Chapter 8

ADVENTURE VIII.—IN WHICH CRICKET MEETS THE COLONEL AND THE YOUNG MISS

I LAY until after midnight groping in the mine of thought which Mr. Baker had laid open. It was a new kind of exercise, and, for one thing, after digging in my conceit awhile, I found a brain. It was not a large find, but there are some, surely, who go through life without as good luck. It was the most impudent brain I ever knew.

“You’re a fool and a coward,” it seemed to say to me. “What are you going to do?”

“Look for employment,” I suggested.

“That’s what I’m doing, and you’re the only one in the world who can give it. Try me.” And I did—thought it all over, and began to make rules for the regulation of my conduct. Thereafter I would be brave; no more skulking for me.

I was up at daybreak with a new tone in my voice. That morning I spent half of my money for a new flannel shirt and some fresh underwear. I felt very brave and careless when I started for Summerville with the village behind me. It was a walk of seven miles, and nothing happened except Sam, who had driven over in a buggy and come down the road to meet me. He was dressed up, and had a dreamy eye and a red face. “What luck?” I queried.

“Ain’t seen her yet,” he said. “Get in here. I’m so scairt I’m all of a tremble. You got through all right?”

“Yes.”

“So the old man said. Thought he’d die laughin’ ‘bout the potato-sack.”

“He cured me of being a coward.”

“Wish he could cure me,” said Sam Whitemore. “I ain’t afraid o’ man or beast, or anything but a woman.”

“Women won’t hurt you,” I argued.

“No, but they can make ye awful ‘shamed.”

It seemed very curious—the timidity of this big, powerful man. I had seen him handle a ton of wheat in five minutes.

“They all look dangerous to me,” he added. Then he sighed and exclaimed, “Heavens to Betsey!”

“Isn’t Fannie willing to marry you?” I asked.

“Looks that way, but maybe she’s only foolin’.” He shook his head nervously, and added: “If she was you’d see me light out. I wouldn’t stop runnin’ this side o’ Californey.”

“Don’t be afraid,” was my ready counsel. “She wants to marry you or she wouldn’t have asked you to come.”

As if inspired with new courage, he drew up the reins and touched his horse with the whip.

“I’ll ask her if it kills me,” he said, his brow wrinkling with determination.

Neither spoke until we entered the little village of Summerville. He left me at the hotel, where I was to wait for him.

“Goin’ up to see her,” he said, in low, half-whispered tones. “I’ll ask her to take a ride with me. Oh, I forgot! A letter come for you this mornin’; here it is. An’, say, one o’ them men that come last night said that he was a friend o’ yours.”

“A friend of mine!”

“Yes, but I didn’t believe him. I guess he was tryin’ to fox me.”

I opened the letter as he drove away and read as follows:

My dear Son,—I believe all you say, and am very sorry for you. It is a grief and a wonder to me that you didn’t turn back and let him go his own way when you saw that he was a law-breaker. You wouldn’t have missed the watch as much as you miss me and your self-respect. You remember what I said to you about taking up with people you don’t know. Since you have chosen not to follow my counsel. I presume you have found your own better than mine. If that is true, I shall need your advice, and will rely upon you to guide me in every time of difficulty. You have strong hands and have learned how to use them. You have many friends and a mother who will do anything she can for you. But we must reap as we sow. You should retrace your own steps in the wrong road and find your way back. God help you! Come as soon as you can and tell the truth, and be not afraid. Truth will beat all the lawyers. If you should be sick let me know, and I will come to you. Tell me where to send clothing for your comfort. I send a little money and much love.

That letter was a godsend. I was inclined to agree with Sam that women can make one “awful ‘shamed.” My young manhood really began that day. I put the money, which would have paid my fare to Heartsdale, in my stocking, and determined not to use it. I would find my own way back to her. .

An hour or so later Sam returned with a cheerful look.

“We’re goin’ to be married,” he whispered, as he almost broke my hand.

“When?”

“Next week, Monday, an’ we’re goin’ to Niagara Falls. It’s a big excursion, an’ costs only a dollar an’ sixty cents.”

Niagara Falls! The great water-hammers!

“I wish I could go with you,” I suggested.

