Part 24 (1/2)

”Mother!”

At last he realized what he had heard. In two ways was he to lose what all good men hold dearest on this earth: a mother. First, she denied the relations.h.i.+p; second, she had told him that she was dying. No answer came back to his cry. The woman in his arms made no sound. She did not stir. He leaned his ear against her heart. It had ceased to beat. She was dead. Her spirit had slipped away, unnoticed by the loving boy whose arms encircled her shrivelled form, but whose love full surely lighted her way up among the stars! Up, to that mysterious realm, too vast for human thought, too limitless for human mind; where the sinning and the sinless meet their deserts. However much of wrong or of error there had been in her life, in the moment of death she found true happiness; and I am grateful to her for arousing the thought, that we may all end our lives in peace. And so I leave her.

But the boy? The youth now left to buffet with the world alone? I will ask you to follow him as, with a heart crowded with anguish and resentment, he rushed bareheaded out into the night, and swiftly sped through the wood. For he is well worth following. He has reached an important epoch in his life, a turning point at which he abandons his boyish past and becomes a man.

Could he have been asked why he ran, or whither, he would have found himself bewildered and at a loss for a reply. Yet it is easily explainable. His home-life had never been attractive to him, nor in any way satisfying to his temperament, which, indeed, as we shall see, was such that he was ever in ill-concealed rebellion against the restraints of his surroundings, which threatened to crush his intellectual yearnings. Nevertheless, it was his home, so endeared to him by long a.s.sociation, that the sudden realization of the complex idea, first, that he did love this home, and second that he would now lose it forever, coming to him instantaneously, overwhelmed him.

He felt a dull pain in his breast, which made him almost imagine that some heavy body had been thrust within his bosom, and weighed heavily against his heart, interfering with that vital organ, so that the blood coursed sluggishly, and the lungs were loath to do their duty.

Thus stifling, though only in imagination, he was instinctively compelled to rush out into the air, which cooled the fever in his veins. He ran, impelled by a mysterious feeling akin to fear, yet not fear, which exists within the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of all mankind, however loudly one individual may declare himself exempt, and which is aroused when one is suddenly brought into the presence of the dead, alone, and for the first time. Leon had never seen death before, although he had of course seen the dead, coffined and made ready for the grave. But he now pa.s.sed through an entirely new experience. In one moment he held within his arms a living, breathing being whom he loved; and in the next he gazed upon a voiceless, senseless, shocking thing, and loathed it. It was from this thing, and from the house where this thing now lay, that he was running. But, as I have said, he did not know it at the time, and probably would have spurned the suggestion a day later.

But, the fact remains that it was true.

Where he was going, is explainable by a simpler course of a.n.a.lysis. He was going to the lake. He was going to his boat. He was going out upon the water away from the companions.h.i.+p of that dead thing on land. He was going out upon the water, to be alone, and to find solace in his loneliness. In this, he but followed involuntarily a habit which he had practised for several years. When his home-life had pressed most hardly upon him at times, he had slipped away from the little farm, and rowed his boat out upon the lake, for self-communion and comfort.

So now, without realizing that he had chosen any special direction in his flight, or that he had any fixed purpose in his mind, he ran swiftly along the wood-choppers' path, until at length he stopped panting on a bit of narrow beach. He stood silent for a moment, and then concluded to get his boat and go out upon the lake. Or rather, he thought that he formed this decision at that moment, but really it originated when he turned towards the lake, rather than towards the next neighbor. It was therefore not companions.h.i.+p, but solitude which he sought.

Within five minutes he was rowing l.u.s.tily across the mirror-like surface of Ma.s.sabesic, out towards the widest portion. The day had been insufferably warm, it being mid-summer, but in this region the nights are usually cool. This night was balmy. Mars had appeared, a glowing red ball, above the eastern horizon, early in the evening, and an hour later the almost full moon had climbed up high enough to shed her silver rays across the waters. Later still the breeze had died away, and slowly the bosom of the lake grew quiet, as though even the waters had drifted into slumberous repose. When Leon started out in his boat, almost immediately his ruffled soul recognized the influence of the deadly calm surrounding him, for though at first he dipped his oars deep, and rowed vigorously, making the light bark leap upward at every pull, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he stroked his oars with lessening vehemence, and presently, as though thoroughly awed by the stillness, and fearful of creating the noise even of a ripple, he was straining every nerve to dip and withdraw his oars, and to move his boat along without a sound. After a few minutes of this, he slowly raised both oars, letting them rest across the gunwales until the last drop of water had dripped off, and the last series of circles caused thereby had disappeared, and then, with the care and delicacy of one who moves about a chamber where some loved one is asleep who must not be disturbed, he placed his oars gently in the boat, and sat motionless.

