Rachel looked down at the little man.
"I am," she said quietly. "I guess likely he knows it."
Laban smiled. "The folks in Washington are doin" their best to help me out," he said. "They"re goin" to take the stuff away from everybody so"s to make sure _I_ don"t get any more. They"ll probably put up a monument to me for startin" the thing; don"t you think they will, Al? Eh? Don"t you, now?"
Albert and he walked up the road together. Laban told a little more of his battle with John Barleycorn.
"I had half a dozen spells when I had to set my teeth, those I"ve got left, and hang on," he said. "And the hangin"-on wa"n"t as easy as stickin" to fly-paper, neither. Honest, though, I think the hardest was when the news came that you was alive, Al. I--I just wanted to start in and celebrate. Wanted to whoop her up, I did." He paused a moment and then added, "I tried whoopin" on sa.s.s"parilla and vanilla sody, but "twa"n"t satisfactory. Couldn"t seem to raise a real loud whisper, let alone a whoop. No, I couldn"t--no, no."
Albert laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You"re all right, Labe," he declared. "I know you, and I say so."
Laban slowly shook his head. His smile, as he answered, was rather pathetic.
"I"m a long, long ways from bein" all right, Al," he said. "A long ways from that, I am. If I"d made my fight thirty year ago, I might have been nigher to amountin" to somethin"... . Oh, well, for Rachel"s sake I"m glad I"ve made it now. She"s stuck to me when everybody would have praised her for chuckin" me to Tophet. I was readin" one of Thackeray"s books t"other night--Henry Esmond, "twas; you"ve read it, Al, of course; I was readin" it t"other night for the ninety-ninth time or thereabouts, and I run across the place where it says it"s strange what a man can do and a woman still keep thinkin" he"s an angel. That"s true, too, Al.
Not," with the return of the slight smile, "that Rachel ever went so far as to call me an angel. No, no. There"s limits where you can"t stretch her common-sense any farther. Callin" me an angel would be just past the limit. Yes, yes, yes. I guess SO."
They spoke of Captain Zelotes and Olive and of their grief and discouragement when the news of Albert"s supposed death reached them.
"Do you know," said Labe, "I believe Helen Kendall"s comin" there for a week did "em more good than anything else. She got away from her soldier nursin" somehow--must have been able to pull the strings consider"ble harder"n the average to do it--and just came down to the Snow place and sort of took charge along with Rachel. Course she didn"t live there, her father thought she was visitin" him, I guess likely, but she was with Cap"n Lote and Olive most of the time. Rachel says she never made a fuss, you understand, just was there and helped and was quiet and soft-spoken and capable and--and comfortin", that"s about the word, I guess. Rachel always thought a sight of Helen afore that, but since then she swears by her."
That evening--or, rather, that night, for they did not leave the sitting room until after twelve--Mrs. Snow heard her grandson walking the floor of his room, and called to ask if he was sick.
"I"m all right, Grandmother," he called in reply. "Just taking a little exercise before turning in, that"s all. Sorry if I disturbed you."
The exercise was, as a matter of fact, almost entirely mental, the pacing up and down merely an unconscious physical accompaniment. Albert Speranza was indulging in introspection. He was reviewing and a.s.sorting his thoughts and his impulses and trying to determine just what they were and why they were and whither they were tending. It was a mental and spiritual picking to pieces and the result was humiliating and in its turn resulted in a brand-new determination.
Ever since his meeting with Helen, a meeting which had been quite unpremeditated, he had thought of but little except her. During his talk with her in the parsonage sitting room he had been--there was no use pretending to himself that it was otherwise--more contented with the world, more optimistic, happier, than he had been for months, it seemed to him for years. Even while he was speaking to her of his uneasiness and dissatisfaction he was dimly conscious that at that moment he was less uneasy and less dissatisfied, conscious that the solid ground was beneath his feet at last, that here was the haven after the storm, here was--
He pulled up sharply. This line of thought was silly, dangerous, wicked.
What did it mean? Three days before, only three days, he had left Madeline Fosd.i.c.k, the girl whom he had worshiped, adored, and who had loved him. Yes, there was no use pretending there, either; he and Madeline HAD loved each other. Of course he realized now that their love had nothing permanently substantial about it. It was the romance of youth, a dream which they had shared together and from which, fortunately for both, they had awakened in time. And of course he realized, too, that the awakening had begun long, long before the actual parting took place. But nevertheless only three days had elapsed since that parting, and now--What sort of a man was he?
