Part 5

The marriage ceremony passed off well;--that is, of course,--making allowance for the officiating person who had no knowledge of what he ought to say, or of what he was saying. With constant promptings and corrections from the bride--who although somewhat hysterical at the moment, had a remarkable memory for the sound of words--Luther managed to get along. To misunderstand certain promptings was excusable, for the music was confusing. Horace Phillips, in the gallery, ignorant of what was happening below, had started off with the full force of the organ, and he continued with enthusiasm until the swelling notes resounded through the empty building.

Ruth supplied all the language.

_Luther._ Will you take this wedded girl for your wife?

_Cyrus._ I will.

_Luther._ Will you take this wedded boy for your husband?

_Ruth._ I will.

_Luther._ Do you promise to endure with all your worldly goods?

_Cyrus._ I do.

_Luther._ Will you hold on for better than worse?

_Ruth._ I will.

_Luther._ You promise to obey?

_Cyrus._ I do.

_Luther._ Until death departs, richer or poorer and cherish.

_Ruth._ I do.

_Cyrus._ It is.

_Luther._ I denounce you as man and wife.

_Cyrus._ I do.

_Ruth._ No, Cyrus, you say nothing.

_Cyrus._ Nothing.

_Ruth._ No, no! You don't say anything--just keep still.

_Luther._ With this ring I you wed.

_Cyrus._ No. _I_ say that!

He said it, and with heroic self-control bade a silent farewell to his silver treasure as he slipped it on a finger of the bride. Then, to the rejoicing music, they marched down the aisle.

Outside the church the bride, who feared a renewal of the conflict, looked about with anxious eyes for the Budding Outlaw. But she had no cause for alarm. The Budding Outlaw was visible, far down the street, beyond the common, marching with humble mien, reflecting sadly on the uncertainties of human life.

V

HE MEETS TWO LADIES

Miss Anita Clement was the maiden lady who had rented, with her two unmarried sisters, Mr. David Lothrop's house at the west end of the village. She had a girlish figure, good features and soulful eyes. Her exact age was somewhere between twenty-five and forty. This lady's delicate beauty was impaired a trifle by a nervous mouth which told, in spite of all efforts to the contrary, that its owner was easily annoyed, and was a stranger to the various blessings of a tranquil spirit. She had no sense of humor; but this deficiency was counterbalanced by a profound respect for the conventions of life, and by a sincere and humble adoration of her own religious creed, with a corresponding contempt for all others. Her dominant attribute was timidity. Compared with Miss Clement, the average mouse was a fearless desperado. As is usually the case with such temperaments, her nerves were assertive.

This particular November afternoon they seemed to have started a revolt throughout her whole interior mechanism; and she decided to consult a physician. So she walked out to Dr. Alton's house. On this walk--about two miles--she passed a group of boys playing with a football. Now boys, to Miss Clement, were the living emblems of noise and danger. Her one dread concerning a future existence was the possibility of there being boys in Heaven. And, in this life, the things she dreaded most were fire, burglars, run-away horses, smallpox and boys. Her sympathy with boys was akin to her sympathy with thunderstorms and pirates. In passing boys in the street or on the common she held her breath in nervous terror, expecting to be struck by a baseball, or bat or stone, green apple or snow-ball, according to season. Only in color and in clothing did she recognize any difference between boys and Comanche Indians. She loved Law and Order; whereas, to a boy, Law and Order were merely bars to freedom. She had reasons for believing that the highest ambition of every normal boy under twelve years of age was to become an influential outlaw. And she was not far wrong.

This being Saturday afternoon, and no school, the earth seemed swarming with these offensive creatures. However, by going around the common instead of across it, she reached Dr. Alton's house alive--and rang the bell. The door was opened by yet another boy, eight or nine years of age. Miss Clement, being a newcomer in the town, had not the honor of this child's acquaintance. Knowing all boys to be barbarians, with no manners, she was surprised when this one acknowledged her presence with a smile of welcome and a ceremonious bow. It was the kind of salutation that Louis XIV would have given to the Queen of Spain. She might have expected it from an elderly dancing master, but never from a boy in this New England village. Taken by surprise, she was silent a moment, fearing this youthful savage, perhaps more uncivilized even than other boys, was amusing himself at her expense. A good look at his face, however, allayed suspicion. In his calm eyes and radiant smile there was nothing but pleasure at seeing her. Beside him stood--or rather bounced--a youthful dog. He was a fox terrier. Judging from the activity of his tail and from the general expression of his person, the arrival of the visitor was affording him joy and excitement. In a tentative bark he told his welcome.

