Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  Mr. Blakie’s words were meant as much for him as they were for Jack, for it was not known that Tom had been taken off the vessel against his will. Jack did not breathe a word of this, and Tom was too proud to seem to want to slip from under the blame, and leave Jack to bear it all. Jack did not say in so many words that Tom had joined him in deserting the ship in the cutter, but what he did say would have led any reasonable man to infer as much. It is quite natural that a man should dislike to carry all of a load of blame on his own shoulders, and there is a great satisfaction in knowing that others share the burden; at the same time, it would have been a good thing for Tom, if Jack had spoken out and told the whole truth, for, as it turned out, it weighed in the balance against him when every scruple told.

  But at last the committee dismissed Tom, and he was free to go; little he cared then of their favorable or unfavorable opinion, for the time had come when he might go home.

  There was just time to catch the morning stage for Eastcaster, and in half an hour he was rumbling out of Philadelphia, mounted, pipe in mouth, on the outside of the Union stage, with his boxes and bundles safely stowed away in the boot.

  PART III

  CHAPTER XIV.

  IT SEEMED TO Tom, now that he was fairly on the homeward road, as though the wheels of the stage were weighted with lead, and as though the horses that dragged it crawled at a snail’s pace, for his hopes and his longing for home outstripped a thousand fold the rate of his traveling.

  To P., 18 M. — 14 M. to E.; to P., 19 M. — 13 M. to E.; to P., 20 M. — 12 M. to E. So passed the milestones in succession, and Tom counted every one as they rumbled by it. But at last it was 2 M. to E., and a steep hill lay in front of them; it was the last hill between him and home.

  Tom had taken the Union line of stages, which did not, like the Enterprise line, run on to Downeyville, but stopped at Eastcaster. The driver of “No. 3” was a stranger to Tom; old Willy Wilkes had heretofore driven the stage as long as he could remember.

  “Where’s old Willy Wilkes?” said Tom, soon after they had left Philadelphia.

  The strange driver let fly an amber stream of tobacco juice over the side of the coach, and answered, briefly, “Dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “Ya-as. Caught cold last spring and died in June;” then, with some curiosity, “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, I knew him,” said Tom, briefly. Here was the first change, and it threw a cloud over him; was he to find other changes as great? He had only been gone a year and a half, but it seemed to him as though it might have been ten years. There was a pause of a few minutes, and the new driver of “No. 3” looked furtively at Tom from out the corners of his eyes. Tom had not cut off his beard, and his hair had turned iron grey in the last five months; he knew that he was greatly changed.

  It was Tom’s beard that seemed to catch the driver’s eye, for folks went clean-shaven in those days.

  “I allow you’re from foreign parts,” said he, at last.

  “Yes; I’m from foreign parts,” said Tom, shortly. Nothing more was said between them after this. Tom sat buried in thoughts and the driver sat chewing vigorously at his quid of tobacco, looking steadfastly over the leader’s ears the whiles.

  So they began the slow climbing of the last hill; they reached the top of the rise, and then the country lay spread out before them, hill and valley, field, meadow-land and wood, all brown and golden in the mellow autumn sunlight. The houses clustered more thickly about the village, and over the rusting foliage peeped the white spire of St. James’ Church. A lump arose in Tom’s throat at the sight of the dear old place, and his eyeballs felt hot and dry. Then a keen and sudden thrill shot through him, for, away beyond the village and over to the right, he could see the yellow sunlight shining on the white walls of a house. Close to it stood an old stone mill and back of it was an apple orchard. Then Tom felt, indeed, that his darling was near to him.

  The driver gathered up his reins. “Click!” said he, and the coach dashed down the hill, and house and mill were hidden from Tom’s sight. So they reached the level road and went rumbling along it; they turned the corner and Eastcaster was before them. The scattered houses grew thicker and thicker; they turned another corner sharply and were in Market street.

