_*The*_* POTTER *_*and the*_* CLAY*
_*PROLOGUE*_
The Lieutenant’s small daughter was swinging on the railing of thedrawbridge that spanned the moat.
Her companions, two boys, questioned each other with their eyes.
"She says she won’t come," said the elder in what he fondly believed tobe an undertone. "She says she won’t play—"
"I never did! So there!"
The small girl wheeled about suddenly and descended from her perch andstamped her foot; her long, straight hair of an indefinite brown, shakenby the tempest the boy’s words had awakened.
"No; but you won’t," said Rob, promptly.
There was an ominous silence; but instead of the tirade the anxiouswatchers expected, a tear appeared on Cary’s little nose and quietlydropped into the waters of the moat. Cary was nothing if she was not abundle of contradictions. Johnny shuffled nervously from one foot tothe other, but Rob grew impatient.
"Well, are you coming?" he asked after the pause in which he had vainlywaited for Cary to smile again.
"No, I’m tired. I hate walking, too," said Cary peevishly.
"’Course not—to walk," said Rob, scornfully. "We can steal LieutenantBurden’s boat."
"You wouldn’t dare," said Cary, but her voice was tremulous witheagerness, and the tears she had forgotten to wipe away were stillshining on her cheeks.
"Wouldn’t I, though! Come along and see!"
Cary balanced herself carefully on one foot and considered. It wasn’twell to let Rob think she didn’t have to be persuaded. He had been socross too.
"I haven’t got my sunbonnet," she began. "And I’ve forgotten the gun Iput it in."
"I’d just as lieve hunt for it," said Johnny, politely.
"That’s just like a girl! You don’t need the old thing—anyway I thoughtyou hated it," retorted Rob, who did not fill the role of pleader.
"’Course Mammy Amy is ’way—gone for a week to see her grandbaby. Idon’t s’pose I really need my pinafore either—_if I go_!" TheLieutenant’s small daughter hesitated to watch the effect of the words.Rob apparently was not to be moved, so she buried her pride and backedup to Johnny.
"Please undo me," she said, calmly, and the older boy struggled manfullywith the holes and buttons.
"I’ll be right back—quick as a wink," and she flew over the drawbridgeback to the fort, her long hair and short dress blowing in the wind.She hid the pinafore under her arm, and when she reached the circle ofthe parade ground, she sidled up to one of the great guns captured inthe war, and surreptitiously poked the gingham roll down its mouth.Clothes were a necessary evil, but sunbonnets and pinafores were theworst and most evil things of all—and not to be endured when Mammy Amywas not around, and the big show guns offered such a safe and charminghiding place. It only needed coolness and care to accomplish the featwithout detection. Of course, a thing once buried in the heart of oneof the big guns was lost forever—which was just as well, thought Cary,being one less to bother her—since it was one thing to force thearticles down into the big black mouths and another to extract thesunbonnets and pinafores, even if she could have remembered whichparticular gun held which particular thing—which she could never do.
She hurried back to the drawbridge, and the sentry, who adored everyinch of the "Post Baby," stood at "attention" and saluted her with atwinkle in his eye as she passed him. Cary slowed her walk and inclinedher head graciously in greeting.
"Good evenin’, Jones," she said, innocently.
Then she rejoined the boys.
"Well, are you really ready?" said Rob, a bit crossly.
The Lieutenant’s small daughter did not deign to notice him.
"I think," she said, condescendingly, "_if I go_, I’ll go ’round by theroad way—it’s shorter."
The "road way" was a good deal longer, but it was out of the reach ofCary’s father and the fort.
She wiped her dry eyes on one of Johnny’s handkerchiefs—Johnny alwayshad more than one, while Rob and herself frequently went "shares" on astolen or a borrowed one—and then she raced Rob to the end of thedrawbridge.
Cary’s conscience was troubling her. She told herself it was herstomach and the lemon pie she had appropriated from the pantry shelf,but it was undoubtedly her conscience, mingled with a fear thatpapa-lieutenant or some of the other officers might loom in sight andinquiring into the project, carry her off.
