On the morning after the interview with Enos Walker, Mr. Morrissey and Mr. Campbell went up to Bannerhall to report to Colonel Richard Butler. But they went hesitatingly. Indeed, it had been a question in their minds whether it would not be wiser to say nothing to Colonel Butler concerning their experience at Cobb's Corners, and simply to go elsewhere and hunt up another tree. But Mr. Walker's tree was such a model of perfection for their purpose, the possibility of finding another one that would even approach it in suitability was so extremely remote, that the two gentlemen, after serious discussion of the question, being well aware of Colonel Butler's idiosyncrasies, decided, finally, to put the whole case up to him, and to accept cheerfully whatever he might have in store for them. There was one chance in a hundred that the colonel, instead of scornfully resenting Enos Walker's proposal, mighttake the matter philosophically and accept the old man's terms. They thought it better to take that chance.
They found Colonel Butler in his office adjoining the library. He was in an ordinarily cheerful mood, although the deep shadows under his eyes, noticeable only within the last few weeks, indicated that he had been suffering either in mind or in body, perhaps in both.
"Well, gentlemen," he said when his visitors were seated; "what about the arboreal errand? Did you find a tree?"
Mr. Hubert Morrissey, as he had been the day before, was again, to-day, the spokesman for his committee of two.
"We found a tree," he replied.
"One in all respects satisfactory I hope?" the colonel inquired.
"Eminently satisfactory," was the answer. "In fact a perfect beauty. I doubt if it has its equal in this section of the state. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"
"I fully agree with you," replied Mr. Campbell. "It's without a peer."
"How will it measure?" inquired the colonel.
"I should say," responded Mr. Morrissey, "that it will dress up to about twelve inches at the base, and will stand about fifty feet to the ball on the summit. Shouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"
"Just about," was the reply. "Not an inch under those figures, in my judgment."
"Good!" exclaimed the colonel. "Permit me to congratulate you, gentlemen. You have performed a distinct public service. You deserve the thanks of the entire community."
"But, colonel," said Mr. Morrissey with some hesitation, "we were not quite able to close a satisfactory bargain with the owner of the tree."
"That is unfortunate, gentlemen. You should not have permitted a few dollars to stand in the way of securing your prize. I thought I gave you a perfectly free hand to do as you thought best."
"So you did, colonel. But the hitch was not so much over a matter of price as over a matter of principle."
"Over a matter of principle? I don't understand you, sir. How could any citizen ofthis free country object, as a matter of principle, to having his tree converted into a staff from the summit of which the emblem of liberty might be flung to the breeze? Especially when he was free to name his own price for the tree."
"But he wouldn't name any price."
"Did he refuse to sell?"
"Not exactly; but he wouldn't bargain except on a condition that we were unable to meet."
"What condition? Who is the man? Where does he live?"
Colonel Butler was growing plainly impatient over the obstructive tactics in which the owner of the tree had indulged.
"He lives," replied Mr. Morrissey, "at Cobb's Corners. His name is Enos Walker. His condition is that you go to him in person to bargain for the tree. There's the situation, colonel. Now you have it all."
The veteran of the Civil War straightened up in his chair, threw back his shoulders, and gazed at his visitors in silence. Surprise, anger, contempt; these were the emotions theshadows of which successively overspread his face.
"Gentlemen," he said, at last, "are you aware what a preposterous proposition you have brought to me?"
"It is not our proposition, colonel."
"I know it is not, sir. You are simply the bearers of it. Permit me to ask you, however, if it is your recommendation that I yield to the demand of this crude highwayman of Cobb's Corners?"
"Why, Mr. Campbell and I have talked the matter over, and, in view of the fact that this appears to be the only available tree within easy reach, and is so splendidly adapted to our purposes, we have thought that possibly you might suggest some method whereby—"
"Gentlemen—" Colonel Butler had risen from his chair and was pacing angrily up and down the room. His face was flushed and his fingers were working nervously. "Gentlemen—" he interrupted—"my fortune is at your disposal. Purchase the tree where you will; on the hills of Maine, in the swamps of Georgia, on the plains of California. Butdo not suggest to me, gentlemen; do not dare to suggest to me that I yield to the outrageous demand of this person who has made you the bearers of his impertinent ultimatum."
Mr. Morrissey rose in his turn, followed by Mr. Campbell.
"Very well, colonel," said the spokesman. "We will try to procure the tree elsewhere. We thought it no more than right to report to you first what we had done. That is the situation is it not, Mr. Campbell?"
"That is the situation, exactly," assented Mr. Campbell.
The colonel had reached the window in his round of the room, and had stopped there.
"That was quite the thing to do, gentlemen," he replied. "A—quite—the thing—to do."
He stood gazing intently out through the window at the banks of snow settling and wasting under the bright March sunshine. Not that his eyes had been attracted to anything in particular on his lawn, but that a thought had entered his mind which demanded, for the moment, his undivided attention.
His two visitors stood waiting, somewhatawkwardly, for him to turn again toward them, but he did not do so. At last Mr. Morrissey plucked up courage to break in on his host's reverie.
"I—I think we understand you now, colonel," he said. "We'll go elsewhere and do the best we can."
Colonel Butler faced away from the window and came back into the room.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said. "My mind was temporarily occupied by a thought that has come to me in this matter. Upon further consideration it occurs to me that it may be expedient for me to yield on this occasion to Mr. Walker's request, and visit him in person. In the meantime you may suspend operations. I will advise you later of the outcome of my plans."
"You are undoubtedly wise, colonel," replied Mr. Morrissey, "to make a further effort to secure this particular tree. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"
"Undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Campbell with some warmth.
