Chapter 9

"Well, I don't care," he muttered, but joining heartily in her laugh; "I've heard of fellows like me going into a decline just out of pure homesickness over there."

"I don't think you will be homesick for Flamsted; I saw no traces of that malady while you were in New York. On the contrary, I thought you accepted every opportunity to stay away."

"New York is different," he replied, a little shamefaced in the presence of the truth he had just heard. "But, mother, you would be alone here."

"I'm used to it, Champney;" she spoke as it were perfunctorily; "and I am ambitious to see you succeed as you wish to. I want to see you in a position which will fulfil both your hopes and mine; but neither you nor I can choose the means, not yet; we haven't the money. For my part, I think you should accept this offer; it's one in ten thousand. Work your way up during these five years into Mr. Van Ostend's confidence, and I am sure, _sure_, that by that time he will have something for you that will satisfy even your young ambition. I think, moreover, it is a necessity for you to accept this, Champney."

"You do; why?"

"Well, for a good many reasons. I doubt, in the first place, if these quarries can get under full running headway for the next seven years, and even if you had been offered some position of trust in connection with them, you haven't had an opportunity to prove yourself worthy of it in a business way. I doubt, too, if the salary would be any larger; it is certainly a fair one for the work he offers." She consulted the letter. "Twelve hundred for the first year, and for every succeeding year an additional five hundred. What more could you expect, inexperienced as you are? Many men have to give their services gratis for a while to obtain entrance into such offices and have their names, even, connected with such a financier. This opportunity is a business asset. I feel convinced, moreover, that you need just this discipline."

"Why?"

"For some other good reasons. For one, you would be brought into daily contact with men, experienced men, of various nationalities--"

"You can be that in New York. There isn't a city in the world where you can gain such a cosmopolitan experience." He was still protesting, still insisting. His mother made no reply, nor did she notice the interruption.

"--Learn their ways, their point of view. All this would be of infinite help if, later on, you should come into a position of great responsibility in connection with the quarry syndicate.--It does seem so strange that hundreds will make their livelihood from our barren pastures!" She spoke almost to herself, and for a moment they were silent.

"And look at this invitation to cross in his yacht with his family! Champney, you know perfectly well nothing could be more courteous or thoughtful; it saves your passage money, and it shows plainly his interest in you personally."

"I know; that part isn't half bad." He spoke with interest and less reluctance. "I saw the yacht last spring lying in North River; she's a perfect floating palace they say. Of course, I appreciate the invitation; but supposing--only supposing, you know,"--this as a warning not to take too much for granted,--"I should accept. How could I live on twelve hundred a year? He spends twice that on a cook. How does he think a fellow is going to dress and live on that? 'T was a tight squeeze in college on thirteen hundred."

His mother knew his way so well, that she recognized in this insistent piling of one obstacle upon another the budding impulse to yield. She was willing to press the matter further.

"Oh, clothes are cheaper abroad and living is not nearly so dear. You could be quite the gentleman on your second year's salary, and, of course, I can help out with the interest on the twenty thousand. You forget this."

"By George, I did, mother! You're a trump; but I don't want you to think I want to cut any figure over there; I don't care enough about 'em. But I want enough to have a ripping good time to compensate for staying away so long."

"You need not stay five consecutive years away from home. Look here, Champney; you have read this letter with your eyes but not with your wits. Your boiling condition was not conducive to clear-headedness."

"Oh, I say mother! Don't rap a fellow too hard when he's down."

"You're not down; you're up,"--she held her ground with him right sturdily,--"up on the second round already, my son; only you don't know it. Here it is in black and white that you can come home for six weeks after two years, and the fifth year is shortened by three months if all goes well. What more do you want?"

"That's something, anyway."

"Now, I want you to think this over."

"I wish I could run down to New York for a day or two; it would help a lot. I could look round and possibly find an opening in the direction I want. I want to do this before deciding."

"Champney, I shall lose patience with you soon. You know you, can't run down to New York for even a day. Mr. Van Ostend states the fact baldly: 'Your decision I must have by telegraph, at the latest, by Thursday noon.' That's day after to-morrow. 'We sail on Saturday.' Mr. Van Ostend is not a man to waste a breath, as you have said."

Champney had no answer ready. He evaded the question. "I'll tell you to-morrow, mother. It's late; you mustn't sit up any longer." He looked at his watch. "One o'clock. Good night."

"Good night, Champney. Leave your door into the hall wide open; it's so close."

She put out her light and sat down by the window. The night was breathless; not a leaf of the elm trees quivered. She heard the Rothel picking its way down the rocky channel of The Gore. She gave herself up to thought, far-reaching both into the past and the future. Soon, mingled with the murmur of the brook, she heard her son's quiet measured breathing. She rose, walked noiselessly down the hall and stood at his bedroom door, to gaze--mother-like, to worship. The moonlight just touched the pillow. He lay with his head on his arm; the full white chest was partly bared; the spare length of the muscular body was outlined beneath the sheet. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned from the door, and, noiselessly as she had come, went back to her room and her couch.

* * * * *

How little the pending decision weighed on his mind was proven by his long untroubled sleep; but directly after a late breakfast he told his mother he was going out to prospect a little in The Gore; and she, understanding, questioned him no further. He whistled to Rag and turned into the side road that led to the first quarry. There was no work going on there. This small ownership of forty acres was merged in the syndicate which had so recently acquired the two hundred acres from the Googe estate. He made his way over the hill and around to the head of The Gore. He wanted to climb the cliff-like rocks and think it out under the pines, landmarks of his early boyhood. He picked his way among the boulders and masses of sheep laurel; he was thinking not of the quarries but of himself; he did not even inquire of himself how the sale of the quarries might be about to affect his future.

Champney Googe was self-centred. The motives for all his actions in a short and uneventful life were the spokes to his particular hub of self; the tire, that bound them and held them to him, he considered merely the necessary periphery of constant contact with people and things by which his own little wheel of fortune might be made to roll the more easily. He was following some such line of thought while turning Mr. Van Ostend's plan over and over in his mind, viewing it from all sides. It was not what he wanted, but it might lead to that. His eyes were on the rough ground beneath him, his thoughts busy with the pending decision, when he was taken out of himself by hearing an unexpected voice in his vicinity.

"Good morning, Mr. Googe. Am I poaching on your preserve?"

Champney recognized the voice at once. It was Father Honoré's hailing him from beneath the pines. He was sitting with his back against one; a violin lay on its cover beside him; on his lap was a drawing-board with rule and compass pencil. Champney realized on the instant, and with a feeling of pleasure, that the priest's presence was no intrusion even at this juncture.

"No, indeed, for it is no longer my preserve," he answered cheerily, and added, with a touch of earnestness that was something of a surprise to himself, "and it wouldn't be if it were still mine."

"Thank you, Mr. Googe; I appreciate that. You must find it hard to see a stranger like myself preëmpting your special claim, as I fancy this one is."

"It used to be when I was a youngster; but, to tell the truth, I haven't cared for it much of late years. The city life spoils a man for this. I love that rush and hustle and rubbing-elbows with the world in general, getting knocked about--and knocking." He laughed merrily, significantly, and Father Honoré, catching his meaning at once, laughed too. "But I'm not telling you any news; of course, you've had it all."

"Yes, all and a surfeit. I was glad to get away to this hill-quiet."

Champney sat down on the thick rusty-red matting of pine needles and turned to him, a question in his eyes. Father Honoré smiled. "What is it?" he said.

"May I ask if it was your own choice coming up here to us?"

"Yes, my deliberate choice. I had to work for it, though. The superior of my order was against my coming. It took moral suasion to get the appointment."

"I don't suppose they wanted to lose a valuable man from the city," said Champney bluntly.

"The question of value is not, happily, a question of environment. I simply felt I could do my best work here in the best way."

"And you didn't consider yourself at all?" Champney put the question, which voiced his thought, squarely.

"Oh, I'm human," he answered smiling at the questioner; "don't make any mistake on that point; and I don't suppose many of us can eliminate self wholly in a matter of choice. I did want to work here because I believe I can do the best work, but I also welcomed the opportunity to get away from the city--it weighs on me, weighs on me," he added, but it sounded as if he were merely thinking aloud.

Champney failed to comprehend him. Father Honoré, raising his eyes, caught the look on the young man's face and interpreted it. He said quietly:

"But then you're twenty-one and I'm forty-five; that accounts for it."

For a moment, but a moment only, Champney was tempted to speak out to this man, stranger as he was. Mr. Van Ostend evidently had confidence in him; why shouldn't he? Perhaps he might help him to decide, and for the best. But even as the thought flashed into consciousness, he was aware of its futility. He was sure the man would repeat only what his mother had said. He did not care to hear that twice. And what was this man to him that he should ask his opinion, appeal to him for advice in directing this step in his career? He changed the subject abruptly.

"I think you said you had met Mr. Van Ostend?"

"Yes, twice in connection with the orphan child, as I told you, and once I dined with him. He has a charming family: his sister and his little daughter. Have you met them?"

"Only once. He has just written me and asked me to join them on his yacht for a trip to Europe." Champney felt he was coasting on the edge, and enjoyed the sport.

"And of course you're going? I can't imagine a more delightful host." Father Honoré spoke with enthusiasm.

But Champney failed to respond in like manner. The priest took note of it.

"I haven't made up my mind;" he spoke slowly; then, smiling merrily into the other's face, "and I came up here to try to make it up."

"And I was here so you couldn't do it, of course!" Father Honoré exclaimed so ruefully that Champney's hearty laugh rang out. "No, no; I didn't mean for you to take it in that way. I'm glad I found you here--I liked what you said about the 'value'."

Father Honoré looked mystified for a moment; his brow contracted in the effort to recall at the moment what he had said about "value", and in what connection; but instead of any further question as to Champney's rather incoherent meaning, he handed him the drawing-board.

"This is the plan for my shack, Mr. Googe. I have written to Mr. Van Ostend to ask if the company would have any objection to my putting it here near these pines. I understand the quarries are to be opened up as far as the cliff, and sometime, in the future, my house will be neighbor to the workers. I suppose then I shall have to 'move on'. I'm going to build it myself."

"All yourself?"

"Why not? I'm a fairly good mason; I've learned that trade, and there is plenty of material, good material, all about." He looked over upon the rock-strewn slopes. "I'm going to use some of the granite waste too." He put his violin into its case and held out his hand for the board. "I'm going now, Mr. Googe; I shall be interested to know your decision as soon as you yourself know about it."

"I'll let you know by to-morrow. I've nearly a day of grace. You play? You are a musician?" he asked, as Father Honoré rose and tucked the violin and drawing-board under his arm.

"My matins," the priest answered, smiling down into the curiously eager face that with the fresh unlined beauty of young manhood was upturned to his. "Good morning." He lifted his hat and walked rapidly away without waiting for any further word from Champney.

"Sure-footed as a mountain goat!" Champney said to himself as he watched him cross the rough hilltop. "I'd like to know where he gets it all!"

He stretched out under the pines, his hands clasped under his head, and fell to thinking of his own affairs, into the as yet undecided course of which the memory of the priest's words, "The question of value is not, happily, a question of environment" fell with the force of gravity.

"I might as well go it blind," he spoke aloud to himself: "it's all a matter of luck into which ring you shy your hat; I suppose it's the 'value', after all, that does it in the end. Besides--"

He did not finish that thought aloud; but he suddenly sat bolt upright, a fist pressed hard on each knee. His face hardened into determination. "By George, what an ass I've been! If I can't do it in one way I can in another.--Hoop! Hooray!"

He turned a somersault then and there; came right side up; cuffed the dazed puppy goodnaturedly and bade him "Come on", which behest the little fellow obeyed to the best of his ability among the rough ways of the sheep walks.

He did not stop at the house, but walked straight down to Flamsted, Rag lagging at his heels. He sent a telegram to New York. Then he went homewards in the broiling sun, carrying the exhausted puppy under his arm. His mother met him on the porch.

"I've just telegraphed Mr. Van Ostend, mother, that I'll be in New York Friday, ready to sail on Saturday."

"My dear boy!" That was all she said then; but she laid her hand on his shoulder when they went in to dinner, and Champney knew she was satisfied.

Two days later, Champney Googe, having bade good-bye to his neighbors, the Caukinses large and small, to Octavius, Ann and Hannah,--Aileen was gone on an errand when he called last at Champ-au-Haut but he left his remembrance to her with the latter--to his aunt, to Joel Quimber and Augustus, to Father Honoré and a host of village well-wishers who, in their joyful anticipation of his future and his fortunes, laid aside all factional differences, said, at last, farewell to Flamsted, to The Corners, The Bow, and his home among the future quarries in The Gore.

PART THIRD

In the Stream

I

Mrs. Milton Caukins had her trials, but they were of a kind some people would call "blessed torments." The middle-aged mother of eight children, six boys, of whom Romanzo was the eldest, and twin girls, Elvira Caukins might with justice lay claim to a superabundance of a certain kind of trial. Every Sunday morning proved the crux of her experience, and Mrs. Caukins' nerves were correspondingly shaken. To use her own words, she "was all of a tremble" by the time she was dressed for church.

On such occasions she was apt to speak her mind, preferably to the Colonel; but lacking his presence, to her family severally and collectively, to 'Lias, the hired man, or aloud to herself when busy about her work. She had been known, on occasion, to acquaint even the collie with her state of mind, and had assured the head of the family afterwards that there was more sense of understanding of a woman's trials in one wag of a dog's tail than in most men's head-pieces.

"Mr. Caukins!" she called up the stairway. She never addressed her husband in the publicity of domestic life without this prefix; to her children she spoke of him as "your pa"; to all others as "the Colonel."

"Yes, Elvira."

The Colonel's voice was leisurely, but muffled owing to the extra heavy lather he was laying about his mouth for the Sunday morning shave. His wife's voice shrilled again up the staircase:

"It's going on nine o'clock and the boys are nowheres near ready; I haven't dressed the twins yet, and the boys are trying to shampoo each other--they've got your bottle of bay rum, and not a single shoe have they greased. I wish you'd hurry up and come down; for if there's one thing you know I hate it's to go into church after the beginning of the first lesson with those boys squeaking and scrunching up the aisle behind me. It makes me nervous and upsets me so I can't find the place in my prayer book half the time."

"I'll be down shortly." The tone was intended to be conciliatory, but it irritated Mrs. Caukins beyond measure.

"I know all about your 'shortlies,' Mr. Caukins; they're as long as the rector's sermon this very Whit-sunday--the one day in the whole year when the children can't keep still any more than cows in fly time. Did you get their peppermints last night?"

"'Gad, my dear, I forgot them! But really--", his voice was degenerating into a mumble owing to the pressure of circumstances, "--matters of such--er--supreme importance--came--er--to my knowledge last evening that--that--"

"That what?"

"--That--that--mm--mm--" there followed the peculiar noise attendant upon a general clearing up of much lathered cuticle, "--I forgot them."

"What matters were they? You didn't say anything about 'supreme importance' last night, Mr. Caukins."

"I'll tell you later, Elvira; just at present I--"

"Was it anything about the quarries?"

"Mm--"

"_What_ was it?"

"I heard young Googe was expected next week."

"Well, I declare! I could have told you that much myself if you'd been at home in any decent season. It seems pretty poor planning to have to run down three miles to The Greenbush every Saturday evening to find out what you could know by just stepping across the bridge to Aurora's. She told me yesterday. Was that all?"

"N--no--"

"For mercy's sake, Mr. Caukins, don't keep me waiting here any longer! It's almost church time."

"I wasn't aware that I was detaining you, Elvira." The Colonel's protest was mild but dignified. There were sounds above of renewed activity.

"Dulcie," said Mrs. Caukins, turning to a little girl who was standing beside her, listening with erected ears to her mother's questions and father's answers, "go up stairs into mother's room and see if Doosie's getting ready, there's a good girl."

"Doosie is with me, Elvira; I would let well enough alone for the present, if I were you," said the Colonel admonishingly. His wife wisely took the hint. "Come up, Dulcie," he called, "father's ready." Dulcie hopped up stairs.

"You haven't said what matters of importance kept you last night." Mrs. Caukins returned to her muttons with redoubled energy.

"Champney came home unexpectedly last evening, and the syndicate has offered him a position, a big one, in New York--treasurer of the Flamsted Quarries Company; and our Romanzo's got a chance too--"

"You don't say! What is it?" Mrs. Caukins started up stairs whence came sounds of an obstreperous bootjack.

"Paymaster, here in town; I'll explain in more propitious circumstances. Has 'Lias harnessed yet, Elvira?"

Without deigning to answer, Mrs. Caukins freed her mind.

"Well, Mr. Caukins, I must say you grow more and more like that old ram of 'Lias's that has learned to butt backwards just for the sake of going contrary to nature. I believe you'd rather tell a piece of news backwards than forwards any day! Why didn't you begin by telling me about Romanzo? If your own child that's your flesh and blood and bone isn't of most interest to you, I'd like to know what is!"

The Colonel's reply was partly inaudible owing to a sudden outbreak of altercation among the boys in the room below. Mrs. Caukins, who had just reached the landing, turned in her tracks and hurried to the rescue.

The Colonel smiled at the rosy, freshly-shaved face reflected in the mirror of the old-fashioned dressing-case, and, at the same time, caught the reflection of another image--that of his hired man, 'Lias, who was crossing the yard. He went to the window and leaned out, stemming his hands on the sill.

"There seems to be the usual Sunday morning row going on below, 'Lias. I fear the boys are shampooing each other's heads with the backs of their brushes from the sounds."

'Lias smiled, and nodded understandingly.

"Just look in and lend a hand in case Mrs. Caukins should be outnumbered, will you? I'm engaged at present." And deeply engaged he was to the twins' unspeakable delight. Whistling softly an air from "Il Trovatore," he rubbed some orange-flower water on his chin and cheeks; then taking a fresh handkerchief, dabbed several drops on the two little noses that waited upon him weekly in expectation of this fragrant boon. He was rewarded by a few satisfactory kisses.

"Now run away and help mother--coach leaves at nine forty-five _pre_-cisely. I forgot the peppermints, but--" he slapped his trousers' pockets significantly.

The twins shouted with delight and rushed away to impart the news to the boys.

"I wish you would tell me the secret of your boys' conduct in church, Colonel Caukins; it's exemplary. I don't understand it, for boys will be boys," said the rector one Sunday several years before when all the boys were young. He had taken note of their want of restlessness throughout the sermon.

The Colonel's mouth twitched; he answered promptly, but avoided his wife's eyes.

"All in the method, I assure you. We Americans have spent a generation in experimenting with the inductive, the subjective method in education, and the result is, to all intents and purposes, a dismal failure. The future will prove the value of the objective, the deductive--which is mine," he added with a sententious emphasis that left the puzzled rector no wiser than before.

"Whatever the method, Colonel, you have a fine family; there is no mistake about that," he said heartily.

The Colonel beamed and responded at once:

"'Blessed is the man that hath his quiver full'--"

At this point Mrs. Caukins surreptitiously poked the admonitory end of her sunshade between the Colonel's shoulder blades, and the Colonel, comprehending, desisted from further quotation of scripture. It was not his strong point. Once he had been known to quote, not only unblushingly but triumphantly, during a touch-and-go discussion of the labor question in the town hall:--"The ass, gentlemen, is worthy of his hire"; and in so doing had covered Mrs. Caukins with confusion and made a transient enemy of every wage-earner in the audience.