WHO SHALL EXPLAIN IT?
Let me begin by saying that I was never a believer in signs, omens, orthe general superstitions which, it must be admitted, influence mostpeople to a greater or less degree. I have been the thirteenth guestat more than one table, without my appetite being affected; I havetipped over my salt-cellar without a twinge of fear; I have neverturned aside to avoid passing under a leaning ladder, and I do not carea jot whether the first glimpse of the new moon is over my right orleft shoulder.
I had a little boy Bob, who was fourteen years old on the lastanniversary of American independence. Being our only son, his motherand myself held him close to our hearts. In fact, I am sure no littlefellow was ever regarded with more affectionate love than our Bob. Thepainful story which, with much hesitation, I have set out to tell isone, therefore, that no member of our little family can ever forget.
We always tried to act the part of sensible parents toward our littleboy. He never stepped inside of a school-house until he was sevenyears old, and, when he did so, it was to stay only a brief while. Itwas six months before he became acquainted with every letter of thealphabet, and no youngster of his years ever ruined more clothing thanhe. The destruction of shoes, hats, and trousers was enough tobankrupt many a father, and it often provoked a protest from hismother. I have seen him, within a half hour after having his facescrubbed until it shone like an apple, present himself in such raggedattire and with so soiled a countenance, that it took a second glanceto identify him.
And yet, as I sit here writing by the evening lamp, I am glad to recallthat I never scolded Bob. I would have been sadly neglectful of myduty had I failed to reprove and advise him, and I am sure he honestlystrove to obey my wishes; but the sum and substance of it all was, hecouldn't do it. He was a vigorous little fellow, overrunning withanimal spirits, high health, and mischief; and it was a pleasure to meto see him laying the firm foundation of a lusty constitution, which,in later years, could laugh at disease.
And then when he did take a start in his studies, he advanced with aspeed that astonished his teacher. At the age of twelve there was nota girl or boy in school (and some of them were several years older thanhe) who could hold his own with him. I took some credit to myself forall this, for I believed it was largely due to the common-sense I usedin his early youth. The foundation was strong and secure, and thebuilding erected upon it was upon solid rock.
During the last two or three years I suffered from a great fear.Between the school-house and our home was a mill-pond, which in manyplaces was fully a dozen feet deep. I knew what a temptation this wasto the boys during the long, sultry summer weather, and there was not aday when a dozen youngsters, more or less, were not frolicking andsplashing in it.
One afternoon, when I sauntered thither, I found fully a score of themin the height of enjoyment, and the wildest and most reckless fellowwas my Bob. When he observed me standing on the shore he was soanxious to astonish me that he ventured into the water up to his chin,I shouted to him to come to shore, for he was in fearful peril, and itneeded only a few inches further advance for him to drown before helpcould reach him.
"Bob," said I, in a voice and manner that could not be mistaken, "ifyou ever do that again I'll whip you within an inch of your life."
"I won't, pop," he replied, in such meek tones that, parent-like, myheart reproached me at once.
"Now," I added more gently, "every boy ought to learn to swim, anduntil he is able to do so, he should keep out of deep water. If youwill promise me that you will never venture into a depth above yourwaist until a good swimmer, you may bathe here; otherwise you shallnever come near it."
He gave me his promise, and, telling him that he had been in the waterlong enough for that afternoon, I asked him to dress himself and comehome with me.
I felt that I had been weak. I ought to have forbidden him ever toenter the mill-pond unless in my company, and thus that which followednever could have occurred. I did not tell his mother what had takenplace, for I knew she would insist on a strict prohibition of hisaimless swimming efforts.
To tell the truth, there were two reasons why I did not forbid Bob toenter the mill-pond. I knew it would be the most cruel kind ofpunishment, and, I may as well confess it, I didn't believe the boywould obey me if he gave the pledge. The temptation was too strong tobe resisted. Alas! how often our affection closes our eyes to theplainest duty!
And now I have reached a point which prompts me to ask the question atthe head of this sketch, "Who Shall Explain It?" I have my own theory,which I shall submit, with no little diffidence, later on.
It was on Saturday afternoon, the ninth of last August, that I became avictim to a greater depression of spirits than I had known for years.I felt nothing of it during the forenoon, but it began shortly afterthe midday meal and became more oppressive with each passing minute. Isat down at my desk and wrote for a short time. I continually sighedand drew deep inspirations, which gave me no relief. It was as if agreat and increasing weight were resting on my chest. Had I beensuperstitious, I would have declared that I was on the eve of somedreadful calamity.
Writing became so difficult and distasteful that I threw down my pen,sprang from my chair, and began rapidly pacing up and down the room.My wife had gone to the city that morning to visit her relatives, andwas not to return until the following day; so I was alone, with onlytwo servants in the house.
I couldn't keep the thoughts of Bob out of my mind. Saturday being aholiday, I had allowed him to go off to spend the afternoon as hechose; and, as it was unusually warm, there was little doubt where andhow he was spending it. He would strike a bee-line for that shadymill-pond, and they would spend hours plashing in its cool anddelicious depths.
