Part 6

As Miss Clement crossed the common on her way home she saw a group of children looking skywards, and she heard the word "Eagle." She stopped, and also looked up. And as she looked, and watched the bird, floating tranquilly in the upper air, in a wide, slow circle, majestically, with no apparent effort, so high above the earth that he might be a visitor from another planet--she recalled the words of her recent host: "What's the use of crawling about on the earth like a bug? I'd rather be a bird."

* * * * *

An hour later Dr. Alton returned afoot. He had left his horse in the village to be shod. As he walked up the driveway he noticed a figure standing on the mounting block before the house. It was so enveloped in the golden glories of a setting sun that Dr. Alton failed, at first, to recognize his own son. The figure seemed a part of the sunset--more an ethereal spirit than an earthly boy. Cyrus was standing erect and motionless, his head thrown back as if inhaling inspiration from the radiance about him. Such prolonged and voluntary immobility would be unusual in any boy. Moreover, Cyrus maintained this attitude, forgetting--or ignoring--the customary greeting to his father. After waiting a moment before his strangely indifferent son, a feeling of uneasiness began to mingle with Dr. Alton's surprise.

At the foot of the block sat Zac, looking up at the silent boy. And Zac, also, might be a little off in his mind for he, too, failed to welcome or even to notice the returning parent.

At last Dr. Alton spoke. "What's the matter, Cyrus? Dreaming you are a bird?"

Slowly Cyrus lowered his face, his eyes still shut. And slowly the eyes were opened as if waking from a sleep. They showed a mild surprise at his father's presence. But he answered, in a low voice, as if his spirit still lingered elsewhere:

"Somebody wants us."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"But you know who told you."

"No, sir. Nobody told me."

"What do you mean, Cyrus? Wake up. Is it an emergency call?"

Cyrus raised a hand and pointed before him, toward the south.

"It comes from off there."

Dr. Alton frowned, less from irritation than from fear that this foolish utterance of his son might be the forerunner of some future spiritualistic obsession--or other mental derangement.

But he spoke gently. "Whose house do you think it is?"

"Oh, I don't know at all! It comes from way off--way off! It's in the air; not a loud sound, like somebody near. More like a--like a--breath."

"What does it say?"

"It says--it says--oh, I dunno. It isn't words."

"Then how do you know they want me?"

"It wants us both. It wants me too."

Dr. Alton smiled. "Do they want your help as another doctor?"

But Cyrus did not return the smile. He obviously regarded the message with a certain solemnity--and awe. Again he closed his eyes and again turned up his face.

"It is still coming."

"What is still coming, Cyrus? The same message?"

"Yes, sir, the same message--that we are wanted there."

"Where?"

"I don't know. But it isn't anywheres near here. It's a good ways off. And we are wanted very much;--oh, very much!"

Dr. Alton turned away. "Well, Cyrus, when you get your message in more definite form I shall be glad to consider it."

As he entered the house, however, he stood in the doorway a moment, looking back. Cyrus was still standing on the mounting block, with face upturned. On the ground sat Zac, still waiting patiently for his hero to return to earth.

When Cyrus followed his father into the house he found him warming himself before the open fire. He approached and stood before him.

"Father, why isn't there a picture of my mother somewhere round the house?"

Dr. Alton raised his eyebrows at the unexpected question. "Why do you ask, Cyrus?"

"'Cause somebody was here to-day who wanted to know."

"Who?"

With a knowing shake of the head the diplomat answered, "Oh, I mustn't tell you. I promised not to."

"Well, you must keep your promise."

"But why isn't there one?"

"It's a long story, Cyrus. Some day I will tell you, but not just now."

"But why not now? This is when I want to know. I may forget about it."

Dr. Alton was familiar with the gimlet quality of the youthful mind. "Well--Cyrus--let us wait and see if you forget it. And if you----" At that moment he happened to look more carefully at a letter in his hand, delivered during his absence and which he had just taken from the table. Cyrus waited for him to go on. He waited in vain. Dr. Alton stepped hastily to the window for more light, and read the letter. It was evidently of unusual interest, as he forgot to finish his sentence. And when, at last, Cyrus asked him to continue he did not even hear his son's voice.

