The awakening

II (age Eleven)

I

Chapter One

MR. HOLLAND.

It was Mr. John Holland who brought the mail to “Mapleleaf Grove” today.

He had lived in the city for a year and the farm hands considered that a great honor. He told many tales of the great city to everyone but Theodore Harley. Harley was the Squire who lived at “Mapleleaf Grove.” Everyone was in awe of Squire Harley, even Mr. John Holland, which was saying a great deal since he had never been afraid of any other man on earth. No one ever called Mr. Holland ‘‘John,” not even his sister, who lived with him. He was always spoken of as “Mr. Holland, who’s been to the city.” To the farm hands the city was a great unexplored world, too wonderful to be spoken of in anything but a whisper.

John Holland owned a fine pair of iron gray colts. Today he had driven over to the station with them to get two bags of corn, and the postmaster had asked him if he was going by “Mapleleaf Grove” would he please leave some letters there? John had not planned to pass by there but he considered it an honor to be able to bring the letters to Squire Harley, so he promptly replied in the affirmative. As he was riding out of town he stopped by at a drug store to get a soda. A clerk there said:

“There is a meassge for Mr. John Holland. It is this: To please tell Squire Harley that Elizabeth Wharton is coming tomorrow and to be ready for her. ”

John’s heart was filled with delight. The postmaster had given him a telegram and six letters. The former was marked “Important” and one of the letters was a special Delivery! To bring these to Squire Harley would be a great deal to do, he thought, and the telegram was “Important!^’ It must be gotten there at once with that mark on it!

He finished his soda rather too hastily, and jumping into his buggy he let the eager horses have full rein. They did justice to their reputation. An old graybeard, sitting on a barrel, and smoking a corncob pipe, saw something dash by, raising a cloud of dust. When he had recovered enough of his scattered senses to breathe freely, he muttered in an awe-stricken tone:

“Glory be to Peter! It must a’ been one o’ them there ortermobeels ! ”

Chickens rushed from under the wheels of his buggy and cows ran into the field as he charged down the road. At last he reached the familiar lane leading into “Mapleleaf Grove.” This lane was all of maples. The road was a shady, restful spot, where the sun could hardly pierce. A little brook ran across it. Often, in autumn (the maples here were always the first to turn to autumn colors), the leaves fell into the babbling brook, and floated on with the current until they filled with water and sank to the bottom, or until some rock or rush, bending from the banks, caught the little leaf-boats and held them fast until the water rippled by and freed them once more. It was a pleasant, shady spot, with an old rustic bridge a little further on where the water was deeper, and anyone, whether artistic or not, should have noticed and commented on its beauty. But Squire Harley barely noticed the sweet, shady nook when he traversed it. Perhaps, if he was not always so busy he might have known more about his place and the people that lived around him.

John tied his horses at the gate and walked slowly up the short space leading to the front door. He was studying the letters. The telegram held his fancy, and he stopped to gaze in admiration at it. Then he went up the wooden steps and rang the bell.

It was a lovely house, all built after the old colonial nodel. It was made of brick. It had rambling porches, and quaint turns the architect had planned when he built the old home. It had been built in the year 1761,

MR. HOLLAND long before the present owner was even born. His ancestors had lived in it then, and the old house held many a secret of olden times, when lords and ladies held feasts and banquets in its halls at Yuletide.

Then one went down the wooden steps and walked a small distance until one came to five stone steps. On either side of these steps there rose a giant pine whose tops seemed to touch the very skies. These pines were as old as the house — older, perhaps. They had been planted by Squire Harley’s ancestors in long past years, but still were as strong and gaunt as ever. Today there was a slight breeze, just enough to make the top of each pine rustle and sway, as if whispering their secrets to the lovely May morning.

A few minutes after John had rung the bell, a neat butler answered it.

“I want to speak to Squire Harley,” said John, eyeing the man with some doubt.

“I am afraid, sir, that he is busy, but I will see, if you wish, sir,” replied the butler, smiling somewhat at the important expression on John’s face.

He departed, but soon came back and said:

“ The Squire is busy, sir, but I can take the message if you wish.”

Either John did not think it safe to trust the man with something marked ‘‘Important,” or else he wanted to see the Squire’s excitement at receiving a telegram, for he replied:

“I would like to see him if possible.”

“He says if it is very important you may come,” said the butler. John followed him through the wide, spacious hall, until he reached the door of the Squire’s library, then he knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice.

John entered.

“Here are some letters I brought from the station, and a telegram!”

Then the Squire, without opening the wonderful telegram, laid it aside.

