BREAKING THROUGH
BY
W. C. MORROW
Reprinted from _Success Magazine_ of September, 1906 by permission
"RAY," SAID his mother, whom he shyly and secretly worshipped, withouther ever suspecting the least of it beneath his cautious reserve andoccasional outbursts of temper, "my son, I hope you will remember,tonight. You are nearly a man."
She was a wise woman, and said it kindly and meant it well; but his faceflamed, his eyes hardened, and he sullenly walked away. Mrs. Gilbertsighed, and went about the preparations for the young people's partywhich her daughters, aged sixteen and eighteen, were to give thatevening. She could not foresee what her son would do. Would her gentlewarning, filled with the tender pride of a mother's love for her oneman-child, drive him with his dog to the woods, whither many a timebefore this day a word less pointed had sent him, there to live for aweek or longer at a time, in a manner that he had never disclosed?--orwould the disjointed thing within him which harried his somber, lonelylife force him in a blind moment to make a disgraceful scene at thegathering? She prayed that neither would happen, and that the sunshinefighting for egress through his darkness would come forth soft andgenial and very fine and sweet, as it did sometimes, and alwaysunaccountably....
The worst had happened at the party. No doubt it was intolerable,--butnot so bad as when (he was then only four) he had tried to kill a boyfor lying about him and was whipped mercilessly by his father,--forhere, in the library, he was sitting before Mr. Gilbert, who was paleand whose eyes had a deep, inscrutable look. He was a large and powerfulman, and had a genial nature, with force and sternness. The lad hadnever seen him looking thus, and so evidently guarding a prisoner, andthe boy felt a strange weight within.
Whatever had happened must have left a shadow on the assemblage, for,though faint sounds came through the closed doors, they were somewhatlacking in the robustness of youth. Ray did not deign an effort toremember. More than that, he hoped that it never would come back, for itmight be disturbing to his solitudes. Of his attempts to remember theattack on the boy ten years ago, there had never come any result but therecollection of a wholly disconnected event,--when he was enveloped in aswirl of flame and smoke from a fierce grass fire, and had to fight hisway through to life. He did not try to think what his father's purposewas in holding him a prisoner tonight. Was it to give him a lecture?Pshaw! The beautiful, peaceful woods would make him forget thatchild's-play, and he would steal away to them with Cap this very night,as soon as all were asleep.
Thus, motionless and in silence, sat he and his father, seeminglythrough an endless, aching time. After a while the guests quietly left.His sisters omitted their customary good night to their father. Allsounds from the servants ended. Then entered his mother, uncommonlypale, and in silence looked from her son to her husband. She was smalland dainty, and very, very pretty, the boy reflected. It was a pity thather bright eyes should be dim tonight and her sweet mouth drawn. Shelooked worn and as though she dreaded something.
"Are you ready?" Mr. Gilbert asked, regarding her fixedly.
Her lip trembled, but there came a flash from her eyes. "Do you reallymean it?" she asked.
"Certainly. It must be done."
"My dear, dear, he's too large for----"
"He'll never be too large for it so long as he is a boor and coward,insults our guests, scandalizes us all, shames his sisters, and treatshis parents with open scorn. He won't try to be like other people andaccept his world as he finds it. His inordinate conceit is a disease. Itis eating up his own life and making our lives miserable. We will cureit."
He had spoken calmly, but with a low vibration of tone; and as he cameto his feet he looked very tall and terrible. Ray's blood began to rise,and as he looked about for something undefined he felt the heat andsmelled the smoke of the grass fire of ten years ago.
He knew he was a coward. That was the shame and the curse of his life.He did not think it had always been so, but believed it had come aboutgradually. At first he had not minded the whippings that other boys gavehim because of his temper and his physical inadequacy, for he hadinvited the punishment; but when they all learned that his fightingspirit had weakened, that they could whip him easily, that they need notwait for provocation, and that he would never tell, they bullied andhounded and beat him until he had come to know a craven, sordid fear,which spread from the boys to the whole terrible world in which themasculine entity must fight for a place.
