VI
THE next morning was clear and bright. Mr. Cabot, absorbed in his work, spent nearly the whole forenoon among his papers, and when he saw Molly in her little cart drive up to the door with a seamstress from the village, he knew the day was getting on. Seeing him still at his desk as she entered, she bent over him and put a hand before his eyes. “Oh, crazy man! You have no idea what a day it is, and to waste it over an ink-pot! Why, it is half-past eleven, and I believe you have been here ever since I left. Stop that work this minute and go out of doors.” A cool cheek was laid against his face and the pen removed from his fingers. “Now mind.”
“Well, you are right. Let us both take a walk.”
“I wish I could, but Imuststart Mrs. Turner on her sewing. Please go yourself. It is a heavenly day.”
As he stepped off the piazza a few minutes later, she called out from her chamber window, “Which way are you going, papa?”
“To the village, and I will get the mail.”
“Be sure and not go to Mr. Farnum’s.”
“I promise,” and with a smile he walked away. Her enthusiasm over the quality of the day he found was not misplaced. The pure, fresh air brought a new life. Gigantic snowy clouds, like the floating mountains of fairy land, moved majestically across the heavens, and the distant hills stood clear and sharp against the dazzling blue. The road was muddy, but that was a detail to a lover of nature, and Mr. Cabot, as he strode rapidly toward the village, experienced an elasticity and exhilaration that recalled his younger days. He felt more like dancing or climbing trees than plodding sedately along a turnpike. With a quick, youthful step he ascended the gentle incline that led to the Common, and if a stranger hadbeen called upon to guess at the gentleman’s age as he walked jauntily into the village with head erect, swinging his cane, he would more likely have said thirty years than sixty. And if the stranger had watched him for another three minutes he would have modified his guess, and not only have given him credit for his full age, but might have suspected either an excessive fatigue or a mild intemperance. For Mr. Cabot, during his short walk through Daleford Village, experienced a series of sensations so novel and so crushing that he never, in his inner self, recovered completely from the shock.
Instead of keeping along the sidewalk to the right and going to the post-office according to his custom, he crossed the muddy road and took the gravel walk that skirted the Common. It seemed a natural course, and he failed to realize, until he had done it, that he was going out of his way. Now he must crossthe road again when opposite the store. When opposite the store, however, instead of crossing over he kept along as he had started. Then he stopped, as if to turn, but his hesitation was for a second only. Again he went ahead, along the same path, by the side of the Common. It was then that Mr. Cabot felt a mild but unpleasant thrill creep upward along his spine and through his hair. This was caused by a startling suspicion that his movements were not in obedience to his own will. A moment later it became a conviction. This consciousness brought the cold sweat to his brow, but he was too strong a man, too clear-headed and determined, to lose his bearings without a struggle or without a definite reason. With all the force of his nature he stopped once more to decide it, then and there: and again he started forward. An indefinable, all-pervading force, gentle but immeasurably stronger than himself, was exerting an intangible pressure,and never in his recollection had he felt so powerless, so weak, so completely at the mercy of something that was no part of himself; yet, while amazed and impressed beyond his own belief, he suffered no obscurity of intellect. The first surprise over, he was more puzzled than terrified, more irritated than resigned.
For nearly a hundred yards he walked on, impelled by he knew not what; then, with deliberate resolution, he stopped, clutched the wooden railing at his side, and held it with an iron grip. As he did so, the clock in the belfry of the Unitarian Church across the road began striking twelve. He raised his eyes, and, recalling the prophecy of Amos, he bit his lip, and his head reeled as in a dream. “To-morrow, as the clock strikes twelve, you will be standing in front of the Unitarian Church, looking up at it.” Each stroke of the bell—and no bell ever sounded so loud—vibrated through every nerve of his being. It was harsh,exultant, almost threatening, and his brain in a numb, dull way seemed to quiver beneath the blows. Yet, up there, about the white belfry, pigeons strutted along the moulding, cooing, quarrelsome, and important, like any other pigeons. And the sunlight was even brighter than usual; the sky bluer and more dazzling. The tall spire, from the moving clouds behind it, seemed like a huge ship, sailing forward and upward as if he and it were floating to a different world.