John had hoped he would tell him what it said, but Squire Harley was used to business telegrams.

“Thank you,” he said.

John was dumbfounded! Evidently the Squire was not going to open the telegram! With a crestfallen air he started to leave, but remembered the clerk’s message.

“At Johnson’s drug store someone had a message” —

“Eh! What’s that?” said the Squire. He had resumed his writing, only to look up and find John still there. But John, trembling with fear at the Squire’s somewhat gruff tone, was already out of the door.

As he started driving back to his home, his courage returned.

“It beats me!” he said to himself, “it surely does! Out in fresh air I’m all right; I have to be called ‘Mr., ’ but when I’m with him, I feel as if he ought to call me ‘ Slave ! ’ It’s mighty queer, the way we’re all scared to death of him. He’s only a man after all. Yes, it’s queer, mighty, mighty queer!’'

Chapter Two. A Letter

Squire Harley was a bachelor. He was the only occupant of “Mapleleaf Grove.” But he was never lonely. He did not wish for company. He stayed in his library and wrote business papers, signed important documents and read letters and business affairs sent him by his faithful clerk, Andrews, who was in the city. Sometimes at night he grew somewhat lonely, when he realized that he could long ago have made friends with Mr. Dixon, who lived half a mile away. He also had been a bachelor five years before. Squire Harley had known him well. Together they had sat and talked to each other by the light of the great, blazing wood-fire. The Squire had enjoyed these talks, but one day Mr. Dixon’s engagement was announced. He was to be married to a young, friendless girl named Margaret Wentworth. Since then the Squire had never visited his old friend. He did not like “prattling women” and “bothersome children,” he declared. Mr. Dixon had called and invited him to meet his wife, but he had declined. Dixon had called again, and when the Squire once more declined, he said:

“Really, Harley, you ought to follow my example. I understand the kind of women you despise; I have a hatred for that sort, too. But my wife is not that way. She is as sweet a woman as you ever met. She does not bother me when I am busy, but when my work is done she knows how tired I am, and harnesses a mare to go for a drive in the evening with me. Then, when we come in, she always has a nice, hot supper ready for me, and a steaming cup of tea. I am the happiest man on earth. I also understand the kind of ‘ bothersome children ’ you mean, but my little Rose is a sweet and lovable child. In the evening she sits on my lap and kisses me and tells me her day’s experiences, and, when her bedtime comes, my wife tucks her in.

“ ‘Goodnight, daddy,’ she calls.

“Then Margaret comes down and we sit together until the clock warns us that it is also our bedtime.

“I’m telling you the truth, Harley, when I say you don’t know what you are missing.”

But Squire Harley only shook his head. “It is a novelty to you,” he said, “and you are enjoying it immensely. Wait a few years, and if ymi do not change, your wife will.”

Today he laid his pen down with an impatient sigh. Leisurely he took up the telegram. The next moment he gave an exclamation. Then he leaned back in his big easy chair.

“I have the luck of a dog!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Of course I have to be her only uncle living, and it happens to be a girl, and — hang it all!” he cried impatiently.

For more than an hour Squire Harley paced the floor, at first with a very angry face, and then a thoughtful one. At last he sat down. A fire had been built and now he sat down in front of it, gazing thoughtfully at the flickering shadows it cast along the room, and at the falling embers. In all his life of business, and he knew a great deal about it, he had never been so puzzled or troubled as. he was now. Letters, telegrams, and often business troubles had come to his office, but never such a telegram as this had he received. The clock ticked steadily on; the fire burnt lower and lower, and still the Squire sat thinking, until gradually his eyelids closed, but he was not asleep.

He seemed to see a picture, far different from this one, a deathbed. The deathbed of his sister, with the cold, bare room and old gray stove making the scene still more pathetic. A little six-year old child was clinging to the frail, dying mother.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone with father; I’m afraid of him!” the child had sobbed.

“My poor baby, I cannot help it. You belong to

A LETTER

/your father now/’ she had replied.

And then, in a kindly impulse, Squire Harley had said:

“I cannot take the child while her father lives, but I will do all I can to help her, and when he is gone I will take her to live with me, and be a father to her.”

That had been a rash thing to say, he now thought, but he had been young. He was sorry now, but no — was he?

He could not have stood there and seen his own sister die with a troubled heart; he could only have done the one thing he had done — offer to take the child.

“She died with a peaceful heart; she had nothing to trouble her, for her child was safe. She was too frail for this earth,” he said.

