She went, and although their conversation that morning touched upon
ribs and anatomy, it would, if taken as a whole, have been of little
value to a scientist. It was distinctly personal. The one sentiment
which appeared to have an irresistible fascination for the bull-fighter
and his fiancée colored all remarks, and the fact that the dialogue
would have caused them the most intense mortification if made public,
tended in no degree to lessen their enjoyment. To a middle-aged person
who had never been in love it would have been unendurable.
Later in the day she intercepted the doctor and learned as much as
possible of the patient’s condition. Two ribs were badly broken, he
said; had been pressed inward to a serious extent, but so far there
were no indications of internal injuries. Of this, however, he could
not at present be absolutely sure, but he thought there was no great
cause for alarm. The patient, of course, must keep quiet for a week or
two.
Fortunately for Amos there proved to be no injury save the damaged
ribs, but three long weeks elapsed before he was allowed to go up and
down stairs and move about the house.
The last day of August proved a day of discoveries.
It was bright and warm, yet invigorating, the perfection of terrestrial
weather, and Mr. Cabot and Molly, early in the afternoon, were sitting
upon the piazza discussing the date of their departure, Amos occupying
his favorite place upon the floor in front of them, his back against a
column. When she informed her father that additional trunks or boxes
of some kind would be needed, Amos said that such articles were going
to waste in the Judd residence, and if she would but step across the
way and select a few, it would be a lasting benefit to an overcrowded
attic. This offer was accepted and they started off. After climbing the
final stairs, which were steep and narrow, Molly seated herself upon an
old-fashioned settle, the back of which could be lowered and used as
an ironing table. “How I do love this smell of an attic! Is it the sap
from the hot pine? And isn’t there sage in the air, or summer savory?”
“Both. With a few old love-letters and a touch of dried apples.”
“Whatever it is, I love it. The days of my childhood come galloping
back,” and with upturned face she closed her eyes and drew a longer
breath. He bent silently over and touched her lips.
“What a breach of hospitality!”
“When a visitor insults a host by sleeping in his presence, it
is etiquette to awaken her. And when lips with those particular
undulations look one pleasantly in the eye and say ‘Amos, kiss us,’
what do you expect to happen?”
“From you I expect the worst, the most improper thing.”
“And you will always get it, O spirit of old-fashioned Roses!”
In opening a window he disturbed an enormous fly, whose buzzing filled
every corner of the roof. “To me,” he said, “this atmosphere recalls
long marches and battles, with splendid victories and awful defeats.”
“I don’t see why. To me it seems delightfully restful.”
From an ancient horse-hair trunk he brought forth a box, and seating
himself at her feet, emptied its contents upon the floor.
“This is why,” and he arranged in parallel lines the little leaden
soldiers, diminutive cannons, some with wheels and some without, and a
quantity of dominos, two by two. “These are troops, and if you care to
know how I passed the rainy days of boyhood this will show you.”
“But, what are the dominos?”
“They are the enemy. These lead soldiers are mine, and they are all
veterans, and all brave. This is myself,” and he held up a bent and
battered relic on a three-legged horse.
“And who are you in these fights, Goosey?”
“Napoleon, generally; often Cæsar and Frederick, and sometimes George
Washington and General Lee.”
“But you have no head. Isn’t that a drawback for a commander?”
“Not with troops like these. I lost that head at Quebec, as Montcalm.”
She looked down upon him with a wish that she also might have been one
of those absurd little soldiers and shared his victories.
“The cracks between the floor-boards,” he continued, “are railroads,
rivers, canals, stone walls, or mountain ranges, according to the
campaign.”
“They must have been a nuisance, though. Could not a soldier disappear
and not return?”
“I should say he could! Why, those ravines are gorged with heroes, and
that recalls the most humiliating event of my career. I was leading the
charge of the Light Brigade, six of these cavalrymen, each representing
a hundred men. I of course was in front, and it was a supreme moment.
As we dashed across the open field--the cracks, mind you, didn’t count
this time--I, the leader, suddenly disappeared, head downward, feet up,
in an open field! Of course the charge could not stop, and the others
rushed on to a magnificent death.”
With a sigh he gathered the motley company together again, and laid
them away in their box. She got up and moved about. “I should like to
live in an attic. It is mysterious and poetic, and so crammed with
history. Each of these things has its little story for somebody,” and
she stopped before a curious feminine garment in India silk, of a
long-ago fashion.
Pointing to a quaint old cap with ear-laps, she exclaimed, “What a
funny rig that is! Put it on.” And she took it from its peg and placed
it upon his head, then laughed and led him to a broken mirror that was
hanging from a rafter. “Unless you wear it in New York next winter, I
shall never marry you!”
“Then I promise, but at present it is a trifle warm.”
As he removed it a letter slipped from the lining and fell to the
floor. She picked it up and turned it over in her fingers. “Why, it
has never been opened! It is directed to Mr. Josiah Judd.”
Amos examined it, studied the date, then looked at the old cap. “He
wore this at the time of his death, when he had just come from the
post-office, and the Daleford postmark says December fifth, the very
day before. That is very curious.” And he stood looking down at the
letter, deep in thought.
“Why don’t you open it? You are the one who should do it, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Where is it from?”
“India. From Mr. Morton Judd, his brother, the one who sent me here.”
“Oh, yes! I remember. Is Mr. Morton Judd alive?”
“No, he died ten years ago.”
“Well, please open it, for it may be interesting. Come over near the
light.”
As they stood by the open window, leaning against the sill, he tore
open the envelope and began reading aloud, she looking idly out upon
some haymakers in a neighboring field. Their voices came faintly to
her ears, and they made a pleasant picture in the afternoon sunlight
with the village spires, the tall elms, and the purple hills for a
background. She wondered if India was at all like New England.
DEAR JOSIAH: The case ought to reach you about a fortnight after
this letter, and if you will write to Mr. Wharton, or better still,
visit him, he will see that there is no trouble at the Custom House.
Give my love to Sarah, but don’t show her the shawl and the silks
before her birthday, in January. What you say about the boy Amos
does not surprise me, and I was only waiting for you to make your
own discoveries. He gave clear indications when a very small child
of this same faculty in which his mother and the rest of his family
had great faith. In the box you will receive I send a book giving an
account of the Rajah Sirdar Sing, his ancestor, a hero of prophetic
powers who died ninety-eight years ago, so this boy, according to
tradition, should inherit the same supernatural faculties. Be careful
that he does not see this book before coming of age, as it might
put dangerous ideas into his head, and if he should suspect what he
really is great mischief might ensue. I am glad he is turning out
such a sensible boy. But if he should ever come over here and make
himself known it would cause a great disturbance, and might result
fatally to himself. Am sorry to hear about Phil Bates’s wife. She was
a fool to marry him. Your affectionate brother,