"I am ready," said Mrs. Gilbert, trying to hide a sigh.
"Come," Mr. Gilbert ordered the boy, looking at him for the first timein two hours.
The boy quailed before that look, the most dreadful thing he had everseen. It made him numb and sick, and when he rose he staggered; for,though tall, he was slender and had little strength. The weight on hischest became a pain and fixed on his throat, to choke and torment him.
His mother had gone out. He followed his father, and the three went outinto the back yard, the boy bare-headed. The night was sharp and themoon very bright. All the boy's power of thought was suspended.
In silence they walked down the terraces of the park-like yard in therear. Cap, Ray's dog, his only intimate, came bounding forward for hisyoung master's unfailing good night, but Mr. Gilbert angrily ordered himaway. The animal, astonished and hurt, slunk away, keeping a watchfulview of the group, and sat down at a distance and gazed in wonder. Theypassed through a gate into an orchard, and shut the dog out.
Mr. Gilbert selected an apple tree, because the wood was tougher thanthat of a peach. From it he cut two switches a yard long, and carefullypared the knots, his wife observing without a word or a movement, andthe boy looking away into the distance. When Mr. Gilbert had done, heordered his son to prepare.
The lad numbly, dumbly removed his coat and waistcoat, slipped hissuspenders down, tightened the strap at the back of his trousers,clasped his hands in front, and bowed his head. The dog, which had creptto the fence and was peering through the pickets, whined anxiously andwas quivering. When roughly ordered away by Mr. Gilbert, he went upon aterrace that overlooked the fence, and trembled as he watched. The boydid not once look toward him. He was struggling with the pain in histhroat.
Mr. Gilbert offered one of the switches to his wife.
"Oh, how can you!" she pleaded.
"You must," he firmly said. "I'll relieve you when you are tired."
The boy's mind suddenly cleared, and he comprehended. A whipping fromhis father would be frightful enough,--not for the blows; they werenothing. The plan was not alone to humiliate him beyond all measure, butto scourge his soul, ravage the sanctuary of his mother there, rend himasunder, and cast him into an unthinkable hell of isolation; for she wasthe bond that held him to the world, she was the human comfort andsweetness of his life.
Since his tenth year his discipline had been solely in her hands, hisfather having given him up as worthless, hopeless. She had whipped himmany a time, but not for two years; and he had felt no pain, no shame,no outrage, no resentment. The case of the teacher was different. Rayhad solemnly sworn, renewing the oath every day, that when he came tomanhood he would beat his teacher to death for whipping him so often andseverely because of his dulness, his apathy, or his rebellion; thewhippings from his mother had only increased his tenderness for her,and, in some way that he could not understand, his pity also. Perhaps itwas because he vaguely felt that she was impairing something in herselfthat was precious to him. Never had she conquered him; never had hecried out in pain, never pleaded for mercy, never confessed penitencenor promised reform.
Mrs. Gilbert shut her teeth hard, and, deathly white in the moonlight,raised the switch. It was poised a moment, and then her arm fell limp toher side; but the look that her son had seen in his father's eyes heldher and steeled her with a sort of desperate madness, and her arm againrose.
A long cry, an anguished wail, almost superhuman in its power to shatterthe silence of the night, and more startling than any human cry couldbe, struc
k disorganizingly through the drama. It may have hastened thecatastrophe. Mr. Gilbert was unnerved for a moment, and in exasperationpicked up a clod and threw it at the offending dog trembling on theterrace. When he turned again, his son was kneeling beside hisunconscious mother, peering anxiously into her pallid face, and callingher softly.
In a stride Mr. Gilbert was upon him. A hand armed with strength andfury caught up the shirt on the lad's shoulder, raised him, and flunghim away with so great violence that the slender body struck the groundas a log. Mr. Gilbert tenderly picked up his wife and bore her into thehouse.
