"Greater than the measure of the heroes of renown,
He is building for the future, and no hand can hold him down;
Though they count him but a common man, he holds the Outer Gate,
And posterity will own him as the father of the State."
_The Empire Builders._
As Wilfred walked home through the wet grass his spirits were high with
a new-born enthusiasm of youth. The drudgery, the hardship, the toil
unlightened by a gleam of humour or a thought except of selfishness,
with which the past years of his life had been surrounded, seemed now as
an unreal dream. There were greater things in life than cows, and
gardens, and fields of wheat; and in a dim way these things of which he
had not so much as guessed were opening to his astonished vision. In his
hand he carried the little book of poems, but in his heart was the joy
of a grassy slope, where they watched the night deepening through the
willows, and the sound of her voice, liquid as the little stream before
them. He had thought of girls, always, with a shyness strongly seasoned
with an element of contempt; but toward her he felt only a reverence so
deep it almost hurt. He was young, and buoyant with the first great
emotion of his life, and in the crude colourings of his fancy he traced
wonderful dreams that drew out of the future and became very real to his
intoxicated senses.
But at the door of the Riles' house his visions fled, and the spirit of
cunning that had so long been his best protector brought him back to
earth. He slipped quietly in, found the lantern on its nail, and
silently climbed the ladder to his room. Here he lit the lantern, and
without removing his clothing lay down to read by the smoky light.
Wilfred's education was very elemental, and he stumbled through many
passages with difficulty, but in it all he was able to catch something
of the spirit of the verses. At length he settled into "Eugene Aram,"
and as the excitement of the dramatic lines tightened about him he read
aloud, wholly unconscious of the flight of time.
On his bed below Hiram Riles fancied he heard a mumbling sound come from
his garret, and opening his eyes saw a dim light shining through the
opening in the ceiling. It was deep in the dead of night, but there was
no question that London was talking, in a nervous, agitated voice. Riles
could not distinguish the words; he stole to the foot of the ladder and
noiselessly ascended it until his head came to the level of the garret
floor. Here he saw the boy lying on his mattress, a few rags of blankets
about him, his knees drawn up, his head supported by a bundle of
clothing, the lantern sitting on the broken chair and throwing an
uncertain light upon the little volume in his hands. Riles paused in
wonder, and in a moment was rivetted by the words--
"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a 'eavy stone,
One 'urried gash with a 'asty knife,--
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my feet
But lifeless flesh and bone!
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me hill;
And yet Hi feared 'im hall the more
For lying there so still.
There was a manhood in 'is look
That murder could not kill!
"And, lo! the universal hair
Seemed lit with ghastly flame,--
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
Hi took the dead man by 'is 'and----"
Riles' face was writhing in an effort to find expression, but the vocal
organs refused to fill their office. Like most men of low moral nature,
while scoffing at religion he was an easy victim to the terrors of the
supernatural. The fact that this orphan boy, the victim of his brutality
for so many years, should lie awake at the dead of night stammering
through these ghastly lines must carry some horrible significance. He
tried to speak, but a muffled gurgle in his throat was all the sound
that responded.
It was enough. Wilfred's ears, sharpened by the terror of the thing he
read, caught and magnified the guttural noise. With a shriek he sprang
from the bed and, standing in the centre of the floor, his body bent
forward, his fingers clutching in nervous excitement, he peered about
the musty little room. Presently his eyes fell upon the livid face of
Riles, just above the floor line. They fixed each other in a stare of
terror, but, to his own great surprise, the boy found a strong sense of
self-control beginning to bear him up.
He was first to break the silence. "So hit was you, 'Iram Riles. You
couldn't sty awy. These words drew you loike a magnet draws a needle.
Listen, w'ile Hi read ye more----"
"Don't, boy; don't!" Riles managed to exclaim. "It isn't true. I never
harmed him."
Wilfred's mind seemed to be acting by telepathy rather than from his own
initiative. Afterwards he could not guess what put the words in his
mouth.
"Yuh never 'armed 'im, didn't yuh? Well, w'ere is 'e? W'ere is 'e, 'Iram
Riles? That's wot people are haskin', an' they're thinkin' o' you w'en
they hask it. W'ere is 'e?"
