Part 3

One of them said: "A new boy."

The other said: "Isn't he funny!"

In one of these persons Cyrus recognized the girl who made faces at him in church. As they stood smiling, brimming over with mischief, he arose, lifted his hat and made a sweeping bow, as d'Artagnan might have saluted Anne of Austria. It was so well done, with so much grace and solemnity, that the two girls were startled. Things of that sort had never occurred in Longfields. The girls giggled. They believed he was "showing off" to amuse them. But he was not showing off. It was merely his usual manner of saluting ladies. When the hat was again on his head, he looked calmly at the girl with the eyes and inquired:

"Why did you call me stupid?"

For an instant she was taken aback. Then with a smile of defiance:

"Because you _look_ stupid."

"But I am not."

"Well you look so, anyway; doesn't he, Martha?"

Martha nodded and giggled endorsement. But Ruth Heywood herself stopped giggling, and said more seriously:

"It's your eyes that are funny. They are half awake. They are so drowsy they make me sleepy to look at them. Can't you open them wider?"

Cyrus made no answer because he could think of nothing to say. But as the heavy lidded eyes looked into Ruth Heywood's, with their supernatural tranquility, it seemed to the maiden as if the accumulated wisdom of mankind was rebuking and despising her. The same expression came into her face that came there in church; a rapid change from bantering gayety to doubt and misgiving. But she wheeled about, with an air of indifference, and walked away, leading the devoted Martha. A little way off she turned her head and called to him:

"Good-by, Drowsy!"

With that they both scampered away as fast as they could run.

After this interview the acquaintance marched--or rather jumped ahead--with all the velocity of youth. Cyrus passed her house every time he went to the village and interviews were frequent. All discourtesy in their first meetings was forgiven--and forgotten. To his ceremonious salutations, with their astonishing bows, Ruth Heywood soon became accustomed. Also, she ceased being impressed by his judicial gaze, for she soon learned that the heavy lidded eyes concealed neither disdain nor supernatural wisdom. She discovered, in short, that he was just a boy. But he proved neither sleepy nor stupid.

Certain traits, however, quite at variance with those in other children of her own age, made him an object of her special concern. She began to regard him as her own personal property, something to be watched over, guided and protected. Although she had known but six years of terrestrial life, some feminine, kindly instinct was already prompting her to be mother and grandmother to him, also aunt and sister and all the female blessings that he missed at home. He was, to be sure, just about her own age, but he was shorter and less assertive. And there certainly is--at times--a distinct advantage in being able to look down upon the person you are trying to impress.

When Ruth wanted a thing she wanted it very much, and at once. With strangers she always got it. Her beauty, combined with her manner--when she chose--were irresistible, it appeared, to all human males between the ages of ten and one hundred. She could smile the smile that routed reason and paralyzed all powers of resistance. This smile, as she grew older, with the sensitive mouth and conquering eyes, never lost its charm. And the unsuspecting Cyrus was either brave or timid, patient or angry, happy or unhappy, at the witch's will.

Moreover, his mental processes were quite different from those of Ruth. He was slower in reaching conclusions. Her own swift decisions amazed him. She dazzled him at times, by a mysterious intuitive agency whose lightning turns he did not pretend to follow.

Cyrus, more than other boys, was a lover of beautiful things. Flowers, pictures, music, color, all gave him pleasure. In the presence of an American sunset he would sit in solemn adoration. To this lover of beautiful things Ruth's eyes were as windows of heaven. Into them he could look and wonder; quit the earth and imagine all things. They soothed and stirred his fancy like summer skies and solemn woods--or flowers and thunderstorms. And when they rested on him, in reproach, they filled him with delectable guilt.

Ruth and Truth were one and inseparable. Truth was part of herself. Truth and Cyrus, on the other hand, sometimes parted company. And they parted easily. Truth was a good thing--he knew that. But there seemed to be occasions when Truth and Wisdom did not pull together; when the immediate results were disastrous. When those moments came he preferred the exercise of his own wits; the triumphs of his own invention. And his invention was rich and ready.

On one occasion, when rebuked by his father for telling a lie, he replied, after a moment's thought, and with earnest conviction:

"I don't see any fun in telling the truth all the time. Anybody can do it."

