The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
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what I've found, Daddy!" she cried, "see what I've found!"
Jethro Bass started, and flung back his head like a man who has heard a voice from another world, and then he looked at the child with a kind of stupefaction. The cry, died on Cynthia's lips, and she stopped, gazing up at him with wonder in her eyes.
"F-found strawberries?" said Jethro, at last.
"Yes," she answered. She was very grave and serious now, as was her manner in dealing with people.
"S-show 'em to me," said Jethro.
Cynthia went to him, without embarrassment, and put her hand on his knee. Not once had he taken his eyes from her face. He put out his own hand with an awkward, shy movement, picked a strawberry from her fingers, and thrust it in his mouth.
"Mm," said Jethro, gravely. "Er--what's your name, little gal--what's your name?"
"Cynthia."
There was a long pause.
"Er--er--Cynthia?" he said at length, "Cynthia?"
"Cynthia."
"Er-er, Cynthia--not Cynthy?"
"Cynthia," she said again.
He bent over her and lowered his voice.
"M-may I call you Cynthy--Cynthy?" he asked.
"Y-yes," answered Cynthia, looking up to her father and then glancing shyly at Jethro.
His eyes were on the mountain, and he seemed to have forgotten her until she reached out to him, timidly, another strawberry. He seized her little hand instead and held it between his own--much to the astonishment of his friends.
"Whose little gal be you?" he asked.
"Dad's."
"She's Will Wetherell's daughter," said Lem Hallowell. "He's took on the store. Will," he added, turning to Wetherell, "let me make you acquainted with Jethro Bass."
Jethro rose slowly, and towered above Wetherell on the stoop. There was an inscrutable look in his black eyes, as of one who sees without being seen. Did he know who William Wetherell was? If so, he gave no sign, and took Wetherell's hand limply.
"Will's kinder hipped on book-l'arnin'," Lemuel continued kindly. "Come here to keep store for his health. Guess you may have heerd, Jethro, that Will married Cynthy Ware. You call Cynthy to mind, don't ye?"
Jethro Bass dropped Wetherell's hand, but answered nothing.
CHAPTER VIII
A week passed, and Jethro did not appear in the village, report having it that he was cutting his farms on Thousand Acre Hill. When Jethro was farming,--so it was said,--he would not stop to talk politics even with the President of the United States were that dignitary to lean over his pasture fence and beckon to him. On a sultry Friday morning, when William Wetherell was seated at Jonah Winch's desk in the cool recesses of the store slowly and painfully going over certain troublesome accounts which seemed hopeless, he was thrown into a panic by the sight of one staring at him from the far side of a counter. History sometimes reverses itself.
"What can I do for you--Mr. Bass?" asked the storekeeper, rather weakly.
"Just stepped in--stepped in," he answered. "W-where's Cynthy?"
"She was in the garden--shall I get her?"
"No," he said, parting his coat tails and seating himself on the counter. "Go on figurin', don't mind me."
The thing was manifestly impossible. Perhaps Wetherell indicated as much by his answer.
"Like storekeepin'?" Jethro asked presently, perceiving that he did not continue his work.
"A man must live, Mr. Bass," said Wetherell; "I had to leave the city for my health. I began life keeping store," he added, "but I little thought I should end it so."
"Given to book-l'arnin' then, wahn't you?" Jethro remarked. He did not smile, but stared at the square of light that was the doorway, "Judson's jewellery store, wahn't it? Judson's?"
"Yes, Judson's," Wetherell answered, as soon as he recovered from his amazement. There was no telling from Jethro's manner whether he were enemy or friend; whether he bore the storekeeper a grudge for having attained to a happiness that had not been his.
"Hain't made a great deal out of life, hev you? N-not a great deal?" Jethro observed at last.
Wetherell flushed, although Jethro had merely stated a truth which had often occurred to the storekeeper himself.
"It isn't given to all of us to find Rome in brick and leave it in marble," he replied a little sadly.
Jethro Bass looked at him quickly.
"Er-what's that?" he demanded. "F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble. Fine thought." He ruminated a little. "Never writ anything--did you--never writ anything?"
"Nothing worth publishing," answered poor William Wetherell.
"J-just dreamed'--dreamed and kept store. S--something to have dreamed--eh--something to have dreamed?"
Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. It seemed very strange to him that he was at last face to face again wish the man whom Cynthia Ware had never been able to drive from her heart. Would, he mention her? Had he continued to love her, in spite of the woman he had married and adorned? Wetherell asked himself these questions before he spoke.
"It is more to have accomplished," he said.
"S-something to have dreamed," repeated Jethro, rising slowly from the counter. He went toward the doorway that led into the garden, and there he halted and stood listening.
"C-Cynthy!" he said, "C-Cynthy!"
Wetherell dropped his pen at the sound of the name on Jethro's lips. But it was little Cynthia he was calling little Cynthia in the garden. The child came at his voice, and stood looking up at him silently.
"H-how old be you, Cynthy?"
"Nine," answered Cynthia, promptly.
"L-like the country, Cynthy--like the country better than the city?"
"Oh, yes," said Cynthia.
"And country folks? L--like country folks better than city folks?"
"I didn't know many city folks," said Cynthia. "I liked the old doctor who sent Daddy up here ever so much, and I liked Mrs. Darwin."
"Mis' Darwin?"
"She kept the house we lived in. She used to give me cookies," said Cynthia, "and bread to feed the pigeons."
"Pigeons? F-folks keep pigeons in the city?"
"Oh, no," said Cynthia, laughing at such an idea; "the pigeons came on the roof under our window, and they used to fly right up on the window-sill and feed out of my hand. They kept me company while Daddy, was away, working. On Sundays we used to go into the Common and feed them, before Daddy got sick. The Common was something like the country, only not half as nice."
"C-couldn't pick flowers in the Common and go barefoot--e--couldn't go barefoot, Cynthy?"