The letter was written in a woman's hand, and in French.

At the supper table that evening father and son were sitting alone, as usual. The son was talkative, but the father was silent; so silent that Cyrus, at last discouraged by the complete indifference of a usually sympathetic audience, became silent himself.

And the father had abundant material for thought. He was trying to understand how the message in the letter had reached the boy. By what mysterious agency had this yearning of a woman's heart stirred the brain of the far away Cyrus? Could there be a harmony between these two spirits so intimate as to render the written word superfluous? These were questions he tried in vain to answer.

When the meal was finished and Joanna began to clear away the things, Dr. Alton surprised her by asking if Cyrus had a good suit of clothes.

"A good suit of clothes! Of course he has!"

"I mean, a nice new suit, that is becoming to him."

"He has that pretty dark suit with the wide collar that he wears Sundays."

"Yes,--yes--I know--but would that be good enough to wear in New York."

"In New York? Is Cyrus going to New York?" And there was a ring of dismay in Joanna's voice.

"I think so."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"What for?"

Dr. Alton hesitated. "I have some--sort of business there and--will take him with me."

"Will he stay long?"

"Only a day or two."

"Heaven be praised! I began to be frightened."

The doctor laughed. "You needn't worry, Joanna. We shall come back alive--and very soon."

The next day Cyrus and his father were in the wicked city. The important business of the following morning was taking the boy to a fashionable establishment and fitting him out in stylish raiment. And when the deed was done Dr. Alton realized that Cyrus, in these new, well fitting clothes, with his intelligent face and erect little figure, was not a boy to be ashamed of.

"To-night," said Dr. Alton, "we go to the opera."

"Opera." And Cyrus repeated the new word. "Opera. What is that, father?"

"It's a theater, where they sing."

"Isn't the circus better?"

"Well, yes; sometimes it is better. But you come to the opera with me to-night and to-morrow I will take you to the Hippodrome. That's fair, isn't it?"

Cyrus agreed that it was.

To a boy of eight, who has never been to any theater, Grand Opera is a strong beginning. When he and his father took their seats--seats not too far from the stage--Cyrus, in wonder, looked about him and above him, at the vast auditorium, the gorgeous architecture, the radiant women and their flashing jewels. And so many of them! This was a new world of which he had never heard. Wide open were his eyes; also his mouth--and all his senses. He absorbed everything. The overture filled him to the brim with a celestial joy. Such music he had not imagined. Then, to his surprise, all the lights were lowered and the vast chamber was in gloom. And when, the next moment, the great curtain began slowly to ascend, disclosing the scene behind, then, indeed, came the culmination of his joy and amazement.

What followed was bewildering--the music and the changing lights; the peasants, the soldiers and the kings and queens. And everybody singing! Then the ballet, with the fairies! The boy was enchanted.

But, among the many figures, there was one that stood out the clearest. It was a woman. Her face, her voice, her singing and her story moved him beyond any of the others. The words that were sung were strange words and they told him nothing, but he guessed the story. This lovely woman with a lovely voice had a diadem in her hair and was in trouble--troubled by a hateful man in splendid clothes, with lavender legs. But, however deep her trouble, she sang so well and in such a heavenly voice that the whole audience applauded her, again and again. It was clear, even to a child, that she was the queen of the evening, the star of stars. And once, between two acts, when she came out upon the stage, between the good lover and the wicked nobleman, bowing to the audience in acknowledgment of flowers, Cyrus saw, and saw so clearly there was no mistake, that she looked directly at him, Cyrus, and at his father! And as she saw them, she bowed and smiled more radiantly than ever! And so clear it was that he looked up and whispered:

"Why, father, she was bowing to us!"

He saw his father was smiling back at her as he murmured, "Yes--she is."

That, in itself, was exhilarating.

