Part 5

Molly stood looking over toward the Judd house, wondering how much of the Deacon’s tale was truth, and how much was village gossip exaggerated by repetition.

“Did you ever hear about Josiah’s death?”

Molly shook her head.

“’Twas to him that Amos was fetched from India. One mornin’ Josiah and I were standin’ in the doorway of his barn talkin’. The old barn used to be closer to the house, but Amos tore it down after he built that big new one. Josiah and I stood in the doorway talkin’ about a new yoke of oxen; nothin’ excitin’, for there wasn’t any cause for it. We stood in the doorway, both facin’ out, when Josiah, without givin’ any notice, sort of pitched forward and fell face down in the snow. I turned him over and tried to lift him up, but when I saw his face I was scared. Just at that particular minute the doctor, with Amos sittin’ in the sleigh beside him, drove into the avenue and hurried along as if he knew there was trouble. We carried Josiah into the house, but ’twa’n’t any use. He was dead before we got him there. It was heart disease. At the funeral I said to the doctor it was lucky he happened along just then, even if he couldn’t save him, and I found there was no happen about it; that Amos had run to his house just as he was starting off somewheres else, and told him Josiah was dyin’ and to get there as fast as he could.”

“That’s very strange,” Molly said, in a low voice. She had listened to this story with a feeling of awe, for she believed the Deacon to be a truthful man, and this was an experience of his own. “This mysterious faculty,” she said, “whatever it was, did he realize it fully himself?”

“I guess he did!” and the Deacon chuckled as he went on with his work. “And he used to play tricks with it. I tell you he was a handful.”

“Did you say he lost it as he grew up?”

The Deacon turned about and answered, in a serious tone: “No. But he wants folks to think so. All the same, there’s something between Amos and the Almighty that the rest of us ain’t into.”

One Monday morning, toward the last of June, Molly left Daleford for a two weeks’ visit at the seashore. Her absence caused a void that extended from the Cabot household over to the big white mansion at the further end of the maples. This emptiness and desolation drove the young man to frequent visits upon Mr. Cabot, who, in his turn, found a pleasant relief in the companionship of his neighbor, and he had no suspicion of the solace this visitor derived from sitting upon the piazza so lately honored by the absent girl. The eminent lawyer was not aware that he himself, apart from all personal merit, was the object of an ardent affection from his relationship to his own daughter. For the first twenty-four hours the two disconsolates kept in their own preserves to a reasonable extent, but on Tuesday they took a fishing trip, followed in the evening by a long talk on the Cabot piazza. During this conversation the lawyer realized more fully than ever the courageous ignorance of his neighbor in all matters that had failed to interest him. On the other hand, he was impressed by the young man’s clear, comprehensive, and detailed knowledge upon certain unfamiliar subjects. In spite of his college education and a very considerable knowledge of the world he was, mentally, something of a spoiled child; yet from his good sense, originality, and moral courage he was always interesting.

Wednesday, the third day, brought a northeast gale that swept the hills and valleys of Daleford with a drenching rain. Trees, bushes, flowers, and blades of grass dripping with water, bent and quivered before the wind. Mr. Cabot spent the morning among his books and papers, writing letters and doing some work which the pleasant weather had caused him to defer. For such labors this day seemed especially designed. In the afternoon, about two o’clock, he stood looking out upon the storm from his library window, which was at the corner of the house and commanded the long avenue toward the road. The tempest seemed to rage more viciously than ever. Bounding across the country in sheets of blinding rain, it beat savagely against the glass, then poured in unceasing torrents down the window-panes. The ground was soaked and spongy with tempestuous little puddles in every hollow of the surface. In the distance, under the tossing maples, he espied a figure coming along the driveway in a waterproof and rubber boots. He recognized Amos, his head to one side to keep his hat on, gently trotting before the gale, as the mighty force against his back rendered a certain degree of speed perfunctory. Mr. Cabot had begun to weary of solitude, and saw with satisfaction that Amos crossed the road and continued along the avenue. Beneath his waterproof was something large and bulging, of which he seemed very careful. With a smiling salutation he splashed by the window toward the side door, laid off his outer coat and wiped his ponderous boots in the hall, then came into the library bearing an enormous bunch of magnificent yellow roses. Mr. Cabot recognized them as coming from a bush in which its owner took the greatest pride, and in a moment their fragrance filled the room.