"I don't know, Wilfred"--he had never called him Wilfred before--"I don't
know where he is. I didn't touch him. I tell yuh it never struck him, do
yuh hear?"
"Ho, oh, then you missed 'im! By 'ow much? Tell me, 'Iram Riles. 'Ow
much? A foot?"
The man had drawn himself into a half sitting posture, his back against
the wall, his body half through the trap door, his arms outstretched
upon the floor. His fingers trembled, and his lips twitched as he tried
to speak. He was a poor ghost of the strong man Wilfred had always
known.
"Listen, boy," he said at length. "I figured on fixin' him, but I
didn't. I waited for him to come out of the store, and I threw it at
him, but in the darkness I missed."
"Han' then yuh went in hand robbed the syfe," completed Wilfred.
"You lie!" shouted Riles, suddenly regaining his self-possession. "It's
all lies! What I told you was a lie! You hear me?"
He had risen on to his feet, and, with arms outstretched, was slowly
approaching the boy. Wilfred read the change, and saw that the man who
had narrowly escaped committing murder was still capable of it. But the
lad had long been accustomed to protect himself, and his cunning did not
desert him at the critical moment. Quick as a flash he seized the
burning lantern and hurled it in the face of his assailant. For an
instant all was darkness; then a tongue of flame shot across the floor
and leapt up the oil-saturated night garments of Riles. With a scream
the man, now a blazing torch, plunged down the opening to the floor
below and rushed into the outer air. His wife, awakened by Wilfred's
shriek a few moments before, showed her presence of mind by wrapping
Riles in a blanket, which extinguished the blaze before he was seriously
injured. Wilfred took the opportunity to steal silently out of the
building. Riles was swearing terribly as the boy slipped by the corner
and disappeared in the darkness.
Wilfred's plans were soon laid. Bundling up such clothing as he had been
able to snatch up in the moment allowed, he waited a short time to see
if the house would take fire. It did not, somewhat to his
disappointment. To return to Riles would, he knew, be to court disaster.
He had a very different purpose now in view. Of late he had been reading
the papers at Grants' in the evenings, and had learned that the
Government of Canada was prepared to give a quarter section to any man
who would live on it and establish a farm. It was a great day when his
poor, narrow imagination first made the leap that supposed him--Wilfred
Vickery, Barnardo boy--the owner of a farm in his own right. But when the
supposition had once been made it grew upon him with a resistless
fascination. He was now eighteen. The problem of getting West was a
small thing to him. The harvest season was approaching, and he could
work. He had been nursing this great thought for weeks, and now, at this
moment, it became evident that he must strike out and boldly grapple
with destiny. And he had another purpose, of which he scarcely dared
think, but which was in reality the foundation of his whole desire.
Perhaps it was this deeper purpose that directed his footsteps again to
the Grant farmhouse. He hardly knew the road he had taken until the
building loomed up before him, solemn but friendly in the first gray
suggestion of dawn. He walked quietly around and looked at all the
windows, but there was no gleam of light. If only _she_ would appear! If
only he might tell her of his plans, his hopes--if only he dared! But she
was sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of "the fir trees, grim and high," and
he dared not take the chance of discovery by remaining until the family
were astir. He must leave, silently and without good-bye; he must pass
out of her life, for the present at least, as a leaf that falls in a
stream and is borne away in the darkness. With a sigh he turned to go,
down the little path that lead out by way of the garden. A few steps
brought him to the door of the summer-house. Here he paused again; the
place was sanctified with the memory of one or two holy evenings; he
stepped inside, if only to prolong the sweet sorrow of his leave-taking.
As he stood, framed in the doorway, his vision was drowned in the blank
darkness of the little building. But as one sense becomes inoperative
another grows more alert, and in a moment his quick ears caught the
sound of easy, regular breathing. Someone was sleeping in the
summer-house; probably one of the boys. His first impulse was to steal
silently away, but a strange fascination led him toward the little
rustic couch across the farther wall. Hands outstretched, he crept
toward it in the darkness, until his fingers touched a mass so uncertain
their nerve-tips scarce detected it. He rubbed finger and thumb
together, and knew that silken tresses lay between.
