ON THE FOOT-BRIDGE
To the young usher, the change of scene was rather bewildering. His
eyes were still full of the light from gasolene-burners, his ears
still rang with the confusion of tent-noise into which entered the
prolonged monotones of inarticulate groanings, and the explosive
suddenness of seemingly irrelevant Amens. Above all, he tingled from
the electric atmosphere of intense religious excitement; he was
charged with currents at a pressure so high that his nerves were
unresponsive to dull details of ordinary life.
Nothing just then mattered except the saving of souls. Having
faithfully attended the camp-meeting for three weeks he found other
interests blotted out. The village as a whole had given itself over to
religious ecstasy. Those who had professed their faith left no stone
unturned in leading others to the altar, as if life could not resume
its routine until the unconverted were brought to kneel at the
evangelist's feet.
As Abbott Ashton reflected that, because of this young girl with the
mocking laugh, he was losing the climacteric expression of the three-
weeks' campaign, his displeasure grew. Within him was an undefined
thought vibration akin to surprise, caused by the serenity of the
hushed sky. Was it not incongruous that the heavens should be so
peaceful with their quiet star-beacons, while man was exerting himself
to the utmost of gesture and noise to glorify the Maker of that calm
canopy? From the weather-stained canvas rolled the warning, not
unmusically:
"We reap what we sow,
We reap what we sow."
Above the tide of melody, the voice of the evangelist rose in a
scream, appalling in its agony--"Oh, men and women, why _will_ you
die, _why_ will you _die_?"
But the stars, looking down at the silent earth, spoke not of death,
spoke only as stars, seeming to say, "Here are April days, dear old
earth, balmy springtime and summer harvest before us!--What merry
nights we shall pass together!" The earth answered with a sudden white
smile, for the moon had just risen above the distant woods.
At the stile where the footpath from the tent ended, Abbott paused.
Why should he go farther? This scoffer, the one false note in the
meeting's harmony, had been silenced. "There," he said, showing the
road. His tone was final. It meant, "Depart."
Fran spoke in a choking voice, "I'm afraid." It was not until then,
that he knew she had been crying, for not once had he looked back.
That she should cry, changed everything. And no wonder she was afraid.
To the fences on either side of the country road, horses and mules
were tethered. Torch-lights cast weird shadows. Here and there lounged
dimly some fellow who preferred the society of side-kicking, shrilly
neighing horses, to the suing melody of soul-seekers.
"But I must go back to the tent," said the usher softly, not surprised
that a little girl should be afraid to venture among these vague
terrors.
"I am so little," Fran said plaintively, "and the world is so large."
Abbott stood irresolute. To take Fran back to the tent would destroy
the Influence, but it seemed inhuman to send her away. He temporized
rather weakly, "But you came here alone."
"But I'm not going away alone," said Fran. Her voice was still damp,
but she had kept her resolution dry.
In the gloom, he vainly sought to discern her features. "Whose little
girl are you?" he asked, not without an accent of gentle
commiseration.
Fran, one foot on the first step of the stile, looked up at him; the
sudden flare of a torch revealed the sorrow in her eyes. "I am
nobody's little girl," she answered plaintively.
Her eyes were so large, and so soft and dark, that Abbott was glad she
was only a child of fourteen--or fifteen, perhaps. Her face was so
strangely eloquent in its yearning for something quite beyond his
comprehension, that he decided, then and there, to be her friend. The
unsteady light prevented definite perception of her face. He noted
that her legs were thin, her arms long, her body slight, though there
was a faint suggestion of curving outline of hips and bosom that lent
an effect of charm.
There was, in truth, an element of charm in all he could discern. Even
the thin limbs appealed to him oddly. Possibly the big hat helped to
conceal or accentuate--at any rate, the effect was somewhat elfish. As
for those great and luminously soft black eyes, he could not for the
life of him have said what he saw in them to set his blood tingling
with feeling of protecting tenderness. Possibly it was her trust in
him, for as he gazed into the earnest eyes of Fran, it was like
looking into a clear pool to see oneself.
"Nobody's little girl?" he repeated, inexpressibly touched that it
should be so. What a treasure somebody was denied! "Are you a stranger
in the town?"
"Never been here before," Fran answered mournfully.
"But why did you come?"
"I came to find Hamilton Gregory."
The young man was astonished. "Didn't you see him in the tent, leading
the choir?"
"He has a house in town," Fran said timidly. "I don't want to bother
him while he is in his religion. I want to wait for him at his house.
Oh," she added earnestly, "if you would only show me the way."
Just as if she did not know the way!
