The Romance of a Plain Man Read online

  CHAPTER III

  A PAIR OF RED SHOES

  I awoke the next morning a changed creature from the one who had fallenasleep in my trundle-bed. In a single hour I had awakened to the sharpsense of contrast, to the knowledge that all ways of life were notconfined to the sordid circle in which I lived. Outside the poverty, theugliness, the narrow streets, rose the spiked wall of the enchantedgarden; and when I shut my eyes tight, I could see still the half-baredelms arching against the sunset, and the old house beyond, with itsstuccoed wings and its grave white columns, which looked down on themagnolias and laburnums just emerging from the twilight on the lowerterrace. In the midst of this garden I saw always the little girlpatiently building her houses of moss and stones, and it seemed to methat I could hardly live through the days until I grew strong enough toleap the barriers and play beside her in the bower of box.

  "Ma," I asked, measuring myself against the red and white cloth on thetable, "does it look to you as if I were growin' up?"

  The air was strong with the odour of frying bacon, and when my motherturned to answer me, she held a smoking skillet extended like a votiveoffering in her right hand. She was busy preparing breakfast for Mrs.Cudlip, whose husband's funeral we had attended the day before, and asusual when any charitable mission was under way, her manner to my fatherand myself had taken a biting edge.

  "Don't talk foolishness, Benjy," she replied, stopping to push back aloosened wiry lock of hair; "it's time to think about growin' up whenyou ain't been but two years in breeches. Here, if you're throughbreakfast, I want you to step with this plate of muffins to Mrs. Cudlip.Tell her I sent 'em an' that I hope she is bearin' up."

  "That you sent 'em an' that you hope she is bearin' up," I repeated.

  "That's it now. Don't forget what I told you befo' you're there. Thomas,have you buttered that batch of muffins?"

  My father handed me the plate, which was neatly covered with ared-bordered napkin.

  "Did you tell me to lay a slice of middlin' along side of 'em, Susan?"he humbly enquired.

  Without replying to him in words, my mother seized the plate from me,and lifting the napkin, removed the offending piece of bacon, which shereplaced in the dish.

  "I thought even you, Thomas, would have had mo' feelin' than to sendmiddlin' to a widow the day arter she has buried her husband--even aone-legged one! Middlin' indeed! One egg an' that soft boiled, will beas near a solid as she'll touch for a week. Keep along, Benjy, an' besure to say just what I told you."

  I did my errand quickly, and returning, asked eagerly if I might go outall by myself an' play for an hour. "I'll stay close in the churchyardif you'll lemme go," I entreated.

  "Run along then for a little while, but if you go out of the churchyard,you'll get a whippin'," replied my mother.

  With this threat ringing like a bell in my ears, I left the house andwalked quickly along the narrow pavement to where, across the widestreet, I discerned the white tower and belfry which had been added by alater century to the parish church of Saint John. Overhead there was abright blue sky, and the October sunshine, filtering through the bronzednetwork of sycamore and poplar, steeped the flat tombstones and thecrumbling brick vaults in a clear golden light. The church stood upon amoderate elevation above the street, and I entered it now by a shortflight of steps, which led to a grassy walk that did not end at theclosed door, but continued to the brow of the hill, where a fewscattered slabs stood erect as sentinels over the river banks. For amoment I stood among them, watching the blue haze of the opposite shore;then turning away I rolled over on my back and lay at full length in theperiwinkle that covered the ground. From beyond the church I could hearUncle Methusalah, the negro caretaker, raking the dead leaves from thegraves, and here and there among the dark boles of the trees thereappeared presently thin bluish spirals of smoke. The old negro's figurewas still hidden, but as his rake stirred the smouldering piles, I couldsmell the sharp sweet odour of the burning leaves. Sometimes a wren or asparrow fluttered in and out of the periwinkle, and once a small greenlizard glided like the shadow of a moving leaf over a tombstone. Onesleeper among them I came to regard, as I grew somewhat older, almostwith affection--not only because he was young and a soldier, but becausethe tall marble slab implored me to "tread lightly upon his ashes." Notonce during the many hours when I played in the churchyard, did I forgetmyself and run over the sunken grave where he lay.

  The sound of the moving rake passed the church door and drew nearer, andthe grey head of Uncle Methusalah appeared suddenly from behind an iviedtree trunk. Sitting up in the periwinkle, I watched him heap thecoloured leaves around me into a brilliant pile, and then bending overhold a small flame close to the curling ends. The leaves, still moistfrom the rain, caught slowly, and smouldered in a scented cloud underthe trees.

  "Dis yer trash ain' gwine ter bu'n twel hit's smoked out," he remarkedin a querulous voice.