Already Mars had almost reached the tops of the trees along the western banks, and, attracted by it, Leon gazed upon the planet until it disappeared. He had been still for ten minutes, and having recognized that all was quiet about him, and having abandoned his rowing, he was now mildly surprised to observe that his boat was in a totally different position; that in fact he had drifted a long distance. This awakened him slightly from his reverie, for here was a new bit of knowledge about a body of water with which he had been acquainted since his earliest recollection. He had never known, nor even suspected, that in a calm there could be a current. He endeavored to calculate by observation how fast he was moving; but the task was difficult. He could readily discern that since abandoning his oars he had moved a hundred yards, but, however intently he gazed upon the sh.o.r.es, he could not detect that he was moving. He pondered over this for a time, and being of a philosophical turn of mind, and fond of speculating, he likened his position at the moment, to life in general. However little we suspect it, there is an unseen but potent energy which urges us forward towards----the grave, and----whatever follows death.

This idea pleased him for a moment, for the a.n.a.logy was a new one and original with himself, in so far, that he had never head it from another. Quickly, however, returning to the more practical problem, he determined to find a way to ascertain the rapidity with which his boat was moving. Placing a fis.h.i.+ng-rod upright before him, and then closing one eye, gazing with the other at a conspicuous object along the horizon, immediately he could see, not only that he was moving, but that the motion was more rapid than he had suspected. Having thus satisfied the immediate and momentary questioning of an inquiring mind, his previous mental state, his loneliness and desolation, returned upon him with redoubled force. A moment later, Nature offered him another abstraction. Looking into the water he saw mirrored there the reflection of the moon. Not the stream of undulating silver over which poets have raved these many years, and which painters have fruitlessly essayed to convey to canva.s.s, but the glorious, full, round orb itself. This he had never seen before, and he wondered why it should be. Almost as though in answer to his thought, a faint zephyr breathed across the surface of the waters, and beginning near the sh.o.r.es, the ripples rolled towards him, and with them brought the s.h.i.+mmering moonlight until all in a moment, the reflected orb had disappeared, and the usual silvery line of light replaced it. Thus he saw, that only water in motion will show the moonbeams, whilst a mirror, whether it be of gla.s.s, or the still bosom of the lake, reflects but the moon itself.

Again he returned to the bitterness of his night's experience, and now, no longer attracted by the moon, and not caring how fast or whither he drifted, he lay back in his boat, pillowing his head upon a cus.h.i.+on on the seat in the stern, and gazed up into the sky thus oblivious of the landscape and so without an indication of his progress.

His mind reverted to the house, and the dead woman. She was not his mother. Then who was she? Or rather who was he? She was, or had been, Margaret Grath, and he had thought that he was ent.i.tled to the name Leon Grath. But if she was not, or had not been, his mother, then plainly he had no right to her name. On considering this, he concluded that it was his privilege to call himself Leon, but the last name Grath, being obtainable legally only by inheritance, he must abandon.

When the word ”inheritance” crossed his thoughts, involuntarily a loud mocking laugh escaped him. And when the sonorous echoes laughed with him, he laughed again, and again. The drollery which aroused his mirth, was that, if a name might be inherited, why might not Margaret Grath have bequeathed hers to him? Perhaps she might have mentioned it in her will? But no! A name is a heritage acquired at birth, whilst only chattels are included in an inheritance which follows a death.

Evidently he was nameless, except that he might be called Leon, just as his collie answered to the name Lossy. This made him laugh again.

For now he thought that his dog had fared better than himself, for he was called ”The Marquis of Lossy,” after MacDonald's Malcolm. Thus the collie was of n.o.ble blood, whilst he was----only Leon, the child of n.o.body. As he reached this point, the moon dipped down below the western hill, the upper edge shedding its last rays across the boy and his boat, after which he was indeed enshrouded by the night. It seemed colder too, now that the orb had gone, and insensibly he felt in some way more alone. True, there were the stars, still twinkling in the firmament, but they seemed far away, like his own future. Still Leon dreamed on.

As he could not lift the veil which parted him from what was to be, he wandered back in thought, recalling what had been.

The Theosophist says that man has lived before upon this planet, inhabiting many corporeal forms, and drifting through many earthly existences. The Sceptic cries: ”Ridiculous! but, granting the postulate, of what advantage is it to have lived before, or to live again, if in each earth-life I cannot recall those that have gone before?” Yet, without arguing for Theosophy, might I not remind this sceptic that he enjoys his life to-day, even though he might find it difficult to recall yesterday, or the day before, or a week, a month, a year ago? How many of us in looking backward over life's path, can summon up the phantoms of more than a few days? Days on which occurred some events of special moment?