But Miss Clement hesitated. Her dread of boys was only equaled by her aversion to dogs. How a civilized person could live in the same house with a dog she had never been able to understand. Their manners and customs were unspeakable. And the exuberant vitality of this dog annoyed her. His joy was unreasoning and intemperate. He wagged his tail with such energy as to sway his entire person. Judging from outward vibrations his very soul was wagging. He gave the impression--to this visitor--of having a frivolous nature. And she found solace in the thought that, later on, he would be made to realize that life was a serious thing.

"Is Dr. Alton at home?" she inquired.

"No, ma'am,"

"Do you know when he will return?"

"Oh, very soon! Won't you walk in?" and he stepped aside, holding the door wide open. At the same time, he waved with his free hand a courtly gesture toward the interior of the house. Inwardly disturbed by this unexpected deportment of a barbarian, Miss Clement walked into the sitting-room and seated herself on a sofa, near the open fire. It was a large cheerful room with white woodwork and a pale green paper on the walls, somewhat faded in places near the sunny windows. Scattered over the large center table were many books and periodicals. On the floor in front of her was a pair of scissors and a family Bible. The Bible was open and three of its illustrations, recently extracted, were lying beside it. The author of this mutilation climbed into a large arm chair directly opposite, sitting very erect, as if on his best behavior. He was watching her with undisguised interest and approval.

But the dog was inclined to be familiar. He jammed his nose against her skirt and ankles and sniffed in a most offensive way. The boy saw that these things annoyed her and he called off the brute, rebuked him and apologized to the visitor. "I guess you have a dog, and Zac smells him."

Miss Clement, with some severity, denied the accusation. "Indeed, I have no dog." And it was clear from her manner that she had no such associates.

Now all boys were alike to Miss Clement. The only striking features in this one's face were his eyes. Their heavy lids, coming far down over the iris, gave a half shut, drowsy look to his face, and Miss Clement felt sorry that his parents should be afflicted with such a stupid child. His fat, cherubic little mouth, however, seemed to indicate a cheerful spirit. As the two sat facing each other, the young male and the adult super-civilized female, the lady from some undefined reason felt ill at ease. Yet she knew that nothing was more absurd than a woman of her age being ill at ease in the presence of a nine-year-old boy. As she looked again into his eyes she began to realize that their very drowsiness gave an impression of abnormal serenity and repose--as of concealing hidden depths of wisdom. Also they seemed to be sitting in judgment on her. The fact of his being a boy aroused antipathy. Although she knew that many good men had once been boys, as certain butterflies have once been worms. Moreover, she knew it was not really his own fault that he had come into the world in that form. They were necessary evils, like taxes and old age.

"Are you Dr. Alton's son?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What is your name?"

"Cyrus."

While Miss Clement was wondering why New Englanders persisted in giving such names to helpless children she was startled by his saying, regretfully:

"You don't like that name."

"Not like it? Why do you think I don't like it?"

"I know by your face."

Miss Clement blushed. The tranquil eyes were looking sadly into her own as if investigating in a friendly way her most secret thoughts. She became embarrassed.

"Why, yes--I like it."

"It is better than some other names."

"Indeed it is! Very much better!"

"It is the name of a great conqueror."

"Yes--of course--and--perhaps you may be a great conqueror yourself when you grow up."

"No. I don't care for that business. I shall sit on the high seat of a big, gold band-wagon of a circus full of splendid music, with eight white horses. I shall drive the horses and listen to the music."

"Yes, that will be very nice."