Ahead, thirteen-year old Johnny was moralizing.
"Perhaps we oughtn’t to take her—she’s so little."
"She’s seven," said Rob, "and what’s going to hurt her?" He kept hiseyes away from the over-clouding sky.
"I don’t know—" said the cautious Johnny, "but—"
"I guess we can take care of a small girl like her. You’re thirteen andI’m eleven."
At the water edge, conscience spoke once more but was overruled when atJohnny’s question as to the judiciousness of her going, Rob declared shewas afraid.
"I ain’t afraid, so there! Robby Trevelyan! My papa never said I_couldn’t_ go!"
Cary majestically slipped into the stolen boat, and seated herself inthe bow. Johnny took the rudder and Rob the oars.
The boy was as much at home on the sea as he was in his bed at night.Indeed, more so, since he hated the one and loved the other with all thepassionate strength of a coast-child’s heart. He had been born ininland England, but had lived most of his life in western Scotland wherethe great rocks rise boldly along the coast—that coast intersected bynumerous sea-lochs, bounded by hills and separated from each other bymountainous peninsulas.
The burden of the deep sea’s song of eternal restlessness had become thecontrolling passion of the boy’s life. The wild freedom of wild livingthings appealed to him and fear was a word unknown. Not a nearby cliffhe had not climbed; not a nearby, darkened cave, formed by theoverhanging rocks, he had not explored. The Scottish folk forgot he wasan English lad as his skiff became a familiar feature of the westernsea-bound landscape. There was scarcely a Scottish boy of double hisage who could outstrip him in swimming, and when the hated books hadbeen laid to one side and the tutor had gone away for the summer months,old Mactier, a retainer of his father’s, had taken the child in charge,carrying him over to the moorland country and teaching him the meaningand the use of firearms. His mother had at first protested, butTrevelyan had only laughed. "Let the boy alone," he said, and hegloried with old Mactier at the lad’s stocky build, firm muscles andenduring fearlessness, knowing that in her secret heart his wiferemembered the traditions of her Scottish clan, and was glad.
Then Trevelyan’s wife had died. The home on western, rock-boundScotland had been closed, until the boy should grow to man’s estate andenter on his mother’s heritage. Trevelyan sent the boy to hissister—Johnny’s mother—living in east Scotland, and then returned toEngland. The sudden loss, the still more sudden change from the wildfree life lived on the western coast to the quietness of the life livedby the Stewarts, told upon the child. Mercifully, his healthy trainingwas stronger than the inroads made by childish grief, but his mind wasill at ease and homesick. He hated the flatness of this new easterncountry—the low and shelving coast. This was not Scotland to him. Itwas not the Scotland he had known. It was not Mactier’s Scotland—andhis.
His aunt was kind—overkind, her own children sometimes thought when shesat out all their bedtime hour on the foot of Robert’s bed, instead oftheirs—but "auntie" couldn’t understand. All the three children werekind but they couldn’t quite understand either. Johnny was undoubtedlythe best, but Johnny loved books as passionately as Rob hated them, andwould listen to his father discuss politics by the hour, if he only hadthe chance. Robert loathed politics.
Then one day Johnny’s mother had a talk with her husband. It ended inher giving up a London season and starting with Johnny and Trevelyan’sboy, for America. A long promised vi
sit to a life friend, who hadmarried a United States officer, was the excuse. It was not until yearsafter, when Trevelyan’s little son had grown to manhood that he knew thereal reason for that sudden ocean voyage.
The change had the desired effect. He met new people. He saw newthings. He watched new customs. He knew Cary.
But the wistfulness for Mactier was in the boy’s eyes now as he lookedover Johnny’s head in front of him, to the long stretch of low sandcountry he was leaving. He pulled with long, even strokes.
Cary was talkative.
"Is this—" she waved her arms intending to designate the new sweep ofcoast line and of water, "all this I mean—is it like England orScotland?"
"Something," said Johnny slowly. "It’s really quite like home—my home,"he added quickly, seeing that his younger cousin had stopped rowing andwas leaning forward with hurt eyes.