With a great bound his heart almost seemed to drive the air from the
lungs; the veins of his neck bulged as though they would burst. He sank
upon his knees, leaning forward. A flood of warm air flushed across his
tense face; it beat and rebeat like the waves of a sea, and in that
moment the boy understood that Time is but a segment calendared out of
the circle of Eternity. He could not be mistaken. The elective
affinities are never deceived. With a great breath he drew his shoulders
back. Within his reach, within the very touch of his finger-tips, was
the prize of life compared to which heaven and earth resolved into
vague, uncertain promises!
She stirred slightly, as though some wandering thought from the material
world had blown in airy ruffles across the smooth lying haven of her
spirit land. Some consciousness of human presence--strange element of the
divine, which, like a sudden light on sleeping eyes can pass the gates
of slumber without unbarring them--was calling the mind back to its
vacated chambers. Wilfred remained kneeling, thrilled with the strange
exaltation of triumph and humility. His presence was operating upon her,
like the magnet upon steel. In a moment she would speak. She would call
him by name.
His eyes, straining through the darkness, caught the outline of her
face. One hand lay across the forehead, palm upward. It fell listlessly
to her side. She turned her head gently toward him, and a low sound
escaped her lips.
His ear had not been quick enough. He leaned close to her, alert for the
moment when she would call his name.
"Ray," she murmured. "Oh, Ray, they said you would not come back."
As a hypnotist may convert his subject into human stone by the utterance
of a single word, the heart of the Barnardo boy froze as that low sound
struck his ear, and his tense face moulded itself in deep, sudden
furrows. Not all the years of the future should quite efface those
quick-cut channels of disillusionment.
He sat back on his heels, his hands limp by his sides. For a moment--one
brief moment--an unworthy warfare raged in his nature. How completely she
was in his power! But the thought had not crossed his mind when, by some
strange instinct, he removed his hat from his dishevelled head, as one
might do in a holy presence. For a long while he sat, staring at the
blank wall before him; then quietly rose and stole toward the door.
"Who's that? Who's that?" she demanded in a frightened tone, sitting
suddenly bolt upright. "Where am I? Speak, will you?"
Wilfred turned again toward her. "Hit's only London, Miss Vane," he
managed to say.
"You, Wilfred? What are you doing here? What am I doing here? Where are
we?"
"Hin the summer'ouse, Miss Vane. You were sleepin' 'ere, han' I came in.
Hi didn't know you was 'ere, Miss Vane, honest, Hi didn't, han' Hi tried
to leave without wakin' yuh."
She drew her fingers across her eyes. "I begin to remember," she said.
"I must have been dreaming. I thought--oh! a lot of strange things. But
what are you doing here? Have you never gone home?"
"No, Miss Vane. That is, Hi 'ave no 'ome to go to, any more. Hi 'ave
left Riles, left 'im for good an' all. Hi 'ave left 'im, han' I am goin'
away to the West to be a farmer myself. Han' before Hi went Hi thought
Hi would come along this wy han' maybe Hi would see--that is, maybe Hi
could sy good-bye to the boys."
Myrtle rose and walked the few steps to where the boy stood leaning
against the door. She looked very close in his face before speaking.
"Wilfred, do you mean this? Have you thought it all over? Are you sure
of yourself?"
"Yes, Miss Vane, Hi am. Hi am goin' to be a man, has other boys are men,
Wy shouldn't Hi? Hi am goin' to the new land, w'ere the Gover'ment gives
farms to those as will work 'em, han' Hi am goin' to work hout for money
to do the himprovements. Hin three years Hi will 'ave a farm of my hown,
han' be has good a man has 'Iram Riles." He ended with a defiant snap at
those last words.
"A great deal better man, I hope," she said. "The goodness of a man is
not measured by his possessions, although that seems one of the hardest
lessons for people to learn. Some One has said that he who ruleth his
own spirit is greater than he who taketh a city. To control one's
ambition is greater than to realise one's ambition. In the home of Riles
I am afraid you have seen but little self-control in any form. Can you
measure up to it when it is required of you?"
She had no inkling of the great test from which he had just come out
victorious. And he answered modestly, "Hi think Hi can."
"But why do you leave in this way?" she asked, a new thought presenting
itself. "You are not--not running away, are you?"