  "Uncle Methusalah," I asked, springing up, "how old are you?"

  With a leisurely movement, he dragged his rake over the walk, and thenbringing it to rest at his feet, leaned his clasped hands on the end ofit, and looked at me over the burning leaves. He wore an old, tightlyfitting army coat of Union blue, bearing tarnished gold epaulets uponthe shoulders, and around his throat a red bandanna handkerchief waswrapped closely to keep out the "chills."

  "Gaud-a-moughty, honey!" he replied, "I'se so ole dat I'se done cleanfurgit ter count."

  "I reckon you knew almost everybody that's buried here, didn't you?"

  "Mos' un um, chile, but I ain't knowed near ez many ez my ole Marster.He done shuck hans w'en he wuz live wid um great en small. I'se donehyern 'im tell in my time how he shuck de han' er ole Marse Henry rightover dar in dat ar church."

  "Who was ole Marse Henry?" I enquired.

  "I dunno, honey, caze he died afo' my day, but he mus' hev done apowerful heap er talkin' while he wuz 'live."

  "Whom did he talk to, Uncle Methusalah?"

  "Ter hisself mostly, I reckon, caze you know folks ain' got time al'ayster be lisen'in'. But hit wuz en dish yer church dat he stood up en ax'em please ter gin 'im liberty er ter gin 'im deaf."

  "An' which did they give him, Uncle?"

  "Wall, honey, ez fur ez I recollect de story dey gun 'im bofe."

  Bending over in his old blue army coat with the tarnished epaulets, heprodded the pile of leaves, where the scented smoke hung low in a cloud.The wind stirred softly in the grass, and a small flame ran along a benttwig of maple to a single scarlet leaf at the end.

  "Did they give 'em to him because he talked too much?" I asked.

  "I ain' never hyern ner better reason, chile. Folks cyarn' stan' toomuch er de gab nohow, en' dey sez dat he 'ouldn't let up, but kep' upsech a racket dat dey couldn't git ner sleep. Den at las' ole KingGeorge over dar in England sent de hull army clear across de water jes'ter shet his mouf."

  "An' did he shut it?"

  "Dat's all er hit dat I ever hyern tell, boy, but ef'n you don' quitaxin' folks questions day in en day out, he'll send all de way over yeragin' jes' ter shet yourn."

  He went off, gathering the leaves into another pile at a littledistance, and after a moment I followed him and stood with my backagainst a high brick vault.

  "Is there any way, Uncle Methusalah, that you can grow up befo' yo'time?" I asked.

  "Dar 'tis agin!" exclaimed the old negro, but he added kindly enough,"Dey tell me you kin do hit by stretchin', chile, but I ain' never seedhit wid my eyes, en w'at I ain' seed wid my eyes I ain' set much sto'by."

  His scepticism, however, honest as it was, did not prevent my seizingupon the faint hope he offered, and I had just begun to stretch myselfviolently against the vault, when a voice speaking at my back brought myheels suddenly to the safe earth again.

  "Boy," said the voice, "do you want a dog?"

  Turning quickly I found myself face to face with the princess of theenchanted garden. She wore a fresh white coat and a furry white cap anda pair of red shoes that danced up and d
own. In her hand she carried adirty twine string, the other end of which was tied about the neck of amiserable grey and white mongrel puppy.

  "Do you want a dog, boy?" she repeated, as proudly as if she offered acanine prize.

  The puppy was ugly, ill-bred, and dirty, but not an instant did Ihesitate in the response I made.

  "Yes, I want a dog," I answered as gravely as she had spoken.

  She held out the string and my fist closed tightly over it. "I found himin the gutter," she explained, "and I gave him a plate of bread and milkbecause he is so young. Grandmama wouldn't let me keep him, as I havethree others. I think it was very cruel of grandmama."

  "I may keep him," I responded, "I ain't got any grandmama. I'll let himsleep in my bed."

  "You must give him a bath first," she said, "and put him by the fire todry. They wouldn't let me bring him into our house, but yours is such alittle one that it will hardly matter."

  At this my pride dropped low. "You live in the great big house with thehigh wall around the garden," I returned wistfully.

  She nodded, drawing back a step or two with a quaint little air ofdignity, and twisting a tassel on her coat in and out of her fingers,which were encased in white crocheted mittens. The only touch of colourabout her was made by her small red shoes.

  "I haven't lived there long, and I remember where we camefrom--way--away from here, over yonder across the river." She lifted herhand and pointed across the brick vault to the distant blue on theopposite shore of the James. "I liked it over there because it was thecountry and we lived by ourselves, mamma and I. She taught me to knitand I knitted a whole shawl--as big as that--for grandmama. Then papacame and took us away, but now he has gone and left us again, and I amglad. I hope he will never come back because he is so very bad and Idon't like him. Mamma likes him, but I don't."