Suddenly, the boy drew in his oars, resting on them and allowing theboat to drift. "It isn’t like my home," he cried passionately; a wildthrill of homesickness surging over him, "It isn’t like _my_Scotland—one little bit! We have great big rocks rising out of thewater—not long beaches like this! And the sea beats and beats and_beats_ against them—it doesn’t just lap the sand as it does here—" theboy drew in his breath quickly, hurrying on, "And you haven’t got ourheather and our bracken, and our country isn’t flat—except the moorlandswhere Mactier used to take me to hunt, and even our moors are not likethis!"
He stopped suddenly; and he buttoned and unbuttoned his pea-jacket. Hewouldn’t for the world have let Johnny see his eyes, but Johnny waslooking at Cary. The child was leaning forward with angry face.
"You’re a horrid, horrid boy!" she cried, "You haven’t a single nicething to say about us or our flag or—or me! You’re impolite and you’redreadfully rude and I’ll never play with you again!"
Trevelyan’s boy continued to button and unbutton his pea-jacket. Hedidn’t care now if Johnny did see his eyes. Johnny saw them, too, andhe was frightened. One day, Rob’s eyes had had that look when theirtutor had threatened to strike him. He spoke hastily.
"Rob didn’t mean to be rude, Cary," he said; "but Rob’s home wasbeautiful—a great deal more beautiful than mine, and—and even morebeautiful than your home, and so you mustn’t—"
Cary’s anger melted like a mist before the sun. She slid to the bottomof the boat and then crept along to Rob on the rower’s seat. She pulledat his sleeve.
"Rob—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—really truly mean—"
Trevelyan’s boy shook away the child’s clinging fingers.
Cary drew back; her lips quivering.
"I’m cold," she said, for Cary never would have admitted that a boycould hurt her so, "I’m cold, and—and tired. Can’t we go home, Johnny?"
"Yes," he said.
"No, we won’t," said Rob, moodily, "the oars are gone."
The oars were gone—slipped from the locks when he had drawn them in, andin the excitement of the quarrel they had floated away. The two boysknew that the oars were not the only things on the surface of the deep,drifting out to sea.
Behind them a bank of storm clouds was gathering and a suddenstone-color fell upon the face of the waters.
The clouds increased in size and swept toward them, seemingly poiseddirectly overhead. Then they parted and the rain fell in a greatstraight sheet of water. The oarless boat tossed dangerously, and therain gathered in the bottom.
Cary, half rose, beside herself with terror. The storm had drenched herto the skin, and her long, straight hair lay, matted with the wet, closeto her small head. Her wide gray eyes looked out dark against thepallor of her skin.
"Sit down!"
It was Johnny’s voice. Mechanically, the child obeyed.
Once, years later, he so commanded her, and she yielded then as now.
She cowered in the bow and was silent. In the stern the elder boygrasped the rudder, forcing the boat for a time in the direction of thefar-off Point. The rough ropes slipped through his hands, in spite ofeffort, and tore them cruelly.
Trevelyan’s boy had crept to the bottom of the boat, the better tobalance it. The wind swept across his hair, forcing it back from hisforehead, as with a mighty hand. The joy of an unknown danger was inhis blood and the color was in his cheeks. The wild spirit of the stormfound a challenge in his eyes.
He was a being apart from the other two, and yet sharing their danger.The freedom and the peril were as elixir to his soul, and yet he neverlost consciousness of the wind cloud in the distance; and he knew it tobe as merciless as it was strong.
"Steer for the Point," he shouted. Johnny nodded.
They neared the shore. Then the wind came upon them and churned the bayinto a white foam. It turned the frail boat around as on a pivot,heading it for the open sea, and with the effort the ropes that held therudder broke.
The boys looked at each other. It was characteristic of both; it wascharacteristic of their training and their birth, that the sense ofpersonal danger did not touch them and that it was solely for the smallgirl they thought.
In the face of the older boy was a strong courage that soothed andsustained the frightened child; but in the face of Trevelyan’s son wasdefiance against the might of the storm, and the sea, and death.