But no human boy can withstand for an infinity of time an infinity of new emotions--however delectable. At the end of the second hour Cyrus' head was resting against his father's arm, and his eyes were closed. But in his sleep he heard the music. In his dreams came the voice of the Lovely Lady. His eyes, only, were closed. In his ears, and to his weary but enchanted brain came all except the actual vision. When his father woke him from this gentle sleep the great curtain was slowly descending at the end of the final act. Music filled the air,--volumes and volumes of it. Countless people were on the stage; kings and queens, lords and ladies, peasants and soldiers, all singing their loudest. So many noisy people Cyrus had never heard. And in the center among the kings and queens was the Lovely Lady, also singing.

A few moments later, after the great curtain had descended, a half dozen of the principal singers came filing out in front of it, holding hands, and bowing and smiling to the audience. The Lovely Lady received heaps of flowers. And her eyes, as she bowed and smiled, rested for a moment on Cyrus himself.

The next day, as to weather, was disappointing. The cold, damp air, the leaden sky and the flurries of snow were a surprise to Cyrus, as it was just plain, country weather, and bad at that. It seemed out of place in a fine, big city. And he was again surprised, in the afternoon, when his father took him into Central Park. He considered it a waste of time, when so much of the city had not been seen. They walked along the borders of a lake, through some woods, then followed a path up a little hill. And, two or three times, when they came to other paths, his father took from his pocket the French letter he had received at home, and seemed to study it as if it told him where to go. On one of these halts the boy protested.

"Why do we come here, father? We can see trees at home."

"Yes, you are right, Cyrus. But we go only a little further." And when they came to a rustic bench in a secluded spot, quite hidden among trees and shrubs, Dr. Alton seated himself.

"Are you tired?" Cyrus asked. Dr. Alton looked at his watch. "No, I am not tired."

"Then let's go back to the city, and be seeing things."

His father laid a hand on his shoulder and patted it.

"There is no hurry. We can wait a minute. It is rather pleasant here, don't you think?" Then he looked along the path in both directions as if expecting something. Cyrus was too polite to say what he really thought, so he merely scowled and swung his legs, hitting the toe of one foot against the heel of the other. Meanwhile his father kept looking along the path by which they had come as if expecting something.

And something came.

It was a lady, and she was hurrying toward them. Instead of going by she stopped and greeted Dr. Alton. And the greeting was more than friendly. There were kisses, and they stood for a moment in each other's arms. Tears were on her cheeks when she stooped down and put both hands on Cyrus' shoulders and looked earnestly into his face. In her own face there was a look of excitement, and of joy. More tears came to her eyes. And her eyes were full of expression, with a peculiar droop, that gave an air of calmness and repose. She kissed the boy,--kissed him several times--then held him at arm's length, said something in a foreign language--then kissed him again. Although she was evidently an important person, and beautiful and kind and very gentle and affectionate--and he liked her furs as he stroked them--nevertheless Cyrus accepted her attentions with surprise, and with a mild resentment. No woman had ever treated him in this manner, and these caresses embarrassed him. Moreover, her face and voice awakened memories--memories as of fairy tales with music--of things unreal, yet positive, and fresh in his mind. His frown was from an effort to remember what her face and voice recalled. At last, of a sudden, the clouds vanished. Into his puzzled brain poured a flood of light. The frown gave way to a smile of triumph as he exclaimed, holding her at arm's length with both hands against her chest:

"Oh, I know now! You are the lady of last night!"

She looked up at Dr. Alton for a translation but guessed the meaning. And when it came she nodded, laughed and confessed--but in a language Cyrus did not understand, although familiar to his ears. Seating herself on the rustic bench, she held Cyrus in her lap, and with Dr. Alton as interpreter they conversed together. She asked many questions: if he was happy, in good health, what he thought and how he spent his time, and lots of other things. And Cyrus was delighted to learn more about her strange adventures of last night. And to know that the wicked man with lavender legs could do her no harm.