So the matter was left in that way. ColonelButler was to inform his agents what, if anything, he had been able to accomplish by means of a personal interview with Mr. Walker, always assuming that he should finally and definitely decide to seek such an interview. And Mr. Hubert Morrissey and Mr. Frank Campbell bowed themselves out of Colonel Butler's presence.
While the cause of this sudden change of attitude on Colonel Butler's part remained a mystery to his two visitors, it was, in reality, not far to seek. For, as he looked out at his window that March morning, he saw, not the bare trees on the lawn, not the brown hedge or the beaten roadway; he saw, out somewhere among the snow-covered fields, laboring as a farmer's boy, enduring the privations of a humble home, and the limitations of a narrow environment, the lad who for a dozen years had been his solace and his pride, the light and the life of Bannerhall. How sadly he missed the boy, no one, save perhaps his faithful daughter, had any conception. And she knew it, not because of any word of complaint that had escaped his lips, but because every look andmood and motion told her the story. He would not send for his grandson; he would not ask him to come back; he would not force him to come. It was a piece of childish folly on the boy's part no doubt, this going away; due to his impetuous nature and his immature years; but, he had made his bed, now let him lie in it till he should come to a realization of what he had done, and, like the prodigal son of old, should come back of his own accord, and ask to be forgiven. Yet the days went by, and the weeks grew long, and no prodigal returned. There was no abatement of determination on the grandfather's part, but the idea grew slowly in his mind that if by some chance, far removed from even the suspicion of design, they should encounter each other, he and the boy, face to face, in the village street, on the open road, in field or farm-house, something might be said or done that would lead to the longed-for reconciliation. It was the practical application of this thought that led to his change of attitude that morning in the presence of his visitors. He would have a legitimate errand to the home of Enos Walker. The incidental opportunities that might lie in the path of such an errand properly fulfilled, were not to be lightly ignored nor peremptorily dismissed. At any rate the matter was worth careful consideration. He considered it, and made his decision.
That afternoon, after his daughter Millicent had gone down into the village in entire ignorance of any purpose that he might have had to leave the house, he ordered his horse and cutter for a drive. Later he changed the order, and directed that his team and two-seated sleigh be brought to the door. It had occurred to him that there was a bare possibility that he might have a passenger on his return trip. Then he arrayed himself in knee-high rubber boots, a heavy overcoat, and a fur cap. At three o'clock he entered his sleigh and directed his driver to proceed with all reasonable haste to Cobb's Corners.
Out in the country where the winds of winter had piled the snow into long heaps, the beaten track was getting soft, and it was necessary to exercise some care in order to prevent the horses from slumping through the drifts to the road-bed. And on the westerly slope ofBaldwin's Hill the ground in the middle of the road was bare for at least forty rods. But, from that point on, whether his progress was fast or slow, Colonel Butler scrutinized the way ahead of him, and the farm-houses that he passed, with painstaking care. He was not looking for any spruce tree here, no matter how straight and tall. But if haply some farmer's boy should be out on an errand for the master of the farm, it would be inexcusable to pass him negligently by; that was all. And yet his vigilance met with no reward. He had not caught the remotest glimpse of such a boy when his sleigh drew up at Enos Walker's gate.
The unusual jingling of bells brought Sarah Butler and her sister to the window of the sitting-room to see who it was that was bringing such a flood of tinkling music up the road.
"For the land sakes!" exclaimed the sister; "it's Richard Butler, and he's stopping here. I bet a cookie he's come after Pen."
But Pen's mother did not respond. Her heart was beating too fast, she could not speak.
"You've got to go to the door, Sarah," continued the sister; "I'm not dressed."
Colonel Butler was already on his way up the path, and, a moment later, his knock was heard at the door. It was opened by Sarah Butler who stood there facing him with outward calmness. Evidently the colonel had not anticipated seeing her, and, for the moment, he was apparently disconcerted. But he recovered himself at once and inquired courteously if Mr. Walker was at home. It was the third time in his life that he had spoken to his daughter-in-law. The first time was when she returned from her bridal trip, and the interview on that occasion had been brief and decisive. The second time was when her husband was lying dead in the modest home to which he had taken her. Now he had spoken to her again, and this time there was no bitterness in his tone nor iciness in his manner.
"Yes," she replied; "father is somewhere about. If you will please come in and be seated I will try to find him."
He followed her into the sitting-room, and took the chair that she placed for him.
"I beg that you will not put yourself to toomuch trouble," he said, "in trying to find him; although I desire to see him on a somewhat important errand."
"It will not be the slightest trouble," she assured him.
But, as she turned to go, he added as though a new thought had come to him:
"Perhaps you have some young person about the premises whom you could send out in search of Mr. Walker, and thus save yourself the effort of finding him."
"No," she replied. "There is no young person here. I will go myself. It will take but a minute or two."
It was a feeble attempt on his part, and it had been quickly foiled. So there was nothing for him to do but to sit quietly in the chair that had been placed for him, and await the coming of Enos Walker.
Yet he could not help but wonder as he sat there, what had become of Pen. She had said that there was no young person there. Was the boy's absence only temporary, or had he left the home of his maternal grandfather and gone to some place still more remote and inaccessible? He was consumed with a desire to know; but he would not have made the inquiry, save as a matter of life and death.
It was fully five minutes later that the guest in the sitting-room heard some one stamping the snow off his boots in the kitchen adjoining, then the door of the room was opened, and Enos Walker stood on the threshold. His trousers were tucked into the tops of his boots, his heavy reefer jacket was tightly buttoned, and his cloth cap was still on his head.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Butler," he said. "I'm pleased to see ye. I didn't know as ye'd think it wuth while to come."
