It was a voice of authority but it was not at all unkind.
Turning, she looked up into his face and stammered a feeble denial.
No, she was not ill.
But the kind eyes looked down at her so searchingly, so gravely, that
her own eyes filled with tears.
"Come, come," said the voice, "this won't do at all. You must not lose
your grip, you know. It will be all right to-morrow. Take the
afternoon off and get out into the fresh air."
And something in his voice--something in his grave, steady, eyes--told
her--made her feel that he understood. It helped her to know that this
man of large affairs, of power and authority, understood.
So, for that afternoon, she went to a park in a distant part of the
city to escape, for a few hours, the things that were crowding her too
closely. Near the entrance of the park, she met a gray haired
policeman who, looking at her keenly, smiled kindly and touched his
hat; then, before she had passed from sight, he turned to follow
leisurely the path that she had taken. Finding a quiet nook on the
bank of a little stream that was permitted to run undisturbed by the
wise makers of the park, the woman seated herself, while the
policeman, unobserved by her, paused not far away to watch a group of
children at play.
[Illustration: The life that crowded her so closely drifted far, far
away.]
Perhaps it was the blue sky, unstained by the city smoke: perhaps it
was the sunbeams that filtered through the leafy net-work of the trees
to fall in golden flakes and patches on the soft green: perhaps it was
the song that the little brook was singing as it went its merry way:
perhaps it was the twittering, chirping, presence of the feathery folk
who hopped and flitted so cheerily in and out among the shrubs and
flowers--whatever it was that brought it about, the life that crowded
her so closely drifted far, far, away. The city with its noisy clamor,
with its mad rush and unceasing turmoil, was gone. The world of
danger, and doubt, and fear, was forgotten. The woman lived again the
days that were gone. The sky so blue above her head was the sky that
arched her days of long ago. The sunshine that filtered through the
trees was the same golden wealth that enriched the days of her
childhood. The twittering, chirping, feathery, folk were telling the
same old stories. The little brook that went so merrily on its way was
singing a song of the Yesterdays.
They were free days--those Yesterdays--free as the days of the
feathery folk who lived among the shrubs and flowers. There was none
of the knowledge that, with distrust and doubt and despair, shuts in
the soul. They were bright days--those Yesterdays--as bright as the
sunlight that out of a clear sky comes to glorify the world. There was
none of that dark and dreadful knowledge that shrouds the soul in
gloom. And they were glad days--those Yesterdays--glad with the
gladness of the singing brook. There was none of that knowledge that
stains and saddens the heart.
The woman, sitting there so still by the little brook, did not notice
a well dressed man who was strolling slowly through the park. A little
way down the walk, the man turned, and again went slowly past the
place where the woman sat. Once more he turned and this time seated
himself where he could watch her. The man's face was not a good face.
For a little while he watched the woman, then rising, was starting
leisurely toward her when the gray haired policeman came suddenly into
view around a turn in the path. The officer did not hesitate; nor was
he smiling, now, as he stepped in front of the man. A few crisp words
he spoke, in a low tone, and pointed with his stick. There was no
reply. The fellow turned and slunk away while the guardian of the law,
with angry eyes, watched him out of sight, then turned to look toward
the woman. She had not noticed. The officer smiled and quietly
strolled on down the path.
The woman had noticed neither the man nor her protector because she
was far, far, away in her Yesterdays. She did not heed the incident
because she was a little girl again, playing beside the brook that
came across the road and made its winding way through the field just
below the house. It was only a little brook, but beautifully clear and
fresh, for it had come only a short distance from its birth place in a
glen under the hill that she could see from her window. In some
places, the long meadow grass, growing close down to the edge, almost
touched above, making a cool, green, cradle arch through which the
pure waters flowed with soft whispers as though the baby stream were
crooning to itself a lullaby. In other stretches, the green willows
bent far over to dip their long, slim, fingers in the slow current
that crept so lazily through the flickering light and shade that it
seemed scarce to move at all. And other places there were, where the
streamlet chuckled and laughed over tiny pebbly bars in the sunlight
or gurgled past where flags and rushes grew.
Again, with her dolls, the little girl played on the grassy bank;
washing their tiny garments in the clear water and hanging them on the
flags or willows to dry; resting often to listen to the fairy song the
water sang; or to whisper to the brook the secrets of her childhood
dreams. The drowsy air was full of the sweet, grassy, smell mingled
with the odor of mint and the perfume of the willows and flags and
warm moist earth. Gorgeous winged butterflies zigzagged here and there
from flower to flower--now near for a little--then far away. Honeybees
droned their hymns of industry the while they searched for sweet
treasures. And now and then a tiny green frog would come out of a
shadowy nook in the bank of the stream to see what the little girl was
doing; or a bird would drop from out the blue sky for a drink or a
bath in the pebbly shallows. And not far away--easily within
call--mother sat on the shady porch, with her sewing, where she could
watch over her little girl.
Dear, innocent, sheltered, protected, Yesterdays--when mother told her
child all that was needful for her to know, and told her in a most
tender, beautiful, way. Dear, blessed, Yesterdays--when love did not
leave vice to teach the sacred truths of love--days that were days of
blissful Ignorance--not vicious Ignorance but ignorance of the
vicious. There was a wealth of Ignorance in those Yesterdays that is
of more worth to womanhood, by far, than much knowledge of the world.
And often the boy would come, too, and, together, they would wade hand
in hand in the clear flood, mingling their shouts and laughter with
the music of their playmate brook, while the minnows darted to and fro
about their bare legs; or, they would build brave dams and bridges and
harbors with the bright stones; or, best of all, fashion and launch
the ships of childhood.
Oh, childish ships of the Yesterdays! What precious cargoes they
carried! What priceless treasures they bore to the far away port of
dreams!
The little brook was a safe stream for the boy and the girl to play
beside. Nor did they know, then, that their streamlet flowed on and on
until it joined the river; and that the river, in its course, led it
past great cities that poured into it the poisons and the filth of
their sewers, fouling its bright waters, until it was unfit for
children to play beside.
They did not know, _then_--but the woman knew, _now_.
And what--she thought as she came back from her Yesterdays--what of
the boy who had played with her beside the brook? He, too, must have
learned what happened to their brook. In learning, what had happened
to him--she wondered--and wondering, she was afraid.
Because she was no longer ignorant, she was afraid for the mate of her
Yesterdays. Not that she thought over to meet him again. She did not
wish, now, to meet him for she was afraid. She would rather have him
as he was in her Yesterdays.
Slowly the woman turned away from the quiet seat beside the brook. It
was time for her to go.
Not far away, she passed the gray haired policeman, who again smiled
and touched his hat.