I looked at the clock; it was a few minutes past five, and Bob ought tohave been home long ago. What made him so late?
My fear was growing more intense every minute. The boy was in my mindcontinually to the exclusion of everything else. Despite all myphilosophy and rigid common-sense, the conviction was fastening on methat something dreadful had befallen him.
And what was that something? He had been drowned in the mill-pond. Iglanced out of the window, half expecting to see a party bearing thelifeless body homeward. Thank Heaven, I was spared that woful sight,but I discerned something else that sent a misgiving pang through me.
It was Mrs. Clarkson, our nearest neighbor, rapidly approaching, as ifthe bearer of momentous tidings.
"She has come to tell me that Bob is drowned," I gasped, as my heartalmost ceased its beating.
I met her on the threshold, with a calmness of manner which belied thetumult within. Greeting her courteously, I invited her inside, statingthat my wife was absent.
"I thank you," she said, "but it is not worth while. I thought I oughtto come over and tell you."
"Tell me what?" I inquired, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Why, about the awful dream I had last night."
I was able to smile faintly, and was partly prepared for what wascoming.
"I am ready to hear it, Mrs. Clarkson."
"Why, you know it was Friday night, and I never had a dream on a Fridaynight that didn't come true--never! Where's Bob?" she abruptly asked,peering around me, as if to learn whether he was in the hall.
"He's off somewhere at play."
"Oh, Mr. Havens, you'll never see him alive again!"
Although startled in spite of myself, I was indignant.
"Have you any positive knowledge, Mrs. Clarkson, on the matter?"
"Certainly I have; didn't I just tell you about my dream?"
"A fudge for your dream!" I exclaimed, impatiently; "I don't believe inany such nonsense."
"I pity you," she said, though why I should be pitied on that accountis hard to understand.
"But what was your dream?"
"I saw your Bob brought home drowned. Oh, I can see him now," sheadded, speaking rapidly, and making a movement as if to wring herhands; "hi
s white face--his dripping hair and clothes--his half-closedeyes--it was dreadful; it will break his mother's heart--"
"Mrs. Clarkson, did you come here to tell me _that_?"
"Why, of course I did; I felt it was my duty to prepare you--"
"Good day," I answered, sharply, closing the door and hastily enteringmy study.
She had given me a terrible shock. My feelings were in a tumultdifficult to describe. My philosophy, my self-command, my hard senseand scepticism were scattered to the winds, I had fought against theawful fear, and was still fighting when my neighbor called; but hervisit had knocked every prop from beneath me.
She had hardly disappeared when I was hurrying through the woods by theshortest route to the mill-pond. I knew Bob had been there, and allthat I expected to find was his white, ghastly body in the cold, crueldepths.
"Oh, my boy!" I wailed, "I am to blame for your death! I never shouldhave permitted you to run into such danger. I should have gone withyou and taught you to swim--I can never forgive myself for this--never,never, never. It will break your mother's heart--mine is alreadybroken--"
"_Pop, just watch me_!"
Surely that was the voice of my boy! I turned my head like a flash,and there he was, with his hands together over his head, and in the actof diving into the mill-pond. Down he went with a splash, his headquickly reappearing, as he flirted the hair and water out of his eyes,and struck out for the middle of the pond.
"What are you doing, Bob?"
"You just wait and see, pop."
And what did that young rascal do but swim straight across that pondand then turn about and swim back again, without pausing for breath?Not only that, but, when in the very deepest portion, he dove, floatedon his back, trod water, and kicked up his heels like a frisky colt.
"How's that, pop? You didn't know I could swim, did you?" he asked, ashe came smilingly up the bank.
"I had no idea of such a thing," I replied, my whole being flutteringwith gratitude and delight; "I think I'll have to reward you for that."
And when he had donned his clothes, and we started homeward, I slippeda twisted bank-bill into his hands. I am really ashamed to tell itsdenomination, and Bob and I never hinted anything about it to hismother.
And now as to the question, Who shall explain it? I think I can. Ihave a weakness for boiled beef and cabbage. The meat is healthfulenough, but, as every one knows, or ought to know, cabbage, althoughone of the most digestible kinds of food when raw, is just the oppositein a boiled state. I knew the consequences of eating it, but in theabsence of my good wife that day I disposed of so much that I deservedthe oppressive indigestion that followed.
That fact, I am convinced, fully explains the dreadful "presentiment"which made me so miserable all the afternoon.
On our way home we passed the house of Mrs. Clarkson. I could notforbear stopping and ringing her bell. She answered it in person.
"Mrs. Clarkson, Bob is on his way home from swimming, and I thought Iwould let him hear about that wonderful dream--"
But the door was slammed in my face.
I said at the opening of this sketch that I "had" a boy named Bob. Godbe thanked, I have him yet, and no lustier, brighter, or more manlyyouth ever lived, and my prayer is that he may be spared to soothe thedeclining years of his father and mother, whose love for him is beyondthe power of words to tell.
The Jungle Fugitives: A Tale of Life and Adventure in India Page 39