  Everything was the same as when Tom had last seen them: trees, houses, stores, people, everything. Shipwreck, death, loneliness and misery had been around him for a year and a half, and yet Eastcaster was the same as though he had not come back to it through the valley of the shadow of death. It seemed strange to him that it should be so; it was as though he had left everything but yesterday. Here was Pepperill’s store, there the blacksmith shop. They passed Parkinson’s tobacco store; a number of men were sitting on chairs around the door in the sunshine. They looked up at the stage with dull interest. Tom knew them all, but not one of them recognized him. A little further along, on the opposite side of the street, was Mr. Moor’s office. As they rumbled by it, Tom saw that two men were standing at the window looking absently into the street; one of them was Mr. Moor, the other was Isaac Naylor. A thrill darted through him when he saw Isaac Naylor; it was strange that the sight of his former rival should seem to bring Patty so near to him. The two men looked at the stage as it passed, but they saw nothing, for their minds were evidently fixed upon other things. Mr. Moor was talking, looking anxious and worried; Isaac Naylor was listening, cold and impassive.

  Tom noticed this in the moment that he was passing.

  Then the stage stopped, for it was in front of the Crown and Angel, and Black Jim — the identical Black Jim that Tom had left a year and a half ago, who was standing out in the road, waiting the coming of the stage — loosened the straps at the horses’ necks. The passengers tumbled out from the inside, and Tom got down from the box, and stood looking about him. There were a group of loungers sitting along the tavern porch in the warm sunlight; their feet on the railing, and their chairs tilted back. Tom knew nearly all of them, but they did not recognize him; — he never fully realized till then, how changed he was in his appearance. Even Mrs. Bond, the landlady, who was standing at the door with her hands under her apron, did not know him.

  Some one came walking along the street and stopped, for a moment, to look at the stage — it was Will Gaines. “He’ll know me, at least,” said Tom, to himself, but he did not; he looked at Tom, but there was no other light than that of curiosity in his eyes.

  “Will,” said he, at last; “Will Gaines, don’t you know me?”

  Then sudden recognition flashed into Will’s face. He stood for a moment as though bereft of speech; then he strode forward, and clutched Tom by the shoulder.

  “My God! Tom Granger; is it — is it you? They said you were dead! I — I—” Then he stopped, and Tom felt his hands trembling as they lay on his shoulders.

  “Dead!” said Tom, after a moment of silence.

  “Yes, Tom; dead.”

  “But I’m not dead,” said Tom, smiling, and trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping over him.

  “Don’t! Don’t talk that way, Tom,” said Will; “don’t make so light of it. Your father had a letter from Lovejoy & Co., of Philadelphia. It was nearly a year ago, now; the letter said that your ship had been lost, no one knew how or where. Tom,” — here he stopped abruptly— “Come into the tavern, Tom,” said he.

  As they went up the tavern steps and entered the door, the loungers stared at them with wide-opened eyes. They did not recognize him, but a stranger was an object of interest in the town in those days. Will hurried him into the house, and Mrs. Bond showed them into the parlor. There was something so odd in Will’s manner, that the feeling of fear grew heavier and heavier on Tom’s spirit — the first words that he spoke, were:

  “Will, how’s Patty?”

  Will did not answer immediately, and Tom, glancing quickly up, saw that he was looking earnestly at him.

  There was a moment of dead silence, through which sounded the clicking of the dishes b
eing washed in the out kitchen of the tavern.

  “Will, how’s Patty?” said Tom, again, and he himself noticed what a sharp ring there was in his voice. “Why don’t you speak? What’s the matter? How’s Patty?”

  “Patty?”

  “Yes; Patty.”

  “Patty? Oh! Patty’s all right.”

  Tom looked at him very keenly. His heart was crumbling within him, though he could not tell why. He felt faint and ill, and leaned heavily on the table near him. He looked out of the window, watching Black Jim watering the stage horses at the trough in the stable-yard; then, without looking back at Will, he steadied himself for the next question.

  “I’m no coward, Will,” said he; “you see I’ve gone through enough this year to turn my hair grey, and I’m no coward now, if I ever was before. I want you to tell me the truth; is — is Patty dead?”