"It is always worth while," replied the colonel, "to meet a business proposition frankly and fairly. I am here, at your suggestion, to discuss with you the matter of the purchase of a certain tree."
Grandpa Walker advanced into the room, closing the door behind him, went over to the window, laid aside his cap, and dropped into his accustomed chair.
"Jes' so," he said. "Set down, an' we'll talk it over." When the colonel was seated he continued: "They tell me ye want to buy a spruce tree. Is that right?"
"That is correct."
"Want it fer a flag-pole, eh?"
"Yes. It is proposed to erect a staff on the school grounds at Chestnut Hill."
"Jes' so. In that case ye want a perty good one. Tall, straight, slender, small-limbed; proper in every way."
"Exactly."
"Well, I've got it."
"So I have heard. I have come to bargain for it."
"All right! Want to look at it fust, I s'pose."
"I have come prepared to inspect it."
"That's business. I'll go down to the swamp with ye an' we'll look her over."
Grandpa Walker rose from his chair and replaced his cap on his head.
"Is the tree located at some distance from the house?" inquired the colonel.
"Oh, mebbe a quarter of a mile; mebbe not so fer."
"A—have you some young person about,whom you could send with me to inspect it, and thus save yourself the trouble of tramping through the snow?"
Grandpa Walker looked at his visitor curiously before replying.
"No," he said, after a moment, "I ain't. I've got a young feller stoppin' with me; but he started up to Henry Cobb's about two o'clock. How fer beyond Henry's he's got by this time I can't say. I ain't so soople as I was once, that's a fact. But when it comes to trampin' through the woods, snow er no snow, I reckon I can hold up my end with anybody that wears boots. Ef ye're ready, come along!"
A look of disappointment came into the colonel's face. He did not move. After a moment he said:
"On second thought, I believe I will not take the time nor the trouble to inspect the tree."
"Don't want it, eh?"
"Yes, I want it. I'll take it on your recommendation and that of my agents, Messrs. Morrissey and Campbell. If you'll name your price I'll pay you for it."
Grandpa Walker went back and sat down in his cushioned chair by the window. He laid his cap aside, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, lighted it, and began to smoke.
"Well," he said, at last, "that's a prime tree. That tree's wuth money."
"Undoubtedly, sir; undoubtedly; but how much money?"
The old man puffed for a moment in silence. Then he asked:
"Want it fer a liberty-pole, do ye?"
"I want it for a liberty-pole."
"To put the school flag on?"
"To put the school flag on."
There was another moment of silence.
"They say," remarked the old man, inquiringly, "that you gave the flag?"
"I gave the flag."
"Then, by cracky! I'll give the pole."
Enos Walker rose vigorously to his feet in order properly to emphasize his offer. Colonel Butler did not respond. This sudden turn of affairs had almost taken away his breath. Then a grim smile stole slowly into his face.The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.
"Permit me to commend you," he said, "for your liberality and patriotism."
"I didn't fight in no Civil War," added the old man, emphatically; "but I ain't goin' to hev it said by nobody that Enos Walker ever profited a penny on a pole fer his country's flag."
The old soldier's smile broadened.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "That's very good. We'll stand together as joint donors of the emblem of freedom."
"And I ain't ashamed of it nuther," cried the new partner, "an' here's my hand on it."
The two men shook hands, and this time Colonel Richard Butler laughed outright.
"This is fine," he said. "I'll send men to-morrow to cut the tree down, trim it, and haul it to town. There's no time to lose. The roads are getting soft. Why, half of Baldwin's Hill is already bare."
He started toward the door, but his host called him back.
"Don't be in a hurry," said GrandpaWalker. "Set down a while, can't ye? Have a piece o' pie or suthin. Or a glass o' cider."
"Thank you! Nothing at all. I'm in some haste. It's getting late. And—I desire to make a brief call on Henry Cobb before returning home."
The old man made no further effort to detain his visitor; but he gave him a cordial invitation to come again, shook hands with him at the door, and watched him half way down to the gate. When he turned and re-entered his house he found his two daughters already in the sitting-room.
"Did he come for Pen?" asked Sarah Butler, breathlessly.
"Ef he did," replied her father, "he didn't say so. He wanted my spruce tree, and I give it to him. And I want to tell ye one thing fu'ther. I've got a sort o' sneakin' notion that Colonel Richard Butler of Chestnut Hill ain't more'n about one-quarter's bad as he's be'n painted."
Henry Cobb's residence was scarcely a half mile beyond the home of Enos Walker. It was the most imposing farm-house in thatneighborhood, splendidly situated on high ground, with a rare outlook to the south and east. Mr. Cobb himself was just emerging from the open door of a great barn that fronted the road as Colonel Butler drove up. He came out to the sleigh and greeted the occupant of it cordially. The two men were old friends.
"It's a magnificent view you have here," said the colonel; "magnificent!"
"Yes," was the reply, "we rather enjoy it. I've lived in this neighborhood all my life, and the longer I live here the better I like it."
"That's the proper spirit, sir, the proper spirit."
For a moment both men looked off across the snow-mantled valleys and the wooded slopes, to the summit of the hill-range far to the east, touched with the soft light of the sinking sun.
"You're quite a stranger in these parts," said Henry Cobb, breaking the silence.
"Yes," was the reply. "I don't often get up here. I came up to-day to make an arrangement with your neighbor, Mr. Walker, for the purchase of a very fine spruce tree on his property."
"So? Did you succeed in closing a bargain with him?"
"Yes. He has consented to let it go."
"You don't say so! I would hardly have believed it. Now, I don't want to be curious nor anything; but would you mind telling me what you had to pay for it?"
"Nothing. He gave it to us."
"He—what?"
"He gave it to us to be used as a flag-staff on the grounds of the public school at Chestnut Hill."