He ripped open his pea-jacket; he unlaced his water-soaked boots; hestripped to his shirt.
"Keep the boat steady," cried Trevelyan’s son, "I’m going to swim to thePoint and get help!"
The older boy caught him by the wrist.
"You’ll be drowned. I’ll go!"
Trevelyan’s son shook him off. He threw back his head.
"I’ve swum double the distance," he shouted, "Anyhow, we’ll all diehere."
He balanced himself on the rower’s seat. Then he raised his arms abovehis head before he sprang. The joy of the coming struggle was in theboy’s eyes—the joy of testing his strength against the sea’s forces.
He dived. The boat, lightened of his weight, rocked, sprang higher inthe water and then righted. From the bow came the sob of a girl-child’sterror.
Trevelyan’s son rose, striking out for shore.
Cary and the elder boy watched him—even as they drifted seaward.
* * * * *
Trevelyan’s son was gaining. The fight had been a long one and a hardone. The rain had lessened, but the wind and tide had carried him aquarter of a mile below the landing he had intended to make. Histhoughts were growing disconnected. At first, he had only gloried inhis own skill; then he thought of Scotland—he could scarcely have toldwhy—and of old Mactier. Then he remembered Cary—and after awhile, hewondered if he had ever drank as much salt water before.
Then the wind changed. That was a help. Once he trod water, looking outover the face of the sea for a sign of the boat. He saw it. It was faraway and still drifting seaward, but it was upright and the coast boyknew that unless the storm began again, it could live in spite of thelong swells that bore it outward.
His arms began to get numb, and a mist—he supposed it was the rain—gotbetween him and his vision. The low banks of clouds on the horizon,too, assumed strange shapes. They looked like the gray crags at home.
Once his breath seemed to leave him and his arms grew suddenly powerlessand he sank. The emersion gave him new energy. The love of life, thewild thrill of fearless conquest, swept right over him anew, and hepulled for shore. After a little he raised his right arm and sounded.The waters were up to his eyes, but he touched land. He rose and struckout again, and again, and—again.
Then he waded in and stood upon the beach, his face turned seaward.
Trevelyan’s boy threw back his head and laughed at the waters and thestorm.
"I beat you," he shouted passionately, "_I beat you!_"
* * * * *
The Lieutenant was in his office. It had been a busy day of pettyannoyances and he was tired.
He leaned back in his chair and filled his pipe, packing it carefully.Then he lighted a match.
Some one fumbled at the door knob in an uncertain way; hesitated, andtried again.
"Come in!" shouted the Lieutenant. The noise hurt his nerves.
The door opened and Rob entered. His eyes looked shadowy by contrast tothe pinched paleness of his face. He walked with difficulty. His shortlegs got tangled up in the long coat he had gotten from one of the menof the rescuing party, and he stumbled over it.
The Lieutenant rose. The match burned down to his fingers and hemechanically tossed it into the fire. Then he laid down his pipe.
The short odd figure in the long overcoat advanced to the middle of theroom, facing Cary’s father.
"Cary—" he began, and then stopped a moment and cleared his throat. Itseemed still full of salt water. "I stole Lieutenant Burden’s boat andI took Cary and Johnny out. The storm came. I knew it was coming, but Ididn’t care, and I went. And I lost the oars and—" The salt waterfeeling came back.
"Cary?" asked Cary’s father.
Trevelyan’s boy shook the long sleeves away from his hands, which hepushed down into the great pockets of the coat, where they hunted aroundfor themselves. The Lieutenant was tall and Trevelyan’s boy was short,and he had to look up a long way before he could look him full in theface.
"She’s coming," he said, "and so’s Johnny. They both feel sort of sick,but I’m all right, and so I’ve come here. I thought we’d better have itover with."
"What?" asked the Lieutenant.
"Why, the thrashing! Of course, you’ll thrash me."
He came forward a step and swayed.
Cary’s father caught him as he fell and laid him on the lounge.
* * * * *
That night Cary was ill. The next day she was worse. She complained ofa sharp pain in her side and toward evening she began to breatheheavily.
