could only tell me to rest, and take exercise and sleep at night and not
worry!" He laughed rather wildly. "He would tell me not to worry! They
always say that! A doctor would tell a man 'not to worry' if he was to
be hanged the next morning!"
"Well," said Newton philosophically, "I suppose a man who's going to be
hung needn't worry much, anyway. He's got the front seat at the show and
nothing particular to do!"
This was sound, so far as it went, but insufficient as consolation.
Overholt either did not hear, or paid no heed to the boy. He left the
room a moment later without shutting the door, and threw himself down on
the old black horsehair sofa in the parlour. Presently the lad rose
again and covered up the City of Hope with the big brown paper case he
had made to fit down over the board and keep the dust off.
"This isn't your day," he observed as he did so, and the remark was
certainly addressed to the model of the town.
He went into the other room and stood beside his father, looking down at
his drawn face and damp forehead.
"Say, father, really, isn't there anything I can do to help?"
Overholt answered with an effort. "No, my boy, there's nothing, thank
you. You cannot find money to pay my debts, can you?"
"Have you got no money at all?" asked Newton, very gravely.
"Four or five dollars! That's all! That's all you and I have got left in
the world to live on, and even that's not mine!"
His voice shook with agony, and he raised one hand to his forehead, not
dramatically, as many foreigners would do, but quietly and firmly, and
he pressed and kneaded the surface as if he were trying to push his
brains back into the right place, so that they would work, or at least
keep quiet. After that answer Newton was too sensible to ask any more
questions, and perhaps he was also a little afraid to, because questions
might make his father worse.
"Well," he said vaguely, "if I can't work at the City I suppose I may as
well go out before it's dark and take a look at the pond. It's going to
freeze hard to-night, and maybe there'll be black ice that'll bear by
to-morrow."
Overholt was glad to be left alone, for he could not help being ashamed
of having broken down so completely before the boy, and he felt that he
could not recover his self-control unless he were left to himself.
He heard Newton go up the rickety stairs to his own room, where he
seemed to be rummaging about for some time, judging from the noises
overhead; then the strong shoes clattered on the staircase again, the
house door was opened and shut, and the boy was off.
VI
HOW A SMALL BOY DID A BIG THING AND NAILED DOWN THE LID OF THE BOX
Newton went to the pond, because he said he was going out for that
purpose, and it might be convenient to be able to swear that he had
really been down to the water's edge. As if to enjoy the pleasure of
anticipation, too, he had his skates with him in a green flannel bag,
though it was quite out of the question that the ice should bear
already, and it was not even likely that the water would be already
frozen over. However, he took the skates with him, a very good pair, of
a new model, which his father had given him towards the end of the
previous winter, so that he had not used them more than half a dozen
times. It was very cold, but of course the ice would not bear yet. The
sun had not set, and as he was already half-way to the town, the boy
apparently thought he might as well go on instead of returning at once
to the cottage, where he would have to occupy himself with his books
till supper-time, supposing that it occurred to his father to have any
supper in his present condition. The prospect was not wildly gay, and
besides, something must be done at once. Newton was possessed by that
idea.
When Overholt had been alone for some time, he got up from the horsehair
sofa and crept up the stairs, leaning on the shaky bannister like an old
man. In his own room he plunged his face into icy cold water again and
again, as if it were burning, and the sharp chill revived his nerves a
little. There was no stove in the room, and before midnight the water
would be frozen in the pitcher. He sat down and rubbed his forehead and
wondered whether he was really any better, or was only imagining or even
pretending that he was, because he wanted to be. Our own reflections
about our own sensations are never so silly as at the greatest moments
in our lives, because the tremendous strain on the higher faculties
releases all the little ones, as in sleep, and they behave and reason as
idiotically as they do in dreams, which is saying a good deal. Perhaps
lunatics are only people who are perpetually asleep and dreaming with
one part of their brains while the other parts are awake. They certainly
behave as if that were the matter, and it seems a rational explanation
of ordinary insanity, curable or incurable. Did you ever talk to a
lunatic? On the subject on which he is insane he thinks and talks as you
do when you are dreaming; but he may be quite awake and sensible about
all other matters. He dreams he is rich, and he goes out and orders
cartloads of things from shops. Pray, have you never dreamt that you
were rich? Or he dreams that he is a poached egg, and must have a piece
of toast to sit down upon. I believe that well-known story of a lunatic
to be founded on fact. Have you never dreamt that you were somebody or
something quite different from yourself? Have you never dreamt that you
were an innocent man, persecuted, tried for a crime, and sentenced to
prison, or even death? And yet, at the same time, in your dream, you
were behaving with the utmost good sense about everything else. When
you are dreaming, you are a perfect lunatic; why may it not be true that
the waking lunatic is really dreaming all the time, with one part of his
brain?