The room seemed warm after the November chill outside, and Miss Clement drew off her thick gloves. As her left hand dropped carelessly beside her, upon the edge of the sofa, she felt a sickening contact with something warm and very wet. Quickly she withdrew the hand. With an exclamation of disgust, she held aloft the befouled member. But the dog, whose generous tongue by one lingering stroke yielded such a vast amount of moisture, had risen upon his hind legs to accomplish it, and now stood looking up into her face for recognition of the friendly act. His reward was a look of loathing. And for a moment she still held aloft the varnished hand, uncertain what to do.

The boy laughed. "Why, it's nothing but dog spit!"

He drew forth from his pocket a handkerchief.

With two steps forward he offered it to the lady. As he did so he bowed with the pretentious grace of a Chesterfield advancing to the relief of Beauty. But Miss Clement recoiled. For on this handkerchief were blood stains--also mud--and green paint. Too much disgusted to think of manners, she ignored his offer and used her own handkerchief. But she shrank from replacing it in a clean pocket.

Looking down at the floor she frowned.

"I hope it was not you who cut those pictures from that nice book."

The Vandal smiled, and nodded, giving the impression of pride in the work.

"Are you the only person in the house?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Joanna's gone to the store."

Again she frowned down at the litter on the floor. "Does your mother know what you have been doing here?"

"Oh, no!"

"Has she never told you not to cut up books?"

"No, ma'am."

Miss Clement frowned again, and stiffened a little.

"And your father? Does he allow you to do such things?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask him. Are you fond of pictures?"

"Yes--I am fond of pictures."

He got down from his chair, picked up the three engravings, came and stood beside her, leaning against her knees. He laid the pictures in her lap and asked which she liked the best.

One engraving showed Joshua commanding the sun to stand still; one showed Elijah going to Heaven in his fiery chariot; and the other--she almost blushed as she looked at it--showed Susanna and the elders. Susanna wore no clothing and the elders were shocking old men.

"Which do you like best?" he repeated.

She pointed to Joshua.

"Which next?"

She pointed to Elijah.

"Now--I don't care for that feller himself," he said, "but I like the pretty lady. Best of all, though, I think, is the horses and the chariot going right up into the sky. Just think of it!" he exclaimed; "just think of going way up into the sky! I think I shall do it myself! Did he really go up that way with those fat horses?"

"No, I think not."

"Then it's a fairy story."

"No, it's a Bible story."

"What's the difference?"

"Bible stories are true stories and fairy tales are made-up stories."

"But you just said this man didn't go up to Heaven with a span of horses."

"Not in just that way--probably."

"Did he go up at all?"

Miss Clement hesitated. "Well--I suppose he did, perhaps."

"I betcher he couldn't go up in any way like that with horses treading on nothing but air."

Miss Clement had not come to this house for a theological argument. But she said nothing and merely heaved a sigh, a sigh of weariness.

But the boy was still fresh. "What was this man's name?"

"Elijah."

"Elijah what?"

"I don't think he had a last name."

"Where did he live?"

"Off in the East."

"If any one should write him a letter, asking him how he went up that way, and addressed the envelope just Elijah, off in the Yeast--would he get it?"

"Oh, no; he died long, long ago.

"Well, anyway, I am going up myself, some day, but not with horses. Horses couldn't do it. When I go I shall go with a kite, a big kite with a long string. I shall have a box kite. You know what a box kite is?"

"I think so."

"Well, it will be a big box kite longer'n this room, with me sitting inside and Luther Dean flying it. When it gets ten miles up in the air I shall reach down with long scissors and cut the string."

As he stepped back to study the effect of this news, she found his drowsy eyes were no longer drowsy, but wider open and all aglow with enthusiasm. "That's my own idea!"

She smiled and nodded. "Yes, it is very original."

"And then I shall sail way up as high as I want to. Perhaps to the moon!"

"Yes, that will be very nice."

"What's the use of crawling about on the earth like a bug? I'd rather be a bird."