However, aside from this little matter of despising Truth, he was a reliable boy. He kept his promises. And it should be said in justice that, while an easy and successful liar, his mind was open to reason and he could be made to realize the sin and folly of his ways. His interview with Uncle Hector, for instance, showed a willingness to see the light.

Uncle Hector kept the store. He was seventy-five years old, tall, very erect, wore a green wig and was a bachelor. The wig was not really green, but certain tints of its original golden brown had changed, in the passing years, to a peculiar greenish yellow. His own original virtues, however, had not deteriorated. He was honest and true. Everybody liked him, and all the children called him Uncle. He wore dark clothes, and a stiff, old fashioned collar--a sort of dickey--for he had a hired man to do the rough work about the place.

Toward noon, one February day, Cyrus and Ruth entered the store. Uncle Hector was off at the further end talking with a customer:--Mrs. Bennett. Nobody else was there. While waiting for Mrs. Bennett to finish her business Cyrus and Ruth admired, as usual, the wonders about them, and inhaled the intoxicating air; an air heavy laden with odors of molasses and vinegar, of coffee, calico and oranges, of the spices of Araby and the rubber boots of New England. On the top of the counter, which was on a level with the nose of Cyrus, lay a dollar bill. Cyrus saw it, and by standing on his toes he could reach over and take it--which he did. He held it in the fingers of both hands and drank in its beauties. Then he held it closer to Ruth's face, that she, too, might admire it.

"Just think!" he said. "A dollar is a hundred cents; we can buy a hundred sticks of that candy you like!"

Ruth had doubts of his ownership. Yet she considered the discoverer's feelings.

"But, Cyrus, it isn't yours."

"Yes it is!"

"Oh, no!"

"Yes. Findin's is keepin's."

Ruth had never heard this principle before, but she accepted it because it came from Cyrus. And Cyrus, this fortune in his fingers, felt as all men feel when raised, without warning, from poverty to wealth.

Mrs. Bennett departed and at last Uncle Hector towered behind the counter smiling down upon the two upturned, excited faces.

"Well, Miss Ruth Heywood, and Mr. Cyrus Alton, what can I do for you this morning?"

Again Cyrus raised himself upon his toes, pushed the dollar bill as far over on the counter as he could reach, and exclaimed:

"A whole dollar's worth of that red candy with the white stripes!"

Uncle Hector's genial smile gave way, for a moment, to an expression of surprise.

"Where did you get this money, Cyrus?"

"Father gave it to me."

"Oh, Cyrus!" exclaimed Ruth.

The liar turned and looked at Ruth, not in anger at being exposed, but in a sort of calm amazement that so sensible a girl should ruin so good a plan. Ruth, however, was not the person to compromise with sin.

"Cyrus Alton! How _can_ you say such a thing?"

Kindly but sadly Uncle Hector looked down upon the boy.

"Tell the truth, Cyrus."

Cyrus, unabashed, met Uncle Hector's reproving gaze. He even smiled, as any honest man might smile, to show his spirit was above defeat.

"I found it just now, right here on this counter."

Uncle Hector's face was still serious. "Are you sure it's your dollar?"

"Yes, sir. Findin's is keepin's."

Uncle Hector stroked his chin and twisted his mouth, as if wondering how to answer. "Well--er--if you should take one of those oranges and refuse to pay for it, and just walk away with it and say 'findin's is keepin's'--would that be all right?"

"No, sir, because I know they are for sale. This dollar wasn't."

Again Uncle Hector stroked his chain and twisted his mouth. And Cyrus smiled up at him, the smile of triumph. It was obvious, even to Ruth, that this opening skirmish was a victory for Cyrus. She also smiled up at Uncle Hector and nodded, signifying that her escort was an able person.

But Uncle Hector was not vanquished. He laid the dollar on the counter, off near Cyrus' face, to make it clear there was no forcible retention of doubtful property--that justice should be rendered to the smallest boy as fairly as to the biggest man. Then he straightened up, pushed back his coat and inserted his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest. And there was something in his smile and in his confident manner that caused uneasiness in Ruth.

"If I should go to your house, Cyrus, and carry off a handsome sled with the name Hiawatha on it in blue letters, refuse to give it back, and say 'findin's is keepin's--would that be all right?"

