."
Then he turned, put on his cap and walked away.
Again was heard the giggle of the girls. That a person should apologize
for being hit on the head with an umbrella was too funny for silence.
Meanwhile, the cost of all this experience and of his pursuit of
knowledge fell heaviest on his father. The practical obliteration of
his native town and field of work meant financial embarrassment for
Dr. Alton. The few remaining inhabitants of the village were now too
poor to pay a doctor. To fit Cyrus for college, and keep him there, Dr.
Alton exhausted the small capital left him by his father. When that
was gone he tried to sell his orchard and the best portions of the
farm. But no purchasers appeared. He did sell, however, to a dealer in
Boston, some family heirlooms; rare pieces of Colonial furniture and
all his Canton china.
To Cyrus, meanwhile, Fate was paying especial attention--with more to
come. During his last year in college a surprising change took place
in his ways of spending time--surprising, but familiar to biographers.
Such transformations, where indifference suddenly changes to ambition,
indolence to industry, and where the trifler becomes in earnest,
have frequently occurred, as with Julius Cæsar, St. Paul, Henry V of
England, William Shakespeare, Mirabeau and many other notables. So
there was nothing original in this sudden awakening of Cyrus. During
the first three years of his college course he was a "good fellow."
When classmates entered his room with "Come along, Drows, old man;
chuck the books, and now for the real life," he joyfully obeyed and
took chances on recitations: with the usual result that only distant
relations were maintained with the upper end of his class. It was the
price of popularity and of the joy of living. Toward the end of his
last year, however, his more festive companions were horrified by an
unexpected miracle. A little book came into his hands. It threw a
dazzling light on the possibilities of electricity. It aroused his
curiosity and so kindled his imagination that he turned his back on
the "real life" and became studious. This sudden thirst for knowledge
caused a shock to his festive pals. They were anxious about him. For,
indeed, is there not cause for alarm, when a Bully Boy, a Rattling Good
Sport and a Live One suddenly loses his grip on "real life" and becomes
a Bookworm, a High Brow and a Dead One?
But Cyrus did not weaken. He clung to his new love. Unavailing were
such arguments as "Chuck the science, Drowsy. There's time enough for
wisdom when you are old!" or, "Don't be a chump, Drows. You can't be
young forever. Remember, Youth is short and Science long."
And he felt neither shame nor repentance when his own chum rebuked him.
"Drows, old man, you are just a crank. Harvard Students are not giving
points to old sharps in science. For God's sake don't be a freak and
get musty before your time."
But words were wasted. This new ambition had brought to him a
revelation of his real self. He had no suspicion, at the time, that the
reading of this little book was to lead to adventures surpassing the
wonder tales of his childhood. To his brain came a dazzling light. He
began to realize the infinite possibilities of man's power, with the
hidden forces of the universe once in his control. A fantastic dream,
perhaps, but the more he thought the deeper grew his conviction. He
knew--or thought he knew--that he had it in him to open wider the door
that hides the secrets of the air. Greater still would have been his
confidence had he known that a part of his inheritance was the courage
and the genius of the famous Italian scientist who wrote the book. And
it appeared from the little portrait of the author that he, too, had
slumbrous eyes. It was ordained, however, that their relationship was
to remain hidden both from the great discoverer and from his yet more
daring grandson.
At the end of the four years at Harvard, Dr. Alton's finances were
low, indeed. But Cyrus argued for a course in Chemistry and Physics at
the Institute of Technology in Boston. He took the course, and it was
clearly understood that it meant bitter economies for both father and
son. But the economies were calmly faced. Some of them meant serious
sacrifice in personal comfort, not only in the little luxuries of life,
but in clothing, food and fuel. Of blows to pride they made no account.
At last Cyrus finished his course at the "Teck." His return to
Longfields was on a smiling afternoon in May and he found his father
at home, sitting on the porch with Luther Dean. Cyrus and his boyhood
friend had seen little of each other during the last six years. Luther
had grown into a rather handsome young man. Otherwise Fortune had not
favored him. With many other American boys, his ambition was to become
a millionaire, and to be quick about it. And with many other boys in
this upsetting country, he looked down, in fancy, from the glittering
peaks of sudden wealth, upon the patient plodders in the valley below.
Not for him the goody mottoes of the Sunday School. Not for him a
wasted youth in "starting at the bottom, working your way up" with
"slow but sure," and all the other maxims for smothering talent. For
him the Napoleonic grasp of opportunity, the cutting of the Gordian
knot. He believed in quick achievement. He believed
"There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."
And he believed in short cuts. His models for success were the
millionaires "who had struck it rich." And he was firm in the faith
that his revolt from "Patient Industry," "Honest Toil" and similar
delusions was a sign of genius. In other words, he was the sort of
youth no man desires in his employ. For brief periods he had held
positions in different establishments in Worcester. Now, again, he was
out of a job.
But Luther's manners were good, and his raiment above reproach. At
present, as the three men sat on the porch, his spruce attire was in
striking contrast with the almost shabby garments of Dr. Alton and his
son. But Dr. Alton happened to be one of those men who have no need
of clothing unless for warmth or propriety. In his head and face and
figure were lines of strength and beauty that gave distinction. In his
bearing and in all his movements there was dignity and a natural grace.
Were he dressed as a beggar at a coronation he would have held his own.
As for Cyrus, the last ten years seemed to have made little difference,
merely transforming him from boy to man; this change, as wise men have
long suspected, being mostly outward. He grew to the usual height, had
the usual number of teeth, recited from the usual books, played the
usual games, committed the usual follies, absorbed the usual experience
from the various victories and defeats of our usual life, still
retaining at twenty-one the drowsy eyes and curving lips of his early
childhood. Deep within him, however, were aspirations and a strength of
purpose that contradicted the languid eyes and boyish mouth.
After the greetings, and when various questions had been asked and
answered, Dr. Alton lighted his old briarwood pipe, took a whiff or two
and said to his son:
"And the great idea, Cyrus, any further developments?"
"I should say there were! I've got it, father!"