CHAPTER XVII ALLAN ENTERTAINS A VISITOR

Allan, meanwhile, had assumed the day trick at Byers Junction—a position carrying with it increased responsibilities, and, it may be added, an increased salary. He had long ago started an account at the Wadsworth Savings Bank, to which he was now able to make a substantial addition every month.

Only one incident served to mar the pleasure of those first days in his new position. Jim Anderson had come to him one evening with a face in which joy and sorrow struggled for the mastery.

“Read that,” he said, and thrust a letter into Allan’s hand.

Allan opened it and read. It was a letter from an uncle, a brother of Jim’s father. The two had been estranged by family differences years before, and the brother, who had moved to Philadelphia and engaged in business there, had dropped entirely out of the other’s life. Now he was writing that his own wife and child were dead, that he was getting old and lonely, and that he would be glad to have ? 186 ? his brother’s son and widow live with him. He could offer the latter a good home, and the former would be sent to college, and drilled to succeed his uncle in business. Although he did not say so, it was evident from the letter that if Jim proved worthy, he would take the place left vacant by the death of his uncle’s own boy.

“Well,” asked Jim, when Allan had finished, “what do you think of it?”

“Think of it? Why, I think it’s fine! Don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Jim, hesitatingly. “For one thing, I don’t want to leave Wadsworth. For another thing, I want to be a machinist.”

“Well, here’s a chance to be a big one. There are scientific courses at college which will give you just what you need. You won’t have to work in the shops all your life—you can be bigger than all that.”

“Then you’d advise me to go?”

“I certainly should,” answered Allan, warmly. “Though I’ll miss you awfully,” he added.

“I tell you what,” said Jim, “maybe I can persuade uncle to—”

But Allan interrupted him with a shake of the head.

“No,” he said; “it’s not the same. You’re his nephew and have a claim upon him—besides, you’re going to take his son’s place. I haven’t any claim.”

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And Jim, looking at him, decided to say no more about it.

“But I’ll come over and visit you,” Allan promised, “the first vacation I get.”

So a few evenings later, he saw Jim and Mrs. Anderson off on their way to Philadelphia, and then walked slowly homeward, a very lonely boy.

Now that his evenings were again his own, he spent many of them at the Wadsworth Public Library, and also bought some carefully selected books of his own—which is about the best investment any boy can make. Every boy ought to have for his very own the books which he likes best, and these should be added to every year, as the boy’s taste changes and matures, so that his library will come to be a sort of index of his growth and development. Not many books, but loved ones, should be the motto.

Allan had, in his common-school education, a splendid foundation on which to build, and on this he reared a beautiful and noble edifice—an edifice which any boy who wishes can rear for himself—of acquaintance with the best books. This house of the imagination, with its lofty halls and great rooms, and gilded towers, was empty enough at first, but it soon became peopled with most engaging friends,—among them John Halifax, Tom Pinch, John Ridd, David Copperfield, D’Artagnan and his three comrades, Henry Esmond, Amyas Leigh, and that sweetest, bravest of all maidens, ? 188 ? Lorna Doone. He accompanied great travellers to far countries; he fought with Richard Lion Heart against Saladin, with Napoleon against Wellington; with Washington against Howe and Clinton and Cornwallis. He read of the gallant Bayard, fearless and without reproach, of King Arthur and his knights, and something of the beauty and romance of chivalry entered into his own soul. In a word, he was gaining for himself a priceless possession—a possession worth more to its owner than gold, or silver, or precious stones; a continual delight and never-failing comfort—a knowledge of good books.

The librarian advised him as to the best editions to buy for his own use, and he soon found that nearly all the great books were published in little volumes to be slipped easily into the pocket, and costing not more than fifty or sixty cents each. It was these little volumes which he grew especially to love—they were so companionable, so pretty, and yet so strong and serviceable. He got into the habit of putting one into his pocket every morning. He could read it on the train, going out and returning, and during the day in such odd times as his work permitted. It is wonderful how much one can accomplish in the way of reading by watching the spare moments; Allan realized, as he had never done before, how much of every day he had wasted. The time that had been lost was lost for ever; but ? 189 ? the present and the future were his, and he determined to make the most of them.

No one can associate with wise and witty and gallant people, even in books, without showing the effects of it. Some of their wisdom and wit and gallantry, be it never so little, passes to the reader; he learns to look at the world and the people in it with more discerning eyes; life gains a larger meaning; it becomes more full of colour and interest. The result, in the end, is what, for want of a better word, we call culture; a word meaning originally the tilling and cultivating of the ground, and afterwards coming to be applied to the tilling and cultivating of the mind. Its most valuable result is the acquirement of what we call taste—another clumsy word and inexpressive, by which we mean the power to discern and to enjoy the right things—good literature, good music, good pictures—and to know and to reject the wrong things.

