The next morning was clear and bright. Mr. Cabot, absorbed in his work,
spent nearly the whole forenoon among his papers, and when he saw Molly
in her little cart drive up to the door with a seamstress from the
village, he knew the day was getting on. Seeing him still at his desk
as she entered, she bent over him and put a hand before his eyes. “Oh,
crazy man! You have no idea what a day it is, and to waste it over an
ink-pot! Why, it is half-past eleven, and I believe you have been here
ever since I left. Stop that work this minute and go out of doors.”
A cool cheek was laid against his face and the pen removed from his
fingers. “Now mind.”
“Well, you are right. Let us both take a walk.”
“I wish I could, but I _must_ start Mrs. Turner on her sewing. Please
go yourself. It is a heavenly day.”
As he stepped off the piazza a few minutes later, she called out from
her chamber window, “Which way are you going, papa?”
“To the village, and I will get the mail.”
“Be sure and not go to Mr. Farnum’s.”
“I promise,” and with a smile he walked away. Her enthusiasm over the
quality of the day he found was not misplaced. The pure, fresh air
brought a new life. Gigantic snowy clouds, like the floating mountains
of fairy land, moved majestically across the heavens, and the distant
hills stood clear and sharp against the dazzling blue. The road was
muddy, but that was a detail to a lover of nature, and Mr. Cabot,
as he strode rapidly toward the village, experienced an elasticity
and exhilaration that recalled his younger days. He felt more like
dancing or climbing trees than plodding sedately along a turnpike.
With a quick, youthful step he ascended the gentle incline that led to
the Common, and if a stranger had been called upon to guess at the
gentleman’s age as he walked jauntily into the village with head erect,
swinging his cane, he would more likely have said thirty years than
sixty. And if the stranger had watched him for another three minutes
he would have modified his guess, and not only have given him credit
for his full age, but might have suspected either an excessive fatigue
or a mild intemperance. For Mr. Cabot, during his short walk through
Daleford Village, experienced a series of sensations so novel and so
crushing that he never, in his inner self, recovered completely from
the shock.
Instead of keeping along the sidewalk to the right and going to the
post-office according to his custom, he crossed the muddy road and
took the gravel walk that skirted the Common. It seemed a natural
course, and he failed to realize, until he had done it, that he was
going out of his way. Now he must cross the road again when opposite
the store. When opposite the store, however, instead of crossing over
he kept along as he had started. Then he stopped, as if to turn, but
his hesitation was for a second only. Again he went ahead, along the
same path, by the side of the Common. It was then that Mr. Cabot felt
a mild but unpleasant thrill creep upward along his spine and through
his hair. This was caused by a startling suspicion that his movements
were not in obedience to his own will. A moment later it became a
conviction. This consciousness brought the cold sweat to his brow, but
he was too strong a man, too clear-headed and determined, to lose his
bearings without a struggle or without a definite reason. With all
the force of his nature he stopped once more to decide it, then and
there: and again he started forward. An indefinable, all-pervading
force, gentle but immeasurably stronger than himself, was exerting an
intangible pressure, and never in his recollection had he felt so
powerless, so weak, so completely at the mercy of something that was no
part of himself; yet, while amazed and impressed beyond his own belief,
he suffered no obscurity of intellect. The first surprise over, he was
more puzzled than terrified, more irritated than resigned.
For nearly a hundred yards he walked on, impelled by he knew not what;
then, with deliberate resolution, he stopped, clutched the wooden
railing at his side, and held it with an iron grip. As he did so, the
clock in the belfry of the Unitarian Church across the road began
striking twelve. He raised his eyes, and, recalling the prophecy of
Amos, he bit his lip, and his head reeled as in a dream. “To-morrow,
as the clock strikes twelve, you will be standing in front of the
Unitarian Church, looking up at it.” Each stroke of the bell--and no
bell ever sounded so loud--vibrated through every nerve of his being.
It was harsh, exultant, almost threatening, and his brain in a numb,
dull way seemed to quiver beneath the blows. Yet, up there, about the
white belfry, pigeons strutted along the moulding, cooing, quarrelsome,
and important, like any other pigeons. And the sunlight was even
brighter than usual; the sky bluer and more dazzling. The tall spire,
from the moving clouds behind it, seemed like a huge ship, sailing
forward and upward as if he and it were floating to a different world.