"You don't mean that he gave you that wonderful spruce that stands down in the corner of his swamp; the one Morrissey and Campbell were up looking at yesterday?"
"I believe that is the one."
"Why, colonel, that spruce was the apple of his eye. If I've heard him brag that tree up once, I've heard him brag it up fifty times. He never gave away anything in his life before. What's come over the old man, anyway?"
"Well, when he learned that I had donated the flag, he declared that he would donate thestaff. I suppose he didn't want to be outdone in the matter of patriotism."
"Good for him!" exclaimed Henry Cobb. "He'll be a credit to his country yet;" and he laughed merrily. Then, sobering down, he added: "But, say; look here! can't you let me in on this thing too? I don't want to be outdone by either of you. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll cut the tree, and trim it, and haul it to town to-morrow, free gratis for nothing. What do you say?"
Then the colonel laughed in his turn, and he reached out his one hand and shook hands warmly with Henry Cobb.
"Splendid!" he cried. "This efflorescence of patriotism in the rural districts is enough to delight an old soldier's heart!"
"All right! I'll have the pole there by four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and you can depend on it."
"I will. And I thank you, sir; not only on my own account, but also in the name of the public of Chestnut Hill, and on behalf of our beloved country. Now I must go. I have decided, in returning, to drive across by Darbytown, strike the creek road, and go down home by that route in order to avoid drifts and bare places. Oh, by the way, there's a little matter I neglected to speak to Mr. Walker about. It's of no great moment, but I understand his grandson came up here this afternoon, and, if he is still here, I will take the opportunity to send back word by him."
He made the inquiry with as great an air of indifference as he could assume, but his breath came quick as he waited for an answer.
"Why," replied Henry Cobb, "Pen was here along about three o'clock. He was looking for a two-year old heifer that strayed away yesterday. He went over toward Darbytown. You might run across him if you're going that way. But I'll send your message down to Enos Walker if you wish."
"Thank you! It doesn't matter. I may possibly see the young man along the road. Good night!"
"Good night, colonel!"
The impatient horses were given rein once more, and dashed away to the music of the twoscore bells that hung from their shining harness.
But, although Colonel Richard Butler scanned every inch of the way from Henry Cobb's to Darbytown, with anxious and longing eyes, he did not once catch sight of any farmer's boy searching for a two-year old heifer that had strayed from its home.
At dusk he stepped wearily from his sleigh and mounted the steps that led to the porch of Bannerhall. His daughter met him at the door.
"For goodness' sake, father!" she exclaimed; "where on earth have you been?"
"I have been to Cobb's Corners," was the quiet reply.
"Did you get Pen?" she asked, excitedly.
"I did not."
"Wouldn't Mr. Walker let him come?"
"I made no request of any one for my grandson's return. I went to obtain a spruce tree from Mr. Walker, out of which to make a flag-staff for the school grounds. I obtained it."
"That's a wonder."
"It is not a wonder, Millicent. Permit me to say, as one speaking from experience, that when accused of selfishness, Enos Walker has been grossly maligned. I have found him to be a public-spirited citizen, and a much better man, in all respects, than he has been painted."
His daughter made no further inquiries, for she saw that he was not in a mood to be questioned. But, from that day forth, the shadow of sorrow and of longing grew deeper on his care-furrowed face.
It was well along in April, that year, before the last of the winter's snow disappeared, and the robins and blue-birds darted in and out among the naked trees. But, as the sun grew high, and the days long, and the spring languor filled the air, Pen felt an ever-increasing dissatisfaction with his position in his grandfather Walker's household, and an ever-increasing desire to relinquish it. Not that he was afraid or ashamed to work; he had sufficiently demonstrated that he was not. Not that he ever expected to return to Bannerhall, for he had no such thought. To beg to be taken back was unthinkable; that he should be invited back was most improbable. He had not seen his grandfather Butler since he came away, nor had he heard from him, except for the vivid and oft-repeated recital by Grandpa Walker of the spruce tree episode, and save through his Aunt Millicent who made occasional visits to the family at Cobb's Corners. That he deploredPen's departure there could be no doubt, but that he would either invite or compel him to return was beyond belief. So Pen's tasks had come to be very irksome to him, and his mode of life very dissatisfying. If he worked he wanted to work for himself, at a task in which he could take interest and pride. At Cobb's Corners he could see no future for himself worthy of the name. Many times he discussed the situation with his mother, and, painful as it would be to her to lose him, she agreed with him that he must go. He waited only the opportunity.
One day, late in April, Robert Starbird dropped in while the members of the Walker family were at dinner. He was a wool-buyer for the Starbird Woolen Company of Lowbridge, and a nephew of its president. Having completed a bargain with Grandpa Walker for his scanty spring clipping of fleece, he turned to Pen.
"Haven't I seen you at Colonel Butler's, down at Chestnut Hill?" he inquired.
"Yes," replied Pen, "I'm his grandson. I used to live there."
"I thought so. Staying here now, are you?"
"Until I can get regular work; yes, sir."
"Want a job, do you?"
"I'd like one, very much."
"Well, we'll need a bobbin-boy at the mills pretty soon. I suppose—"
And then Grandpa Walker interrupted.
"I guess," he said, "'t we can keep the young man busy here for a while yet."
Robert Starbird looked curiously for a moment, from man to boy, and then, saying that he must go on up to Henry Cobb's to make a deal with him for his fleece, he went out to his buggy, got in and drove away.
Pen went back to his work in the field with a sinking heart. It had not before occurred to him that Grandpa Walker would object to his leaving him whenever he should find satisfactory and profitable employment elsewhere. But it was now evident that, if he went, he must go against his grandfather's will. His first opportunity had already been blocked. What opposition he would meet with in the future he could only conjecture.
