Beyond this general dismemberment of our resources do we not all feel the presence within us of certain renegades? Does there not exist inside every man a certain big, ferocious-looking faculty who is his drum major--loving to strut at the head of a peaceful parade and twirl his bawble and roll his eyes at the children and scowl back at the quiet intrepid fellows behind as though they were his personal prisoners? Let but a skirmish threaten, and our dear, ferocious, fat major--! not even in the rear--not even on the field! Then there is a rattling little mannikin who sleeps in the barracks of the brain and is good for nothing but to beat the cerebral drum.There is a certain awkward squad--too easily identified--who have been drafted again and again into service only to be in the way of every skilled manoeuvre, only to be mustered out as raw recruits at the very end of life.And, finally, there is a miscellaneous crowd of our faculties scattered far and near at their humdrum peaceful occupations; so that if a quick call for war be heard, these do but behave as a populace that rushes into a street to gaze at the national guard already marching past, some of the spectators not even grateful, not even cheering.
All that day John had to fight a battle for which he had never been trained;moreover he had been compelled to divide his forces: there was the far-off solemn battle going on in his private thoughts; and there was the usual siege of duties in the school.For once he would gladly have shirked the latter; but the single compensation he always tried to wrest from the disagreeable things of life was to do them in such a way that they would never fester in his conscience like thorns broken off in the flesh.
During the forenoon, therefore, by an effort which only those who have experienced it can understand, he ordered off all communication with larger troubles and confined himself in that stifling prison-house of the mind where the perplexities and toils of childhood become enormous and everything else in the world grows small.Up under the joists there was the terrible struggle of a fly in a web, at first more and more violent, then ceasing in a strain so fine that the ear could scarce take it; a bee came in one window, went out another; a rat, sniffing greedily at its hole, crept toward a crumb under a bench, ran back, crept nearer, seized it and was gone; a toiling slate-pencil grated on its way as arduously as a wagon up a hill; he had to teach a beginner its letters.These were the great happenings.At noon the same child that had brought him a note on the day before came with another:
"Kitty is going to the ball with Horatio.I shall be alone.We can have our talk uninterrupted.How unreasonable you are! Why don't you understand things without wanting to have them explained? If you wish to go to the ball, you can do this afterwards.Don't come till Kitty has gone."Duties in the school till near sunset, then letters.O'Bannon had told him that Mr.Bradford's post-rider would leave at four o'clock next morning; if he had letters to send, they must be deposited in the box that night.Gray had letters of the utmost importance to write--to his lawyer regarding the late decision in his will case, and to the secretary of the Democratic Club in Philadelphia touching the revival of activity in the clubs throughout the country on account of the expected treaty with England.
After he had finished them, he strolled slowly about the dark town--past his school-house, thinking that his teaching days would soon be over--past Peter's blacksmith shop, thinking what a good fellow he always was--past Mr.
Bradford's editorial room, with a light under the door and the curtain drawn across the window.Two or three times he lingered before show-windows of merchandise.He had some taste in snuff-boxes, being the inheritor of several from his Scotch and Irish ancestors, and there were a few in the new silversmith's window which he found little to his liking.As he passed a tavern, a group of Revolutionary officers, not yet gone to the ball, were having a time of it over their pipes and memories; and he paused to hear one finish a yarn of strong fibre about the battle of King's Mountain.Couples went hurrying by him beautifully dressed.Once down a dark street he fancied that he distinguished Amy's laughter ringing faintly out on the still air;and once down another he clearly heard the long cry of a pet panther kept by a young backwoods hunter.
The Poythress homestead was wrapped in silence as he stepped upon the porch;but the door was open, there was a light inside, and by means of this he discovered, lying asleep on the threshold, a lad who was apprentice to the new English silversmith of the town and a lodger at the minister's--the bond of acquaintanceship being the memory of John Wesley who had sprinkled the lad's father in England.
John laid a hand on his shoulder and tried to break his slumber.He opened his eyes at last and said, "Nobody at home," and went to sleep again.When thoroughly aroused, he sat up.Mr.and Mrs.Poythress had been called away to some sick person; they had asked him to sit up till they came back; he wished they'd come; he didn't see how he was ever to learn how to make watches if he couldn't get any sleep; and be lay down again.
John aroused him again.
"Miss Falconer is here; will you tell her I wish to see her?"The lad didn't open his eyes but said dreamily:
"She's not here; she's gone to the party."John lifted him and set him on his feet.Then he put his hands on his shoulders and shook him:
"You are asleep! Wake up! Tell Miss Falconer I wish to see her."The lad seized Gray by the arms and shook him with all his might.
"You wake up," he cried."I tell you she's gone to the party.Do you hear?
She's gone to the party! Now go away, will you? How am I ever to be a silversmith, if I can't get any sleep?" And stretching himself once more on the settee, he closed his eyes.