The fall had half stunned the boy. As he slowly struggled to a sittingposture the moon danced fantastically, and some black trees crowning anear hill bowed and rose, and walked sidewise to and fro. A whine, low,cautious, packed with sympathy and solicitude, pleaded at the pickets,but the boy gave it no attention. He sat for a time, rose giddily,swayed as he dressed himself, and with deliberation walked to the gate.The dog, whining, trembling, crawled to meet him; but the boy, insteadof caressing him, ordered him quietly but firmly to the kennel.Obedience was slow, and the animal looked up incredulous, wondering. Theorder had to be repeated. Finally the dog obeyed, frequently pausing tolook back, but his master stood inflexible.
Passing round the house, and without thinking or caring about hat andovercoat, he noiselessly passed out the front gate, for a moment studiedthe big house that had cradled him, bred much of his anguish, and heldall of his love, and firmly stepped out into the road. There was agnawing ache somewhere. Assuredly that one blow,--and from _her_,--couldnot have caused it. After finding it in his throat, he was muchrelieved, and struck out on secure legs.
It did not occur to him that he was an outlaw and outcast. He did notthink at all. Hence there was no plan in his going. He did not evenunderstand that something deeper within him than had ever operatedbefore had assumed, in the disqualification of his ordinary rulingpowers, an imperious regency, and that it was infinitely greater orinfinitely less than his usual intelligence. He simply went on, thinkingnothing, remembering nothing. The beautiful highway, arched by greattrees, above which rode the moon in keeping pace with him, was a tunnelunder a luminous sea; he half walked, half floated, in the crystalwater, and had no wonder that he breathed it. The houses along the waywere the palaces of lordly gnomes that inhabited the deep.
Whatever was leading him turned him out of the avenue at last anddrifted him along a winding road that was as beautiful in its lessconventional way. He did not reflect that all of this was familiar,shamefully familiar. It was the road to his grandmother's but he had notvisited her for a year.
Her great wisdom and tact had gone to a study of the strange, unhappychild; she had been kind to him in every cautious, delicate fashion thatshe could devise; but he had ceased coming, and avoided her when shevisited his home, and she had never known why. She was a patient womanand good; she knew prayer, and in her peaceful twilight she walked withGod; yet no revelation had come at her appeals, for the times were notready; and the boy went his way alone and silent, forever alone andsilent, and unhappy, unhappy!
A white picket fence was presently marching with him alongside theshining road. He did not consciously recognize it, and it brought norekindling of an old terror, an old shame; but soon, on the other sideof it, a distance away, there broke on the stillness a challenge that heremembered, and its tone was contempt. He understood it, and woke witha start because of a sudden fluff of flame and a whiff of smoke from thegrass fire of ten years ago, and the ache in his throat gave him astrangling wrench. His head rolled; the moon swung through an arc ofalarming length. That call beyond the fence struck the dominant note ofhis life, and it was Fear. Yet it came from a mere animal,--hisgrandmother's old buckskin horse, the most docile of creatures.
Ray had never feared the wild things of the woods. The cry of thepanther in the dead of night is dreadful but it had no terrors for theboy in the forest solitude. Other fierce pad-footed members of the cattribe had come and sniffed him as he lay under the stars, and experiencehad taught him to feign sleep, for a suspicion of his wakefulness wouldsend them bounding away, and he was lonely, always lonely. One night,roused from slumber, he sleepily put his hand on the shaggy head of abear that was curiously rummaging him, and he was sorry that the beasttook alarm and trotted away,--he would have been comfortable to hug.That was before the dog had come into his life. He could neverunderstand why he was not afraid of anything whatever--not even of theterrific lightning and thunder that sometimes flamed and crashed andbellowed all about him,--except human beings and the forces that theycontrolled; and at times he wondered why Cap loved him and the buckskinhorse would kill him from hate if he could.