John Henry Overholt was apparently wide awake, but he had been morally
stunned that day; he was dreaming that he was going crazy, and he could
not, for the life of him, tell whether he really felt any better after
cooling his head in the basin than before, though it seemed immensely
important to find out, just then. Afterwards, when it was all over, and
things were settled again, he remembered only a blank time, which had
lasted from the moment when he had broken down before the little City
until he found himself sitting in the parlour alone before the supper
table with a bright lamp burning, and wondering why his boy did not come
home. The dream was over then; his head ached a good deal and he did not
feel hungry, but that was all; burning anxiety had cooled to leaden
care. He knew quite well that it was all over with the Motor, that his
friends at the College would find him some sort of employment, and that
in due time he would succeed in working off his debt to the bank,
dollar by dollar. He had got his soul back out of the claws of despair
that had nearly flown away with it. There was no hope, but he could live
without it because he must not only live himself, but keep his boy
alive. Somehow, he would get along on credit for a week or two, till he
could get work. At all events there were his tools to sell, and the
Motor must go for old brass, bronze, iron, and steel. He would see about
selling the stuff the next day, and with what it would bring he could at
least pay cash for necessaries, and the bank must wait. There was no
hope in that, but there was the plain sense of an honest man. He was not
a coward; he had only been brutally stunned, and now that he had
recovered from the blow he would do his duty. But an innocent man who
walks steadily to endure an undeserved death is not a man that hopes for
anything, and it was like death to Overholt to give up his invention.
The door opened and Newton came in quietly. His face was flushed with
the cold and his eyes were bright. What was the weight of leaden care to
the glorious main-spring of healthy thirteen? Overholt was proud of his
boy, nevertheless, for facing the dreary prospect of no Christmas so
bravely. Then he had a surprise.
"I've got a little money, father. It's not much, I know, but it's
something to go on with for a day or two. There it is."
Newton produced three well-worn dollar bills and some small change,
which his father stared at in amazement.
"There's three dollars and seventy cents," he said. "And you told me you
had four or five dollars left."
Before he sat down he piled the change neatly on the bills beside his
father's plate; then he took his seat, very red indeed and looking at
the table-cloth.
"Where on earth did you get it?" asked Overholt, leaning back in his
chair.
"Well"--the boy hesitated and got redder still--"I didn't steal it,
anyway," he said. "It's mine all right. I mean it's yours."
"Of course you didn't steal it!" cried John Henry. "But where did you
get it? You haven't had more than a few cents at a time for weeks and
weeks, so you can't have saved it!"
"I didn't beg it either," Newton answered.
"Or borrow it, my boy?"
"No! I wasn't going to borrow money I couldn't pay! I'd rather not tell
you, all the same, father! At least, I earned twenty cents of it. That's
the odd twenty, that makes the three seventy. I don't mind telling you
that."
"Oh, you earned twenty cents of it? Well, I'm glad of that, anyhow. What
did you do?"
"I sort of hung round the depôt till the train came in, and I carried a
man's valise across to the hotel for him. He gave me ten cents. Some of
the boys do that, you know, but I thought you wouldn't care to have me
do it till I had to!"
"That's all right. It does you credit. How about the other ten cents?"
"Old Bangs saw me pass his shop, and he asked me to come in and said
he'd give me ten cents if I'd do some sums for him. I guess he's pretty
busy just now. He said he'd give me ten cents every day till Christmas
if I'd come in after school and do the sums. His boy's got mumps or
something, and can't. There's no harm in that, is there, father?"
"Harm! I'm proud of you, my boy. You'll win through--some day!"
It was the first relief from his misery the poor man had felt since he
had read the letter about the overdraft in the morning.
"What I can't understand is the rest of the money," said Overholt.
Newton looked very uncomfortable again, and moved uneasily on his chair.
"Oh well, I suppose I've got to tell you," he said, looking down into
his plate and very busy with his knife and fork. "Say, you won't tell
mother, will you? She wouldn't like it."
"I won't tell her."
"Well"--the boy hesitated--"I sold some things," he said at last, in a
low voice.
"Oh! There's no great harm in that, my boy. What did you sell?"
"My skates and my watch," said Newton, just audibly. "You see I didn't
somehow feel as if I were going to skate much this winter--and I don't
really need to know what time it is if I start right by the clock to go
to school. I say, don't tell mother. She gave me the watch, you know,
last Christmas. Of course, you gave me the skates, but you'll
understand better than she would."
Overholt was profoundly touched, for he knew what delight the good
skates meant in the cold weather, and the pride the boy had felt in the
silver watch that kept such excellent time. But he could not think of
much to say just then, for the sight of the poor little pile of dirty
money that was the sordid price of so much pleasure and satisfaction
half-choked him.
"You're a brave boy," he said in a low tone.
But Newton was indefinitely far from understanding that he had done
anything brave; he merely felt much better now, because he had confessed
and had the matter off his mind.
"Oh well, you see, something had to be done quick," he said, "and I
couldn't think of anything else. But I'll go and earn that ten cents of
Bangs every afternoon, you bet! And I guess I can pick up a quarter at
the depôt now and then; that is, if you don't mind. It isn't much, I
know, but it'll help a little."
"It's helped already, more than you have any idea," said Overholt.
He remembered with bitter shame how he had completely broken down
before his son that afternoon, and how quietly the lad had gone off to
make his great sacrifice, pretending that he only wanted to see whether
the pond was freezing.
"Well," said Newton, "I'm glad you don't think it was mean of me to go
and sell the watch mother gave me. And I'm glad you feel better. You do
feel a good deal better, don't you?"
"A thousand times better!" answered Overholt, almost cheerfully.
"I'm glad. Maybe you'll feel like working on the City a little after
supper."
"I was afraid Hope had given us up to-day, and had flown away for good
and all," said the inventor. "But you've brought her home with you
again, bless you! Yes, we'll do some work after supper, and after you go
to bed I'll just have one more good evening with the Motor before I give
it up for ever."
Newton looked up.
"You aren't going to give it up for ever," he said in a tone of
conviction. "You can't."
Overholt explained calmly enough that he must sell the machine for old
metal the very next day, and sell the tools too. But the boy shook his
head.
"You'll curl up and die if you do that," he said. "Besides, if mother
were here she wouldn't let you do it, so you oughtn't to. The reason why
she's gone to be a governess is because she wouldn't let you give up the
Motor, father. You know it is."
"Yes. It's true--but--" he hesitated.
"You simply can't do it, that's all. So I'm perfectly certain you won't!
I believe everything will come round all right, anyway, if you only
don't worry. That's what I believe, father."
"It's a hopeful view, at all events. The only objection to it is that
it's a good deal like dreaming, and I've no right to dream any more.
When you see that I'm going to, you must make me sit up and mind my
lesson!"
He even laughed a little, and it was not badly done, considering that he
did it on purpose to show how he meant to make the best of it all,
though Hope would not do anything for him. He ate something too, if only
to keep the hungry boy company.
They went into the workshop, and found the bright moonlight streaming
through the window that looked east. It fell full on the motionless
Motor, under its plate-glass case, and turned all the steel and brass to
silver and gold, and from the clean snow that covered the desolateness
of the yard outside the moon sent a white reflection upwards that
mingled with the direct moonlight in a ghostly sort of way. Newton stood
still and looked at the machine, while Overholt felt about for matches.
"If only it would begin to move now, just of itself!"
The man knew that it would not, and wished that the boy would not even
suggest such a thing, and he sighed as he lit the lamp. But all the same
he meant to spend half the night in taking a last farewell of the
engine, and of all the parts on which he had spent months and years,
only to let them be broken up for old metal in the end.
The two sat down on each side of the little City and went to work to
build the railway station; and after all, when Overholt looked at the
Common and the College and remembered how happy he had been there, he
began to feel that since dreams were nothing but dreams, except that
they were a great waste of time and money, and of energy and endurance,
he might possibly find some happiness again in the old life, if he could
only get back to it.
So Hope came back, rather bedraggled and worn out after her long
excursion, and took a very humble lodging in the little City which had
once been all hers and the capital of her kingdom. But she was there,
all the same, peeping out of a small window to see whether she would be
welcome if she went out and took a little walk in the streets.
For the blindest of all blind people are those who have quite made up
their minds not to see; and the most miserable of all the hopeless ones
are those that wilfully turn their backs on Hope when she stands at the
next corner holding out her hand rather timidly.
But Overholt was not one of these, and he took it gladly when it was
offered, and stood ready to be led away by a new path, which was not the
road to fame or wealth, but which might bring him to a quiet little
place where he could live in peace with those he loved, and after all
that would be a great deal.
VII
HOW A LITTLE WOMAN DID A GREAT DEED TO SAVE THE CITY
A fortnight earlier Mrs. Overholt had been much disturbed in her mind,
for she read each of her husband's letters over at least three times,
and Newton's fortnightly scrawls even oftener, because it was less easy
to make them out; but she had understood one thing very well, and that
was that there was no more money for the invention, and very little cash
for the man and the boy to live on. If she had known what a dreadful
mistake John Henry had made about debit and credit, the little woman
would have been terribly anxious; but as it was, she was quite unhappy
enough.
Overholt had written repeatedly of his attempts to raise just a little
more money with which to finish the invention, and he had explained very
clearly what there was to do, and somehow she had always believed in the
idea, because he had invented that beautiful scientific instrument with
which his name was connected, but she was almost sure that in working
out his theory he was quite on the wrong track. She did not really
understand the engine at all, but she was quite certain that when a
thing was going to succeed, it succeeded from the first, without many
hitches or drawbacks. Most women are like that.
She had never written this to her husband, because she would do anything
rather than discourage him; but she had almost made, up her mind to
write him a letter of good advice at last, begging him to go back to
teaching for the present, and only to work at the invention in his spare
time. Just then, however, she came across a paragraph in a German
newspaper in Munich which said that a great scientific man in Berlin had
completed an air-motor at last, after years of study, and that it worked
tolerably, enough to demonstrate the principle, but could never be of
any practical use because the chemical product on which it ultimately
depended was so enormously expensive.
Now Mrs. Overholt knew one thing certainly about her husband's engine,
namely, that the chemical he meant to use cost next to nothing, so that
if the principle were sound, the Motor would turn out to be the cheapest
in existence; and she was a practical person, like her boy Newton.
Moreover, she loved John Henry with all her heart and soul, and thought
him one of the greatest geniuses in the world, and she simply could not
bear the idea that he should not have a fair chance to finish the
machine and try it.
Lastly, Christmas was coming; the girls she was educating talked of
nothing else, and counted the days, and sat up half the night on the
edges of each other's beds discussing the beautiful presents they were
sure to receive; and a great deal might be written about what they said,
but it has nothing to do with this story, except that their chatter
helped to fill the air with the Christmas spirit, and with thoughts of
giving as well as of receiving. Though they were rather spoiled
children, they were generous too, and they laid all sorts of little
traps in order to find out what their governess would like best from
each of them, for they were fond of her in their way.