Miss Clement nodded assent and lowered her eyes to the mutilated Bible. But his enthusiasm was contagious. She almost believed, for a moment, that he could do it. However, she was uncomfortable in the presence of this barbarian. She knew, from experience, the awful frankness of a boy; the statements he can make, and his cruel questions; questions that upheave religions, that lay bare your secret doubtings and impugn the wisdom and the motives of the Creator himself. A boy's thirsty, delving little mind is never satisfied with your easy answer that "the ways of the Almighty are inscrutable." As this interview proceeded she realized--and to her chagrin--that there was something about this vandal that caused her a peculiar kind of restraint and self-consciousness--almost diffidence. Being distinctly a nervous person and gently irritated at her own self-consciousness, Miss Clement looked about the room, over the boy's head, with an expression somewhat more severe than the situation required. But his instincts of hospitality were not so easily suppressed. Pointing to a dish of fruit on a further table, he asked:

"Won't you have an apple?"

"No, I thank you."

He seemed disappointed. Then as his eyes rested on a little music box that lay on the table beside him, he exclaimed, with enthusiasm: "You like good music?"

In her own voice there was less enthusiasm as she answered, "Yes, I--think I--do."

Miss Clement suddenly realized--as happens with nervous people--that she was annoyed by these foolish questions. Instead of replying she straightened up and looked first at the clock, then at the boy. She found him gazing at her earnestly, as if trying to read her thoughts.

"This music box," he said, with signs of embarrassment, "plays five lovely tunes: The Last Rose of Summer, Hear Me, Norma, The Carnival of Ven----"

"Not now," she interrupted.

Had her host been an older man, with a knowledge of women--if such is possible--this unexpected change of manner would have been a warning.

"It's four o'clock," she added hastily, and her smiles had vanished. "Are you the only person in the house?"

Taken aback, and obviously mortified by this sudden change of manner, he took a backward step and replaced the music box on the table. In his face, with a slight quivering of the lips, came the first signs of embarrassment he had shown. He bowed: not the gracious, self-possessed, courtly salutation of a kingly welcome with which he had first greeted her, but a solemn inclination of the head, as one who humbles himself--but gracefully--before an angry deity. And he murmured:

"I am sorry."

Her eyebrows went up. "Sorry for what?"

"I don't know--exactly."

For an instant she failed to understand. Then into her face came a gentler expression. "Yes, you do! You are sorry because you think you have troubled me; but it is I who beg your pardon. I am ashamed of myself. You have given me a lesson in politeness."

And she smiled her sweetest smile. Whereupon the sunshine returned to his own face. Encouraged by this change of atmosphere, he resumed with new courage his rôle of host. For a moment he studied her face, uncertain as to what was expected of him. Folding his hands above his head, he glanced about the room, searching for inspiration. It came. His face brightened. The slumbrous eyes sparkled. Coming a step nearer, he demanded with suppressed enthusiasm:

"Do you care for snakes or mice?"

The visitor regarded him with a kind of terror.

She frowned, turned her face to one side and shook her head. The host misunderstood the movement.

"But it's no trouble. I can get them both. They are right here in the woodshed." And he started toward the door.

"Come back," she said, "I don't care to see either of them."

"But the snake is dead and the mouse won't bite. He knows me."

Miss Clement shuddered: "No! No! Don't speak of them again! Come back."

He came back. She knew, and had always known, that boys themselves were a species of reptile. She felt, at this moment, that whatever this boy did must be regarded from that point of view--and forgiven. And as she wondered how a benevolent Creator could permit, in a decently ordered world, the existence of boys, the Vandal exclaimed in a reflective tone, but with a smile of amusement:

"Women are funny!"

At that moment the grandfather clock in the corner struck four. Miss Clement frowned in that direction. "When did Dr. Alton say he would be back?"

"He didn't say."

"But you told me he would return soon."

"Yes, ma'am."

"But you really don't know when?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then you told a fib."

The Vandal smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"But that is wrong, you know. You should always tell the truth."

"Yes, ma'am. But I thought it would be good to have you come in, and sit."

Miss Clement almost frowned and smiled in one expression. "But you did wrong. Doesn't your mother punish you for telling such fibs?"

"No, ma'am."

"Is she not at home?"

"Oh, no!"

"When do you expect her?"

"Oh, never!"

"Never?"

The drowsy eyes, in astonishment, opened a little wider. "Of course not. She is dead."

"Oh, that is too bad! I am very sorry. Was it long ago that she died?"

"Oh, yes! Long, long ago. More than twenty years."

"More than twenty years! I think you must be mistaken. How old are you?"

"Nine next July."