She was certainly a wonderful lady, as charming now as in the story of last night. And Cyrus asked many questions about that story, all of which she answered. Of course, it was slow and troublesome not understanding her language--nor she his, except a few words--but Dr. Alton was a willing translator. It all ended, however, in an unexpected way. After one of her embraces, more affectionate even than the others, Cyrus startled his two companions by asking in the joyful voice that comes with a grand discovery:--

"Are you my mother?"

With a frightened look she drew back. The last word she understood. Instead of answering she glanced up at his father, as if for assistance. Into Dr. Alton's face, also, had come a look of alarm; then a frown. But he answered pleasantly:

"No--Cyrus. No. Why should you ask such a question?"

"Because she acts just as Elmer Snow's mother acted when he came back from the hospital."

When this was translated she leaned back, bowed her head, and covered her face with her hands. When she raised her head there were fresh tears on her cheeks.

Cyrus apologized. "I am very sorry. I didn't mean anything--in particular. I only--just thought I'd ask."

She patted his shoulder to assure him no harm was done.

"This lady, Cyrus, is an old friend of mine," said his father. "And is very glad to see you and is sorry you have no mother. That's all."

Now Cyrus would sooner doubt a voice from heaven than his father's word; and any one could easily see that the lady was much disturbed--so much disturbed that it shortened the interview. The parting with his father seemed painful and took a long time. Both had much to say. They seemed to cling to each other, and he kissed her several times. At last, after a tearful farewell to Cyrus, with a long embrace in which her wet cheeks were pressed long against his face, she hurried away.

There was sorrow in his drowsy eyes as he watched the departing figure. No woman had ever treated him in such a way, and he had begun to like it. Before she disappeared around a curve in the path, even before the sound of her pleasant voice had died away in his ears--something happened!

A fat, gray squirrel, followed by another fat, gray squirrel jumped upon the bench just where the lady had been sitting! And there they sat almost within reach!

He was young. Within a month the unexplained lady, her face, her voice and her caresses had begun to fade from his unfledged memory. But the two gray squirrels, almost within reach, sitting up with their funny little hands crossed upon their portly stomachs, he remembered clearly.

VI

HE ALMOST GETS RELIGION

Cyrus was in bed.

The history of the case is instructive and should be a warning to other champions.

On a certain afternoon in the fourteenth year of this hero's life the home team had met and defeated the baseball club from a neighboring village. The score was twenty to thirteen. Such a victory deserved celebration. So Cyrus, with half a dozen fellow champions, went to Mrs. Turner's little ice cream parlor and regaled themselves. Each boy had three ice creams, and as the money still held out they decided on a fourth. But Mrs. Turner, having a friendly interest in her patrons, declined to be further identified with this particular debauch.

To victors in the national game this was humiliating. Defeat in an ice cream parlor after triumph on the diamond, was not to be accepted. So they adjourned to the store where a fresh lot of cocoanut cakes had just come in. These cakes were not dry and fly blown like their predecessors. They were fresh, full and well rounded, soft and juicy and nicely browned on top. Wilbur Cobb said he could eat a dozen. But Cyrus, familiar with the deceptive richness of cocoanut cakes, said no boy could eat a dozen, but that he, Cyrus, could eat more than Wilbur. This aroused the sporting instinct of the party and it was arranged, on the spot, that these two champions should compete. The boy who ate the most should pay nothing toward the cost of the cakes. The cakes were two cents a piece.

Cyrus won. He ate nine and claimed, with justice, that were it not for the space already occupied by the ice cream and sponge cake he could have eaten still more.