"No, sir, because you know it's my sled, and there's no other like it."

Again was Uncle Hector taken by surprise, and in his face the two children saw signs of the hesitation which often leads to defeat. Ruth's faith in Cyrus rose yet higher. As she smiled at the tall figure behind the counter her expression said as plainly as words, "Nobody can get ahead of Cyrus."

But Uncle Hector, while not prepared for such an answer to his question, even now was unconquered. "Cyrus," he said, "you'll make a great lawyer some day. You are mighty good at an argument. But suppose a stranger took that sled, and when you ran after him and told it was yours, he should say 'findin's is keepin's and refuse to give it up. Would that be all right?"

"Oh, no!"

"Why not?"

"Because I had told him it was mine."

"Well, now, Mrs. Bennett bought seventy cents worth of tea and sewing silk just before you and Ruth came in. She laid a dollar bill on the counter and I gave her the change--thirty cents. Then we went away for a minute to the back of the store and left it lying here. When I came back I found you claimed it, saying 'findin's is keepin's.' So, if you keep it, I lose seventy cents' worth of tea and sewing silk and thirty cents in cash."

Cyrus frowned, and looked sidewise at the bill. Ruth also frowned. As she looked up at the jar that held the striped candy tears came to her eyes. Uncle Hector smiled pleasantly upon the two troubled faces and inquired in his gentlest manner:

"Now, Cyrus, just as man to man, whose bill do you think it is?"

Cyrus worked his lips, and looked away. He stood firm on his legs, but inwardly he staggered beneath the blow. It was a whole dollar, and gone--gone forever, before he could spend it! He might never have another. Full grown men have been known to collapse under sudden loss of fortune. He dared not look at Ruth. It might unnerve him for the sacrifice. With tightened lips and blinking eyes he reached up over the counter and silently pushed the bill away, as far toward the new owner as his short arm could do it.

"Thank you, Cyrus," said Uncle Hector. "I knew I was dealing with a man who would do the right thing when he saw it. And now, let's have some candy together and celebrate the occasion. What'll you have, Ruth?" He moved his hand, at a guess, toward the glass jar that held the pink candy with the white stripes.

She nodded. "Yes, I like that best."

He placed a stick of it in the lady's hand.

"And you, Cyrus? The same, I suppose?"

"No, sir. I'll have a cocoanut cake."

Uncle Hector replaced the jar; then, as he laid the cocoanut cake in the extended hand:

"But you wanted the candy a minute ago; a whole dollar's worth."

"That's when I was treatin' Ruth. I thought it would please her to think I liked what she liked."

"But you don't care for that candy?"

"No, sir."

Uncle Hector's face took on a new expression. He straightened up, lowered his chin, regarded the small boy in front of him was a peculiar look, bent forward and held an open palm quite close to the wondering face.

"Shake hands."

Cyrus reached up and placed his small hand in the extended palm.

The large hand closed over the little one.

"Cyrus, you are a gentleman."

IV

MATRIMONIAL

A June morning.

The sky, this morning, is the bluest blue; the air delicious. There is fragrance in it, of buds, new grass and flowers. Also, in the air, is the joy of living, and the promise of even better things to come.

But Ruth Heywood, sitting upon the front door step of her father's house, seemed oblivious to the surrounding rapture. Her thoughts were solemn. Half an hour ago she had witnessed a marriage in her own parlor. Her father, a clergyman, had united two lovers in the bonds of matrimony. The ceremony had deeply impressed the youthful witness, curled up in the big arm chair near the window. And after the departure of the happy couple she had been still further, and yet more deeply impressed, by her father's explanation of what the ceremony meant. Now, sitting in the sunshine on the front steps, her youthful mind was struggling with the marriage problem. It certainly seemed a grand idea, this bringing together of a man and woman to love each other dearly all the rest of their lives, with no drawback, and to make each other supremely happy, not only in this life but in the life to come. The more she thought and the deeper she went into this inviting subject the better she liked it. And she wondered why anybody should delay an hour before entering the holy state.

From this maiden dream of everlasting bliss she was gently awakened by peculiar sounds. These sounds came from the lips of a jubilant boy, dancing along the center of the street. If explanation were necessary the sounds might be interpreted as a song of praise to the Creator for producing such a perfect day in such a wondrous world. To further emphasize the joy of living the boy's arms were swinging above his head and his eyes were heavenward. He wore a blue and white checkered shirt-waist, brown knickers, stockings of the same color and copper-toed shoes. His hat, being a nuisance, had been left at home.