Still holding fast to the fence, he drew the other hand sharply across his eyes to rally his wavering senses. The big elms towered serenely above him, their leaves rustling like a countless chorus in the summer breeze. Opposite, the row of old-fashioned New England houses stood calmly in their places, self-possessed, with no signs of agitation. The world, to their knowledge, had undergone no sudden changes within the last five minutes. It musthave been a delusion: a little collapse of his nerves, perhaps. So many things can affect the brain: any doctor could easily explain it. He would rest a minute, then return.
As he made this resolve his left hand, like a treacherous servant, quietly relaxed its hold and he started off, not toward his home, but forward, continuing his journey. He now realized that the force which impelled him, although gentle and seemingly not hostile in purpose, was so much stronger than himself that resistance was useless. During the next three minutes, as he walked mechanically along the sidewalk by the Common, his brain was nervously active in an effort to arrive at some solution of this erratic business; some sensible solution that was based either on science or on common-sense. But that solace was denied him. The more he thought the less he knew. No previous experience of his own, and no authenticated experience of anyone else, at least ofwhich he had ever heard, could he summon to assist him. When opposite the house of Silas Farnum he turned and left the sidewalk, and noticed, with an irresponsible interest as he crossed the road, that with no care of his own he avoided the puddles and selected for his feet the drier places. This was another surprise, for he took no thought of his steps; and the discovery added to the overwhelming sense of helplessness that was taking possession of him. With no volition of his own he also avoided the wet grass between the road and the gravel walk. He next found himself in front of Silas Farnum’s gate and his hand reached forth to open it. It was another mild surprise when this hand, like a conscious thing, tried the wrong side of the little gate, then felt about for the latch. The legs over which he had ceased to have direction, carried him along the narrow brick walk, and one of them lifted him upon the granite doorstep.
Once more he resolved, calmly and with a serious determination, that this humiliating comedy should go no farther. He would turn about and go home without entering the house. It would be well for Amos to know that an old lawyer of sixty was composed of different material from the impressionable enthusiast of twenty-seven. While making this resolve the soles of his shoes were drawing themselves across the iron scraper; then he saw his hand rise slowly toward the old-fashioned knocker and, with three taps, announce his presence. A huge fly dozing on the knocker flew off and lit again upon the panel of the door. As it readjusted its wings and drew a pair of front legs over the top of its head Mr. Cabot wondered, if at the creation of the world, it was fore-ordained that this insect should occupy that identical spot at a specified moment of a certain day, and execute this trivial performance. If so, what a rôlehumanity was playing! The door opened and Mrs. Farnum, with a smiling face, stood before him.
“How do you do, Mr. Cabot? Won’t you step in?”
As he opened his lips to decline, he entered the little hallway, was shown into the parlor and sat in a horse-hair rocking-chair, in which he waited for Mrs. Farnum to call her husband. When the husband came Mr. Cabot stated his business and found that he was once more dependent upon his own volition. He could rise, walk to the window, say what he wished, and sit down again when he desired.
Upon reaching home he went directly to his chamber, and was glad to enter it without meeting his daughter. His reflection in the mirror surprised him, as he expected to find a face thirty years older than when it started for the village. But there were no outwardtraces of the recent struggle. It was the same face, calm, firm, and as self-reliant as ever. This was reassuring and did much toward a return of confidence. He threw himself upon the bed, and as he lay there he heard through the open window the voices of Molly and Amos in the old-fashioned garden. They seemed very jolly and happy, and Molly’s laughter came like music to his ears; but her companion, although amusing and full of fun, seemed to do none of the laughing; and then it came upon him that in all his intercourse with Amos he had never heard him laugh. Ever ready to smile, and often irresistible in his high spirits, yet he never laughed aloud. And the deep melancholy of his face when in repose—was that a result of fulfilling prophecies? Were there solemn secrets behind that boyish face?
The perfume of the flowers stole in through the closed blinds, and he could hear the buzzing of a bee outside the window, minglingwith the voices in the garden. These voices became lower, the subject of conversation having changed—perhaps to something more serious—and Mr. Cabot took a nap.