Here, then, beyond the picket fence, was the proclamation of hisshame,--coming from a gentle, superannuated horse with no more spiritthan a snail's. By some means, perhaps instinctive,--for all the world,when it finds out, will hunt down and destroy whatsoever fears it(although the boy had not reasoned it out thus),--the beast had learnedthat the boy was afraid, and had then found an interest in life. Let himbut have a glimpse of Ray, and, ears back, lips drawn from hideousyellow teeth, and head thrust horribly forward, he would snort,charge,--and the boy would run abjectly. The horse had never thustreated another living thing. So the boy had stayed away from hisgrandmother's, and she had never suspected, and her love and prayers hadbrought no revelation.
As the fence intervened, the horse knew that a charge would be useless;but when, with a neat leap the boy nimbly caught his feet on the groundwithin the pasture, the buckskin advanced in his minatory way. Ray didnot know why he had leaped the fence, unless the wrench in his throathad hurled him over or the flame and smoke of the grass fire had drivenhim; nor did he know why he went steadily to meet the horse, nor why hisnostrils stretched and his arms strained and his hands clenched, nor whythere was a fierce eagerness in him; a rasping thirst for somethingdried his tongue. The horse came on, and the boy, perfectly calm, asfatally went to meet him. There was no calculation of results, yet thelad knew that a horse's teeth and hoofs may be deadly. He knew only thathe was not going forward to end all his wretchedness, as, last year, theshoemaker who drank had done with a shotgun, and young Corson, thethieving clerk, with poison. It occurred to the boy that he carednothing about the teeth and hoofs of any horse, and nothing about whatthey might do.
So ridiculous was the _fiasco_ that he would have laughed had he notbeen sorry for the beast; for to see any rampant thing so suddenlystricken with fear, when there was not the least danger nor any intentof harm, was pitiful to see. He wished to assure the buckskin that hewas only a boy, a frail boy at that, and not what the animal hadapparently taken him to be,--a spawn of Darkness and Terror. He followedup the trembling beast, trying to reassure him and to get near and pethim; but the creature fled wildly at every advance, and when not pursuedstood with head aloft, ears cocked, and nostrils vibrant, quivering infear.
Seeing the uselessness of further pacific effort, the boy sprang overthe fence, went back to the main highway, and by the unseen Hand was ledinto the short cut past Mr. Elderby's house, where the greatest terrorof his life--human excepted--had months ago driven him to use the longway round. He did not know, nor for a moment consider, why he chose theshort cut tonight. He turned into it, walking free and strong.
Girls had meant nothing in the boy's life. That was because they did notseem members of his species, but something fragile, mysterious, andranking somewhere between flowers and angels. Thus his feeling for themwas composed of a little awe, more reverence, and a sense of greatremoteness. Never had he observed them thoughtfully without reflectingthat they were, in a general way, much like his mother, or at least ofher species; therefore they must be sweet and dainty and gentle andkind. His only large swellings of the heart had come from his thinkingabout them, particularly Grace Elderby, now twelve years old. Nothingcould have been so grand, for instance, as an opportunity to rescue hersingle-handed, from wild savages that had her tied to a tree
and werepiling fagots about her; then to dance in fiendish glee about her as theflames rose. He would dash up on a splendid charger, his sword flashingin the sun; savage heads would roll in the dust, or fall open, cleavedin twain; there would be wild yells of fright and a wilder flight forlife; he would leap from his horse, speak reassuring words while hesevered her bonds, mount with her in his arms, and fly away, away, away.
Twice had Grace seen his shame. She had seen him pale, and run when herfather's big, noisy dog had made a flamboyant show of rage, and she hadseen him stand mute and white when Andy Carmichael, older and larger andmuch stronger than Ray, grossly insulted him in her presence. TheElderby dog was the terror that had closed the short cut,--closed it toRay alone.
Thus into the short cut swung Ray, walking strong and free, the ache inhis throat not so painful as before. The dog would be on guard, and theboy was empty-handed.