With Old Charlie hitched to a stone-boat,he was drawing stones from a neighbor's field to the roadside, where men were engaged in laying up a stone wall. He had not been long at work since the dinner hour, when, chancing to look up, he saw Robert Starbird driving down the hill from Henry Cobb's on his way back to Chestnut Hill. A sudden impulse seized him. He threw the reins across Old Charlie's back, left him standing willingly in his tracks, and started on a run across the lot to head off Robert Starbird at the roadside. The man saw him coming and stopped his horse.
Panting a little, both from exertion and excitement, Pen leaped the fence and came up to the side of the buggy.
"Mr. Starbird," he said, "if that job is still open, I—I think I'll take it—if you'll give it to me."
The man, looking at him closely, saw determination stamped on his countenance.
"Why, that's all right," he said. "You could have the job; but what about your grandfather Walker? He doesn't seem to want you to leave."
"I know. But my mother's willing. And I'll make it up to Grandpa Walker some way. I can't stay here, Mr. Starbird; and—I'm not going to. They're good enough to me here. I've no complaint to make. But—I want a real job and a fair chance."
He paused, out of breath. The intensity of his desire, and the fixedness of his purpose were so sharply manifest that the man in the wagon did not, for the moment, reply. He placed his whip slowly in its socket, and seemed lost in thought. At last he said:
"Henry Cobb has been telling me about you. He gives you a very good name."
He paused a moment and then added:
"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll give the old gentleman fair notice—and not sneak away from him like a vagabond—I won't harbor any runaways—why, I'll see that you get the job."
Pen drew a long breath, and his face lighted up with pleasure.
"Thank you, Mr. Starbird!" he exclaimed. "Thank you very much. When may I come?"
"Well, let's see. To-day's Wednesday. Suppose you report for duty next Monday."
"All right! I'll be there. I'll leave here Monday morning. I'll speak to Grandpa Walker to-night."
"Very well. See you Monday. Good-by!"
"Good-by!"
Robert Starbird chirruped to his horse, started on, and was soon lost to sight around a bend in the road.
And Pen strode back across the field, prouder and happier than he had ever been before in all his life.
But he still had Grandpa Walker to settle with.
At supper time, on the evening after his talk with Robert Starbird, Pen had no opportunity to inform his grandfather of the success of his application for employment. For, almost as soon as he left the table, Grandpa Walker got his hat and started down to the store to discuss politics and statecraft with his loquacious neighbors. But Pen felt that his grandfather should know, that night, of the arrangement he had made for employment, and so, after his evening chores were done, he went down to thegate at the roadside to wait for the old man to come home.
The air was as balmy as though it had been an evening in June. Somewhere in the trees by the fence a pair of wakeful birds was chirping. From the swamp below the hill came the hoarse croaking of bull-frogs. Above the summit of the wooded slope that lay toward Chestnut Hill the full moon was climbing, and, aslant the road, the maples cast long shadows toward the west.
To Pen, as he stood there waiting, came his mother. A wrap was around her shoulders, and a light scarf partly covered her head. She had finished her evening work and had come out to find him.
"Are you waiting for grandpa?" she asked; though she knew without asking, that he was.
"Yes," was the reply. "I want to see him about leaving. I had a talk with Mr. Starbird this afternoon, in the road, and he's given me the job he spoke about. I wasn't going to tell you until after I'd seen grandpa, and the trouble was all over."
"You dear boy! And if grandpa objects to your going?"
"Well, I—I think I'll go anyway. Look here, mother," he continued, hastily; "I don't want to be mean nor anything like that; and grandpa's been kind to me; but, mother—I can't stay here. Don't you see I can't stay here?"
He held his arms out to her appealingly, and she took them and put them about her neck.
"I know, dear," she said; "I know. And grandfather must let you go. I shall die of loneliness, but—you must have a chance."
"Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can earn enough you shall come to live with me."
"I shall come anyway before very long, dearie. I worked for other people before I was married. I can do it again."
She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears glistened in the moonlight.
Then, suddenly, they were aware that Grandpa Walker was approaching them. He was coming up the road, talking to himself as was his custom when alone, especially if his mind was ill at ease. And his mind was notwholly at ease to-night. The readiness with which Pen had, that day, accepted a suggestion of employment elsewhere, had given him something of a turn. He could not contemplate, with serenity, the prospect of resuming the burdens of which his grandson had, for the last two months, relieved him. To become again a "hewer of wood and drawer of water" for his family was a prospect not wholly to his liking. He became suddenly aware that two people were standing at his gate in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the road, to look at them inquiringly.
"It's I, father!" his daughter called out to him. "Pen and I. We've been waiting for you."
"Eh? Waitin' for me?" he asked.
"Yes, Pen has something he wants to say to you."
The old man crossed over to the roadside fence and leaned on it. The announcement was ominous. He looked sharply at Pen.
"Well," he said. "I'm listenin'."
"Grandpa," began Pen, "I want you to bewilling that I should take that job that Mr. Starbird spoke about to-day."
"So, that's it, is it? Ye've got the rovin' bee a buzzin' in your head, have ye? Don't ye know 't 'a rollin' stone gethers no moss'?"
"Well, grandpa, I'm not contented here. Not but what you're good enough to me, and all that, but I'm unhappy here. And I saw Mr. Starbird again this afternoon, and he said I could have that job."
"Think a job in a mill's better'n a job on a farm?"
"I think it is for me, grandpa."
"Work too hard for ye here?"
"Why, I'm not complaining about the work being hard. It's just because farm work does not suit me."
"Don't suit most folks 'at ain't inclined to dig into it."