With him was a dog. And the dog, even more than his master, seemed intoxicated with present conditions. The fact of being alive had stirred him to a wild activity. At dazzling speed he was describing circles about the size of a circus ring around the singing boy. He traveled like a thing possessed and with a velocity somewhat faster than a shooting star. And the eyes of Ruth Heywood, although young and active, blinked as they tried to follow him.

She called.

"Drowsy!"

Cyrus stopped, turned about and made a sweeping bow. When he straightened up the maiden beckoned, and said, "Come here."

As he seated himself beside her, she asked:

"Were you ever married, Cyrus?"

For an instant the boy was taken aback. As he turned and looked into the maiden's eyes, ready to carry on the joke, he saw those eyes were more than serious: they were almost tragic in their earnestness.

"Why, of course not! I'm too young."

"No, nobody is too young. It's a lovely, beautiful thing and everybody ought to do it."

Cyrus was clearly surprised; but, always polite to ladies, he nodded his appreciation of the new truth. "I didn't know. I thought only grown folks got married."

"No; it is everybody's duty. And it's my duty and yours, too."

Cyrus' eyebrows went up. "Me? Mine?"

"Yes. It's a beautiful thing and makes us all better. Father says so."

"Did he say children, too?"

Ruth hesitated. "He--he--said it makes everybody better--more unselfish--and of course he meant nobody is too young to be made better."

Cyrus nodded. "I s'pose that's so."

"And I want to marry you," said Ruth.

Cyrus nodded. "I'm ready, if it's a good thing."

"It's a lovely thing."

"What's the kind of good that it does?"

"It makes us better."

"Yes, but--but in what ways is a feller better?"

"Oh, in every way."

"Can he play ball any better?"

"I guess so."

"Is a married feller stronger and can he run faster than the feller that isn't married?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, that's a good deal. Does it take long to have it done?"

"Just a few minutes."

As a new suspicion entered the mind of the prospective groom he edged away a few inches. "Does it hurt?"

"What hurt?"

"Getting married. Does a dentist do it--or something like that?"

Contemptuously the maiden answered. "'Course not! You are a very ignorant boy. We just stand up before father and say 'I will,' and 'Yes' and 'It is' or 'I do' and short things like that. Father does all the rest."

Then Ruth explained the ceremony, and described minutely the scene she had witnessed an hour ago in her own home.

"That's easy enough," said Cyrus. "Anybody can say those things."

"Everybody does it," said Ruth.

Cyrus smiled; it seemed a smile of relief. "That's funny. I'd always thought being married was kind of important, and kind of--kind of--lasted a mighty long time."

"It does. It lasts forever. That is why it is so beautiful and lovely. Everybody is better forever and ever."

Cyrus frowned. "I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"I don't like the--the long time. S'pose we got enough of it. We'd have to keep on just the same."

"Oh, Cyrus! Would you get tired of me?"

"No, 'course not! Nobody could ever do that! But s'pose I died in a few days, would you have to be married all the rest of your life to a dead boy?"

"Yes, and I would be very faithful to your memory. I would never marry anybody else and I would put lovely flowers on your grave every day."

"Ho! I don't believe that!"

"Yes I would!"

Cyrus put both hands on his knees, stiffened his arms, straightened up and drew a long breath of the morning air. "Anyway, I'd rather be alive."

"Of course you would! So would almost anybody for a time. But you are very silly and ignorant if you think being married is going to kill you."

"'Course I don't!"

"Then you mustn't say such things."

"I guess I only just meant that if I was married I'd rather be alive than dead. But what do we have to do after we are married?"

"Oh, everything--just what other folks do, of course."

"And what's that?"

"Why--sit opposite each other at breakfast, go around together, and own things together, and have the same pew at church. You at one end and me at the other, with our children between us."

Cyrus frowned. "Our children?"

Ruth nodded.

"But I never heard of a boy eight years old having real children."