The shadows were deep under the trees, or possibly the dog's hate andrage blinded him to what the buckskin had seen, or perhaps he was of adifferent metal. Near the rear of the premises the big brute came in sogreat a fury that he broke through the palings. The ensuingcollision,--for the boy stood his ground,--was so violent that Ray wentdown underneath, and an ecstasy thrilled him when the flame swished andthe smoke stung, and he felt something sink into his shoulder and astifle of hot, foamy breath in his face.
It seemed to have been easily and quickly done. True, when he came erecthe was weak and tired, and swayed dizzily, and wondered why. As, withoutthe least exultation, or even triumph, or even gratification, he lookeddown at his work, and saw with surprise how deeply the ground had beentorn up, two men with sticks came running out,--evidently there had beensome noise, despite all his care for silence. One was Mr. Elderby, theother his coachman. The gentleman stood in astonishment as the boy,controlling his heavy breathing, stepped into the moonlight and calmlyfaced him.
"Ray Gilbert! What are you doing here, at this time of night?"
"I was walking in the path. Your dog attacked me."
"What did you kill him with?"
"My hands."
Mr. Elderby stood in wonder as he studied the lad.
"I'm thankful to God that you are alive. It's a miracle." He noticedthat Ray's clothing was torn nearly to rags. In compassion he laid ahand on Ray's shoulder, quickly withdrew it, and examined it in themoonlight. "You are hurt, my son. Come into the house. I'll put you tobed and send for the doctor and your parents."
"Thank you, sir; I have something to do."
"But you must have attention.--Jake, hitch up the bay to the lightbuggy,--quick,--and drive him home."
"No, sir; but I'm much obliged. I have something to do. Good night." Theshadows enveloped him.
The short cut led him over a sharp hill and into the road again, andthere he sat on the bank till his strength came back. Then he went ontill he arrived at a gate leading into a private avenue. The ache in histhroat was nearly gone. Passing quietly up the driveway and round to therear of the house, he came to a window, which was open at the top, andsharply tapped on the glass.
"Who's that?" came a voice.
"Dress and come out, Andy Carmichael. I'm Ray Gilbert."
The sash was thrown up and the boy glowered in the opening. "RayGilbert!--you cowardly, sneaking puppy! What do you want?"
"I want to see you. Dress and come out. Don't wake anybody."
He spoke quietly, trying to appear his usual self lest this monster,this overshadowing terror of his life, should see whatever it was thathad frightened the horse and slain the dog. This was the boy who hadbeaten him so often and with such merciless, sodden, gluttonousenjoyment; the boy who, when he did not care to give the beatingshimself--no provocation was ever needed,--would stand threateningly byand let the smaller boys, even to the little ones with soft, puny fists,beat the coward as long as they wished, merely for the love of beatingwhat did not resist; the boy whose lies had brought undeserved whippingsfrom the teacher; the boy who openly insulted him whenever he pleased,and, worst of all, had humiliated him before Grace Elderby. It was thepresence of this boy at the party that evening, and the looks that hegave Ray, and the sly tortures he inflicted, that had sent up thecurtain on the night's drama.
In wondering surprise Andy studied the bare-headed, ragged, dirty figurestanding in the moonlight; and as crimson looks a muddy brown in such alight, he mistook the smears on the other's face and the dark splotcheson his clothing. What could the creature want of him at this time ofnight and with that extraordinary appearance? Likely Ray had been setupon and was seeking any refuge. It would be joyous to complete the workthat the others had begun. Andy soon emerged from the house.
"Come this way," said his mysterious visitant, and perplexed Andyfollowed him to the rear of the fowl-house, where the light was clear.The flame and smoke of the old grass fire were strong in the air.
Ray halted, and faced him.
"Take off your coat," he quietly said, removing his own tatteredgarment.
"What for?" with a slight quaver composed of anger--and something else;for there was a touch of the uncanny here.