Then Pen's mother spoke up.
"Now, father," she said, "you know Pen's done a man's work since he's been here, and he's never whimpered about it. And it isn't quite fair for you to insinuate that he's been lazy."
"I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," replied the old man, doggedly. "I ain't findin' no fault with what he's done sence he's been here; I'm just gittin' at what he thinks he's goin' to do." He turned again to Pen. "Made up yer mind to go, hev ye?"
"Yes, grandpa."
"When?"
"Next Monday morning."
"Wuther I'm willin' or no?"
"I want you to be willing."
"I say, wuther I'm willin' or no?"
In the moonlight the old man's face bore a look of severity that augured ill for any happy completion to Pen's plan. A direct question had been asked, and it called for a direct answer. And with the answer would come the clash of wills. Pen felt it coming, and, although he was apprehensive to the verge of alarm, he braced himself to meet it calmly. His answer was frank, and direct.
"Yes, grandpa."
"Well, I'm willin'."
"Why, grandpa!"
"Father! you old dear!" from Pen's mother.
"I say I'm willin'," repeated the old man. "I hed hoped 't Pen'd stay here to hum an' help me out with the farm work. I ain't so soople as I use to be. An' Mirandy's man's got a stiddy job a-teamin'. An' the boy seemed to take to the work natural, and I thought he liked it, and I rested easy and took my comfort till Robert Starbird put that notion in his head to-day. Sence then I ain't had no hope."
"I'm sorry to leave you, grandpa, and it's awfully good of you to let me go, and you know I wouldn't go if I thought I could possibly stay and be contented."
"I understand. It's the same with most young fellers. They see suthin' better away from hum. And I ain't willin' to stand in the way o' no young feller that thinks he can better himself some'eres else. When I was fifteen I wanted to go down to Chestnut Hill and work in Sampson's planin' factory; but my father wouldn't let me. Consekence is I never got spunk enough agin to leave the farm. So I ain't goin' to stand in nobody else's way, you can go Monday mornin' or any other mornin', and I'll just say God bless ye, an'good luck to ye, an' start in agin on the chores."
Then Pen's mother, like a girl still in her sympathies and impulses, flung her arms around her father's neck, and hugged him till he was positively obliged to use force to release himself. And they all walked up the path together in the moonlight, and entered the house and told Grandma Walker and Aunt Miranda of Pen's contemplated departure, to which Grandpa Walker, with martyrlike countenance, added the story of his own unhappy prospect.
When Monday morning came Pen was up long before his usual hour for rising. He did all the chores, picked up a dozen odds and ends, and left everything ship-shape for his grandfather who was now to succeed him in doing the morning work. Then he changed his clothes, packed his suit-case and came down to breakfast. Grandpa Walker had offered to take him into town with Old Charlie, but Pen had learned, the night before, that Henry Cobb was going down to Chestnut Hill in the morning, and when Mr. Cobb heard that Pen also was going, he gave him an invitation to ridewith him. He and the boy had become fast friends during Pen's sojourn at Cobb's Corners, and both of them anticipated, with pleasure, the ride into town.
After breakfast Grandpa Walker lighted his pipe and put on his hat but he did not go to the store, as had been his custom; he stayed to say good-by to Pen, and to bid him Godspeed, as he had said he would, and to tell him that when he lacked for work, or wanted a home, there was a latch-string at Cobb's Corners that was always hanging out for him. He did more than that. He shoved into Pen's hands enough money to pay for a few weeks' board at Lowbridge, and told him that if he needed more, to write and ask for it.
"It's comin' to ye," he said, when Pen protested. "Ye ain't had nothin' sence ye been here, and I kind o' calculate ye've earned it."
Pen's mother went with him to the gate to wait for Henry Cobb to come along; and when they saw Mr. Cobb driving down the hill toward them, she kissed Pen good-by, adjured him to be watchful of his health, and to write frequently to her, and then went back up thepath toward the house she could not see for the tears that filled her eyes.
Henry Cobb drove a smart horse, and a buggy that was spick and span, and it was a pleasure to ride with him. He pulled up at the gate with a flourish, and told Pen to put his suit-case under the seat, and to jump in.
It was not until after they had left the Corners some distance behind them that the object of Pen's journey was mentioned. Then Henry Cobb asked:
"How does the old gentleman like your leaving?"
"I don't think he likes it very well," was the reply. "But he's been lovely about it. He gave me some money and his blessing."
"You don't say so!"
Henry Cobb stared at the boy in astonishment. It was not an unheard of thing for Grandpa Walker to give his blessing; but that he should give money besides, was, to say the least, unusual.
"Yes," replied Pen, "he couldn't have treated me better if I'd lived with him always."
Mr. Cobb cast a contemplative eye on thelandscape, and, for a full minute, he was silent. Then he turned again to Pen.
"I don't want to be curious or anything," he said; "but would you mind telling me how much money the old gentleman gave you?"
"Not at all," was the prompt reply. "He gave me eighteen dollars."
"Good for him!" exclaimed the man. "He's got more good stuff in him than I gave him credit for. I was afraid he might have given you only a dollar or two, and I was going to lend you a little to help you out. I will yet if you need it. I will any time you need it."
Henry Cobb was not prodigal with his money, but he was kind-hearted, and he had seen enough of Pen to feel that he was taking no risk.
"You're very kind," replied the boy, "but grandpa's money will last me a good while, and I shall get wages enough to keep me comfortably, and I shall not need any more."
After a while Mr. Cobb's thoughts turned again to Grandpa Walker.
"He'll miss you terribly," he said to Pen. "He hasn't had so easy a time in all his life before as he's had this spring, with you to do all the farm chores and help around the house. It'll be like pulling teeth for him to get into harness again."