“What beauties!” he exclaimed. “But are you sure they are for me?”

“If she decides to give them to you, sir.”

“She? Who? Bridget or Maggie?”

“Neither. They belong to the lady who is now absent; whose soul is the Flower of Truth, and whose beauty is the Glory of the Morning.” Then he added, with a gesture of humility, “That is, of course, if she will deign to accept them.”

“But, my well-meaning young friend, were you gifted with less poetry and more experience you would know that these roses will be faded and decaying memories long before the recipient returns. And you a farmer!”

Amos looked at the clock. “You seem to have precious little confidence in my flowers, sir. They are good for three hours, I think.”

“Three hours! Yes, but to-day is Wednesday and it is many times three hours before next Monday afternoon.”

A look of such complete surprise came into Amos’s face that Mr. Cabot smiled as he asked, “Didn’t you know her visit was to last a fortnight?”

The young man made no answer to this, but looked first at his questioner and then at his roses with an air that struck Mr. Cabot at the moment as one of embarrassment. As he recalled it afterward, however, he gave it a different significance. With his eyes still on the flowers Amos, in a lower voice, said, “Don’t you know that she is coming to-day?”

“No. Do you?”

The idea of a secret correspondence between these two was not a pleasant surprise; and the fact that he had been successfully kept in ignorance of an event of such importance irritated him more than he cared to show. He asked, somewhat dryly: “Have you heard from her?”

“No, sir, not a word,” and as their eyes met Mr. Cabot felt it was a truthful answer.

“Then why do you think she is coming?”

Amos looked at the clock and then at his watch. “Has no one gone to the station for her?”

“No one,” replied Mr. Cabot, as he turned away and seated himself at his desk. “Why should they?”

Then, in a tone which struck its hearer as being somewhat more melancholy than the situation demanded, the young man replied: “I will explain all this to-morrow, or whenever you wish, Mr. Cabot. It is a long story, but if she does come to-day she will be at the station in about fifty minutes. You know what sort of a vehicle the stage is. May I drive over for her?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

The young man lingered a moment as if there was something more he wished to add, but left the room without saying it. A minute later he was running as fast as the gale would let him along the avenue toward his own house, and in a very short time Mr. Cabot saw a pair of horses with a covered buggy, its leather apron well up in front, come dashing down the avenue from the opposite house. Amid fountains of mud the little horses wheeled into the road, trotted swiftly toward the village and out of sight.

An hour and a half later the same horses, bespattered and dripping, drew up at the door. Amos got out first, and holding the reins with one hand, assisted Molly with the other. From the expression on the two faces it was evident their cheerfulness was more than a match for the fiercest weather. Mr. Cabot might perhaps have been ashamed to confess it, but his was a state of mind in which this excess of felicity annoyed him. He felt a touch of resentment that another, however youthful and attractive, should have been taken into her confidence, while he was not even notified of her arrival. But she received a hearty welcome, and her impulsive, joyful embrace almost restored him to a normal condition.

A few minutes later they were sitting in the library, she upon his lap recounting the events that caused her unexpected return. Ned Elliott was quite ill when she got there, and last night the doctor pronounced it typhoid fever; that of course upset the whole house, and she, knowing her room was needed, decided during the night to come home this morning. Such was the substance of the narrative, but told in many words, with every detail that occurred to her, and with frequent ramifications; for the busy lawyer had always made a point of taking a very serious interest in whatever his only child saw fit to tell him. And this had resulted in an intimacy and a reliance upon each other which was very dear to both. As Molly was telling her story Maggie came in from the kitchen and handed her father a telegram, saying Joe had just brought it from the post-office. Mr. Cabot felt for his glasses and then remembered they were over on his desk. So Molly tore it open and read the message aloud.