Was he like his father? Was it what Captain Zelotes used to call the "Portygee streak" which was now cropping out? The opera singer had been of the b.u.t.terfly type--in his later years a middle-aged b.u.t.terfly whose wings creaked somewhat--but decidedly a flitter from flower to flower.
As a boy, Albert had been aware, in an uncertain fashion, of his father"s fondness for the s.e.x. Now, older, his judgment of his parent was not as lenient, was clearer, more discerning. He understood now. Was his own "Portygee streak," his inherited temperament, responsible for his leaving one girl on a Tuesday and on Friday finding his thoughts concerned so deeply with another?
Well, no matter, no matter. One thing was certain--Helen should never know of that feeling. He would crush it down, he would use his common-sense. He would be a decent man and not a blackguard. For he had had his chance and had tossed it away. What would she think of him now if he came to her after Madeline had thrown him over--that is what Mrs.
Fosd.i.c.k would say, would take pains that every one else should say, that Madeline had thrown him over--what would Helen think of him if he came to her with a second-hand love like that?
And of course she would not think of him as a lover at all. Why should she? In the boy and girl days she had refused to let him speak of such a thing. She was his friend, a glorious, a wonderful friend, but that was all, all she ever dreamed of being.
Well, that was right; that was as it should be. He should be thankful for such a friend. He was, of course. And he would concentrate all his energies upon his work, upon his writing. That was it, that was it.
Good, it was settled!
So he went to bed and, eventually, to sleep.
CHAPTER XIX
While dressing in the cold light of dawn his perturbations of the previous night appeared in retrospect as rather boyish and unnecessary.
His sudden and unexpected meeting with Helen and their talk together had tended to make him over-sentimental, that was all. He and she were to be friends, of course, but there was no real danger of his allowing himself to think of her except as a friend. No, indeed. He opened the bureau drawer in search of a tie, and there was the package of "snapshots" just where he had tossed them that night when he first returned home after muster-out. Helen"s photograph was the uppermost. He looked at it--looked at it for several minutes. Then he closed the drawer again and hurriedly finished his dressing. A part, at least, of his resolve of the night before had been sound common-sense. His brain was suffering from lack of exercise. Work was what he needed, hard work.
So to work he went without delay. A place to work in was the first consideration. He suggested the garret, but his grandmother and Rachel held up their hands and lifted their voices in protest.
"No, INDEED," declared Olive. "Zelotes has always talked about writin"
folks and poets starvin" in garrets. If you went up attic to work he"d be teasin" me from mornin" to night. Besides, you"d freeze up there, if the smell of moth-b.a.l.l.s didn"t choke you first. No, you wait; I"ve got a notion. There"s that old table desk of Zelotes" in the settin" room. He don"t hardly ever use it nowadays. You take it upstairs to your own room and work in there. You can have the oil-heater to keep you warm."
So that was the arrangement made, and in his own room Albert sat down at the battered old desk, which had been not only his grandfather"s but his great-grandfather"s property, to concentrate upon the first of the series of stories ordered by the New York magazine. He had already decided upon the general scheme for the series. A boy, ragam.u.f.fin son of immigrant parents, rising, after a wrong start, by sheer grit and natural shrewdness and ability, step by step to competence and success, winning a place in and the respect of a community. There was nothing new in the idea itself. Some things his soldier chum Mike Kelley had told him concerning an uncle of his--Mike"s--suggested it. The novelty he hoped might come from the incidents, the various problems faced by his hero, the solution of each being a step upward in the latter"s career and in the formation of his character. He wanted to write, if he could, the story of the building of one more worth-while American, for Albert Speranza, like so many others set to thinking by the war and the war experiences, was realizing strongly that the gabbling of a formula and the swearing of an oath of naturalization did not necessarily make an American. There were too many eager to take that oath with tongue in cheek and knife in sleeve. Too many, for the first time in their lives breathing and speaking as free men, thanks to the protection of Columbia"s arm, yet planning to stab their protectress in the back.
So Albert"s hero was to be an American, an American to whom the term meant the highest and the best. If he had hunted a lifetime for something to please and interest his grandfather he could not have hit the mark nearer the center. Cap"n Lote, of course, pretended a certain measure of indifference, but that was for Olive and Rachel"s benefit. It would never do for the scoffer to become a convert openly and at once.
The feminine members of the household clamored each evening to have the author read aloud his day"s installment. The captain sniffed.
"Oh, dear, dear," with a groan, "now I"ve got to hear all that made-up stuff that happened to a parcel of made-up folks that never lived and never will. Waste of time, waste of time. Where"s my Transcript?"