Then suddenly he opened his eyes. This question he asked himself a thousand times: “Had he kept his promise and done all he could for the child while her father was alive?” And a thousand times he answered “No!” He had not once thought of her until the telegram had come, saying:

“Elizabeth Wharton arrives Saturday afternoon, five fifteen train. The father died last week. Details in letter. Phillips.”

Phillips was his lawyer. Then, for the first time, Harley remembered the letter. He got it off his desk and opened it. It ran thus:

“My dear Harley:

“I suppose you have already heard from my telegram that the child is coming. I am therefore sending you this letter of particulars. The father died last week. I knew he would not last long after he went to the bad.

The physician said that he was a strong man, but completely broken down by so much dissipation. You had already arranged with me to take Elizabeth when this happened, so I am sending her to you.

“Harley, that young Sidney Wharton, her father, was a nice young fellow once; I knew him well. But finally he got into the habit of intoxication. His father had been a fine old man ; he was one of my classmates, and a dear friend. It is good for the old man that he died before his boy went to the bad. I had always been a sort of father to the lad, and I tell you I was mightily disappointed in him. His father would have died of shame.

^‘They found him out in the street intoxicated and brought him home. They were rich then and had a lovely home. His wife was so shocked that I don’t believe she ever got over it.

“ ‘It can’t be true! He was drugged!’ she cried.

“The doctors fixed him up though, but he went at it again, heart and soul. Soon they found him again, dead drunk. So they moved again, into the little house you saw, and then she died. The child was six then. When Sidney saw he had killed his wife by shock, and by lack of care, he reformed. For three years he has been working and supporting the child.

But lately he started again. He was found on the street again, taken home, and had the best of care, but he passed away last week.

“You now have his whole story, Harley, and I hope you will feel a little more softhearted towards him. I promised his father to help him, and he was almost a son to me.

I still love him. As for the child, she is as sweet and dear as she can be. She calls me ‘ Uncle Georgie’, and I am devoted to her. As an old friend, Harley, I advise you to love her if you want to gain her affection — a good thing to have.

“Ever your old friend,

George Phillips.”

Harley leaned back in his chair.

“He says the child’s affection is a good thing to have. Well, I suppose I must take her, but I am afraid I shall not see the child from the same point of view as Phillips. He always was a child-lover and I never was. I presume she will be bothering me all the time, or else asking questions. If there is one thing I detest, it’s curious, inquisitive children. Well, it’s just my luck!”

A LETTER

For a long time Harley sat gazing thoughtfully at the dying embers, until the fire went out and the light vanished from the western sky; then he slowly rose, walked into the dining room, and telling Jim, the colored butler, to serve dinner, he sat down.

‘^This is my last peaceful night,” he said.

Chapter Three. The Arrival

The next morning Squire Harley rose early. He had not slept much that night — the thought of his niece’s arrival had made him restless. He went downstairs, but did not have the heart and energy to go to work. He never inspected his grounds and wonderful wheat and corn fields; he would not have known the way there. He left it all to John Holland. But today he wandered down to the road, where the little brook was babbling along. For the first time he noticed the beauty of the spot, and sat down to rest in the shade of an old oak tree. He gazed at the brook. It seemed to him to be so happy; everything was happy but himself, from the birds singing merrily in the tree-tops to the corn swaying and rustling with the slight breeze, this lovely May morning. How could he help being happy, though, with the birds hopping near him, and all the world calling him to join in its gladness?

The horses were dying for exercise, especially Dixie, his own favorite; why not go for a ride? The more he thought of it, the more he wanted to do it. Finally he rose and walked slowly down to the stable. The air felt nice to him, the flowers coming up in the garden, and old Uncle Sam plowing in the meadow seemed somewhat a novelty. Still he liked it, and liked it immensely, and already the fresh air had done him good.

“Good morning,” he said to Sam as he passed him by. He did not know his name, although Sam had worked faithfully with him for twenty-five years.

“ ’Deed it’s marsa,” said Sam to himself. Aloud he said :

“Good mornin’, Marsa Harley. I’se mighty glad to see you out.”

Putting his hat back on his head he resumed his work.

When Harley reached the stable there was no one there to saddle the horse.

“It was a silly idea anyway for me to get a sudden desire to ride,” he said.

He did not want to call Uncle Sam, but he still wanted to ride, although he himself had said he was foohsh. There was only one thing to do, that was to saddle Dixie himself.

In his young days Squire Harley had loved to ride. He had always saddled his own horses, and had not forgotten how to, yet. Soon Dixie was saddled, and, having been free to do whatever he chose before, he objected to being mounted. He pranced and tossed his head, but Squire Harley had a firm hand and gentle voice, and soon Dixie was going at a steady pace.