HON. JAMES CABOT, DALEFORD, CONN.

_I leave for home this afternoon by the one-forty train._

MARY CABOT.

“Why, papa, it is my telegram! How slow it has been!”

“When did you send it?”

“I gave it to Sam Elliott about nine o’clock this morning, and it wouldn’t be like him to forget it.”

“No, and probably he did not forget it. It only waited at the Bingham station a few hours to get its breath before starting on a six-mile walk.”

But he was glad to know she had sent the message. Suddenly she wheeled about on his knee and inserted her fingers between his collar and his neck, an old trick of her childhood and still employed when the closest attention was required. “But how did you know I was coming?”

“I did not.”

“But you sent for me.”

“No, Amos went for you of his own accord.”

“Well, how did he know I was coming?”

Mr. Cabot raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea, unless you sent him word.”

“Of course I didn’t send him word. What an idea! Why don’t you tell me how you knew?” and the honest eyes were fixed upon his own in stern disapproval. He smiled and said it was evidently a mysterious case; that she must cross-examine the prophet. He then told her of the roses and of his interview with Amos. She was mystified, and also a little excited as she recalled the stories of Deacon White, but knowing her father would only laugh at them, contented herself with exacting the promise of an immediate explanation from Mr. Judd.

V

Early in the evening the young man appeared. He found Mr. Cabot and Molly sitting before a cheerful fire, an agreeable contrast to the howling elements without. She thanked him for the roses, expressing her admiration for their uncommon beauty.

With a grave salutation he answered, “I told them, one morning, when they were little buds, that if they surpassed all previous roses there was a chance of being accepted by the Dispenser of Sunshine who dwells across the way; and this is the result of their efforts.”

“The results are superb, and I am grateful.”

“There is no question of their beauty,” said Mr. Cabot, “and they appear to possess a knowledge of coming events that must be of value at times.”

“It was not from the roses I got my information, sir. But I will tell you about that now, if you wish.”

“Well, take a cigar and clear up the mystery.”

It seemed a winter’s evening, as the three sat before the fire, the older man in the centre, the younger people on either side, facing each other. Mr. Cabot crossed his legs, and laying his magazine face downward upon his lap, said, “I confess I shall be glad to have the puzzle solved, as it is a little deep for me except on the theory that you are skilful liars. Molly I know to be unpractised in that art, but as for you, Amos, I can only guess what you may conceal under a truthful exterior.”

Amos smiled. “It is something to look honest, and I am glad you can say even that.” Then, after a pause, he leaned back in his chair and, in a voice at first a little constrained, thus began:

“As long ago as I can remember I used to imagine things that were to happen, all sorts of scenes and events that might possibly occur, as most children do, I suppose. But these scenes, or imaginings, were of two kinds: those that required a little effort of my own, and another kind that came with no effort whatever. These last were the most usual, and were sometimes of use as they always came true. That is, they never failed to occur just as I had seen them. While a child this did not surprise me, as I supposed all the rest of the world were just like myself.”

At this point Amos looked over toward Molly and added, with a faint smile, “I know just what your father is thinking. He is regretting that an otherwise healthy young man should develop such lamentable symptoms.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Cabot. “It is very interesting. Go on.”

She felt annoyed by her father’s calmness. Here was the most extraordinary, the most marvellous thing she had ever encountered, and yet he behaved as if it were a commonplace experience of every-day life. And he must know that Amos was telling the truth! But Amos himself showed no signs of annoyance.