“Come on,” said he; “we’ll have a grand time. But you must go to the weddin’—you’ll kind o’ steady me.”

I was thrilled by what lay before me, for now I should see the Falls and the fleet horses.

“If I can earn my board, I’ll stay where I am until Monday,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” said he. “I’m goin’ to see the landlord. He’s an old friend o’ mine.”

Well, within five minutes Sam got a job for me. I was to look after the billiard-tables, and to receive my board for my labor until we went away.

That evening an elderly man of distinguished appearance sat in the billiard-room.

“Who are you, my boy?” he asked.

I told him my name and where I lived, and that I was going to the Falls, Monday, and working for my board meanwhile.

“Ah, ha!” said he, stroking his white mustache and imperial, “so you’re from the land of Silas Wright?”

“Yes, sir,”

He asked about certain good people that he had known in my county, and then said: “This is no kind of work for you to be doing. Pack your grip and come home with me. You may share my room, and stay as long as you like.”

Well, the end of it was that I went home with Colonel Busby—that being his name—soldier, orator, philosopher. He and his daughter—a girl of about my age—were alone in the house with one servant.

“Jo,” said he to the girl, as we entered, “this is a high-stepper from St. Lawrence County, and a friend of mine. His name is Cricket Heron.”

The girl gave me her hand, and said, laughingly, that her name was Josephine. She was tall and slender, and I remember thinking that she had almost a woman’s look in her dark eyes.

After supper the Colonel said he was going over town and would return presently.

His daughter made me feel at home, and had pretty manners, and a sweet, girlish way of talking, and that charm of youth which has no suspicion of its riches.

First of all, I think of her mouth—perfect in its curves and color. Out of it came joy and careless words set in wonderful music. What a voice! Upon my honor, sometimes it was like a scale played on the flute. We all know the music—that ringing of the golden bowl of youth when Pleasure touches it, and know, too, how soon the bowl is broken. She sang and played upon the guitar, and talked, and this, above all, I remember: she seemed unconscious of herself and of her power over my foolish heart. We compared our knowledge of poetry and romance, our aims and ideals, our tastes and pleasures.

But the Colonel came not, although the clock had struck eleven. She suggested that I might wish to retire. It was a thought of her, and not of myself, that led me to rise and say that I was ready. She lighted a candle and showed me to my room. I went to bed thinking that, after all, my Mary was not her equal.

An hour or so later the Colonel’s voice awoke me. He was calling my name in a loud, imperative tone, and tramping about the house as if in search of me. I lay still, not knowing what to do. Soon the Colonel entered my room with a candle in his hand.

“Heron, you rascal, get out of this room!” said he, loudly. “Didn’t I say you were to sleep with me?”

Before I could answer he had gathered up my shoes and stockings and flung them into the hall. He took my clothing under his arm while I got out of bed.

“Forward, march!” he commanded, and I followed through the dusky halls to his bedroom in silence. I observed that he walked unsteadily, and I knew the nature of his affliction and felt some fear of him.

“Heron,” said he, with great frankness, “I want company—I need you right here.”

He sang loudly, as I helped him to draw his boots:

“‘’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.’”

In a moment he rose and seized me by the shoulders and crowded me against the wall, by way of demonstrating his strength.

“You are iron, boy, but I am steel,” he said, between his teeth, as he lightly thumped my head upon the figured paper. I made no answer.

The severe look in his face turned to smiles in half a moment. He showed me his wounds—a saber slash on his head, and a number of scars cut by bullets and flying fragments of shell. He asked me to feel his biceps, and I did so, not wishing to be impolite. Before I could step aside he had my head in chancery, and was making a new demonstration. The candle was knocked to the floor, and I struggled with Colonel Busby in the darkness, feeling a dreadful uncertainty of his plans. Soon he had pushed me into a corner, where I stood clinging to his waist.

“Unhand me, villain!” he commanded, and we released each other and I relighted the candle.

The Colonel took off his tie and collar, and as he did so whispered gruffly, and with a playful wagging of his head:

“‘How ill that taper burns! Ha! who comes there? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh. My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.’”

I saw that it was all a kind of harmless frolic, and soon he proposed that we “knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.”