At nine, when the post surgeon came again, she was burning with fever,and he shook his head when he listened to her lungs.
"It looks confoundedly like pneumonia," he told the Lieutenant who wasstanding anxiously by Cary’s little brass bed, and he went off to lookup a nurse.
The Lieutenant bent over the child a moment after the surgeon had left,and then he turned hastily away and lowered the lamp and shaded itsglare from Cary’s eyes. Then he went over to the window and stoodlooking out. Below him stretched the yard of his quarters. It wasCary’s playground. Beyond the garden lay the parade ground and furtheroff the other officers’ quarters. He could see Cary now, her long,straight hair flying in the wind as she tore by the flagstaff to meethim on his return from duty. Way off in the distance he could see thedim, dark outline of the Fort’s walls, and beyond, the strip of moonlitsea. He had used to carry Cary on his shoulders, when she was a baby,along those walls and she had used to clap her hands at the sunlightdancing on the water. Everything spoke to him of Cary. He turned andwent back to the bed and knelt down by it and buried his head close tothe child’s—so close that he could feel her hot breath on his cheek.
"I was a fool," he told himself, passionately, "to fancy I could carefor a little flower, but I couldn’t give her up after her mother died."
He rose presently and cautiously heightened the lamp and wrote a hurriedline on a scrap of paper.
"Cary is ill. Pneumonia. Mam’ Amy is away. Will you come?"
He signed the note and then crept down stairs and gave it to the coloredboy. The colored boy carried it across the parade ground to the housewhere the English children were staying and waited, as he had beenbidden, for an answer.
The Lieutenant went back to the window. He could see the house acrossthe parade ground from there, and presently he saw the shadowy figure ofa woman accompanied by his colored boy passing the flagstaff.
"Heaven bless her! I knew she’d come."
He went down stairs to open the door for her and it was not until he hadclosed it and turned to thank her that he saw it was not the wife of hiscomrade.
"Mary was away," the exquisitely modulated English voice fell on hisoverwrought nerves like a balm. "I took the liberty of opening thenote, fearing something might be wrong with your little girl afteryesterday’s terrible experience. I have come to nurse her. I know youwon’t send me away."
John’s mother threw off the long cloak she had flung over her shoulders.
"Really, Mrs. Stewart—"
"There—please don’t! I am the mother of three children—I once was themother of four," the English woman looked down steadily at her weddingring, twisting it on her finger, "I am the adopted mother of another—"She raised her eyes, smiling gravely, "We are all alike—we women; be weAmerican or English. Besides if it hadn’t been for my two boys Carywould never be ill now. Come, take me to her."
There was not a nurse to be found, and at midnight the post surgeonreturned, discouraged from a fruitless search.
A sense of order and exquisite peace seemed to permeate the child’s sickroom. It impressed him before he had crossed the threshold. A womanwas sitting by the little brass bed and he could hear her speakingsoothingly to Cary.
She turned when she heard his step and rose. He took in the situation ata glance.
"You’re a trump," he said, concisely, and went over to the bed.
"How is she?"
"Bad—very bad! Where’s the child’s father?"
"In the next room. He cannot stand seeing her suffer."
"Humph! Shouldn’t wonder. She’s the apple of his eye. You know wecall her the ’Post Baby’—have ever since her mother died."
"How’re your young rascals?" he inquired, when he was leaving. "Theyand the ’Post Baby’ here had a pretty time of it yesterday."
"God only knows what saved them."
"Well, I know. It was your two youngsters. They’re both game. TheQueen will have two good soldiers some day."
The English woman smiled.
"I left Rob in a perfect fury at the foot of his bed. He woke up when Iwas getting ready to come over, and wanted to come, too. He says Carybelongs to him. I threatened severe punishment, and—left him."
The post surgeon chuckled.
"He’ll risk that if he takes it in his head to come."
"I’m afraid he will. I left Johnny consoling him."
"The two of them called seven times this afternoon."
"I know—but I never dreamed Cary was really ill."
"Well—" The post surgeon hesitated, "I’ll be back after awhile and ifthe baby’s worse, I’ll spend the night with you."