But it was noticed--and commented upon, you may be sure--by his wife and housekeeper that the Transcript was likely to be, before the reading had progressed far, either in the captain"s lap or on the floor. And when the discussion following the reading was under way Captain Zelotes"
opinions were expressed quite as freely as any one"s else. Laban Keeler got into the habit of dropping in to listen.
One fateful evening the reading was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Kendall. The reverend gentleman had come to make a pastoral call.
Albert"s hero was in the middle of a situation. The old clergyman insisted upon the continuation of the reading. It was continued and so was the discussion following it; in fact, the discussion seemed likely to go on indefinitely, for the visitor showed no inclination of leaving.
At ten-thirty his daughter appeared to inquire about him and to escort him home. Then he went, but under protest. Albert walked to the parsonage with them.
"Now we"ve started somethin"," groaned the captain, as the door closed.
"That old critter"ll be cruisin" over here six nights out of five from now on to tell Al just how to spin those yarns of his. And he"ll talk--and talk--and talk. Ain"t it astonishin" how such a feeble-lookin"
craft as he is can keep blowin" off steam that way and still be able to navigate."
His wife took him to task. "The idea," she protested, "of your callin"
your own minister a "critter"! I should think you"d be ashamed... .
But, oh, dear, I"m afraid he WILL be over here an awful lot."
Her fears were realized. Mr. Kendall, although not on hand "six nights out of five," as the captain prophesied, was a frequent visitor at the Snow place. As Albert"s story-writing progressed the discussions concerning the growth and development of the hero"s character became more and more involved and spirited. They were for the most part confined, when the minister was present, to him and Mrs. Snow and Rachel. Laban, if he happened to be there, sat well back in the corner, saying little except when appealed to, and then answering with one of his dry, characteristic observations. Captain Lote, in the rocker, his legs crossed, his hand stroking his beard, and with the twinkle in his eyes, listened, and spoke but seldom. Occasionally, when he and his grandson exchanged glances, the captain winked, indicating appreciation of the situation.
"Say, Al," he said, one evening, after the old clergyman had departed, "it must be kind of restful to have your work all laid out for you this way. Take it to-night, for instance; I don"t see but what everything"s planned for this young feller you"re writin" about so you nor he won"t have to think for yourselves for a hundred year or such matter. Course there"s some little difference in the plans. Rachel wants him to get wrecked on an island or be put in jail, and Mother, she wants him to be a soldier and a poet, and Mr. Kendall thinks it"s high time he joined the church or signed the pledge or stopped swearin" or chewin" gum."
"Zelotes, how ridiculous you do talk!"
"All right, Mother, all right. What strikes me, Al, is they don"t any of "em stop to ask you what YOU mean to have him do. Course I know "tain"t any of your business, but still--seems "s if you might be a little mite interested in the boy yourself."
Albert laughed. "Don"t worry, Grandfather," he said. "I"m enjoying it all very much. And some of the suggestions may be just what I"m looking for."
"Well, son, we"ll hope so. Say, Labe, I"ve got a notion for keepin" the minister from doin" all the talkin." We"ll ask Issy Price to drop in; eh?"
Laban shook his head. "I don"t know, Cap"n Lote," he observed. "Sounds to me a good deal like lettin" in a hurricane to blow out a match with.
... Um-hm. Seems so to me. Yes, yes."
Mr. Kendall"s calls would have been more frequent still had Helen not interfered. Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a little later and insisted upon his making an early start for home. Occasionally she came with him. She, too, seemed much interested in the progress of the stories, but she offered few suggestions. When directly appealed to, she expressed her views, and they were worth while.
Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit himself to think of her except as a friend. That is, he hoped he was; thoughts are hard to control at times. He saw her often. They met on the street, at church on Sunday--his grandmother was so delighted when he accompanied her to "meeting" that he did so rather more frequently, perhaps, than he otherwise would--at the homes of acquaintances, and, of course, at the Snow place. When she walked home with her father after a "story evening" he usually went with them as additional escort.
She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first meeting that morning at the parsonage. He knew, therefore, that some one--his grandmother, probably--had told her of the broken engagement. When they were alone together they talked of many things, casual things, the generalities of which, so he told himself, a conversation between mere friends was composed. But occasionally, after doing escort duty, after Mr. Kendall had gone into the house to take his "throat medicine"--a medicine which Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength pretty soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings--they talked of matters more specific and which more directly concerned themselves. She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before the war, and of her plans for the future. The latter, of course, were very indefinite now.