“As I grew older and discovered gradually that none of my friends had this faculty, and that people looked upon it as something uncanny and supernatural, I learned to keep it to myself. I became almost ashamed of the peculiarity and tried by disuse to outgrow it, but such a power is too useful a thing to ignore altogether, and there are times when the temptation is hard to resist. That was the case this afternoon. I expected a friend who was to telegraph me if unable to come, and at half-past two no message had arrived: but being familiar with the customs of the Daleford office I knew there might be a dozen telegrams and I get none the wiser. So, not wishing to drive twelve miles for nothing in such a storm, I yielded to the old temptation and put myself ahead--in spirit of course--and saw the train as it arrived. You can imagine my surprise when the first person to get off was Miss Molly Cabot.”

Her eyes were glowing with excitement. Repressing an exclamation of wonder, she turned toward her father and was astonished, and gently indignant, to find him in the placid enjoyment of his cigar, showing no surprise. Then she asked of Amos, almost in a whisper, for her throat seemed very dry, “What time was it when you saw this?”

“About half-past two.”

“And the train got in at four.”

“Yes, about four.”

“You saw what occurred on the platform as if you were there in person?” Mr. Cabot inquired.

“Yes, sir. The conductor helped her out and she started to run into the station to get out of the rain.”

“Yes, yes!” from Molly.

“But the wind twisted you about and blew you against him. And you both stuck there for a second.”

She laughed nervously: “Yes, that is just what happened!”

“But I am surprised, Amos,” put in Mr. Cabot, “that you should have had so little sympathy for a tempest-tossed lady as to fail to observe there was no carriage.”

“I took it for granted you had sent for her.”

“But you saw there was none at the station.”

“There might have been several and I not see them.”

“Then your vision was limited to a certain spot?”

“Yes, sir, in a way, for I could only see as if I were there in person, and I did not move around to the other side of the station.”

“Didn’t you take notice as you approached?”

Amos drew a hand up the back of his head and hesitated before answering. “I closed my eyes at home with a wish to be at the station as the train came in, and I found myself there without approaching it from any particular direction.”

“And if you had looked down the road,” Mr. Cabot continued, after a pause, “you would have seen yourself approaching in a buggy?”

“Yes, probably.”

“And from the buggy you might almost have seen what you have just described.” This was said so calmly and pleasantly that Molly, for an instant, did not catch its full meaning; then her eyes, in disappointment, turned to Amos. She thought there was a flush on the dark face, and something resembling anger as the eyes turned toward her father. But Mr. Cabot was watching the smoke as it curled from his lips. After a very short pause Amos said, quietly, “It had not occurred to me that my statement could place me in such an unfortunate position.”

“Not at all unfortunate,” and Mr. Cabot raised a hand in protest. “I know you too well, Amos, to doubt your sincerity. The worst I can possibly believe is that you yourself are misled: that you are perhaps attaching a false significance to a series of events that might be explained in another way.”

Amos arose and stood facing them with his back against the mantel. “You are much too clever for me, Mr. Cabot. I hardly thought you could accept this explanation, but I have told you nothing but the truth.”

“My dear boy, do not think for a moment that I doubt your honesty. Older men than you, and harder-headed ones, have digested more incredible things. In telling your story you ask me to believe what I consider impossible. There is no well-authenticated case on record of such a faculty. It would interfere with the workings of nature. Future events could not arrange themselves with any confidence in your vicinity, and all history that is to come, and even the elements, would be compelled to adjust themselves according to your predictions.”

“But, papa, you yourself had positive evidence that he knew of my coming two hours before I came. How do you explain that?”

“I do not pretend to explain it, and I will not infuriate Amos by calling it a good guess, or a startling coincidence.”

Amos smiled. “Oh, call it what you please, Mr. Cabot. But it seems to me that the fact of these things invariably coming true ought to count for something, even with the legal mind.”

“You say there has never been a single case in which your prophecy has failed?”

“Not one.”

“Suppose, just for illustration, that you should look ahead and see yourself in church next Sunday standing on your head in the aisle, and suppose you had a serious unwillingness to perform the act. Would you still go to church and do it?”

“I should go to church and do it.”

“Out of respect for the prophecy?”

“No, because I could not prevent it.”

“Have you often resisted?”