He closed the front door softly; hesitated for an instant before herecrossed the shadowy parade ground, and starting to go on, stumbledover a dark object on the porch.
The dark object turned out to be a boy, who rose and pulled at thesurgeon’s sleeve.
"How is she? Oh! tell me how she is!" he asked. His thin, high bredface with the delicately chiseled features, showed out sharply in thewaning moonlight.
"Great Scott!"
"No, it’s only Johnny Stewart," said the boy, a faint flash of humorlighting up his pale face for a moment. "I couldn’t sleep—tell me—isshe—worse?"
"She’s a pretty sick little girl," said the surgeon, amused at thesituation. "Your mother has been expecting trouble from your quarter,but she rather looked for it from Rob."
"He’s asleep," said the boy, simply, "I sat with him until he went tosleep, but—you know I’m the oldest, and I’m responsible for it all." Helooked up gravely, self-accusing, in the post surgeon’s weather-beatenface.
"Well, you’re a pair of you!" said the surgeon, looking hard at theflagstaff. "Now, what do you propose to do with yourself?"
"You couldn’t slip me in, somehow?" pleaded the boy. "I’d stay downstairs and I’d be awfully quiet and I wouldn’t trouble a soul. Theremight be errands—" he broke off, "I’d like to be near her," he said."Do you think you could ma
nage it?"
The post surgeon thought he could, and the post surgeon did.
Then he started once more to cross the parade grounds.
As he passed the flagstaff and entered the shadows of the trees, a smallwhirlwind struck him. The whirlwind proved to be Rob. He was only halfdressed: his shirt being open at the throat and devoid of tie. Onestocking had been forgotten in his haste and he was hatless. Thesurgeon caught him by his hair and pulled him back.
Then the whirlwind developed into a small tornado.
"Let me go," he cried. "_Let me go!_"
"I’ll take you to the guard house if you don’t behave," threatened thesurgeon. "Now what in thunderation are you after?"
"Going to see Cary," said Rob, sullenly.
"You are, hey? Well, you’re not going to do anything of the kind.You’d scare any little girl into a fit. You’re going home."
"No, I’m not," said Rob, rebelliously.
"Yes, you are."
"I’ll come out again."
"Not behind locked doors."
"Yes I will, too, through the window."
"I’ll see to the window."
"I’ll climb through the transom."
He made a dive under the surgeon’s arm. The surgeon caught him by theseat of his small trousers.
"Where’s Johnny?"
"That’s the trouble—is it? Well, Johnny’s a different quantity fromyou. Johnny’s safe enough."
"Johnny’s at Cary’s house. I know it. I’m going, too," cried theyounger boy, passionately.
"If you make a sound, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life," saidthe surgeon, in desperation, retracing his steps across the paradeground.
"I’d scratch your eyes out if you tried to," said the boy, a flood ofcrimson sweeping his face.
"Well—look out that your noise don’t kill Cary," said the surgeon.
Trevelyan’s boy caught the surgeon’s hand.
"Indeed I’ll try to be good," he said, earnestly, "if you’ll only takeme to Cary."
Mrs. Stewart opened the door.
"Here’s one boy," said the surgeon grimly, pushing Trevelyan’s son overthe threshold, "There’s another in the dining-room."
"You’re a nice one to leave a chap asleep and then sneak off. Iwouldn’t have been so mean!"
Rob blinked in the glare of the dining-room lamp, and shifted from thestockingless leg to the covered one, "I didn’t think Johnny Stewart—"His voice rose.
Johnny came forward.
"Stop that shouting!" he commanded, "Don’t you know Cary’s very, verysick?"
Rob blinked again. It was a blink of astonishment. He had never seenJohnny quite so angry before.
"’Course I know she’s sick. That’s why I’ve come." He sat down on theextreme edge of a chair.
There was a long, long silence. Johnny sat at the big table, his chinbetween his hands and looked straight ahead of him. Rob looked moodilyinto the fire. Once the younger boy rose and went to the foot of thestairs.
