BACK TO NEW RIVER VALLEY
The hour which followed remained always in Tommy’s memory as some
tremendous nightmare. He remembered going to the gymnasium, removing
his football suit mechanically, taking a bath and rub-down, and
getting into his other clothes. Then he made his way to his room,
and Sexton, Reeves, and Blake came up and tried to tell him—each in
his own way—how sorry they were, and to give him such crumbs of
comfort as they could.
“Why, the fellows are all broken up,” said Reeves. “We were going to
have a big celebration to-night, but that’s all off. There isn’t one
of us feels like celebrating.”
“How could we?” added Blake. “It was Remington won the game. But
it’s the first time in the history of Lawrenceville that we didn’t
have a blow-out after whipping the freshmen.”
“Maybe it’s not so bad,” said Sexton, with an attempt at
cheerfulness. “He’ll be coming back before long,—as soon as his
father gets well, you know,—and we’ll have the celebration then.”
But Tommy heard little of all this. His thoughts were far away. He
saw again the narrow valley, which seemed to shut out all the joy
and warm, aspiring life of the outside world; the rows of squalid
cabins, grimy with the dust of the mines; the bent, exhausted,
perspiring men, laboring day after day far within the bowels of the
earth, away from the pure air and the bright sunshine, able to earn
but a bare livelihood, even by unceasing toil; and a shiver ran
through him at the thought that it was to this he was returning. An
hour ago the old existence had seemed so far away, there had been so
much to live for, the path before him had seemed so bright; and here
it was closing in upon him like a great black thundercloud which
there was no evading.
Presently the head-master himself came in and told Tommy to pack up
such clothing as he might need, and he would be driven over to
Trenton at once to catch the six-o’clock train, which would get him
to Wentworth early the next morning. The packing was soon done, and
he went down to the buggy which was waiting. As he came out from the
dormitory, he saw a sight which first made him stare in
astonishment, and then brought a swift rush of tears to his eyes.
The boys—all of them, first, second, third, and fourth year
alike—were lined up along the path, and as he passed them, each gave
him a hearty handclasp. Some even ventured upon a word of sympathy,
awkwardly and shyly said, but none the less genuine. Tommy quite
broke down before he reached the end of the line, and the tears were
streaming down his face unrestrained as he clambered into the buggy.
As the horse turned into the road, he glanced back and saw the
fellows still standing there looking after him. In after days, when
he thought of those first months at Lawrenceville, this parting
scene was dearest of all to him.
It was only when he was in the train speeding southward, with no one
to watch him or speak to him, that he dared put the future plainly
before him. It was evident that if his father was killed, or so
seriously injured that he could not go to work again in the mines,
some arrangement must be made to provide for his mother and brother.
He knew too well how little chance there was that his father had
been able to save anything. Something, then, would have to be done
at once. But what? He shrank from the answer that first occurred to
him. He turned his face from it, and set his brain to work to find
another way. But he was soon stumbling blindly among the intricacies
of his own thoughts, and finally fell into a troubled sleep. But on
the instant his eyes closed, as it seemed to him, some disturbing
and terrible vision would dance before him and startle him awake
again.
At Washington he had a half-hour wait, and looked for Jim, the
train-caller who had befriended him before, but he saw nothing of
him, for that official worked only in the daytime. Yet he no longer
felt ignorant and dependent. The crowd—which even at midnight
throngs the station at Washington—did not astonish him as it had
before. He knew, somehow, that he was quite a different boy from the
one who had made this same journey only three short months before.
He felt quite able to look out for himself. But as he was clambering
up the steps to his train, a cheery voice greeted him.
“Why, hello, youngster!” it said. “Going back home again?”
Tommy looked up and recognized his old friend the conductor.
“Yes, sir; back home,” he answered with a queer lump in his throat.
The conductor saw how his face had changed. It seemed older and
thinner, and the eyes were darker.
“Something wrong, eh?” he said kindly. “Well, I’ll look you up after
a while, and we’ll talk it all over.”
Tommy made his way into the coach, hardly knowing whether to be glad
or sorry at this meeting. He was longing for a friend to talk to,
and yet he was vaguely ashamed of the confession he might have to
make. Could it be possible, he asked himself, that he no longer
loved his father and his mother—that he was unwilling to make a
sacrifice for them as they had done for him? But then, the sacrifice
asked of him would be so much the greater. It was nothing to
sacrifice the body, but to sacrifice the brain as well—that was
another thing. His breast had never been torn by such a battle as
was waging there now.
The conductor did not forget his promise. So soon as he had attended
to his other duties, he dropped into the seat beside Tommy.
“Now, what is it?” he asked. “Tell me; it’ll do you good. Get into
some trouble at school?”