Abbott Ashton was now completely at her mercy. "So you know Brother
Gregory, do you?" he asked, as he led her over the stiles and down the
wagon-road.
"Never saw him in my life," Fran replied casually. She knew how to say
it prohibitively, but she purposely left the bars down, to find out if
the young man was what she hoped.
And he was. He did not ask a question. They sought the grass-grown
path bordering the dusty road; as they ascended the hill that shut out
a view of the village, to their ears came the sprightly, Twentieth
Century hymn. What change had come over Ashton that the song now
seemed as strangely out of keeping as had the peacefulness of the
April night, when he first left the tent? He felt the prick of remorse
because in the midst of nature, he had so soon forgotten about souls.
Fran caught the air and softly sang--"We reap what we sow--"
"Don't!" he reproved her. "Child, that means nothing to you."
"Yes, it does, too," she returned, rather impudently. She continued to
sing and hum until the last note was smothered in her little nose.
Then she spoke: _"However_--it means a different thing to me from what
it means to the choir."
He looked at her curiously. "How different?" he smiled.
"To me, it means that we really do reap what we sow, and that if we've
done something very wrong in the past--_ugh!_ Better look out--
trouble's coming. That's what the song means to me."
"And will you kindly tell me what it means to the choir?"
"Yes, I'll tell you what it means to the choir. It means sitting on
benches and singing, after a sermon; and it means a tent, and a great
evangelist and a celebrated soloist--and then going home to act as if
it wasn't so."
Abbott was not only astonished, but pained. Suddenly he had lost
"Nobody's little girl", to be confronted by an elfish spirit of
mischief. He asked with constraint, "Did this critical attitude make
you laugh out, in the tent?"
"I wouldn't tell you why I laughed," Fran declared, "for a thousand
dollars. And I've seen more than that in my day."
They walked on. He was silent, she impenetrable. At last she said, in
a changed voice, "My name's Fran. What's yours?"
He laughed boyishly. "Mine's Abbott."
His manner made her laugh sympathetically. It was just the manner she
liked best--gay, frank, and a little mischievous. "Abbott?" she
repeated; "well--is that all?"
"Ashton is the balance; Abbott Ashton. And yours?"
"The rest of mine is Nonpareil--funny name, isn't it!--Fran Nonpareil.
It means Fran, the small type; or Fran who's unlike everybody else;
or--Oh, there are lots of meanings to me. Some find one, some another,
some never understand."
It was because Abbott Ashton was touched, that he spoke lightly:
"What a very young Nonpareil to be wandering about the world, all by
yourself!"
She was grateful for his raillery. "How young do you think?"
"Let me see. _Hum!_ You are only--about--" She laughed mirthfully at
his air of preposterous wisdom. "About thirteen--fourteen, yes, you
are more than fi-i-ifteen, more than...But take off that enormous
hat, little Nonpareil. There's no use guessing in the dark when the
moon's shining."
Fran was gleeful. "All right," she cried in one of her childish tones,
shrill, fresh, vibratory with the music of innocence.
By this time they had reached the foot-bridge that spanned the deep
ravine. Here the wagon-road made its crossing of a tiny stream, by
slipping under the foot-bridge, some fifteen feet below. Down there,
all was semi-gloom, pungent fragrance of weeds, cooling breath of the
half-dried brook, mystery of space between steep banks. But on a level
with the bridge, meadow-lands sloped away from the ravine on either
hand. On the left lay straggling Littleburg with its four or five
hundred houses, faintly twinkling, and beyond the meadows on the
right, a fringe of woods started up as if it did not belong there, but
had come to be seen, while above the woods swung, the big moon with
Fran on the foot-bridge to shine for.
Fran's hat dangled idly in her hand as she drew herself with backward
movement upon the railing. The moonlight was full upon her face; so
was the young man's gaze. One of her feet found, after leisurely
exploration, a down-slanting board upon the edge of which she pressed
her heel for support. The other foot swayed to and fro above the
flooring, while a little hand on either side of her gripped the top
rail.
"Here I am," she said, shaking back rebellious hair.
Abbott Ashton studied her with grave deliberation--it is doubtful if
he had ever before so thoroughly enjoyed his duties as usher. He
pronounced judicially, "You are older than you look."
"Yes," Fran explained, "my experience accounts for that. I've had
lots."
Abbott's lingering here beneath the moon when he should have been
hurrying back to the tent, showed how unequally the good things of
life--experience, for instance--are divided. "You are sixteen," he
hazarded, conscious of a strange exhilaration.
Fran dodged the issue behind a smile--"And I don't think _you_ are so
_awfully_ old."