  "May I play with you in your garden?" I asked when she had finished;"I'd like to play with you an' I know ever so many nice ways to playthat I made up out of my head."

  She looked at me gravely and, I thought, regretfully.

  "You can't because you're common," she answered. "It's a great pity. Idon't really mind it myself," she added gently, seeing my downcast face,"I'd just every bit as lief play with you as not--a little bit--butgrandmama wouldn't--"

  "But I don't want to play with your grandmama," I returned, on the pointof tears.

  "Well, you might come sometimes--not very often," she said at last, witha sympathetic touch on my sleeve, "an' you must come to the side gatewhere grandmama won't see you. I'll let you in an' mamma will not mind.But you mustn't come often," she concluded in a sterner tone, "only onceor twice, so that there won't be any danger of my growin' like you. Itwould hurt grandmama dreadfully if I were ever to grow like you."

  She paused a moment, and then began dancing up and down in her red shoesover the coloured leaves. "I'd like to play--play--play all the time!"she sang, whirling, a vivid little figure, around, the crumbling vault.

  The next minute she caught up the puppy in her arms and hugged himpassionately before she turned away.

  "His name is Samuel!" she called back over her shoulder as she ran outof the churchyard.

  When she had gone down the short flight of steps and into the widestreet, I tucked Samuel under my arm, and lugged him, not without inwardmisgivings, into the kitchen, where my mother stood at theironing-board, with one foot on the rocker of Jessy's cradle.

  "Ma," I began in a faltering and yet stubborn voice, "I've got a pup."

  My mother's foot left the rocker, and she turned squarely on me, with asmoking iron half poised above the garment she had just sprinkled on theboard.

  "Whar did he come from?" she demanded, and moistened the iron with thethumb of her free hand.

  "I got him in the churchyard. His name is Samuel."

  For a moment she stared at the two of us in a stony silence. Then herface twitched as if with pain, the perplexed and anxious look appearedin her eyes, and her mouth relaxed.

  "Wall, he's ugly enough to be named Satan," she said, "but I reckon ifyou want to you may put him in a box in the back yard. Give him thatcold sheep's liver in the safe and then you come straight in and combyo' head. It looks for all the world like a tousled straw stack."

  All the afternoon I sat in our little sitting-room, and faithful to mypromise, shammed sickness, while Samuel lay in his box in the back yardand howled.

  "I'll have that dog taken up the first thing in the mornin'," declaredmy mother furiously, as she cleared the supper table.

  "I reckon he's lonely out thar, Susan," urged my father, observing mytrembling mouth, and eager, as usual, to put a pacific face on themoment.

  "Lonely, indeed! I'm lonely in here, but I don't set up a howlin'.Thar're mighty few folks, be they dogs or humans, that get all thecompany they want in life."

  Once I crept out into the darkness, and hugging Samuel around his dirtystomach besought him, with tears, to endure his lot in silence; butthough he licked my face rapturously at the time, I had no soonerentered the house than his voice was lifted anew.

  "To think of po' Mrs. Cudlip havin' to mourn in all that noise,"commented my mother, as I undressed and got into my trundle-bed.

  My pillow was quite moist before I went to sleep, while my mother's loudthreats against Samuel sounded from the other side of the room with eachseparate garment that she laid on the chair at the foot of her bed. Insheer desperation at last I pulled the cover over my ears in an effortto shut out her thin, querulous tones. At the instant I felt that I waswicked enough to wish that I had been born without any mother, and Iasked myself how _she_ would like it if I raised as great a fuss aboutbaby Jessy's crying as she did about Samuel's--who didn't make one-halfthe noise.

  Here the light went out, and I fell asleep, to awaken an hour or twolater because of the candle flash in my eyes. In the centre of the roommy mother was standing in her grey dressing-gown, with a shawl over herhead and the rapturously wriggling body of Samuel in her arms. Tooamazed to utter an exclamation, I watched her silently while she made abed with an old flannel petticoat before the waning fire. Then I saw herbend over and pat the head of the puppy with her knotted hand before shecrept noiselessly back to bed.

  At this day I see her figure as distinctly as I saw it that instant bythe candle flame--her soiled grey wrapper clutched over her flat bosom;her sallow, sharp-featured face, with bluish hollows in the temples overwhich her sparse hair strayed in locks; her thin, stooping shouldersunder the knitted shawl; her sad, flint-coloured eyes, holding alwaysthat anxious look as if she were trying to remember some important thingwhich she had half forgotten.

  So she appeared to my startled gaze for a single minute. Then the lightwent out, she faded into the darkness, and I fell asleep.