"Then your mother could not have died twenty years ago."

"Yes. She died long before I was born."

Miss Clement slowly shook her head. "But not twenty years. That is impossible."

"But she did."

"Then she was your step-mother perhaps?"

"No. My own mother."

This conversation was becoming so very absurd that Miss Clement made no answer. She merely looked away--and studied the room.

The boy smiled as if amused at her ignorance. "Don't you understand how it was?"

The lady's only reply was to close her eyes wearily. But he stepped nearer and laid a hand on each of her knees, to wake her up.

"Don't you see," he said, "the difference between eight and twenty is twelve, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Well, then she must have been dead twelve years when I was born."

Now Miss Clement could never do arithmetic. She abominated figures, and these words were uttered with so much conviction--reënforced by the wisdom of his eyes--that her brain became tangled for a moment. It seemed to shrink, in a sort of nervous bewilderment, from this fantastic puzzle. He smiled at her obvious confusion, moved backward a step or two, folded his hands behind him and squirmed with delight. "It's funny you don't understand. I guess I am smarter than you are."

Miss Clement shut tight her lips and looked away--anywhere. Her own brain seemed laughing at her.

"I s'pose," said the Vandal, "I don't need a mother much."

"Every boy needs a mother. Is Joanna your sister?"

He laughed at such an absurd mistake. "No! She's lots older than you are. She's housekeeper--and lots of things."

Miss Clement looked about the room, at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly engravings and photographs.

"Is there a portrait of your mother here?"

"No, ma'am."

"Not anywhere in the house?"

"No."

"There must be a photograph."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes'm."

"That is very strange."

"Why?"

"Because--because--it is most unusual. Did she die here in this house?"

"Oh, no! Of course not!"

"Why of course not?"

"Because she died in Italy."

"Was she Italian?"

"I guess so."

"Have you never seen a portrait of her?"

"No, ma'am."

Miss Clement frowned. There seemed to be a mystery here. Possibly a scandal of some sort. And her interest quickened. "I suppose your father talks to you about her sometimes."

"No, ma'am."

"Never?"

"No, ma'am."

"Of course he has told you where you were born?"

"P'r'aps."

"Perhaps what?"

"P'r'aps he did."

"But you don't remember?"

"No, ma'am."

Nobody likes to be thwarted in the pursuit of knowledge. In this case it seemed to Miss Clement that the deeper she delved the less she found.

"Don't you remember ever having seen a portrait of her?"

"Of course not."

"Why of course not?"

"Because there isn't any."

This seemed a good reason. But Miss Clement felt that either she--or this boy--was being deceived.

The Vandal, whose drowsy eyes had scarcely moved from the study of her face since she entered the room, saw the look of disappointment. It was a somewhat petulant expression in which she would not have indulged had her host been twenty years older. But he saw it so clearly that he was moved to sympathy. With all the joy and enthusiasm of a great idea, he exclaimed: "My father may know all about her. I will ask him to tell you!"

A chill of horror swept up Miss Clement's spine. She suddenly realized what awful mischief a youthful savage--either from ignorance or perversity--might accomplish. She stood up. "No! Don't mention it to him--nor to anybody."

"Why not?'

"Because you mustn't."

She could see, in the Vandal's face as he looked up at her, that he enjoyed this--to him--unaccountable fright. He even laughed. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"No, of course not!" And she tried to smile. "But promise me you will not ask your father, nor anybody else."

To this super-sensitive lady there appeared in his uplifted eyes a cruel, triumphant delight, as he said--"Why did you ask if you don't want to know about her?"

"Merely in the way of conversation." And she added, with her sweetest smile--"merely from a friendly interest. You are a nice boy, and you understand, I am sure."

He nodded; but his eyes, in their slumbrous wisdom, seemed almost contemptuous.

"Promise me," she insisted. "Promise me you will say nothing about it to anybody."

"Yes, I promise."

"You are a nice little boy--and I must go, now. I will call again in a day or two. Good by."

He bowed as he said good-by. Then he followed her out into the hall, ran before her and held the door wide open. As she passed out he bowed again; the same deferential obeisance with which he had first greeted her--as from Louis XIV to the Queen of Spain.

* * * * *