Abbott was brought to himself with a jolt that threw him hard upon
self-consciousness. "I am superintendent of the public school." The
very sound of the words rang as a warning, and he became
preternaturally solemn.
"Goodness!" cried Fran, considering his grave mouth and thoughtful
eyes, "does it hurt _that_ bad?"
Abbott smiled. All the same, the position of superintendent must not
be bartered away for the transitory pleasures of a foot-bridge. "We
had better hurry, if you please," he said gravely.
"I am so afraid of you," murmured Fran. "But I know the meeting will
last a long time yet. I'd hate to have to wait long at Mr. Gregory's
with that disagreeable lady who isn't Mrs. Gregory."
Abbott was startled. Why did she thus designate Mr. Gregory's
secretary? He looked keenly at Fran, but she only said plaintively:
"Can't we stay here?"
He was disturbed and perplexed. It was as if a flitting shadow from
some unformed cloud of thought-mist had fallen upon the every-day
world out of his subconsciousness. Why did this stranger speak of Miss
Grace Noir as the "lady who isn't Mrs. Gregory"? The young man at
times had caught himself thinking of her in just that way.
Looking intently at the other as if to divine her secret thoughts, he
forgot momentarily his uneasiness. One could not long be troubled by
thought-mists from subconsciousness, when looking at Fran, for Fran
was a fact. He sighed involuntarily. She was _such_ a fact!
Perhaps she wasn't really pretty--but homely? by no means. Her thin
face slanted to a sharpened chin. Her hair, drawn to the corner of
either eye, left a white triangle whose apex pointed to the highest
reach of the forehead. Thus the face, in all its contour, was rising,
or falling, to a point. This sharpness of feature was in her verylaugh
itself; while in that hair-encircled oval was the light of
elfish mockery, but of no human joy.
School superintendents do not enjoy being mystified. "Really," Abbott
declared abruptly, "I must go back to the meeting."
Fran had heard enough about his leaving her. She decided to stop that
once and for all. "If you go back, I go, too!" she said conclusively.
She gave him a look to show that she meant it, then became all
humility.
"Please don't be cross with little Nonpareil," she coaxed. "Please
don't want to go back to that meeting. Please don't want to leave me.
You are so learned and old and so strong--_you_ don't care why a
little girl laughs."
Fran tilted her head sidewise, and the glance of her eyes proved
irresistible. "But tell me about Mr. Gregory," she pleaded, "and don't
mind my ways. Ever since mother died, I've found nothing in this world
but love that was for somebody else, and trouble that was for me."
The pathetic cadence of the slender-throated tones moved Abbott more
than he cared to show.
"If you're in trouble," he exclaimed, "you've sought the right helper
in Mr. Gregory. He's the richest man in the county, yet lives so
simply, so frugally--they keep few servants--and all because he wants
to do good with his money."
"I guess his secretary is considerable help to him," Fran observed.
"I don't know how he'd carry on his great work without her. I think
Mr. Gregory is one of the best men that ever lived."
Fran asked with simplicity, "Great church worker?"
"He's as good as he is rich. He never misses a service. I can't give
the time to it that he does--to the church, I mean; I have the
ambition to hold, one day, a chair at Yale or Harvard--that means to
teach in a university--" he broke off, in explanation.
Fran held out her swinging foot, and examined the dusty shoe. "Oh,"
she said in a relieved tone, "I was afraid it meant to sit down all
the time. Lots of people are ambitious not to move if they can help
it."
He looked at her a little uncertainly, then went on: "So it keeps me
studying hard, to fit myself for the future. I hope to be reelected
superintendent in Littleburg again next year,--this is my first term--
there is so much time to study, in Littleburg. After next year, I'll
try for something bigger; just keep working my way up and up--"
He had not meant to tell her about himself, but Fran's manner of
lifting her head to look at him, as he finished each phrase, had
beguiled him to the next. The applause in her eyes warmed his heart.
"You see," said Abbott with a deprecatory smile, "I want to make
myself felt in the world."
Fran's eyes shone with an unspoken "Hurrah!" and as he met her gaze,
he felt a thrill of pleasure from the impression that he was what she
wanted him to be.
Fran allowed his soul to bathe a while in divine eye-beams of
flattering approval, then gave him a little sting to bring him to
life. "You are pretty old, not to be married," she remarked. "I hope
you won't find some woman to put an end to your high intentions, but
men generally do. Men fall in love, and when they finally pull
themselves out, they've lost sight of the shore they were headed for."