"We are going to fight."
"Fight, eh! What put that into your fool head?" Under the initialimpulse from the challenge, Andy was all heat and eagerness, and hebristled and swelled; but though, in some vital ways, human sense isless acute than brute sense, Andy did feel something of what thebuckskin had felt, something of what had slain the dog, and his heartthumped with a strange heaviness. "What do you want to fight for? I'dbeat the life out of you."
It failed of the effect intended, and Andy found his head suddenlytwisted to one side by a slap on the cheek. He stepped back, white withfury, tossed his coat aside, and hurled himself upon the slender figurewaiting with such unearthly composure.
* * * * *
Dawn was flooding the east, and still the boy lurched and floundered onand on, keeping to the road that led into the wilderness. Occasionallyhe would stop for a minute's rest and to listen for the baying ofFrazier's bloodhound; and he wondered, in a purely detached andscientific way, whether he had sufficient strength and acuteness leftfor another such grapple. It was merely an engaging speculation, and wascomplicated with his determination to perform another task before hiswork was done. It would nearly break his heart to be stopped now. Likelythe dog would not attack him, but merely hold him at bay until thepursuers came to his summons; but if the dog would not attack, then theboy must. Would strength or even life be left for the last and mostimportant of all the tasks to which the Hand was leading him?--for therewas a good distance yet to be covered, and work to be done at the end ofit. He was thankful that the ache had entirely left his throat and thata strange warmth had kindled in his breast.
"DAWN WAS FLOODING THE EAST, AND STILL THE BOY LURCHED ANDFLOUNDERED ON AND ON." FROM A PAINTING BY GORDON ROSS]
Perhaps they had not really meant what they said about setting Frazier'sbloodhound to run him down. The remark had come from the yardman, notMr.Carmichael himself, who had appeared too stunned to think of anythingbut his son. If they had wished to kill the outlaw, or take him and sendhim to jail, why had they not seized and bound him instead of staring athim so queerly, and then the yardman foolishly saying, as Ray staggeredaway and they picked up the limp figure, that they would get Frazier'sbloodhound and set him on the trail? They were two strong men against amere boy, who was so exhausted that only with a mighty effort could hestand. It was Andy's final despairing cry that had waked them.
Without either triumph or regret the boy struggled on. The broadening ofday made him partly aware of the savage presence that he made and of thelikelihood that traffic might open on the road at any time. Some of hisclothing was gone, and he had bound the remaining strips and rags abouthim as best he could. He did not know about the aspect of his face andhair, but he realized that should any one encounter him in the road hemight be forced to do something distasteful, and that the urgent taskahead might be interrupted.
A horseman and two market wagons passed at intervals, but the boy washidden at the roadside. So he reeled on and on, and so he came at lastto the great pine. There he turned out and crawled as much as walkedthrough the trees and undergrowth to the summit of a low ridge, where hefelt the sunshine fall on his half-naked back. It was so luxurious thathe paused in the full glare of it, and slowly turned, as one very coldbefore a warming fire, and reveled in it. With every moment he felt itpouring into him, tingling softly as it ran. It was odd with whatcheerful industry it hunted out the coldest places in him and kindledsnug little fires under them. Most of all, it gave attention to the warmplace that had already started in the center, and that one woke to awonderful glow. Thus refreshed, he descended the slope on the fartherside and came to a morass threaded by a friendly stream. At the edge ofthe bog he halted and looked keenly about. It had been two years sincehis last visit to this spot, and, though his memory of the woods wasexcellent, he now found himself dull and his vision bad. Ordinarily hewould have found at once what he was seeking. Up and down along themargin he stumbled, straining his dim eyes, crawling sometimes and usinggroping hands in the search. Surely no one else could have come uponthis remote spot, found the treasure, and taken it away!