It was this faculty which Allan was gradually acquiring—so slowly and subtly that the change was not perceptible from day to day—scarcely from month to month. But at the end of a year, he was quite a different boy; he had grown mentally and physically; he was getting more out of life; he was beginning to understand the people about him; he could distinguish the gold from the dross, the true from the sham; and the more this power grew, the more did his respect and love and admiration grow for the humble friends among ? 190 ? whom his lot was cast. They were genuine and true, speaking from the heart, happy without envy, honest and kind, ready to excuse and to forget another’s fault and to reach out a helping hand to any one who needed it. He began to see, dimly and imperfectly, that the great, warm heart of America beats, not in the mansions of the rich, but in the humble and unpretentious homes scattered up and down this great land of ours, each sheltering a little family, living its own life, struggling toward its own ideals, and contributing its own mite to the world’s happiness and progress.

Nearly a year had passed; a year of which every day had brought its pleasures and its duties. Allan had become one of the best operators on the road; the difficult business of the position at Byers Junction he handled easily and without confusion. He had gained confidence in himself. The trainmen liked him, for they found him ever willing and helpful; they respected him, too, for his decisions were prompt and intelligent and always just. The dispatchers knew they could rely on him, and the business of the junction was left more and more under his control. In fact, he came to be himself a sort of dispatcher over those eight miles of track between his office and West Junction.

As he stands in the door of the office this spring morning, watching a passenger-train which has stopped at the big tank to take water, he is worth ? 191 ? looking at. His face is not handsome, as we use the word, but it is frank and open, with a manliness beyond its years. His eyes are blue-gray, clear, and direct; his mouth is a little large, with sensitive lips and a quirk at the corner which shows a sense of humour—altogether an attractive face and one to inspire liking and confidence.

A good many people had left the train, during its halt, to stretch themselves and get a breath of fresh air. These clambered on board again, at the conductor’s signal, and after a preliminary puff or two, the train started slowly, clinking over the switch, and rattling away westward. A moment later, Allan’s eyes caught a glint of colour at the edge of the little grove of saplings near the office, and a girl, carrying a bouquet of wild flowers, ran up the little bank to the track. She stood for an instant staring after the disappearing train, took a quick step or two as if to follow it, then, evidently seeing the uselessness of such pursuit, turned and walked slowly toward the operator’s shanty. Not until she was quite near did Allan recognize her; then, with a curious little leap of the heart, he saw that it was the girl who had rushed into Superintendent Heywood’s office one day long ago, to summon him to his train. Allan remembered that her father had called her Bess.

She came up the little cinder path and stopped before the door without any hint of recognition in her eyes.

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“Can you tell me when the next train for Wadsworth leaves?” she asked.

“Not until five-nine,” he answered.

“And it is now?”

“It is now one-fifty-one.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed, and he saw that in the year which had intervened since he had seen her last, she had grown more distractingly pretty than ever—more mature and womanly. “Well,” she continued, her foot on the lowest step, “I suppose I may as well come in and sit down. This is the station, isn’t it?”

“This is the operator’s office,” he said. “The Byers station is that frame building you can just see up the track yonder.”

“It seems an awful way,” she remarked, gazing pensively in the direction of his gesture.

“It’s nearly half a mile; altogether too far for you to walk,” said Allan, with conviction.

“Oh, then I may stay here?”

“You certainly may,” Allan hastened to assure her, and placed his best chair at her disposal. “But it isn’t—well—palatial.”

She glanced around the dingy little room, with its rusty stove, its primitive lavatory, its rough, clapboarded walls, and then at the fresh-faced young fellow anxiously awaiting the verdict.

“It’s cosy,” she said, and settled herself comfortably upon the chair.

“I’m afraid I don’t keep it quite as tidy as I ? 193 ? might,” said Allan, suddenly conscious that it was anything but tidy. “You see the old broom wore out, and we haven’t got a new one yet.”

“Well, it’s about time for spring house-cleaning, you know—do men ever have spring house-cleaning?”

“This one will,” Allan promised, and smiled down into her friendly eyes.

Just then the familiar signal, “31,” which heralded the transmission of a train-order, sounded from the table, and he sat down to receive it. After it had been repeated and confirmed, he turned again to his guest.

“Hadn’t I better wire your father,” he asked, “that you are here and will be home on Number Thirteen this evening?”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Why, how do you know who my father is?” she demanded.

“I happened to be in his office one day about a year ago, when you came after him,” he explained.

“Oh,” she said, but she still looked at him a little doubtfully.

“My name’s West,” he added.

“Allan West?” There was a genuine interest in her eyes now. “Oh, I’ve heard papa speak of you.”

“Nothing very bad, I hope?”

“No—quite the contrary. Why,” she added, gasping a little, as though just realizing it, "then ? 194 ? you’re the boy who—who saved the pay-car and—"

“The very same,” he interrupted, blushing in spite of himself. “Shall I send the message?”

“Yes; please do. Papa will be worried when he comes to the train to meet me and finds me not on it—especially as my coat and grip and umbrella are. He’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”

“You were left, then?” he asked.