"What you suppose is happening up there?" he inquired when he came back.
"I don’t know."
"Suppose she’s dying?"
"Don’t!"
The elder boy turned sharply and lowered the lamp that was smoking.
The long hours crept away. By and by the lamp flickered and went out,and the fire died down, and left only a heap of white ashes on thehearth. Then the gray dawn crept in and after awhile the gray wastinged with gold. Later, the sunrise gun boomed through the stillness,to be followed by the ringing notes of the reveille.
Upstairs, the post surgeon was leaning over the little brass bed.
"I’ll spend the night," he had said briefly, on his last visit. Therewere symptoms about Cary’s labored breathing and dry cough that he didnot like.
The child’s sleepless eyes and flushed face looked wan in the graynessof the early dawn.
As the hours dragged by, Cary became more restless and her mind began towander.
"Don’t let him, Johnny! Don’t let him! He’ll drown! He’ll dro——" thevoice rose in a shriek and then trailed off.
The cry had reached the children below stairs. A moment later and Rob,wide-eyed and excited, appeared at the sick-room door. He was confrontedby his old foe the post surgeon.
"Can’t come in here," said the surgeon briefly. "It—"
"Oh, but tell her I’m not drowned! Let me tell her—"
The surgeon took him by the shoulders and marched him down stairs.
"Is this the way you promise to keep still?"
The post surgeon was skilled in other arts than his own profession. Hehad appealed to the boy’s honor.
Trevelyan’s son flung himself face downward on the hearth rug and laymotionless. Johnny went to him and knelt beside him and touched him onthe arm. Something of Johnny’s childhood had vanished in the night,never to return. He did not say anything to Rob; he just continued tokneel beside him with his hand on his arm.
Presently Rob sat up. His wakeful night had not improved hisappearance. His shirt was a crumpled mass; his hair was disheveled, andone of his ill-laced boots was gone.
"She shan’t die!" he cried, passionately, "I won’t let her die! Iwon’t! _I won’t!_"
Johnny said nothing. Once, long ago, a little brother had died, andJohnny still remembered how vainly he had tried to wake him. Johnny hadseen death.
Upstairs Cary tossed in her delirium.
"Johnny, don’t make me keep still! I can’t keep still any longer! Thewater looks so cold—"
And so the day wore on. The dry cough stopped and the fever ran higherand the breathing came more labored, and Cary lay wide eyed andsleepless.
The children wandered like little ghosts through the rooms of the lowerfloor. They pleaded that they might see Cary once. The post surgeontried an experiment.
"The child’s strength is going fast for lack of sleep," he told Mrs.Stewart, "We’ll see what your boys can do."
He brought Rob in first, and Trevelyan’s son stood at the foot of thebed, and was silent as they had bidden him to be; but they could seethat he trembled.
Cary’s eyes, bright with delirious fever, rested on him for a moment.Then she started up in bed.
"It’s Rob, dear," said Rob’s aunt, bending over her.
"No, it isn’t!" cried Cary. "No—it—isn’t! Take him away; away—a-w-a-y!"
Rob let go of the brass railing and rushed impetuously to the littlegirl’s side and flung himself down by the bed.
"Cary! Cary! Don’t you know me? It’s me! It’s only Rob!"
But Cary shrank back from his touch.
"I’m frightened," she moaned.
The Lieutenant came and lifted the boy and took him from the room.Trevelyan’s son was crying passionately.
The excitement proved to be the worst possible thing for Cary. Thefever ran higher and sapped and sapped her strength and still she moanedand cried in her delirium and still sleep did not come.
"She can’t grow much worse and stay alive," muttered the post surgeon,"And something has got to be done."
He went down stairs in search of Johnny. He found the boy standing bythe window, his white face turned toward the sea. Rob, his passion oftears spent, lay sleeping heavily on the lounge. The surgeon touchedthe elder boy on the arm and motioned him to follow him. Outside in thelittle square hall, they faced each other—the skilled man of science,and the delicately featured English boy with the firm mouth.
"You’re going to take me to Cary?"
The surgeon nodded.