John Holland, riding along on his iron-gray colt, saw him in the distance.

“I’ll be doggoned,” he said. “I wonder if it is he sure enough.”

Soon he had ridden up to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Holland,” said Squire Harley.

“Good morning, sir,” replied Holland. “I rode up to tell you that Jake and Silas Smith say they have got to go along back to Kentucky. Their mother’s right sic£ I came over to ask you if I could hire two friends o’ mine. They’re dandy workers, everybody wants ’em, but I been tellin’ ’em we might be needin’ them too, and they just about gave up, when I told them that Silas and Jake were goin’ and we’d be a-needin’ ’em, so I want to ask you if I could?”

“Certainly,” replied Squire Harley.

“An’ I wanted to ask you about the corn. It’s goin’ to be fine all over the county, but right in ‘ Mapleleaf Grove’ it’s goin’ to be the best.”

John Holland was getting friendly now. He was not scared any more.

“An’ there’s a new price made for it. You can get $1.00 a bushel. I jes’ thought I’d let you know.”

“Thank you,” said the Squire. “I leave it to you to sell it at the reasonable price. I have always trusted you, and you have always been honest; you are a good worker.”

Thank you, sir, thank you,” said John, taking off his straw hat and a pleased smile resting on his face. “I have always tried to do my best, sir, for your land is valuable.”

Little did Squire Harley care how many thousands of people would have bought the house and grounds the minute he offered it at any price. Perhaps if he went around more, helped in the work, or directed the workers, he would have known more of its value. As it was he left it all to John Holland.

“Goodbye, sir,” said John, as he put on his hat again, “Fve got to attend to some calves that Fm trading off to a farmer that lives near here.”

“Goodbye,” said the Squire.

John Holland rode away, but said in a pleased, triumphant tone, “I warn’t a bit scared, that time. Fm dead sure it was his house that made me nervous before, especially them there portraits with those old men in wigs just starin’ at me as if they was angry.”

Squire Harley rode on, whistling a merry tune. Perhaps he was just thinking how much more pleasant the out-door world was than his office. Dixie, too, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, for he soon broke into a brisk canter. Two little darkies crossing<^ the road with tin buckets full of early strawberries, looked up in surprise as the horse galloped by. One rolled her eyes around.

“ ’Deed, Martha, Fse sho’ dat wor marsa we saw!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, hush up, chile’. Co’se it ain’ him. Did you evah see him out sence las’ spring, jes’ ’bout three yeahs ’go?”

“But, Martha, Fse sho it wor him? Deed it wor, a- whistlin’ a toon, an’ he looked kine o’ happy?”

“Happy nothin’, Mayry, he ain’ nuvah happy? Ef he ain’ a-grumblin’ fer one thing, ’t am anuthah. He gits ev’ything he wants, cyages, ho’ses, ev’ything, but dey’s one thing he don’ git, an’ I ruther have dat one thing dan all de money in de kingdom.”

“What am de thing?”

“Happiness. I ain’ nuvah seen him happy. All de folks is scyad o’ him, ’case he’s always cross an’ stern lookin’. Mebby he’s troubles o’ his own, but in comp’ny he ought ter be able ter muster up a chyaful face an’ a smile ev’y now an’ thin.”

At lunch time Squire Harley rode back somewhat reluctantly. He did not feel quite as happy when he remembered that he must meet his niece that afternoon. No, it spoiled his pleasure and depressed his spirits somewhat at lunch. Still, the gallop and the fresh air were yet in his mind, and he resolved to ride again. Then, after lunch he took a chair and went out under the trees, which he never did, to read.

“The house is hot,” he said, as an excuse.

The novel was interesting; still, at half-past four he rose. Probably he had not been reading much, for he rose so promptly. He went and called the groom.

“Harness the horses,” he said.

The groom obeyed and soon Squire Harley saw the carriage drive up the row of maples. The driver alighted, and coming up to the Squire, asked if he had anything he wanted done at the station. Yes, Harley remembered several important things he had to do. He sat in thought for a moment, then said to the surprised groom:

“You may have the rest of the day off. I have some things I must attend to at the station.”

The groom said “Thank you, sir,” politely, taking off his hat.