“Yes; I was on my way home from visiting a friend at Deer Park, and was so tired with sitting, that when the train stopped here to take water, I thought I’d get off and walk the kinks out. Then I saw a beautiful patch of these wake-robins and violets just at the edge of that little grove, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to gather a few; and I suppose I must have gone into the grove deeper than I intended, for I didn’t hear the train start, and was never so astonished in my life as when I came out on the track and found it gone.”

Allan smiled at the earnestness with which she told the story.

“I’ll wire your father,” he said, and called up headquarters. For a few minutes there was a sharp interchange of dots and dashes. Then Allan closed the key and turned back to her.

“It’s all right,” he said. “He understands.”

“I think it’s perfectly wonderful your being able to talk to each other that way,” she commented. “What did he say?”

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“He said,” stammered Allan, confused by the sudden question; “he said it was all right.”

What Mr. Heywood really said was: “All right. Keep her there and bring her in on thirteen, and don’t make love to her any more than you can help.”

She noticed the stammer and gazed at him with her clear eyes, which, he saw now, were blue.

“Was that all he said?”

“Well, he said he’d meet you at the train this evening.”

“Yes; and what else?”

“He said,” answered Allan, floundering desperately, “that, if you had to be left somewhere, he was glad it was here.”

The Vision bent over ostensibly to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt, but in reality to conceal a smile. When she sat erect again, her face was quite demure.

“So am I,” she agreed. “It would have been horrible to be left at a place where I didn’t know any one—of course, I don’t really know you,” she added, hastily, “but I’ve heard papa speak of you so much that you seem to be a sort of friend of the family.”

“I should like to be,” he said, colouring at his own temerity.

“Well, it isn’t so difficult. We’re really rather a companionable family.”

He gasped a little at the dazzling vista the words suggested.

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“I don’t know what I should have done,” she went on, “if I had had to sit here so long without any one to talk to or anything to read. Oh, you have a book there,” she added, noticing the little book which was lying open face downward beside the key. “What is it?”

“This,” answered Allan, laughing and picking up the thin little volume bound in black, “is the book of rules. I’m afraid it wouldn’t interest you. But I have a splendid one in my pocket.”

He went to his coat and got it out.

“Have you ever read it?” he asked as he handed it to her.

She glanced at the title.

“Les Misérables,” she read, making rather a botch of it. “What does that mean?”

“’The miserable ones,’ I think.”

“I don’t like to read about miserable people.”

“Oh, they’re not all miserable,” he protested, taking the book eagerly, and opening it. “The old bishop, for instance, Bishop Welcome—may I read you something?”

She nodded, her eyes on his glowing face.

“The old bishop, you know, gave all his money to help others, went to live in the little old hospital and made them move the beds to the building which had always been the bishop’s palace. He said it was all a mistake—that there should be twenty-six people crowded together in that little building, while the big one next door had only him and his sister ? 197 ? and his housekeeper in it. He never locked his door, and came to be so loved by the people that they called him Bishop Welcome. Let me read you this chapter,” and he turned to the seventh of the first book. “I don’t pronounce the French names very well, but you mustn’t mind.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and settled herself more comfortably in her chair. He interested her strangely—he was somehow different from the other boys she knew. They never talked to her in this way.

And he began to read her the account of the bishop’s meeting with that redoubtable brigand, Cravatte, a bold wretch who had organized a band of outlaws, and even robbed the cathedral at Embrun of all its gold-embroidered vestments. In the midst of the excitement, the bishop arrived, on the way to visit his parishioners in the mountains. His friends attempted to persuade him to turn back.

“‘There exists, yonder in the mountains,’ said the bishop, ’a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?’

“‘But the brigands, monseigneur?’

“‘Hold,’ said the bishop, ’I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God.’

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“‘But, monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!’

“‘It may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?’

“‘They will rob you!’

“‘I have nothing.’

“‘Do not go, monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! you are risking your life!’

“‘Is that all?’ asked the bishop. ’Well, I am not in the world to guard my life, but to guard souls.’”

So he went, and the brigands did not harm him. He reached the little village, and wished to celebrate a mass, but there were no vestments. Nevertheless, the mass was announced, and then one night there was left at the house where the bishop was staying a great chest, and when it was opened all the vestments which had been stolen from the cathedral were found there, together with a paper reading, “From Cravatte to Bishop Welcome.”

“Wouldn’t you like to do a thing like that?” asked Allan, with sparkling eyes, when the chapter was finished.

And Bess Heywood nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

For a moment their hearts were very close together; for the wholesome, generous heart of youth longs ever to do noble deeds; to emulate the hero who "never turned his back, but marched breast ? 199 ? forward;" to fight with strong and valiant soul; to ride forth in knight-errantry, with lance a-rest and sword on thigh, against wrong and treachery and deceit. And well it is that youth dreams dreams and sees visions and makes high resolves, however middle-age may laugh, and cynics sneer, and graybeards shake their heads. For, in the words of Philip Sidney, “Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than he who aims but at a bush.” So let youth aim at the sun while it has heart for the venture; and leave crabbed age to choose the bush for its mark if it will.