"Harriet," I said, "there are some things in this world beyond human remedy."
Two evenings later I was surprised to see the Scotch Preacher drive up to my gate and hastily tie his horse.
"David," said he, "there"s bad business afoot. A lot of the young fellows in Swan Hill are planning a raid on Old Toombs"s hedge. They are coming down to-night."
I got my hat and jumped in with him. We drove up the hilly road and out around Old Toombs"s farm and thus came, near to the settlement. I had no conception of the bitterness that the lawsuit had engendered.
"Where once you start men hating one another," said the Scotch Preacher, "there"s utterly no end of it."
I have seen our Scotch Preacher in many difficult places, but never have I seen him rise to greater heights than he did that night. It is not in his preaching that Doctor McAlway excels, but what a power he is among men! He was like some stern old giant, standing there and holding up the portals of civilization. I saw men melt under his words like wax; I saw wild young fellows subdued into quietude; I saw unwise old men set to thinking.
"Man, man," he"d say, lapsing in his earnestness into the broad Scotch accent of his youth, "you canna" mean plunder, and destruction, and riot! You canna! Not in this neighbourhood!"
"What about Old Toombs?" shouted one of the boys.
I never shall forget how Doctor McAlway drew himself up nor the majesty that looked from his eye.
"Old Toombs!" he said in a voice that thrilled one to the bone, "Old Toombs! Have you no faith, that you stand in the place of Almighty G.o.d and measure punishments?"
Before we left it was past midnight and we drove home, almost silent, in the darkness.
"Doctor McAlway," I said, "if Old Toombs could know the history of this night it might change his point of view."
"I doot it," said the Scotch Preacher. "I doot it."
The night pa.s.sed serenely; the morning saw Old Toombs"s hedge standing as gorgeous as ever. The community had again stepped aside and let Old Toombs have his way: they had let him alone, with all his great barns, his wide acres and his wonderful hedge. He probably never even knew what had threatened him that night, nor how the forces of religion, of social order, of neighbourliness in the community which he despised had, after all, held him safe. There is a supreme faith among common people--it is, indeed, the very taproot of democracy--that although the unfriendly one may persist long in his power and arrogance, there is a moving Force which commands events.
I suppose if I were writing a mere story I should tell how Old Toombs was miraculously softened at the age of sixty-eight years, and came into new relationships with his neighbours, or else I should relate how the mills of G.o.d, grinding slowly, had crushed the recalcitrant human atom into dust.
Either of these results conceivably might have happened--all things are possible--and being ingeniously related would somehow have answered a need in the human soul that the logic of events be constantly and conclusively demonstrated in the lives of individual men and women.
But as a matter of fact, neither of these things did happen in this quiet community of ours. There exists, a.s.suredly, a logic of events, oh, a terrible, irresistible logic of events, but it is careless of the span of any one man"s life. We would like to have each man enjoy the sweets of his own virtues and suffer the lash of his own misdeeds--but it rarely so happens in life. No, it is the community which lives or dies, is regenerated or marred by the deeds of men.
So Old Toombs continued to live. So he continued to buy more land, raise more cattle, collect more interest, and the wonderful hedge continued to flaunt its marvels still more notably upon the country road. To what end? Who knows? Who knows?
I saw him afterward from time to time, tried to maintain some sort of friendly relations with him; but it seemed as the years pa.s.sed that he grew ever lonelier and more bitter, and not only more friendless, but seemingly more incapable of friendliness. In times past I have seen what men call tragedies--I saw once a perfect young man die in his strength--but it seems to me I never knew anything more tragic than the life and death of Old Toombs. If it cannot be said of a man when he dies that either his nation, his state, his neighborhood, his family, or at least his wife or child, is better for his having lived, what CAN be said for him?
Old Toombs is dead. Like Jehoram, King of Judah, of whom it is terribly said in the Book of Chronicles, "he departed without being desired."
Of this story of Nathan Toombs we talked much and long there in the Ransome home. I was with them, as I said, about two days--kept inside most of the time by a driving spring rain which filled the valley with a pale gray mist and turned all the country roads into running streams.
One morning, the weather having cleared, I swung my bag to my shoulder, and with much warmth of parting I set my face again to the free road and the open country.