“Not very often, but enough to learn the lesson.”

“And you have always fulfilled the prophecy?”

“Always.”

There was a short silence during which Molly kept her eyes on her work, while Amos stood silently beside the fire as if there was nothing more to be said. Finally Mr. Cabot knocked the ashes from his cigar and asked, with his pleasantest smile, “Do you think if one of these scenes involved the actions of another person than yourself, that person would also carry it out?”

“I think so.”

“That if you told me, for instance, of something I should do to-morrow at twelve o’clock, I should do it?”

“I think so.”

“Well, what am I going to do to-morrow at noon, as the clock strikes twelve?”

“Give me five minutes,” and with closed eyes and head slightly inclined, the young man remained leaning against the mantel without changing his position. It seemed a long five minutes. Outside, the tempest beat viciously against the windows, then with mocking shrieks whirled away into the night. To Molly’s excited fancy the echoing chimney was alive with the mutterings of unearthly voices. Although in her father’s judgment she placed a perfect trust, there still remained a lingering faith in this supernatural power, whatever it was; but she knew it to be a faith her reason might not support. As for Amos, he was certainly an interesting figure as he stood before them, and nothing could be easier at such a moment than for an imaginative girl to invest him with mystic attributes. Although outwardly American so far as raiment, the cut of his hair, and his own efforts could produce that impression, he remained, nevertheless, distinctly Oriental. The dark skin, the long, black, clearly marked eyebrows, the singular beauty of his features, almost feminine in their refinement, betrayed a race whose origin and traditions were far removed from his present surroundings. She was struck by the little scar upon his forehead, which seemed, of a sudden, to glow and be alive, as if catching some reflection from the firelight. While her eyes were upon it, the fire blazed up in a dying effort, and went out; but the little scar remained a luminous spot with a faint light of its own. She drew her hand across her brow to brush away the illusion, and as she again looked toward him he opened his eyes and raised his head. Then he said to her father, slowly, as if from a desire to make no mistake:

“To-morrow you will be standing in front of the Unitarian Church, looking up at the clock on the steeple as it strikes twelve. Then you will walk along by the Common until you are opposite Caleb Farnum’s, cross the street, and knock at his door. Mrs. Farnum will open it. She will show you into the parlor, the room on the right, where you will sit down in a rocking-chair and wait. I left you there, but can tell you the rest if you choose to give the time.”

Molly glanced at her father and was surprised by his expression. Bending forward, his eyes fixed upon Amos with a look of the deepest interest, he made no effort to conceal his astonishment. He leaned back in the chair, however, and resuming his old attitude, said, quietly:

“That is precisely what I intended to do to-morrow, and at twelve o’clock, as I knew he would be at home for his dinner. Is it possible that a wholesome, out-of-doors young chap like you can be something of a mind-reader and not know it?”

“No, sir. I have no such talent.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. It happens that you already intended to do the thing mentioned, but that was merely a coincidence.”

For a moment or two there was a silence, during which Mr. Cabot seemed more interested in the appearance of his cigar than in the previous conversation. At last he said:

“I understand you to say these scenes, or prophecies, or whatever you call them, have never failed of coming true. Now, if I wilfully refrain from calling on Mr. Farnum to-morrow it will have a tendency to prove, will it not, that your system is fallible?”

“I suppose so.”

“And if you can catch it in several such errors you might in time lose confidence in it?”

“Very likely, but I think it will never happen. At least, not in such a way.”

“Just leave that to me,” and Mr. Cabot rose from his seat and stood beside him in front of the fire. “The only mystery, in my opinion, is a vivid imagination that sometimes gets the better of your facts; or rather combines with your facts and gets the better of yourself. These visions, however real, are such as come not only to hosts of children, but to many older people who are highstrung and imaginative. As for the prophetic faculty, don’t let that worry you. It is a bump that has not sprouted yet on your head, or on any other. Daniel and Elijah are the only experts of permanent standing in that line, and even their reputations are not what they used to be.”