The first landmark along his life's path, which stood out conspicuous among Leon's garnered memories, was his first visit to the church.

Margaret Grath had dressed him in his brightest frock, curled his hair, and placed upon his head his newest bonnet. His heart had swelled with pride, as he trotted beside the tall, gaunt, New England woman, who walked with long strides, and held his hands, lest he should lag behind. But though his legs grew tired, he offered no rebellion, for he had often looked upon the red brick building, with wondering eyes, and his ears had oft been mystified at the tolling of the bell which swung and sounded, though moved by no hand that he could see, nor means that he could understand. He marvelled at the outside of the building, its steeple marking it a house apart from every other in the village, and he long had yearned to see it from within. On this day, to which his thought now turned, he had his wish.

He followed Miss Grath down the aisle, clinging to her skirts, a little frightened at the people sitting straight and stiff, and he was rejoiced when he found himself at last on a comfortable cus.h.i.+on in the pew. The cus.h.i.+on was a treat; being his first experience with such luxury, and confirmed his idea that the church was better than other houses. Presently he began to be accustomed to his surroundings, having viewed all the walls, the roof, the organ, and the pulpit, until his active mind was satisfied so far as concerned the building itself. Then he began to feel the silence, and he did not like it. He longed to speak, but did not dare, because when he timidly looked up, Miss Grath, catching his glance, scowled reproachfully, and looked straight before her. Small and young as he was, he had learned to know this woman with whom he lived, and he needed no more explicit warning to hold his tongue. So he sat still, adding to the silence which oppressed him.

It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the preacher rise, and heard him speak; and it was with a throb of intense joy that his heart warmed as the notes of the organ reached him for the first time in his life. Thenceforward he was interested up to the point where the sermon began. The tiresome monotone in which this was delivered, and the impossibility of his comprehending what was said, soon fatigued his little brain, and then lulled him to sleep.

I may mention parenthetically, what of course did not now enter Leon's mind, for he never knew the subject of that first sermon which had been preached at him. If it had been incomprehensible to the child, the woman had understood well enough, for it had been aimed at her especially. The preacher, I cannot call him a minister, for he truly ministered unto none except himself, the preacher then, was a cold, hard Scotchman, High Church of course. He firmly believed in the d.a.m.nation of infants, and a h.e.l.l of which the component parts would be brimstone and fire in proper proportions. He also believed in the efficacy of prayer, especially of his own. Therefore, it not infrequently happened, that when any one incurred his ill will, which was not difficult, he would offer up a prayer, consigning said individual to the hottest tortures of the world below. He did this so adroitly, that, while there were no plain personalities in his words, his description of the sinner would be so specific, that the party of the second part readily identified himself as the central figure of the excoriation.

Now this saintly preacher had at one time demeaned himself, or so he thought, sufficiently low to offer himself in marriage to Miss Margaret Grath. She had declined the honor, and he had hated her ever after. Like all true women, however, she had kept his secret, so that none of the congregation knowing the relation which existed, or which might have existed, between them, none could read between the lines of his sermons, when he chose to lash her by a savage denunciation of any mild backsliding, of which she might have been guilty, and himself cognizant. Her return to the village with the child, who had no visible father, and no mother, unless the guesses of the gossips were correct, had afforded him opportunity for a most masterly peroration.

But he belched forth his greatest eloquence on that Sunday morning, when she had the temerity to bring into the sacred confines of his sanctuary this fatherless boy, for whose sake she had chosen to live a lonely life. If his prayer of that morning proved efficacious, then surely the infant was d.a.m.ned, and the woman's soul consigned to endless Purgatory. Thus the day to which Leon recurred in thought, was a landmark in another life beside his, and I have turned aside for a moment to relate this incident, that the character of Miss Grath may be better comprehended, for in spite of all that she had suffered through the animosity of the preacher, she had never omitted attendance at church, when it was a physical possibility for her to get there. It must be true that some of her determination and will descended from her to the boy, because a.s.sociation means more than heredity.

The next occurrence in his life, which now occupied his thoughts, was a day long after, when he was nearing his twelfth year. He was off on a hunting expedition, and had climbed a mountain. Careless in leaping from crag to crag, he landed upon a loose boulder, which rolled from under his feet, so that he was thrown. In falling, his foot twisted, and a moment later, intense pain made him aware that he could not walk upon it. For four hours he slowly, but pluckily, dragged himself down the mountain, and at last reached home. It so chanced that a celebrated physician from New York was spending a vacation in the neighborhood, attracted perhaps by the brooks, which were full of fish. This man was Dr. Emanuel Medjora, and having heard of the boy's hurt, he voluntarily visited the lonely farm-house, and attended upon him so skilfully that Leon soon was well.