A slight color stole to Abbott's face. In fact, he was rather hard
hit. This wandering child was no doubt a witch. He looked in the
direction of the tent, as if to escape the weaving of her magic. But
he only said, "That sounds--er--practical."
"Yes," said Fran, wondering who "the woman" was, "if you can't be
practical, there's no use to be. Well, I can see you now, at the head
of some university--you'll make it, because you're so much like me.
Why, when they first began teaching me to feed--Good gracious! What
_am_ I talking about?" She hurried on, as if to cover her confusion.
"But I haven't got as far in books as you have, so I'm not religious."
"Books aren't religion," he remonstrated, then added with unnecessary
gentleness, "Little Nonpareil! What an idea!"
"Yes, books are," retorted Fran, shaking back her hair, swinging her
foot, and twisting her body impatiently. "That's the only kind of
religion I know anything about--just books, just doctrines; what you
ought to believe and how you ought to act--all nicely printed and
bound between covers. Did you ever meet any religion outside of a
book, moving up and down, going about in the open?"
He answered in perfect confidence, "Mr. Gregory lives his religion
daily--the kind that helps people, that makes the unfortunate happy."
Fran was not hopeful. "Well, I've come all the way from New York to
see him. I hope he can make me happy. I'm certainly unfortunate
enough. I've got all the elements he needs to work on."
"From New York!" He considered the delicate form, the youthful face,
and whistled. "Will you please tell me where your home is, Nonpareil?"
She waved her arm inclusively. "America. I wish it were concentrated
in some spot, but it's just spread out thin under the Stars and
Stripes. My country's about all I have." She broke off with a catch in
her voice--she tried to laugh, but it was no use.
The high moon which had been obscured by gathering cloud banks, found
an opening high above the fringe of woods, and cast a shining glow
upon her face, and touched her figure as with silver braid. Out of
this light looked Fran's eyes as dark as deepest shadows, and out of
the unfathomable depths of her eyes glided two tears as pure as their
source in her heart.
Suddenly it came to Abbott Ashton that he understood the language of
moon, watching woods, meadow-lands, even the gathering rain-clouds;
all spoke of the universal brotherhood of man with nature; a
brotherhood including the most ambitious superintendent of schools and
a homeless Nonpareil; a brotherhood to be confirmed by the clasping of
sincere hands. There was danger in such a confirmation, for it carried
Abbott beyond the limits that mark a superintendent's confines.
As he stood on the bridge, holding Fran's hand in a warm and
sympathetic pressure, he was not unlike one on picket-service who
slips over the trenches to hold friendly parley with the enemy. Abbott
did not know there was any danger in this brotherly handclasp; but
that was because he could not see a fleshy and elderly lady slowly
coming down the hill. As superintendent, he should doubtless have
considered his responsibilities to the public; he did consider them
when the lady, breathless and severe, approached the bridge, while
every pound of her ample form cast its weight upon the seal of her
disapproving, low-voiced and significant, "Good evening,
_Professor_ Ashton."
Fran whistled.
The lady heard, but she swept on without once glancing back. There was
in her none of that saline tendency that made of Lot a widower; the
lady desired to see no more.
Fran opened her eyes at Abbott to their widest extent, as she demurely
asked, "How cold is it? My thermometer is frozen."
The young man did not betray uneasiness, though he was really alarmed,
for his knowledge of the fleshy lady enabled him to foresee gathering
clouds more sinister than those overhead. The obvious thing to be done
was to release the slender hand; he did so rather hastily.
"Have I got you into trouble?" Fran asked, with her elfish laugh. "If
so, we'll be neighbors, for that's where I live. Who was she?"
"Miss Sapphira Clinton," he answered as, by a common impulse, they
began walking toward Hamilton Gregory's house. "Bob Clinton's sister,
and my landlady." The more Abbott thought of his adventure, the darker
it grew; before they, reached their destination, it had become a deep
gray.
"Do you mean the 'Brother Clinton' that couldn't get 'through'?"
"Yes....He's the chairman of the School Board."
"Ah!" murmured Fran comprehendingly. At Gregory's gate, she said, "Now
you run back to the tent and I'll beard the lion by myself. I know it
has sharp teeth, but I guess it won't bite me. Do try to get back to
the tent before the meeting's over. Show yourself there. Parade up and
down the aisles."
He laughed heartily, all the sorrier for her because he found himself
in trouble.
"It was fun while it lasted, wasn't it!" Fran exclaimed, with a sudden
gurgle.
"Part of it was," he admitted. "Good-by, then, little Nonpareil."
He held out his hand.
"No, sir!" cried Fran, clasping her hands behind her. "That's what got
you into trouble. Good-by. Run for it!"