"Yes. She wouldn’t see Rob, but perhaps she’ll see you. I’ve an ideashe will. She’s been calling your name all day. If I take you to her,will you be very quiet?"
"I’ll be very quiet," promised the little Briton, gravely.
"And we’ve got to get her to sleep. Perhaps—"
The boy’s firm mouth quivered for an instant.
"Yes," he said.
The
post surgeon let him go into Cary’s room alone, and he motioned theboy’s mother and Cary’s father away from the bed.
The boy went directly to the head of the bed and stood there lookingdown at Cary. For a long while Cary did not notice him. But he waited.
The stillness of the room grew—broken only by Cary’s piteous moans.After awhile she became conscious of the boy’s slim figure at her side,and she turned her restless, feverish eyes to him.
Then he stroked her long straight hair timidly.
The moans ceased suddenly.
"It’s Johnny," said the boy.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of the child’s hot handsin his.
Then the terror of the delirium fell on her again. She sat up in bed,flinging out her arms and crying, and still the boy kept that firmpressure on her hand. The sustaining touch won her back from thethraldom of the fever and she threw herself into the boy’s arms and laythere, sobbing—sobbing.
The post surgeon nodded.
"I thought so," he muttered from the doorway, and beckoned the othersinto the adjoining room.
For an hour they sat there. Gradually the child’s sobs grew weaker;after awhile they caught their echo at long intervals and by and by theydied away altogether.
The shadows of the dying day crept into the sick room and the wanness ofits departing struggle was reflected on Cary’s small, pinched face. Shestill lay in the boy’s arms, quiet—spent with the effort of herdelirium. The boy sat rigidly mute, supporting her.
The day sank into evening and the post surgeon came in quietly from theadjoining room. The boy’s eyes met his as he entered. It was his onlymovement. Otherwise he might have been carved of stone. The boy’s eyessmiled and the post surgeon retraced his steps.
"She’s sleeping. The boy holds her life in his hands. If he can onlyremain motionless—"
Another hour slipped by. The post surgeon came in again. Cary wassleeping still, her whole weight resting in the boy’s rigid arms. He wasgrowing white with the strain of his enforced position. The surgeonlooked down at him.
"Can you hold out?" he asked, below his breath.
The boy nodded.
The post surgeon went down stairs noiselessly to the sideboard where theLieutenant kept his wines.
Rob sat up as he entered.
"How’s Cary? What time is it? Where’s Johnny?"
The post surgeon went up and laid his finger on Rob’s mouth.
"Cary’s sleeping. If you wake her, you’ll kill her. Don’t speak abovea whisper."
He filled a glass with wine and turned to leave the room.
"Where’s Johnny?"
"With Cary. He put her to sleep."
Trevelyan’s boy clenched his hands convulsively.
"Johnny—with—Cary," he said, slowly, and then something choked him.
He followed the post surgeon to the foot of the stairs and watched himuntil he disappeared. Then he went back to the dimly lighted, lonelydining-room and hesitated.
Suddenly a passionate cry rose in his throat, which he smothered.
He turned and flung himself on the lounge.
"Dear God," he moaned, "Dear God, be good to a little boy. I want todie! Quick!"
Upstairs the surgeon held the brim of the wine glass to the elder boy’swhite lips.
The enforced position had become an agony. Once, the surgeon saw the boybite his under lip until a drop of blood appeared. He got a pillow;two—half a dozen and supported the boy’s stiff back.
Three more hours dragged away, and then Cary stirred and woke. Greatbeads of perspiration stood out on her thin, drawn little face, but thefever had been broken in her sleep.
The boy’s grasp suddenly relaxed and Cary sank back on the pillow.
The Lieutenant helped the boy to rise; ending, by picking him up in hisarms and carrying him from the room.
He re-entered Cary’s room by way of the hall. By the light of the earlybreaking dawn, he saw something dark lying before Cary’s outer door.
He stooped over it.
It was Trevelyan’s boy.
*BOOK ONE*
*THE CLAY TAKES SHAPE*
The Potter and the Clay: A Romance of Today Page 2