Tommy shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it’s not that. Father was hurt in the mines—and
maybe—won’t—get well.”
The conductor took the boy’s hands in both his ample ones and patted
them softly.
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “It’ll turn out all right. These
accidents always look worse at first than they are. You’ll soon be
coming back again over this same road.”
Tommy felt that he must speak—the weight was too heavy for him to
bear alone.
“I’m afraid I’ll never come back,” he said brokenly. “There’s nobody
now but me to make a living. You’ve never worked in the mines. You
don’t know what it is.”
The other looked down at him quickly, and in an instant understood.
For a moment he sat silent, considering his words.
“It seems hard,” he said at last. “It always seems hard when we have
to give up something we’ve been counting on. But maybe, after all,
we don’t have to give it up; and even when we do, something better
almost always comes in place of it. It seems, somehow, that nobody
in this world is given more than he can bear. I’ve felt, often, just
as you feel now; but when I’m particularly blue, I get out a book
called ‘Poor Boys who Became Famous’; and when I read what a tough
time most of them had, I come to think I’m pretty well off, after
all. Ever read it?”
“No,” answered Tommy; “I never read it.”
“Wait till I get it for you. It’ll give you something to think
about, anyway”; and the good-natured official, who had not yet lost
the enthusiasms of his boyhood, hurried away to get the book.
Five minutes later Tommy had forgotten all about his own troubles.
The first page of the book had opened another life to him, whose
struggles made his own seem petty and unimportant. It was of George
Peabody he was reading: born at Danvers, Massachusetts, in 1795, his
parents so poor they could afford him little schooling; at the age
of eleven sent out into the world to earn a living; for four years a
clerk in a little grocery, giving every penny of his earnings to his
mother; his father dying and leaving him to support the family; his
well-nigh hopeless search for employment, his finding of a humble
situation, his perseverance, energy, honesty—until, at last, he had
built up for himself a mighty business. And then the great acts of
benevolence which marked his later years: three hundred thousand
dollars for the Peabody Institute at his native town, where a free
library and a free course of lectures were to be maintained, in
order that other poor boys might be helped to an education; one
million dollars for an academy of music and an art-gallery at
Baltimore; three millions for the purpose of building comfortable
homes for the poor of London; three millions more for the education
of the negroes, who had just been freed from slavery and who were
groping blindly for the light; scores of smaller gifts to colleges
and charitable institutions—until, at last, dead in London, he was
mourned even by the Queen of England; Westminster Abbey was opened
for his funeral; statesmen and noblemen bowed before his coffin; the
noblest man-of-war in her Majesty’s navy was sent to bring the body
back to his native land, which was in mourning for him from sea to
sea; and, at the end, he was laid to rest beside the mother he had
loved so tenderly, his life-work done, his name imperishable.
With a long sigh Tommy closed the book, and sat looking before him
with eyes that saw nothing. But his task no longer seemed so
difficult. This man had conquered even greater obstacles—why not he?
The conductor came by and glanced at him, saw what was in his mind,
and passed on without speaking.
At last he turned to the next biography: Bayard Taylor—walking sixty
miles to get a poem printed, and failing; living in Europe on a few
pennies a day, sometimes almost starving, but always writing,
writing, writing, until at last came victory, and a niche in the
hall of fame where the great literatures of the world live forever.
He read of Watt, of Mozart, of Goldsmith, of Faraday, of Greeley, of
Moody, of Childs, of Lincoln. What a galaxy of great names it was!
And when at last he laid the book down he could see the dawn just
breaking in the east. He sat for a long time looking out at it,
watching the sky turn from black to gray, and from gray to purple.
The book had stirred him to the very depths of his being.
“You haven’t finished it already, have you?” asked the conductor,
coming up behind him.
Tommy nodded.
“It’s a great book, isn’t it?” And the conductor dropped into the
seat a moment and took up the book fondly. “It’s helped me over a
lot of rough places. Maybe it will be of use to you. Will you keep
it?”
Tommy looked at him, astonished.
“Keep it?” he repeated. “Do you mean you’ll give it to me?”
The other looked out of the window to avoid catching his eye.
Somehow he found it no longer possible to patronize this boy. He had
grown, had broadened; it was not the same boy he had met before, but
one who interested him vastly more.
“I want you to have it, you see,” he explained awkwardly. “You can’t
get a copy at Wentworth, while I can easily get another at
Washington. I’d like you to have something to remember me by. My
name’s on the fly-leaf. Will you take it?”
He read the answer in the boy’s eyes, and fairly pushed the book
into his hands.
“Put it in your pocket,” he said, and jumped up hastily. “Now I’ve
got to go. There, don’t thank me. I know how you feel”; and he
hastened away down the aisle.