Henry Cobb gave a little chuckle. He knew how fond Grandpa Walker was of comfortable ease.
"Well," replied Pen, "I'm sorry to go, and leave him with all the work to do; but you know how it is, Mr. Cobb."
"Yes, I know; I know. And you're going with splendid people. I've known the Starbirds all my life. None better in the country."
They had reached the summit of the elevation overlooking the valley that holds Chestnut Hill. Spring lay all about them in a riot of fresh green. The world, to boyish eyes, had never before looked so fair, nor had the present ever before been filled with brighter promises for the future. But the morning ride, delightful as it had been, was drawing to an end.
Coming from Cobb's Corners into Chestnut Hill you go down the Main street past Bannerhall. Pen looked as he went by, but hesaw no one there. The lawn was rich with a carpet of fresh, young grass, the crocus beds and the tulip plot were ablaze with color, and the swelling buds that crowned the maples with a haze and halo of elusive pink foretold the luxury of summer foliage. But no human being was in sight. The street looked strange to Pen as they drove along; as strange as though he had been away two years instead of two months. They stopped in front of the post-office, and he remained in the wagon and minded the horse while Henry Cobb went into a hardware store near by. People passed back and forth, and some of them looked at him and said "good-morning," in a distant way, as though it were an effort for them to speak to him. He knew the cause of their indifference and he did not resent it, though it cut him deeply. Last winter it would have been different. But last winter he was the grandson of Colonel Richard Butler, and lived with that old patriot amid the memories and luxuries of Bannerhall. To-day he was the grandson of Enos Walker, of Cobb's Corners, leaving the farm to seek a petty job in a mill, discreditedin the eyes of the community because of his disloyalty to his country's flag. He was musing on these things when some one called to him from the sidewalk. It was Aunt Millicent.
"Pen Butler!" she cried, "get right down here and kiss me."
Pen did her bidding.
"What in the world are you doing here?" she continued.
"I'm on my way to Lowbridge," he said. "I have a job up there in the Starbird woolen mills, as bobbin-boy."
"Well, for goodness sake! Who would have thought it? Pen Butler going to work as a bobbin-boy! And Lowbridge is fourteen miles away, and we shall never see you again."
Pen comforted her as best he could, and explained his reasons for going, and then he asked after the health of his grandfather Butler.
"Don't ask me," she said disconsolately. "He's grieving himself into his grave about you. But he doesn't say a word, and he won't let me say a word. Oh, dear!"
Then Henry Cobb came out and greetedAunt Millicent, and, after a few more inquiries and admonitions, she kissed Pen good-by and went on her way.
Mr. Cobb was going on down to Chestnut Valley, but, as the train to Lowbridge did not leave until afternoon, Pen said he would go down later. So he was left on the sidewalk there alone. He did not quite know what to do with himself. The boys were, doubtless, all in school. He walked up the street a little way, and then he walked back again. He had no reason for entering any of the stores, and no desire to do so. There was really no place for him to go. Finally he decided that he would go down to the Valley and wait there for the train. So he started on down the hill. People whom he met, acquaintances of the old days, looked at him askance, spoke to him indifferently, or ignored him altogether. It seemed to him that he was like a stranger in an alien land.
As he passed by the school-house a boy whom he did not know was lingering about the steps. Otherwise there was no one in sight.
Then, suddenly, there burst upon his viewa sight for which he was not prepared. In the yard on the lower side of the school-house, the yard through which he and his victorious troops had driven the retreating enemy at the battle of Chestnut Hill, a flag-staff was standing; tall, straight, symmetrical, and from its summit floated the Star-Spangled Banner; the very banner that he had trodden under his feet that February day. It was as though some one had struck him on the breast with an ice-cold hand. He gasped and stood still, his eyes fixed immovably on the flag. Then something stirred within him, a strange impulse that ran the quick gamut of his nerves; and when he came to himself he was standing in the street, with head bared and bowed, and his eyes filled with tears. Like Saul of Tarsus he had been stricken in the way, and ever afterward, whenever and wherever he saw his country's flag, his soul responded to the sight, and thrilled with memories of that April day when first he discovered that rare quality of patriotism that had hitherto lain dormant in his breast.
So he walked on down to the railroad station in Chestnut Valley, and went into the waiting-room and sat down.
It was very lonely there and it was very tiresome waiting for the train.
At noon he went out to a bakery and bought for himself a light luncheon. As he was returning to the depot he came suddenly upon Aleck Sands, who had had his dinner and was starting back to school. There was no time for either boy to consider what kind of greeting he should give to the other. They were face to face before either of them realized it. As for Pen, he bore no resentment now, toward any one. His heart had been wrung dry from that feeling through two months of labor and of contemplation. So, when the first shock of surprise was over, he held out his hand.
"Let's be friends, Aleck," he said, "and forget what's gone by."
"I'm not willing," was the reply, "to be friends with any one who's done what you've done." And he made a wide detour around the astonished boy, and marched off up the hill.
From that moment until the train came and he boarded it, Pen could never afterward remember what happened. His mind was in a tumult. Would the cruel echo of one minute of inconsiderate folly on a February day, keep sounding in his ears and hammering at his heart so long as he should live?
It was mid-afternoon when Pen reached Lowbridge, and he went at once to the Starbird mill on the outskirts of the town. He caught sight of Robert Starbird in the mill-yard, and went over to him. The man did not at first recognize him.
"I'm Penfield Butler," said the boy, "with whom you were talking last week."
"Oh, yes. Now I know you. You look a little different, some way. I've been watching out for you. How did you make out with your Grandpa Walker?"