Half an hour later these same boys, in passing through Deacon Bisbee's orchard, found the taste of green apples cool and refreshing, for the moment, after the somewhat milky fullness caused by the ice cream and cocoanut cakes. And they partook with reckless freedom. What exclamations of surprise or warning may have passed between those hereditary foes, the ice cream and green apples, when the apples entered those overworked stomachs is not recorded. But the apples conquered as easily as the Barbarians when they entered Rome. For green apples, on occasion, resemble Truth: they are mighty and will prevail. And Cyrus, after starting homeward, began to feel, in that region between his chest and legs, as if he had swallowed a football. The distention was painful. Moreover, as he hurried on, the football seemed growing bigger and harder. Also, it showed signs of life. From his interior came rumblings; the rumblings that precede a storm. All through this central zone, this sphere of distention, pains were starting up, sharp, swift, far reaching. It appeared to him that through his equator lightning played. At first these playful spasms darted here and there in a frolicsome way--like airy nothings. Though somewhat threatening and reverberant they did not alarm him. They seemed well intentioned pains, like harmless gleams of lightning on a summer night. But these spasms became less friendly. They grew sharper and more threatening. Soon, like flashes in a real storm, they were shooting here and there as if rending him asunder; no longer playful, but the kind of lightning that rips the bark from trees, tears bricks from chimneys, and spires from churches. When near his own home this storm within grew fiercer yet, and wilder in its fury. So sharp the agony that he clasped the afflicted territory with both his hands, and leaned for support against a fence.

Never before, in his brief career had he realized that the human body could be rent and plowed and torn to shreds without killing the owner.

At that moment Mrs. Eagan came along. Mrs. Eagan had a large face, a large chest, large hips and a large heart. And she was carrying a large basket--of things for the wash. Cyrus withdrew his hands from that region where the tempest raged, straightened up, lifted his hat and bowed. And it was done as respectfully as if Mrs. Eagan were the leading lady of the land. Mrs. Eagan, with a smile of pleasure, returned the salutation, not gracefully perhaps, for she was hampered by the heavy basket. She knew Cyrus, and she knew that in his courtesy to her sex he made no distinctions. She knew that if the Queen of Sheba were passing at the same moment, the Queen of Sheba would have received an obeisance not a bit more deferential than the obeisance to Mrs. Eagan. But as she looked more carefully at the boy's face, her friendly eyes saw clearly there was trouble.

"Why, Cyrus! Are ye sick? Ye are as white as a sheet."

"Yes'm." He spoke in a fade-a-way voice, and he smiled from sheer force of will. "I feel very--very--I don't know." And one of his hands moved instinctively to the sphere of revolt. His head drooped, partly from pain; partly from shame that these awful spasms had weakened his legs and might effect his courage.

"'Tis there ye are sufferin'? 'Tis the belly ache?"

Cyrus nodded. "Yes--Mrs. Eagan--and I never--had--such a----" The lips quivered, his head sank lower and he leaned against the fence for support. Mrs. Eagan laid down her basket. Then closer to the smaller white face came the larger red one.

"D'ye feel so bad as that, little man?"

Cyrus nodded, with lips tight pressed to conceal a quivering he could not control. He looked into the light blue eyes, now near his own, and tried to smile.

Mrs. Eagan said no more. Cyrus felt an arm behind his legs, another across his back, and he was lifted from the earth. She lifted him in her arms--as Hercules might have lifted a spring lamb. With his head against her shoulder she carried him easily up the long driveway to his own home.

There were sleepless hours that night, and Cyrus did some unusual thinking on important subjects. For, as it happened, he had recently read portions of the Old Testament, quite by accident, and was much impressed, temporarily, by certain statements of the Hebrew fathers. He inferred from that book that the Ruler of the Universe was watchful and vindictive, and dependent upon constant praise; that for any dodging of this praise and worship hell fire and eternal damnation were ordinary penalties; that the sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, forever and ever--which seemed unfair. The impression of all this upon his youthful mind was that any person who really believed these things must be either impossibly good or scared to death. While in good health those awful utterances did not worry him. Now, however, in the silent hours of the night, weakened by the devastation in his interior, he became less callous to such warnings. Those Hebrew fathers, backed by the vindictive Almighty, might get him before daylight and consign him, forever, to the fires of hell.

But at last he slept. And when he awoke the sun was shining in his chamber--and he was still alive! However, when Joanna came up with his toast and tea, and sat at his bedside, he was still haunted by the awful prophecies of the Hebrew fathers and by the suspicion that the Avenging Deity might still have an eye on him.