CHAPTER IX. THE MAN POSSESSED
I suppose I was predestined (and likewise foreordained) to reach the city sooner or later. My fate in that respect was settled for me when I placed my trust in the vagrant road. I thought for a time that I was more than a match for the Road, but I soon learned that the Road was more than a match for me. Sly? There"s no name for it. Alluring, lovable, mysterious--as the heart of a woman. Many a time I followed the Road where it led through innocent meadows or climbed leisurely hill slopes only to find that it had crept around slyly and led me before I knew it into the back door of some busy town.
Mostly in this country the towns squat low in the valleys, they lie in wait by the rivers, and often I scarcely know of their presence until I am so close upon them that I can smell the breath of their heated nostrils and hear their low growlings and grumblings.
My fear of these lesser towns has never been profound. I have even been bold enough, when I came across one of them, to hasten straight through as though a.s.sured that Cerberus was securely chained; but I found, after a time, what I might indeed have guessed, that the Road, also led irresistibly to the lair of the Old Monster himself, the He-one of the species, where he lies upon the plain, lolling under his soiled gray blanket of smoke.
It is wonderful to be safe at home again, to watch the tender, reddish brown shoots of the Virginia creeper reaching in at my study window, to see the green of my own quiet fields, to hear the peaceful clucking of the hens in the sunny dooryard--and Harriet humming at her work in the kitchen.
When I left the Ransomes that fine spring morning, I had not the slightest presentiment of what the world held in store for me. After being a prisoner of the weather for so long, I took to the Road with fresh joy. All the fields were of a misty greenness and there were pools still shining in the road, but the air was deliciously clear, clean, and soft. I came through the hill country for three or four miles, even running down some of the steeper places for the very joy the motion gave me, the feel of the air on my face.
Thus I came finally to the Great Road, and stood for a moment looking first this way, then that.
"Where now?" I asked aloud.
With an amusing sense of the possibilities that lay open before me, I closed my eyes, turned slowly around several times and then stopped.
When I opened my eyes I was facing nearly southward: and that way I set out, not knowing in the least what Fortune had presided at that turning.
If I had gone the other way--
I walked vigorously for two or three hours, meeting or pa.s.sing many people upon the busy road. Automobiles there were in plenty, and loaded wagons, and jolly families off for town, and a herdsman driving sheep, and small boys on their way to school with their dinner pails, and a gypsy wagon with lean, led horses following behind, and even a Jewish peddler with a crinkly black beard, whom I was on the very point of stopping.
"I should like sometime to know a Jew," I said to myself.
As I travelled, feeling like one who possesses hidden riches, I came quite without warning upon the beginning of my great adventure. I had been looking for a certain thing all the morning, first on one side of the road, then the other, and finally I was rewarded. There it was, nailed high upon tree, the curious, familiar sign:
[ REST ]
I stopped instantly. It seemed like an old friend.
"Well," said I. "I"m not at all tired, but I want to be agreeable."
With that I sat down on a convenient stone, took off my hat, wiped my forehead, and looked about me with satisfaction, for it was a pleasant country.
I had not been sitting there above two minutes when my eyes fell upon one of the oddest specimens of humanity (I thought then) that ever I saw. He had been standing near the roadside, just under the tree upon which I had seen the sign, "Rest." My heart dotted and carried one.
"The sign man himself!" I exclaimed.
I arose instantly and walked down the road toward him.
"A man has only to stop anywhere here," I said exultantly, "and things happen."
The stranger"s appearance was indeed extraordinary. He seemed at first glimpse to be about twice as large around the hips as he was at the shoulders, but this I soon discovered to be due to no natural avoir-dupois but to the prodigious number of soiled newspapers and magazines with which the low-hanging pockets of his overcoat were stuffed. For he was still wearing an old shabby overcoat though the weather was warm and bright--and on his head was an odd and outlandish hat. It was of fur, flat at the top, flat as a pie tin, with the moth-eaten earlaps turned up at the sides and looking exactly like small furry ears. These, with the round steel spectacles which he wore--the only distinctive feature of his countenance--gave him an indescribably droll appearance.
"A fox!" I thought.
Then I looked at him more closely.
"No," said I, "an owl, an owl!"
The stranger stepped out into the road and evidently awaited my approach. My first vivid impression of his face--I remember it afterward shining with a strange inward illumination--was not favourable. It was a deep-lined, scarred, worn-looking face, insignificant if not indeed ugly in its features, and yet, even at the first glance, revealing something inexplainable--incalculable--
"Good day, friend," I said heartily.