Still holding fast to the fence, he drew the other hand sharply across
his eyes to rally his wavering senses. The big elms towered serenely
above him, their leaves rustling like a countless chorus in the summer
breeze. Opposite, the row of old-fashioned New England houses stood
calmly in their places, self-possessed, with no signs of agitation. The
world, to their knowledge, had undergone no sudden changes within the
last five minutes. It must have been a delusion: a little collapse of
his nerves, perhaps. So many things can affect the brain: any doctor
could easily explain it. He would rest a minute, then return.
As he made this resolve his left hand, like a treacherous servant,
quietly relaxed its hold and he started off, not toward his home, but
forward, continuing his journey. He now realized that the force which
impelled him, although gentle and seemingly not hostile in purpose, was
so much stronger than himself that resistance was useless. During the
next three minutes, as he walked mechanically along the sidewalk by
the Common, his brain was nervously active in an effort to arrive at
some solution of this erratic business; some sensible solution that was
based either on science or on common-sense. But that solace was denied
him. The more he thought the less he knew. No previous experience of
his own, and no authenticated experience of anyone else, at least of
which he had ever heard, could he summon to assist him. When opposite
the house of Silas Farnum he turned and left the sidewalk, and noticed,
with an irresponsible interest as he crossed the road, that with no
care of his own he avoided the puddles and selected for his feet
the drier places. This was another surprise, for he took no thought
of his steps; and the discovery added to the overwhelming sense of
helplessness that was taking possession of him. With no volition of his
own he also avoided the wet grass between the road and the gravel walk.
He next found himself in front of Silas Farnum’s gate and his hand
reached forth to open it. It was another mild surprise when this hand,
like a conscious thing, tried the wrong side of the little gate, then
felt about for the latch. The legs over which he had ceased to have
direction, carried him along the narrow brick walk, and one of them
lifted him upon the granite doorstep.
Once more he resolved, calmly and with a serious determination, that
this humiliating comedy should go no farther. He would turn about
and go home without entering the house. It would be well for Amos to
know that an old lawyer of sixty was composed of different material
from the impressionable enthusiast of twenty-seven. While making this
resolve the soles of his shoes were drawing themselves across the iron
scraper; then he saw his hand rise slowly toward the old-fashioned
knocker and, with three taps, announce his presence. A huge fly dozing
on the knocker flew off and lit again upon the panel of the door. As
it readjusted its wings and drew a pair of front legs over the top
of its head Mr. Cabot wondered, if at the creation of the world, it
was fore-ordained that this insect should occupy that identical spot
at a specified moment of a certain day, and execute this trivial
performance. If so, what a rôle humanity was playing! The door opened
and Mrs. Farnum, with a smiling face, stood before him.
“How do you do, Mr. Cabot? Won’t you step in?”
As he opened his lips to decline, he entered the little hallway, was
shown into the parlor and sat in a horse-hair rocking-chair, in which
he waited for Mrs. Farnum to call her husband. When the husband came
Mr. Cabot stated his business and found that he was once more dependent
upon his own volition. He could rise, walk to the window, say what he
wished, and sit down again when he desired.
Upon reaching home he went directly to his chamber, and was glad to
enter it without meeting his daughter. His reflection in the mirror
surprised him, as he expected to find a face thirty years older than
when it started for the village. But there were no outward traces
of the recent struggle. It was the same face, calm, firm, and as
self-reliant as ever. This was reassuring and did much toward a return
of confidence. He threw himself upon the bed, and as he lay there he
heard through the open window the voices of Molly and Amos in the
old-fashioned garden. They seemed very jolly and happy, and Molly’s
laughter came like music to his ears; but her companion, although
amusing and full of fun, seemed to do none of the laughing; and then it
came upon him that in all his intercourse with Amos he had never heard
him laugh. Ever ready to smile, and often irresistible in his high
spirits, yet he never laughed aloud. And the deep melancholy of his
face when in repose--was that a result of fulfilling prophecies? Were
there solemn secrets behind that boyish face?
The perfume of the flowers stole in through the closed blinds, and he
could hear the buzzing of a bee outside the window, mingling with
the voices in the garden. These voices became lower, the subject of
conversation having changed--perhaps to something more serious--and Mr.
Cabot took a nap.