I
|THE Old Town of Oldbridge is rich of one pleasant winding highway along
whose route are scattered its prettiest demesnes. Time was, once, when
this sun-spattered, tree-bordered thoroughfare enjoyed its dream of
peace in drowsy quietude, under spreading lindens and over-arching elms.
To-day, however, it stirs in its dream.
Yet its ancient houses stand placidly enough. Comfortable and serene
among park-like meadows, life in them goes on with a simple dignity and
ease; and if they are the sometime innocent cause of the sin of pride to
the families who inherit them, they are sources of arcadian joys to the
stranger within their gates. For they are all spotless and restful--and
fragrant of the breaths of several hundred years of new-mown hay,
rose-arbours, and aromatic pinks, blown through the windows. These old
Colonial homes speak eloquently of good life past, of still better life
present--to come.
The trolley-track and the pretty road keep company a bit, together; they
both turn to the left and passing in all say twenty houses, reach the
Common and the Post Office, where a dozen or so more hipped roofs,
set among quiet flower gardens and apple orchards lend tradition and a
quaint distinction to the really lovely old Green.
The boys of Oldbridge have pre-empted this Green, the most popular of
Sports Clubs, and here, after school, as their forbears did, as their
fathers and grandfathers did, here they play and tumble and wrestle and
fight. From here they cross the road to enter the Public School House, a
red brick building which, thirty years ago, supplanted the Dames School,
and which balances the old brick Meeting House at the further end.
The haunt, trysting-place, council chamber--where every mischievous
plot is hatched, such is the Common. Whence the eternal Boy, lured by
near-flowing waters of the Mantic joins his pals upstream for a swim,
plays uproarious pranks there, ties a chap's clothes into a hard knot
on the bank and when he comes dripping out in search of them chants, in
raucous chorus: “_Chaw raw beef--the beef is tough!_”
In Winter, the frozen River Mantic makes an unrivalled skating ground;
and the Oldbridge Boy still builds his ice-fortress on the Common,
stocks it (ammunition of snow-balls)--and leads his regiment to victory.
Here he coasts or hitches his sledge to a huge one fleetly passing, gets
a glorious ride--comes home, nose and fingers frost-bitten, exceeding
argumentative; talking in loud imperious voice; in truth a very dog of
wintry joys.
Too often, after supper, the Boy of Oldbridge takes delectable but
stolen interest in the conversation of the village Post Master and his
cronies. By the door in Summer--round the stove in Winter, he and
they discuss the politics of the hour to many hoary anecdotes between.
Pastime sternly prohibited by parents requiring infinite discretion!
Thus one steals with muffled tread down by back stairs, one issues forth
by back windows, one whistles to one's _fides achates_--and off.
Miss Adgate, who to her regret had never been a small boy, never would
be, was none the less of opinion that boys are the most amusing imps and
she soon exercised her opportunity for making the acquaintance of a New
England lad, Master Jack Enderfield, the twelve-year-old son of Mrs.
Enderfield, who lived in the Enderfield House on the Common. Mr.
Enderfield, after preaching to his world for fifteen years, had left it,
with, he feared on his death-bed, little advantage to its soul. He had
gone leaving a library full of theological tracts and treatises, of
philosophic books and pamphlets, a comfortable fortune inherited from
collateral great-aunts,--and a son, Jack. Jack was blond, blue-eyed,
curly haired, of an enquiring expansive nature towards those in whom he
felt confidence, and a diverting person. Having met Miss Adgate at
his mother's, when she returned the lady's call he considered himself
entitled to drop in when he liked at Barracks Hill.
“She's got such stunning hair, mother, and such white hands.... And when
she talks it makes a fellow feel good. She uses such pretty words and
her voice is low and round. And she listens to a man and draws him out.”
“But, my dear, it may not be convenient for Miss Adgate to receive you
so often,” said Mrs. Enderfield. “Miss Adgate has other people to see,
other things to do.”
“Oh, she has always time to see me,” replied Jack, with a wave of
the hand. “She told Martha to say she was out the other day when the
Wetherbys called. She took me up to her sitting room and showed me a lot
of jolly European things and gave me this paper knife.” Jack drew from
an inside pocket, offering it for inspection, a Venetian filagree paper
knife wrapped in soiled and crumpled tissue paper.
The maternal heart could not withstand such obvious proof of favouritism
towards her idol. Though warned not to wear his welcome out, Jackie
descended frequently upon Barracks Hill, but this, though it concerns,
runs ahead, of the story.