Tommy tucked the inspiring volume into his pocket, and turned again
to the window. He was not at all sleepy—the hours had passed so
quickly that they had left no fatigue behind them. He saw that the
train was entering the mountains. Away and away they stretched, one
behind another, steaming with mist as the sun’s first rays touched
them. Mile after mile the train sped onward. The light grew, the
earth waked; men could be seen working in the scant fields, women
standing at the cabin doors, children playing about their feet.
And then the train flashed into country familiar to Tommy. He looked
out again upon New River, churning its way along over its rocky and
uneven bed, the mountains springing straight up on either hand and
almost crowding the train into the torrent. The sun had not yet
penetrated here, and the heaps of slack and tottering coal-tipples
along the road looked inexpressibly dreary.
More and more familiar grew the landscape. Away up on the
mountain-side he discerned the black opening that marked the mouth
of the mine where his father had worked. There was the little
school-house. He could hear the engine-bell clanging wildly.
“Wentworth!” cried the brakeman, slamming open the door.
“Wentworth!”
And in an instant Tommy was on the platform, where his teacher was
awaiting him.
“He is not dead?” he cried, looking anxiously into her face,
dreading what he might read there. “Don’t say he is dead!”
“No, no,” protested Miss Andrews, smiling at him reassuringly. “He
is not dead. He is not going to die. But he wants to see you so
badly!”
Together they hurried up the steep, narrow path, Miss Andrews
wondering within herself if this could be the same boy she had
known. He seemed so changed—years older. As they neared the house,
Tommy caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the doorway
looking down at them, and he ran forward and up the steps to the
porch.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, and nestled close against her breast as her
arms strained him to her.
His mother said never a word, but the tears were streaming down her
face as she bent over him and kissed him.
“Come in an’ see your pa,” she said. “He’s been askin’ fer you ever
sence it happened.”
Tommy followed her into the little room,—how squalid it seemed now
in comparison with the bright, airy rooms at Lawrenceville!—and
stood for an instant, looking down at the wan figure on the bed.
“Tommy!” it gasped.
Whatever of coldness had grown into his heart melted away in that
instant, and left him sobbing on his father’s breast. Then, suddenly
remembering that his father was injured, he attempted to draw away;
but those strong arms held him close.
“You’re not hurtin’ me, boy,” he said. “I ain’t hurt up here. It’s
in th’ legs. One of ’em had t’ come off, Tommy. I’m ’feard my minin’
days is over.”
“There, now,” said Mrs. Remington, soothingly, “don’t you worry. All
you’ve got t’ do is t’ git well. Now go t’ sleep. Come away, Tommy”;
and she drew him from the bed.
It was only then, as they sat on the front porch with Miss Andrews,
that he heard the story of the accident. His father, it seemed, had,
by some chance, been working alone at the face of a new chamber,
some distance from the other men. In some way a great mass of coal,
loosened, perhaps, by a previous blast, had fallen upon him, pinning
him to the floor. Fortunately, a pile of refuse at the side of the
chamber had kept it from pressing with its full weight upon his head
or body, but his legs had been crushed under it, and after trying in
vain to extricate himself or attract the attention of some of the
other men by hallooing, he had fainted from the pain and loss of
blood. He had been discovered, at last, by a driver-boy, and it
seemed quite certain he was dying. He was borne tenderly to his
home, and it was then that Mr. Bayliss had sent the telegram to
Tommy. A further examination showed, however, that only his legs had
been injured. The left one had been crushed so badly that the
surgeon found it necessary to amputate it just above the knee. The
patient had rallied from the operation nicely, there were no bad
symptoms, and it seemed certain he would recover.
There was a long silence when the story was told, and all of them
sat looking down into the valley, each busy with his own thoughts.
Suddenly Mrs. Remington’s housewifely instinct asserted itself.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “What hev I been thinkin’ of? Tommy
ain’t hed a bite o’ breakfast!”
“I’m not hungry, mother,” he protested. “I’ll wait till dinner.
It’ll soon be noon. You can get it a little earlier than usual,” he
added, seeing that she was still bent on making him eat. “I want to
go up on the mountain awhile. I can’t be of any use here, can I?”
“No,” answered his mother, regarding him doubtfully. “Your pa’s
asleep, and even if he wakes up, I kin ’tend t’ him.”
“All right. I won’t be gone long”; and anxious to get away with only
his thoughts for company, he started quickly up the hill.
“Now I wonder—” began his mother, looking after his retreating
figure.
“He has a battle to fight,” said Miss Andrews, softly, “and I’m
certain he’s going to win it.”
The mother understood, and as she looked out across the valley her
face grew gray and lined.