  “Dead! No; of course she isn’t dead. She was very much broken down when she heard of the loss of the ship that you sailed in; but she’s all right now, — well and hearty.”

  “And she’s not sick — nothing the matter with her?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tom put his hand to his forehead, for things were swimming around him; then he gave a short laugh, but there was a quaver in it. “You frightened me pretty badly, Will,” said he; “I don’t deny that I felt as though you were dragging my heart out by the roots.”

  “See here, Tom, you don’t look well,” said Will; “let me call for a glass of brandy for you.”

  “I don’t want any brandy; I wouldn’t mind having a drop of water, though.” There was a pitcher standing on the table beside him; he tilted it and looked into it and saw that there was water in it; then he raised it to his lips and took a deep draught of it. “What did you scare me so for?” he said, half angrily, turning on Will again.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Tom,” said the other; then he hesitated for a moment or two. “Look here, Tom,” said he, “you’d better go home; your mother has something to tell you. Your father was in town not half an hour ago; I saw him at Bradley’s blacksmith shop. I wish to heavens you’d been a little sooner; you might have ridden out home with him. If you’ll wait a bit, I’ll slip over and borrow uncle’s gig and drive you home.”

  “I don’t want to wait; I’ll walk,” said Tom. Then, “Look here, Will; what are you so anxious for me to go straight home for?”

  “What makes you think that I’m anxious?”

  “You ain’t answering my question, Will Gaines.”

  “I have no reason for wanting you to go straight home, except that I suppose your folks’ll want to see you.”

  “Is that all?” said Tom, looking sharply at the other.

  “Yes.”

  Tom looked at him a little while longer, and then he turned away. He did not believe Will, but he saw that nothing more was to be gotten out of him.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Will, presently, “you walk on out home, and I’ll go over and get uncle’s gig and drive after you, and pick you up. It won’t do to run in on your people without their knowing of your coming. Your mother ought to know of it before she sees you.”

  This was all very true, though Tom felt that Will’s plan was laid in order to secure his going home without stopping. He said nothing of his thoughts, however, but left the tavern, and started for home.

  He walked briskly along the dusky turnpike road, but there was a dull feeling of unhappiness resting upon his heart, for Will’s words, and looks, and tones, all told him that there was something wrong. So he came at last to the foot of the hill, where the turnpike road crosses Stony-Brook by the old county bridge. On the other side of the stream is a by-road that leads off from the highway and runs through the woods. Tom knew it well, for it was the old mill road, and led to Elihu Penrose’s house. Many a time had he walked it, and well he knew every bend and turn of it. The last time he had passed along it his heart had beaten high with love, and hope, and high resolve, albeit there was the bitterness of a coming parting lurking at the bottom of it. When he came to the spot where the mill road opens on the pike he stood still, and, as he stood, all the fear that had rested upon him since his homecoming seemed to gather and intensify into a dark and nameless dread. What had happened? What could it all mean?

  As his fears grew stronger his love waxed stronger with them. He looked back along the turnpike road — there was no signs of Will Gaines. Why should he go home, and not see his own dear love the first of all? “God bless her!” said he, with quivering lips, “I’ll not go home first; I’ll go and see her — my darling!”

  So he left the highway, and walked down the road through the woods. The brown leaves that were beginning to fall rustled beneath his feet, and the yellow patches of sunlight slid over his head and shoulders as he walked beneath the shadow of the grey trees along the roadside.

  Then he came out of the woods and into the open sunlight again. Now he was on the grass-bordered foot-path; on one side of him was the white dusty road, and on the other the mill-race, with the row of pollard willows standing along it. In front of him were the white walls of the mill-house, with the vines clustered around the end of the old well-remembered porch, just as he had seen them last. As he came closer he saw a slender girl’s figure sitting in a high-backed rocking chair, half hidden by the net-work of the vines around her.

  It was Patty.