"Well, Hi guess you would call hit that. Hi'd a row with Riles, an' Hi'm
goin'."
There was a silence that lengthened into minutes. The boy shifted from
one foot to another, powerless to tear himself away, and yet without an
excuse for remaining longer.
"Well, good-bye, Miss Vane," he said at length.
She started as the words recalled her. "Not yet, Wilfred," she said.
"Not yet, for a little while," and there was something akin to pleading
in her voice. "Wilfred, I believe you are an honest boy. I believe I can
trust you. Can I trust you, Wilfred?"
And again he answered modestly, "Hi think you can."
"Well, I am going to trust you. I am going to tell you a secret, a
secret that no one in the world must know but our two selves. And most
of all, if you meet _him_ he must not know I told you this. But
somewhere in the great West, I believe there is one who is more to me
than--than----" She stopped for a term of comparison. "You can't
understand, Wilfred, yet, but some day you will know. You will know what
it is to find your life revolving around one great thought, as the earth
circles the sun, and to know that that thought springs from one Source,
for which you were created, which is the end and purpose of your
existence. And for me that Centre has been removed--has been torn out of
my plan of life. I may find another Centre, but I can never describe a
true circle about it. It will always be an elliptic, an eccentric, drawn
and pushed by other forces to which I know I should not respond."
"Hi 'ardly know hall you mean, Miss Vane, but----"
"I don't know all I mean myself, least of all what I mean by talking to
you in this way, but I _must_ talk to some one. The worst loneliness in
the world is to have no one to talk to, no one who can understand you.
Talk is putting thoughts into words and draining them out of your stormy
brain, as the great thunderclouds, when they become overloaded, find
relief in rain, and out of their wild bursts of passion emerges a
cloudless sky. But you know who I mean, don't you?"
"Ray Burton."
"Yes. You may find him in that great country. If he lives I look for him
back here to stand his trial. You can tell him that much, Wilfred. And
if he does not live ... earth has lost another noble soul."
They faced each other in the brightening dawn. Suddenly, as if almost
overwhelmed by a great thought that had nearly escaped him, Wilfred
staggered forward, clutching Miss Vane by the shoulders.
"Oh! Miss Vane," he cried, "Hi know 'oo took the money. Hi know 'oo took
it."
It was her turn to stagger. "You know, Wilfred! Speak! Quick, tell me
all!"
"Hit was Riles. 'E threw the bottle that might 'a killed Burton--'e
hadmitted it--han' 'e took the money, too. Hi haccused 'im of it, han'
the wy 'e acted Hi know 'e did."
"But can you prove it? Give me your proof," she demanded.
"Hi 'ave no proof, but Hi 'ave told yuh 'oo took the money. P'raps the
proof 'ull turn hup yet."
"God grant it so," exclaimed the girl fervently. "At least, now I _know_
that Burton is innocent."
"Yuh don't mean tuh sy yuh ever thought hit was Burton, do yuh?"
demanded the boy, and there was a reproach in his tone that cut. "Yuh
never thought that, did yuh?"
"No, I never thought him guilty. But if I could prove him innocent it
would make a great difference to me--and to one or two others. The fact
is I find myself in a rather embarrassing position. But you don't
understand, and I can't ex----"
"Yes Hi do, though. Hit's about that dog Gardiner. 'E's worse'n Riles."
"Wilfred!"
"Hi mean it, han' Hi can't prove it hit, either."
"But you must be wrong in this case. Mr. Gardiner has been a good
friend, but that is all. That is the trouble. Why can't a good friend
remain a friend instead of spoiling it by wanting to be--something more?"
The boy flushed, but it was with the pride of victory. "Hit's gettin'
light," he said. "Hi must be goin' now. Hif Hi see _'im_, is there hany
message; hanything more than you 'ave said?"
She thought for a moment. "Only this," she said, reaching for the little
book of poems. It opened at a well-thumbed spot and she tore a leaf from
the binding. She folded it twice and pressed it into his palm. "Give him
that," she said.
He took her hand. "Good-bye, Miss Vane," he said.
She pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Good-bye. God bless you."
And he walked sturdily away, carrying unspoken the secret tragedy of his
young life.