We got into bed, and fortunately the Colonel soon fell asleep. I had rather a bad night of it, for he snored and muttered, and was, on the whole, an irksome creature. In the morning he said little, and sat with a look of sadness. He went into the garden after breakfast, and Jo said to me:

“I’m sorry my father disturbed you. I didn’t think he would do it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” I assured her, bravely. “I hope it doesn’t worry you.”

But I could see that my words had not relieved her unhappiness.

She went to school, and I spent the day writing letters—one to my mother and one to Mr. McCarthy, in both of which I set down much that I have tried to tell you. Then I composed a verse and engrossed it with great care. For such folly—praise God—I had always a keen relish.

Again that evening the Colonel left us, and I helped the pretty girl with her lessons, and we had two more wistful hours, the like of which one remembers with thankfulness and a sad smile. Where should I look to match them? Surely not in my own life, long as it has been. She sighed when I spoke of leaving, and a little tremble in her lips said so much to me—things rich with meaning and mystery.

“I’ll have to help in the kitchen next week,” said she, with an air of responsibility. “Fannie, our cook, is to be married.”

“Her name is Comstock?”

“Yes.”

“I know all about it—Sam told me.”

“Sam!” she exclaimed, with a look of contempt. “He kept her waiting three years because he hadn’t the courage to propose.”

Then I told her of my adventures, and how they led to Sam, and how Sam had straightway led me to her, or, at least, so near that we could not help meeting. I told her of our life at Baker’s, but said not a word of the letter—that seemed to me a sacred confidence. However, I did tell of Sam’s fear when he reached Summerville. She thought it very foolish of him.

“I should think that would be the best part of it—asking her to marry him and telling about his love,” said she, turning serious and feeling her beads.

“What kind of a man would you prefer?” I bravely inquired.

“Let me see,” she said, leaning her chin upon her hands in a thoughtful and pretty pose. “Of course, he must be good, and he really must be handsome and tall and strong and brave, and I want him to be a great man; and I am studying very, very hard so that I can help him to be great.”

I sat in silence for a little time, full of sad thoughts. I was neither handsome nor tall nor brave, but sometimes I had thought myself exceedingly good. As to becoming great, that was another respect in which I felt strong and confident. .

I was undersized—yes, a little undersized. I would grow some, however—possibly to six feet; who could tell? But—my face—there was no dodging that. It was plain, very plain, I could see that myself, and my hair did not curl and was too light, and my beard was not yet born.

Jo interrupted my thoughts. She began to clap her hands in a sudden outburst of enthusiasm.

“I have a grand idea!” she said. “We’ll give Fannie a little wedding here if father will let us. I think it would be great fun.”

For half an hour or so we sat, making plans for the wedding. Before going to bed, in the Colonel’s room, I gave her my horruck—an act of great generosity. I promised to tell her all about it if she could solve the riddle, and she said that she would try.

I went to bed, and the Colonel returned shortly, very bad. I had drawn his boots and remarked that he looked weary, when suddenly he rose and picked up a foil and began to thrust and parry with a hand raised behind him.

“Ah, you insult me, sir!” he hissed, as he danced on tiptoes in the attitude of a fencer, and drove me across the room. He stopped suddenly, his point on the floor, in a haughty pose, and demanded, “Will you have a blade, sir, and a bout with me?”

“I do not know how to fence,” I said.

“Ah—then you are forgiven,” said he, with a loving smile and a jaunty swing of his head. “But, mind you—mind you, I cannot brook an insult.”

Before the light was extinguished he sent his voice roaring through the still house in two lines of The Last Rose of Summer.

We got into bed, and as soon as I could decently do it I feigned sleep, to avoid conversation.

I lay thinking for hours after the Colonel had gone to sleep—hours, indeed, of fearful expectation. It was awful to room with a man like Colonel Busby, but, after all, it was a good schooling in bravery, and the time had come when I must be brave. I longed for perils, and for even a wound or two. If there should be a war I would enlist, if possible, and show her how brave I could be. Perhaps, if I became very brave and good and strong and great, she would forgive my lack of size and beauty.

In the midst of these reflections my companion lay groaning with nightmare, and this further thought came to me that, hard as it was to be his friend, it would be still more terrible to be Colonel Busby himself.

To such a hopeful state of mind my last adventure had brought me.