Also, Munich is one of the castles which King Christmas still holds in
absolute sway and calls his own, and long before he is really awake
after his long rest he begins to stir and laugh in his sleep, and the
jolly colour creeps up and spreads over his old cheeks before he thinks
of opening his eyes, much less of getting up and putting on his crown.
And now that he was waking, Helen Overholt felt the old loving longing
for her dear ones rising to her womanly heart, and she planned little
plans for another and a happier year to come, and meanwhile she bought
two or three little gifts to send to the cottage in far Connecticut.
But when she had read about the Berlin professor and his motor and
thought of her own John Henry making bricks without straw and bearing up
bravely against disappointment, and still writing so cheerfully and
hopefully in spite of everything, she simply could not stand it another
day. As I have said, King Christmas turned over just before waking, and
he put out a big generous hand in his sleep and laid it on her heart.
Whenever he does that to anybody, man, woman, or child, a splendid
longing seizes them to give all they have to the one child, or woman, or
man that each loves best, or to the being of all others that is most in
need, or to help the work which seems to each of them the noblest and
the best, if they are grown up and are lonely.
This is what happened to Helen Overholt, in spite of her good sense and
all her practical resolutions. As long as she had anything to give, John
Henry should have it and be happy, and succeed, if success were
possible. She had saved most of her salary for a long time past,
spending as little as she well could on herself. He should have it all,
for love's sake, and because she believed in him, and because Christmas
was waking up, and had laid his great affectionate old hand on her.
So it came to pass that when Overholt was pottering over the beautiful
motionless Motor, late at night, sure that it would work if he had a
little more money, but still more sure that it must be sold for old
metal the next morning, to buy bread for the boy, even at that hour
help was near, and from the hand he loved best in the world, which would
make it ten thousand times sweeter when it reached him.
It was going to be an awful wrench to give up the invention, for now, at
the moment of abandoning it, he saw, or thought he saw, that he was
right at last, and that it could not fail. It was useless to try it as
it was, yet he would, just once more. He adjusted the tangent-balance
and the valves; he put in the supply of the chemical with the long name
and screwed down the hermetic plug. With the small hand air-pump he
produced the first vacuum which was necessary; all was ready, every
joint and stuffing-box was lubricated, the spring of the balance was
adjusted to a nicety. But the engine would not start, though he turned
the fly-wheel with his hand again and again, as if to encourage it. Of
course it would not turn alone! He understood perfectly that the one
piece on which all depended must be made over again, exactly the other
way. That was all!
There was the wooden model of it, all ready for the foundry that would
not cast it for nothing. If only the wooden piece would serve for a
moment's trial! But he knew that this was folly; it would not stand the
enormous strain an instant, and the joints could not possibly be made
air-tight.
He was utterly worn out by all he had been through during the long day,
and he fell asleep in his chair towards morning, his head on his breast,
his feet struck out straight before him, one arm hanging down beside him
and his other hand thrust into his pocket. He looked more like a shabby
lay figure stuffed with sawdust than like a living man. If Newton had
come down and found him lying there under the lamplight he would have
started back and shuddered, and waited a while before he could find
courage to come nearer.
But the man was only very sound asleep, and he did not wake till the
December dawn gleamed through the clear winter's sky and made the
artificial light look dim and smoky; and when he opened his eyes it was
he himself who started to find himself there in the cold before his
great failure, in broad daylight.
Nevertheless, he had slept soundly, and felt better able to face all the
trouble that was in store for him. He stirred the embers in the stove,
put in some kindling and a supply of coal, and warmed himself, still
heavy with sleep, and glad to waken consciously, by degrees, and to feel
that his resolution was not going to break down.
When he felt quite himself he left the room and went upstairs
cautiously, lest he should wake the boy, though it was really time to
get up, and Newton was already dressing.
"I'll walk into town with you," said Overholt when they were at
breakfast in the parlour. "It will do me good to get some air, and I
must see about selling those things. There's no time to be lost."
Newton swallowed his hominy and bread and butter and milk, and reflected
on the futility of the sacrifice he had made, since his father insisted
on selling everything for old metal; but he said nothing, because he was
dreadfully disappointed.