Ruth closed her eyes in solemn meditation. Cyrus, after waiting in vain for an answer said, with a laugh: "Think of me with real children, p'r'aps biggern I am! They could lick me in a fight." And he laughed. "That is funny, isn't it?" And he gave her arm a shake, as if to wake her up.

At the sound of laughter Zac, sitting on the step below, cocked his ears, wagged his tail and sidled up closer to Cyrus, who reached forward, gathered up the loose skin at the back of Zac's neck and gave him a friendly shake.

"Anyway," said Ruth, "everybody ought to get married. Your father and mother and my father and mother were all married."

"Yes, I s'pose they were."

"Of course they were. They would be ashamed not to. All good and wise people marry. Why, King Solomon, who was wiser than anybody, had seven hundred wives."

"How many?"

"Seven hundred."

"Seven hundred! Oh, get out!"

"But he did!"

"Seven hundred, all alive at once?"

"Yes."

"Jimminy! That seems an awful lot for one man, doesn't it?"

Ruth confessed that it did.

"Nobody in Longfields has more than one, have they?"

Ruth mentioned several citizens, but could recall none who had more than one wife.

"If one," said Cyrus, "is enough for men around here, why should your Solomon need seven hundred?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the Bible tells."

"P'r'aps," said Cyrus, "he was homely or mean or something like that, and instead of one good one he had to take seven hundred bad ones."

"No, I don't believe it was that."

Cyrus reflected a moment. "P'r'aps they were all mighty good and there being so many of 'em was what made Solomon so wise."

"I shouldn't wonder."

There came a silence. Then Cyrus straightened up and spoke with emphasis. "I just don't believe he or anybody else had seven hundred wives. It's too many. It isn't likely, somehow. No feller would want that much."

"Why, Cyrus Alton! Don't you believe what the Bible says?"

"Yes--I--I--'course I believe it if you and the Bible both say so, but seven hundred does seem a mighty big lot." Then, as he looked away, over the common, his eyes rested on two persons who stood talking together across the way, and he asked:

"Were Solomon's wives real live women like Mrs. Strong and Mrs. Clapp, over there?"

"Of course they were!"

Cyrus closed his eyes. But through his ears came the thin, far reaching, nasal voice of Mrs. Clapp. "Did seven hundred women like that sit around the breakfast table with Solomon every morning?"

"I s'pose they did."

For an instant Cyrus faltered. He lowered his eyes and studied his shoes with the copper toes. There might be a darker side to matrimony, a noisier, less peaceful side, than Ruth had pictured. But, as he turned and looked at his companion, it came upon him, like a ray of sunshine that a hundred Ruths would be, oh, so very different from a hundred Mrs. Clapps!

"Did all those wives," he asked, "sit with Solomon in one pew on Sunday?"

Ruth made no answer.

"Doesn't the Bible say anything about that?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, if they did, I say he must have had a mighty long pew. Do you s'pose they all slept in the same bed?"

"Perhaps."

Cyrus laughed. "Seven hundred wives in one bed! Cracky! I guess old Solomon slept on the floor!"

He turned and smiled into the girl's face. But he saw no mirth, only surprise and disapproval as the lovely eyes looked into his own. He was learning his first lesson in the noble art of suppressing humor in the presence of humorous things when taken seriously. And he blushed at his own frivolity. Moreover, his sympathy for the much married Solomon did not weaken his allegiance to the girl beside him. There was, to be sure, a peculiar excitement in the idea of sitting at breakfast with seven hundred Ruths entirely his own. Yet, somehow, the vision daunted him. Even the vision of a hundred Ruths, all just alike, filled him with a kind of awe--an awe of more things than he could ever live up to. Seeking courage and consolation, he looked down into the face of Zac as a companion more like himself--on a lower spiritual plane. Zac, still sitting in front of them, always looking earnestly into the face of whoever was speaking, appeared interested in the conversation. Cyrus stroked his head, then stood up.

"Let's go ahead with this marrying, if you say so. But where's the fun of it?"

"Oh, in doing such a beautiful thing--and being better."

"There's no great fun in being better. We are good enough already."

"Oh, Cyrus! Nobody is good enough already except our fathers and mothers and ministers."

Ruth's manner was solemn. The responsibility of the enterprise seemed to rest entirely on her own shoulders. While she was deciding, with far away look, on the next step, Cyrus said: