CHAPTER V
PETER'S ROOM IS AGAIN OCCUPIED
LIFE was very dull round Beaver Dam after Peter had gone away. John andConstance Starkley and Flora and Emma felt that every room of the oldhouse was so full of memories of the three boys that they could notthink of anything else. John Starkley worked early and late, but a senseof numbness was always at his heart. There were times when he glowedwith pride and even when he flamed with anger, but he was alwaysconscious of the weight on his heart. His grief was partly for hiswife's grief.
He awoke suddenly very early one morning and heard his wife sobbingquietly. That had happened several times before, and sometimes she hadbeen asleep and at other times awake. Now she was asleep, lonely for herboys even in her dreams. He thought of waking her; and then he reflectedthat, if awake, she would hide her tears, which now perhaps were givingher some comfort in her dreams.
But he could not find his own sleep again. He lighted a candle, put on afew clothes and went downstairs to the sitting room. There were bookseverywhere, of all sorts, in that comfortable and shabby room. The brownwooden clock on the shelf above the old Franklin stove ticked drearily.It marked ten minutes past two. Mr. Starkley dipped into a volume ofCharles Lever and wondered why he had ever laughed at its impossibleanecdotes and pasteboard love scenes. He tried a report of the NewBrunswick Agricultural Society and found that equally dry. A flyleaf ofTreasure Island held his attention, for on it was penned in a roundhand, "Flora with Dick's love, Christmas, 1914."
"He was only a boy then," murmured the father. "Less than a year ago hewas only a boy, and now he is a man, knowing hate and horror andfatigue--a man fighting for his life. They are all boys! Henry andPeter--Peter with his grand farm and fast mares, and his eyes likeConnie's."
John Starkley got out of his chair, trembling as if with cold. He walkedround the room, clasping his hands before him. Then he took the candlefrom the table and held it up to the shelf above the stove. There stoodphotographs of his boys, in uniform. He held the little flame close toeach photograph in turn.
"Three sons," he said. "Three good sons--and not one here now!"
A cautious rat-tat on the glass of one of the windows brought him out ofhis reveries with a start. He went to the window without a moment'shesitation, held the candle high and saw a face looking in at him thathe did not recognize for a moment. It was a frightened and shamed face.The eyes met his for a fraction of a second and then shifted theirglance.
"James Hammond!" exclaimed Mr. Starkley. "Of all people!"
He set the candle on the table and pushed up the lower sash of thewindow, letting in a gust of cold wind that extinguished the lightbehind him. He could see the bulk of his untimely visitor against thevague starlight.
"Come in, James," he said. "By the window or the door, as you like."
"Thank you, Mr. Starkley," said Hammond in guarded tones. "The windowwill do. No strangers about, I suppose? Just the family?"
"Only my wife and daughters," replied the farmer, and turned to relightthe candle.
Jim Hammond got quickly across the sill, pulled the sash down, and afterit the green-linen shade. He stood near the wall, twirling his hat inhis hand and shuffling his feet. When Mr. Starkley turned to him, heswallowed hard, glanced up and then as swiftly down again.
"Queer time to make a call," said Hammond at last. "Near three o'clock,Mr. Starkley. I was glad to see your light at the window. I was scaredto tap on the window, at first, for fear you'd send me away."
"Send you away?" queried the farmer. "Why did you fear that, Jim? You,or any other friend, are welcome at this house at any hour of the day ornight. But I must admit that your visit has taken me by surprise. Ithought you were far away from this peaceful and lonely country, myboy--far away in Flanders."
The blood flushed over Jim's face, and he stared at the farmer.
"You thought I was in Flanders," he said. "In Flanders--me! So you don'tknow about me, Mr. Starkley? Peter didn't tell you about me?That--that's impossible. Don't you know--and every one else?"
"I don't know what you are talking about," replied Mr. Starkley, as hepushed Jim into an armchair. "I can see that you are tired, however, andin distress of some sort. Why are you here, Jim--and why are you not inuniform? Tell me--and if I can help you in any way you may be sure thatI will. Rest here and I'll get you something to eat. I did not notice atfirst how bad you look, Jim."
"Never mind the food!" muttered young Hammond. "I'm not hungry, sir--notto matter, that is. But I'm dog-tired. I've been hiding about in thewoods and in people's barns for a long time--and walking miles andmiles. I--you say you don't know--I am a deserter--and worse."
"You didn't go to France with your regiment? You deserted?"
"I didn't go anywhere with it. Why didn't Peter tell you? I came home onpass--and gave them the slip. I--Peter was sent here to fetch me back.And he didn't tell you! And you thought I was in France! I came herebecause I was ashamed to go home."
He suddenly leaned forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees,and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. John Starkleycontinued to gaze at him in silence for a minute or two, far too amazedand upset and bewildered to know what to say or do. He felt a great pityfor the young man, whom he had always known as a prosperous andself-confident person. To see him thus--shabby, weary, ashamed andreduced to tears--was a most pitiful thing. A deserter! A coward! Buteven so, who was he to judge? Might not his sons have been like this,except for the mercy of God? Even now any one of his boys, or all threeof them, might be in great need of help and kindness. He went over andlaid a hand gently on his visitor's shoulder.
"I don't know what you have done, exactly, or anything at all of yourreason for doing it, but you are the son of a friend of mine and havebeen a comrade of one of my sons," he said. "Look upon me as a friend,Jim. You say you are a deserter. Well, I heard you. It is bad--but hereis my hand."
Jim Hammond raised his head and looked at Mr. Starkley with atear-stained face.
"Do you mean that?" he asked; and at the other's nod he grasped theextended hand.
Mr. Starkley asked him no more questions then, but brought cold ham fromthe pantry and cider from the cellar and ate and drank with him. Thevisitor's way with the food and drink told its own story and sharpenedthe farmer's pity. They went upstairs on tiptoe.
"This is Peter's room," said Mr. Starkley. "Sleep sound and as long asyou please--till dinner time, if you like. And don't worry, Jim."
The farmer returned to his own room and found his wife sleeping quietly.He wakened her and told her of young Hammond's visit and all that heknew of his story.
"I am glad you took him in," she said. "We must help him for our boys'sakes, even if he is a deserter."
"Yes," answered Mr. Starkley, "we must help him through his shame andtrouble--and then he may right the other matter of his own free will.We'll give him a chance, anyway."
It was dinner time when Jim Hammond awoke from his sleep of physical andnervous exhaustion. He was puzzled to know where he was at first, butthe memory of the night's adventure came to him, bringing both shame andrelief. He had no watch to tell him the time, and there was no clock inthe room. He had brought nothing with him--not a watch, or a dollar, ora shirt--nothing except his guilt and his shame. He flinched at thethought of meeting Mrs. Starkley and the girls.
A knock sounded on the door, and John Starkley looked in and wished himgood morning. "If you get up now, Jim, you'll be in time for dinner," hesaid. "Here is hot water and a shaving kit--and a few duds of Henry'sand Peter's you can use if you care to. Set your mind at rest about thefamily, Jim. I have told my wife all that I know myself, and she feelsas I do. As for the girls--well, I will let them know as much as isnecessary. We mean to help you to get on your feet again, Jim."
The deserter shaved with care, dressed in his own seedy garments andwent slowly downstairs. He entered the kitchen. Mrs. Starkley and Florawere there, busy about the
midday dinner. They looked up at him andsmiled as he appeared in the doorway, but their eyes and Flora's quickchange of color told him of the quality of their pity. They would feelthe same, he knew, for any broken and drunken tramp in the ditch. But hewas a more despicable thing than a drunken tramp. He was a deserter, acoward. They knew that of him, for he saw it in their eyes that tried tobe so frank and kind; and that was not the worst of him. He could notadvance from the threshold or meet their glances again.
Mrs. Starkley went to the young man quickly and, taking his hand inhers, drew him into the room. Flora came forward and gave him her handand said she was glad to see him; and then Emma came in from the diningroom and said, "Hello, Mr. Hammond! I hope you can stay here a longtime; we are very lonely."
His heart was so shaken by those words that his tongue was suddenlyloosened. He looked desperately, imploringly round, and his face wentred as fire and then white as paper.
"I'll stay--if you'll let me--until I pick up my nerve again," he saidquickly and unsteadily. "Keep me hidden here from Stanley and my folks.I'll work like a nigger. I am a deserter, as you all know--and I knowthat Peter didn't tell you so. I'd do anything for him, after that. I'ma runaway soldier, but it wasn't because I was afraid to fight. I'llshow you as soon as I'm fit--I'll go and fight. It was my beastly temperand drink that did for me. I've been near crazy since. But I'll show youmy gratitude some day--if you give me a chance now to work round tofeeling something like a man again."
Flora and Emma were tongue-tied by the stress of their emotions. Theycould only gaze at their guest with tear-dimmed eyes. But Mrs. Starkleywent close to him and put a hand on each of his drooped shoulders.
"Of course, my dear boy," she said. "You are only a boy, Jim, a year ortwo younger than Henry, I think. Trust us to help you."
During dinner they talked about the country, the war, the weather andthe stock--about almost everything but Jim Hammond's affairs.
"What do you want me to do this afternoon?" asked Jim when the meal wasover. "I don't know much about farm work, but I can use an axe and canhandle horses."
"I was ploughing this morning; and this may be our last day before thefrost sets in hard," said Mr. Starkley. "What about hitching Peter'smares to a second plow?"