The Squire jumped lightly into the runabout. He was not as old as people pictured him; he was but thirty-five. But his brow was wrinkled by trouble, and he had a careworn face. He was always somewhat pale, perhaps by not getting enough of Dame Nature’s fresh air, which she dealt freely to all the world. Perhaps he had reahzed that on his short ride that morning and that was the reason he had let the groom go free and had driven over himself, or perhaps he had not really had very important business this bright May morning, but that he wanted to be the first one to see his niece.

He drove around to Johnson’s drug store. He had always dealt with these people, and he was a good customer; still, he hardly knew them by sight. He went in. Mr. Johnson knew him at once, and said politely:

“Good evening. Squire Harley.”

“Good evening,” responded the Squire.

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” the manager questioned.

Just then Mr. Johnson was called away to the ’phone and sent a young clerk in his stead. He knew Squire Harley at once, but he was a fearless young fellow and was not afraid.

“You goin’ to meet the little gal that’s a-comin’ on the five o’clock train, ain’t you?” he asked.

Harley was astonished. Not knowing how much interest he afforded the county, and little guessing that news about him spread like wildfire, he could not imagine how the clerk could know of his private affairs. He said to the clerk:

“When and how did you learn this?”

“Why, a message come for you an’ it said that Elizabeth Wharton was cornin’ today and to be ready for her, so I thought I’d let you know right away, so I told John Holland to take the message. ”

“When was this,” asked the Squire.

“Oh, this was yesterday,” replied the clerk.

“I remember now. He brought me some letters and started to say something but he never finished it. ”

“I suppose he was skeered. Most o’ the folks are skeered o’ you ’round here.”

If a light smile rested on Squire Harley’s lips it onl}^ stayed for a moment, for he said:

“It is good for him that I got a telegram, else I would not have known. ”

His package being tied up the Squire departed. The clerk, still standing idle, murmured:

“Poor little kid. Ef these here great big men are skeered, what kin a little gal do? An’ he hates women and kids like pi’son, too!”

The same thought passed through the Squire’s brain, strange as it may seem, only not placed quite the same way.

“All the folks ’round here are skeered o’ you,” kept running through his brain. Like the clerk, he thought :

“If the men are, what chance has a little girl? Still, I am glad she is going to fear me, for then she will obey me also.”

Still he mused. “I did not know folks were ^scared of me.’ I suppose I am stern looking, but do I act sternly?’’

He asked himself this a thousand times. “I used to take care of Sister, and give her all she ever asked for, ” he said in self-defense.

Yes, this was true, to his knowledge. He had given her all she wanted to the furthest extent he could, yet, though he did not know it, there was one thing he had not given her, a thing which she desired more than money or clothes. He thought she had all she wanted, but this was not so. At night he used to sit writing, while she, in her fine clothes and luxurious home, sat gazing into the fire with a longing face. She wanted to rise up, run over to his desk and fling her arms around his neck, but he was too busy, and had asked her to leave him alone. Little had he guessed that she wanted to love and be loved in return. No, he did not know that the frail little sister longed for love, longed with a great, gnawing hunger. He did not know her well enough. He let her choose her clothes and he paid for whatever she needed. He seldom saw her long enough to talk to her and hardly ever had a real conversation.

Now he mused. “No, ” he said, he had not done all he could for her, but she had been a disappointment to him. He had not thought that she would marry imprudently; in fact, he had not thought of her marrying at all. He had not noticed the frightened expression on her face when he approached, he had not noticed that she grew paler each day, but that she had a happy light in her eyes. No, it had been a busy time, and he had hardly seen her at all. He did not know that daily she refused to ride in the carriage, and begged of her maid that she wanted to walk alone. Oh, but how happy she had been! She was being loved. She was already making plans and building castles in the air for the Land of the Future. Then she told her brother of her engagement and he had not been angry, as she feared. “I trust my sister to select a decent man; she knows what she wants.” He had never dreamed that at night he would miss her. He had business affairs and seldom saw her anyway. She looked happy, she was happy and Squire Harley had wanted her to be, so he was too. But on the nights that were free he missed her, oh, how he missed her! He would pace the floor, up and down, missing her all the time. But he was willing to sacrifice himself for her, as he loved her and she was happy.

He roused himself from his reveries by hearing the whistle of the train blowing and by seeing the great, black monster come slowly up the track. His niece was on it ; he must meet her. He drove up to the platform, but seeing a man he knew, he stopped and talked to him for a few minutes. When he finished talking the train had already been in five minutes. Slowly he drove up to where it lay resting from the long journey it had just taken, but ready to start on another directly. The people had all dispersed to their different destinations, the station looked somewhat deserted, though a porter would pass every now and then with suit cases and bags on his shoulders, or a horse and carriage would drive slowly by.