At last! It had seemed to him a very long time; but all else wassubmerged in the joy of the first triumph, the first elation, that thelad had felt in many, many a day. Every shadow that had lain on hisconscience vanished, every shame that had cursed his years was sweptaway, all bitterness took flight, and something fine and sweet racedthrough him deliciously.
There was no waste of precious time in hunting for something with whichto dig. Then, too, the glorious sun had mounted, and was pouring itsflood of light and warmth on his work and him. Like the tines of adigging-fork, his fingers sank into the ground.
The precious treasure, hugged gently, reverently, with a fierce sense ofprotection, was balm to every hurt. With it thus clasped, the boylaboriously made the ascent of the ridge on his return, and paused onthe summit. There was something strange in the distance with which thedescending slope to the road stretched so far, so bewilderingly far. Hecontemplated it, and wondered if he could compass it in a lifetime. Theimpulse to go on--for this last task was only half done--overcame thecheck from the illusion, and he started down. His knees developed afoolish way of suddenly flexing and seating him hard on the ground. Atfirst it was annoying, but when it happened the second time theabsurdity of it, and the ridiculous suddenness of the surprise that itcaused, made the boy laugh aloud. It astonished him to hear himselflaugh, for that was very unusual, and he wondered. But he rose,staggered on, and found himself chuckling inside,--a most astonishingthing! He could not imagine why he was doing it. When he dropped thethird time his voice rang in so loud and merry a laugh that two bluejays came and scolded him terrifically, and he laughed at them till histears ran. He was so absurdly happy that he feared he would hug histreasure too hard.
If only his mother were with him, that she might see how funny it allwas, and laugh and be happy with him, and then walk with him hand inhand through the beautiful woods, while he showed her all the wonderfulthings that he knew! But no; his sisters and his father must be withthem,--and Grace, and Andy, too, and the teacher and dear oldgrandmother. What a glorious time they would have!
The boy started, for a sweet, coaxing smother had suddenly fallen onhim. He fought it away and rose with great difficulty and in some alarmlest he should not reach the road. On he lurched, clinging to the bushesas he swayed, trying not to laugh, for he had an idea that he was verycrass and silly. He saw the road, only a rod away, and suddenlyreflected that he was not presentable. Though staying till night woulddelay the completion of his task, there was no help for it, and he wascontent, and laughed because he was. And he knew that he really neededrest; for suppose his legs should practise those grotesqueeccentricities in the road, and somebody should see! He sat down,carefully guarding his treasure, to wait in happy patience. He would notsleep, and so lose something of his conscious peace, something ofthinking about what was going to happen at the end. No, he _must_ notsleep.
The frantically joyous barking of a dog standing over him--not at alllike the deep baying of Frazier's bloodhound,--woke the boy, and hetried to raise his head, but it fell back like lead. He laughed drowsilyin quiet happiness, as he feebly patted the devoted head.
"Dear old Cap," he said. "You came, didn't you?"
Messengers from Elderby's and Carmichael's had brought strange news tothe boy's parents. In alarm they had started out in the surrey, takingCap, in the sure faith that he would find their son. They had seen thatAndy was recovering,--he had been much more frightened than hurt. It wasthey whose crashing through the bushes the boy heard after Cap hadannounced his find. They halted and paled when they saw the torn,bruised, helpless figure smiling at them from the ground, and so fullof loving gladness merely to see them that there was no room forsurprise at their being there. The mother was quicker than the father;she ran forward and fell on her knees beside her son.
"My boy!" she cried in a choke.
He took her hand and smiled into her face. In all her life she had neverseen a smile so sweet, so happy. With his free hand he lifted histreasure.
"Mother," radiantly, "here it is!"
"What, my poor dear?"
"Don't you remember? I told you two years ago that I'd found it, and yousaid you'd be very glad if I'd bring it to you when I came this wayagain."
She opened the parcel, wrapped with so fond care in leaves and dampmoss.
"Why, it's the rare and beautiful fern, and you were taking it to me!Bless your dear heart!" and, much to his surprise, she began to cry.