"Suit me fine," said Jim.
It was a still, bright October afternoon, with a glow in the sunshine, asmell of fern and leaf in the air and a veil of blue mist on the fartherhills. Frosts had nipped the surface of things lightly a score of timesbut had not yet struck deep. Jim Hammond, in a pair of Peter'slong-legged boots, guided a long plough behind Peter's black and sorrelmares. The mares pulled steadily, and the bright plough cut smoothlythrough the sod of the old meadow. Over against the fir woods on the farside of the meadow John Starkley went back and forth behind his grays.
Jim rested frequently at the end of a furrow, for he was not in the pinkof condition. He noticed, for the first time in his life, the faintperfume of the turned loam and torn grass roots. He liked it. Hisfurrows, a little uneven at first, became straighter and more even untilthey were soon almost perfect.
As the red sun was sinking toward the western forests, Emma appeared,climbing over the rail fence from a grove of young red maples. Shecarried something under one arm. She waved a hand to her father but camestraight to Jim. He stopped the mares midway the furrow.
"I made these gingernuts myself," said Emma, holding out an uncoveredtin box to him. "See, they are still hot. Have some."
He accepted two and found them very good. The girl looked over his workadmiringly and told him she had never seen straighter furrows except afew of Peter's ploughing. Then she warned him that in half an hour shewould blow a horn for him to stop and went across to her father withwhat was left of the gingernuts. Hammond went on unwinding the old sodinto straight furrows until the horn blew from the house.
After supper he played cribbage with Mr. Starkley; and that night heslept soundly and without dreaming. He awoke early enough to do hisshare of the feeding and milking before breakfast. The ploughs workedagain that day, but the next night brought a frost that held tight.
The days went by peacefully for Jim Hammond. He never went on thehighway or away from Beaver Dam and Peter's place. Sometimes, whenpeople came to the house, he sat by himself in his room upstairs. He didhis share of all the barn work, twice a week helped Mrs. Starkley andthe girls with the churning and cut cordwood and fence rails every day.He never talked much, but at times his manner was almost cheerful. Andso the days passed and October ran into November. Snow came and lettersfrom France and England. The family treated him like one of themselves,with never a question to embarrass him or a word to hurt him. He heardnews of his family occasionally, but never tried to see them.
"They think I am somewhere in the States, hiding--or that's what fatherthinks," he said to Flora. "Some day I'll write to mother--from France."
December came and Christmas. Jim kept house that day while the othersdrove to Stanley and attended the Christmas service in the church on thetop of the long hill. A week later a man in a coonskin coat drove up tothe kitchen door. Jim recognized him through the window as thepostmaster of Stanley and retired up the back stairs. John Starkley, whohad just come in from the barns, opened the door.
"A cablegram for you, Mr. Starkley," said the postmaster. "It was wiredthrough from Fredericton."
He held out the thin envelope. Mr. Starkley stared at it, but did notmove. His eyes narrowed, and his face looked suddenly old.
"No call to be afraid of it," said the postmaster, who was also thetelegraph operator. "I received it and know what's in it."
Mr. Starkley took it then and tore it open.
"Peter wounded. Doing fine. Dick Starkley" is what he read. He sighedwith relief and called to Mrs. Starkley and the girls. Then he invitedthe man from Stanley in to dinner, saying he would see to the horse in aminute.
"You can't expect much better news than that from men in France," JohnStarkley said to his wife. "Wounded and doing fine--why, that's betterthan no news, by a long shot. He will be safe out of the line now forweeks, perhaps for months. Perhaps he will even get to England. He issafe at this very minute, anyway."
He excused himself, went upstairs and told Jim Hammond the news.
"That is twice for Peter already," he said, "once right at home and oncein Flanders. If this one isn't any worse than the first, we have nothingto worry about."
"I hope it is just bad enough to give him a good long rest," said Jim ina low voice.
The postmaster stayed to dinner, and Emma smuggled roast beef andpudding up to Jim in his bedroom. No sooner had that visitor gone thananother drove up. This other was Vivia Hammond; and once more Jimretired to his room. Vivia had heard of the cablegram, but nothing ofits import. Her face was white with anxiety.
"What is it?" she cried. "The cable--what is it about?"
"Peter is right as rain--wounded but doing fine," said John.
Vivia cried and then laughed.
"I love Peter, and I don't care who knows it!" she exclaimed. "I hope hehas lost a leg, so they'll have to send him home. That soundsdreadful--but I love him so--and what does a leg matter?" She turned toMrs. Starkley. "Did he ever tell you he loved me?" she asked.
"He didn't have to tell us," answered Mrs. Starkley, smiling.
"He does! He does!" exclaimed the girl, and then began to cry again; andJim, imprisoned upstairs, wished she would go home.