"Well, Grandpa Walker found it a little hard to take up the work I'd been doing, but he was quite willing I should come, and helped me very much."
"I see." An amused twinkle came into the man's eyes; just such a twinkle as had comeinto the eyes of Henry Cobb that morning on the way to Chestnut Hill.
"Well," he added, "I guess it's all right. Come over to the office. We'll see what we can do for you."
They crossed the mill-yard and entered the office. An elderly, benevolent looking man with white side-whiskers, wearing a Grand Army button on the lapel of his coat, was seated at a table, writing. Three or four clerks were busy at their desks, and a girl was working at a type-writer in a remote corner of the room.
"Major Starbird," said the man who had brought Pen in, "this is the boy whom I told you last week I had hired as a bobbin-boy. He's a grandson of Enos Walker out at Cobb's Corners."
The man with white side-whiskers laid down his pen, removed his glasses, and looked up scrutinizingly at Pen.
"Yes," he said, "I know Mr. Walker."
"He is also," added Robert Starbird, "a grandson of Colonel Richard Butler at Chestnut Hill."
"Indeed! Colonel Butler is a warm friend of mine. I was not aware that—is your name Penfield Butler?"
"Yes, sir," replied Pen. Something in the man's changed tone of voice sent a sudden fear to his heart.
"Are you the boy who is said to have mistreated the American flag on the school grounds at Chestnut Hill?"
"I—suppose I am. Yes, sir."
Pen's heart was now in his shoes. The man with white side-whiskers raked him from head to foot with a look that boded no good. He turned to his nephew.
"I've heard of that incident," he said. "I do not think we want this young man in our employ."
Robert Starbird looked first at his uncle and then at Pen. It was plain that he was puzzled. It was equally plain that he was disappointed.
"I didn't know about this," he said. "I'm sorry if it's anything that necessitates our depriving him of the job. Penfield, suppose you retire to the waiting-room for a few minutes.I'll talk this matter over with Major Starbird."
So Pen, with the ghosts of his misdeeds haunting and harassing him, and a burden of disappointment, too heavy for any boy to bear, weighing him down, retired to the waiting-room. For the first time since his act of disloyalty he felt that his punishment was greater than he deserved. Not that he bore resentment now against any person, but he believed the retribution that was following him was unjustly proportioned to the gravity of his offense. And if Major Starbird refused to receive him, what could he do then?
In the midst of these cruel forebodings he heard his name called, and he went back into the office.
Major Starbird's look was still keen, and his voice was still forbidding.
"I do not want," he said, "to be too hasty in my judgments. My nephew tells me that Henry Cobb has given you an excellent recommendation, and we place great reliance on Mr. Cobb's opinion. It may be that your offense has been exaggerated, or that you have some explanation which will mitigate it. Ifyou have any excuse to offer I shall be glad to hear it."
"I don't think," replied Pen frankly, "that there was any excuse for doing what I did. Only—it seems to me—I've suffered enough for it. And I never—never had anything against the flag."
He was so earnest, and his voice was so tremulous with emotion, that the heart of the old soldier could not help but be stirred with pity.
"I have fought for my country," he said, "and I reverence her flag. And I cannot have, in my employ, any one who is disloyal to it."
"I am not disloyal to it, sir. I—I love it."
"Would you be willing to die for it, as I have been?"
"I would welcome the chance, sir."
Major Starbird turned to his nephew.
"I think we may trust him," he said. "He has good blood in his veins, and he ought to develop into a loyal citizen."
Pen said: "Thank you!" But he said it with a gulp in his throat. The reaction had quite unnerved him.
"I am sure," replied Robert Starbird, "that we shall make no mistake. Penfield, suppose you come with me. I will introduce you to the foreman of the weaving-room. He may be able to take you on at once."
So Pen, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, followed his guide and friend. They went through the store-room between great piles of blankets, through the wool-room filled with big bales of fleece, and up-stairs into the weaving-room amid the click and clatter and roar of three score busy and intricate looms. Pen was introduced to the foreman, and his duties as bobbin-boy were explained to him.
"It's easy enough," said the foreman, "if you only pay attention to your work. You simply have to take the bobbins in these little running-boxes to the looms as the weavers call for them and give you their numbers. Perhaps you had better stay here this afternoon and let Dan Larew show you how. I'll give him a loom to-morrow morning, and you can take his place."
So Pen stayed. And when the mills were shut down for the day, when the big wheelsstopped, and the cylinders were still, and the clatter of a thousand working metal fingers ceased, and the voices of the mill girls were no longer drowned by the rattle and roar of moving machinery, he went with Dan to his home, a half mile away, where he found a good boarding-place.
At seven o'clock the next morning he was at the mill, and, at the end of his first day's real work for real wages, he went to his new home, tired indeed, but happier than he had ever been before in all his life.
So the days went by; and spring blossomed into summer, and summer melted into autumn, and winter came again and dropped her covering of snow upon the landscape, whiter and softer than any fleece that was ever scoured or picked or carded at the Starbird mills. And then Pen had a great joy. His mother came to Lowbridge to live with him. Death had kindly released Grandma Walker from her long suffering, and there was no longer any need for his mother to stay on the little farm at Cobb's Corners. She was an expert seamstress and she found more work in the townthan she could do. And the very day on which she came—Major Starbird knew that she was coming—Pen was promoted to a loom. One thing only remained to cloud his happiness. He was still estranged from the dear, tenderhearted, but stubborn old patriot at Chestnut Hill.
With only his daughter to comfort him, the old man lived his lonely life, grieving silently, ever more and more, at the fate which separated him from this brave scion of his race, aging as only the sorrowing can age, yet, with a stubborn pride, and an unyielding purpose, refusing to make the first advance toward a reconciliation.