  Tom’s heart gave a great leap within him; then stood still, and then began to beat furiously. He paused for a moment, gazing at her, his hand resting on the top of the picket fence in front of the garden; then he went forward again, but very slowly.

  She was sitting bent over some sewing that lay spread out on her lap. He stood for a second or two at the green gate that led up to the porch, and then he laid his hand on the latch. At the click of the latch Patty raised her head, and Tom saw that she, like others that he had met, did not know him.

  She arose and stood watching him as he came slowly up the path; his heart beating as though it would smother him.

  He reached the porch; — one step, — two steps, — three steps, — and he stood upon it and looked at her.

  Then he saw a strange frightened look come slowly into her eyes; she reached out her hand and laid it on the top of the rocking chair near to her.

  “Patty!”

  There was a space of dead silence, through which Tom heard and noticed the sound of rushing water and the clattering of the mill. He did not go a step forward, for, as he looked at her, there was that in her face that chilled him through and through — it was as though a gulf had opened between them.

  Her face was as white as death, and Tom saw the fingers of the hand that rested on the top of the rocking chair, quivering nervously. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and at last she spoke, but in a hoarse whisper, and so low that he could hardly hear the matter of the words:

  “Tom — Tom — Oh, my God, Tom! is that thee?”

  “Yes, Patty; it’s me! I’ve come back to thee after a sorely long time! Why don’t thee speak — why don’t thee say something to me? What’s the matter, Patty?”

  “Wait — wait — let me think!” said she, putting her finger to her forehead, “they all told me that thee was dead — they said that thee was drowned. Can dead people come back again?”

  “Patty! Patty!” cried Tom, “my own darling! tell me; what does this mean?”

  By this time the tears were running in streams down her pale cheeks; she made no effort to wipe them away, and did not seem to know that they were flowing.

  “What is the matter? — Patty, tell me,” said Tom, again.

  “Oh, Tom! I — I — am going to be married to-morrow!”

  I do not know how long it was that Tom stood there, staring blankly at her. His throat was dry and husky, and he felt the muscles of his face twitching every now and then. It was Patty who broke the silence.

  “Tom!” she cried, in a choking voice; “dear Tom! don’t look at me in that way — th
ee breaks my heart! Say something kind to me, Tom — speak to me!”

  “Who’s thee going to — who’s the man, Patty?” said Tom, dully.

  “Isaac Naylor. Oh, Tom! I was urged to it so that I couldn’t help myself. They all told me that thee was dead. Even thy mother said thee was drowned!”

  The muscles of Tom’s throat had tightened until he felt as though he was choking. He stood as though uncertain what to do, for a little while; then he said, “I — I guess I’d better go — go home, now; there’s no use my staying any — any longer.” Then he turned away and went stumbling blindly down the porch steps. He reached the gate and fumbled for a little while, hunting for the latch; then he opened it and went out into the road. There were a few chickens dusting themselves in the path; he stood looking stupidly at them for a little while, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Then he turned and walked heavily away, without looking back.

  CHAPTER XV.

  TOM GRANGER WALKED along, scarcely knowing where he was going. After a while he stopped and looked about him, and he saw that he was standing in the road not far from the highway. Around him was the silent woods; in front of him was the sunny highroad, about three hundred paces farther on. He felt that he could not go out into it just now. He flung himself down on the grassy roadside, burying his face in his arms, giving himself up utterly to the despair that was upon him. No sound broke the silence of the autumn woodland but the gurgle of the rocky brook across the road, the sudden rustle of the trees as the breeze rushed through them now and then, and the rattling of the dead leaves stirred by a breath of air.

  Tom lay heeding nothing, thinking nothing, for his heart was too full of the bitterness of his troubles to give place to aught else. How long he lay there he cannot tell; that which aroused him was the sound of footsteps coming down the road from the highway. Then he sprang to his feet, for he could not bear that any one should find him lying there. He saw that it was Isaac Naylor who was coming. Then Tom strode out into the road and stood directly in front of him, so that the other could not pass him.