Chapter XXVI
In mid-November Hung Long Tom and Scobee returned from their Oriental pilgrimage. In part their quest had been successful for even though Scobee had not succeeded in getting back his sight, he had found a certain inner vision which had brought him some degree at least of rest He had listened to the maudlin, discordant, jangling, enthralling, dreamy voice of China. It had been new music, unlike anything he had ever heard. He had been listening to the heart beat of a turbulent nation, a nation in ferment, a nation in transition. Like Scobee, China was striving to get back her sight once more. For thousands of years she had suffered and waited. Her patience was colossal.
China's gift to Scobee had been tranquillity. It had quieted his nerves. It had caused him to stop fighting against unseen forces. He, too, like China would hope and wait.
It was good to be back in Galvey, back once more to the old attic that had been his beloved play-room ever since childhood. The house knew him, the house loved him, for within the house which his mother had built were all her dreams and love. It was pleasant to sit by the attic window with the November sun streaming in and muse about his mother. Even though he could not see it he could feel the warmth of the sun upon his body, a caressing warmth despite the lateness of the year.
Sometimes Hung Long Tom came and sat with him. Hung Long Tom knew the blessing of silence. At such times he seldom talked. And all the house was still, very, very still. Scobee listened intensely, trying to hear the songs of his mother even as he had always listened as a child, seated on the stairs of the attic in the dark warm hush of the night.
When a child is hurt it always runs and buries its tear-stained face in its mother's breast. And now Scobee whom the War had hurt so terribly was turning to his mother's memory. His real mother he had never known. But her rare personality he had found in the beloved house. Hung Long Tom had helped to weave this mother-romance.
Dallis Graham was very glad to have Scobee back. The period of separation had been hard for her. She cared more for Scobee than she could ever care for anyone. But she understood how he felt so she had not forced herself upon him. He must become readjusted. She, too, could wait, if need be, always. But now he was back from China and she hoped that the change had done him good. She thought he looked well. His face had lost its pallor. It was more serene. His expression had ceased to be dull, hopeless. She accepted his return as a matter of course. She did not make a big fuss over him. She knew he would not like it. This was no time for rejoicing.
She greeted him as though he had been away only a few days and not for many months, nor did she ply him with a lot of unnecessary questions.
The same attitude was adopted by his family. Roma prepared a special dinner for him on his first night home but she, too, had the grace to appreciate his need for rest. His father greeted him simply but he searched his face to see if he could notice any change. He imagined that his boy looked a bit less careworn.
Perhaps there was hope. His toil on the Joel farmstead had had almost the same effect upon him as the Chinese trip had had upon Scobee. It had brought him tranquillity. Once more the soil had been kind to him.
During those first days home Scobee spent a great deal of time in the attic. He had much to think about. China had given him enormous food for thought. What did life mean? What did all those teeming millions of yellow men mean? What did the teeming millions of black men in Africa mean? What did the millions of white men mean? Were they merely notes in a mighty universal symphony? Were their entire lives lived merely to utter one bit of sound in the vast concert?
Perhaps after all his father was right. The soil is the single worth-while thing to which man may clutch. The soil gives life and strength. It is the source of energy. It alone justifies its being. Man springs from the soil and to the soil he returns eventually. We are all earth-children. No use to try to shake off the shackles, to break free from the soil. It reaches out even unto the cities and claims its due. But the soil is serene. It is the mother of trees and flowers, it is the mother of all human life.
And he thought of a verse which Hung Long Tom had once recited to him:
"The Snow fell
Like a bridal veil,
Covering the warm body
Of the Earth.
It was the night
That Earth
And Sky were wed.
And round the hazy Moon
A ring
That bound the Sky
And Earth
And made them one.
Faster and faster
Fell the snow
Forming a coverlet
For the bridal-bed of Earth.
Then solitude, peace
And quietude for months
Until the birth of Spring."
One night Scobee dreamed that he was a little boy again. He was romping about in a field with his mother. It was spring and the buds were bursting open with happiness. A sparrow sat upon a tree-branch and sang himself hoarse so great was his delight at the grandeur of the day.
Scobee seemed to be only five or six years old, a bit of a boy, not much bigger than a minute. His mother wore a dress of some soft lavender material. She was very lovely, he thought, just about the best mother ever. And they were very happy. Across the meadow a tiny river wound lazily in and out through the woodland, lazily, without any design at all, as though it were half asleep.
"Let's go down there by the river's edge," his mother suggested, "and we can make up fairy tales for one another. Let's imagine that the sky is a vast blue road and the fleeing clouds are white horses. That one up there is mine, the one that has such a bushy mane."
Scobee paused and gazed at the sky. He liked to play that kind of make-believe. "And that one with the gray nose is mine," he said.
"See," cried his mother, "they are racing, far down the broad blue road of the sky they go, to lands of enchantment and sweet music. Perhaps they are bound for the place where the rainbows are made. Or else to the Flower Lands where all the fragrant flowers are manufactured. At night the Spring Fairies come out and tie the buds to the branches of the bushes. Then little by little the buds open as the Spring Fairies touch them with their wands. But see, Grey Nose, your horse, is winning! He has gone lickety-split almost into the sun. My horse couldn't keep up with such a fleet steed. He gallops off with the speed of the wind."
Scobee felt very self-conscious as he took his mother's hand. He'd picked a good Cloud-Horse all right. His mother was the best playmate ever. He felt sorry for all other boys who didn't have such a lovely mother.
Ardell's cheeks were flushed as she walked with her little boy down toward the river. Oh, it was wonderful to be able to walk with him like this. Her very heart was singing, no wonder she could not keep the glad song from her lips.
"Two little eyes
And ten little toes
Go with my baby
Wherever he goes.
One little mouth
And ten little fingers
Stay with my baby
Wherever he lingers."
And now they had reached the river-side. Ardell sat down in the shadow of a tree while Scobee played about, casting pebbles and stones into the water, watching the gradually increasing rippling circles. When he grew tired he returned to his mother and curled up in her lap.
"Why," he asked, "do stones always make circles when you throw them in the water? Why don't they make squares? Some of the stones were square."
His mother placed her cheek against the little blond head. "I guess," she said, "that the Frog People who look after such things have more circles than squares so naturally they use the circles. I don't think they object to squares but maybe circles are cheaper or easier to make. You know it is very hard to get the corners of squares even. You've got to have rulers and all kinds of things."
Scobee snuggled up into his mother's arms. Gee, it was nice to have a mother.
Ardell hummed softly to him. The sun grew even brighter. The river became like gold. All the white horses had disappeared from the sky. The breeze stirred more fragrantly. It was an ideal moment. And Scobee wondered why his mother sighed and why there were tears in her lovely eyes. He wanted to kiss those tears away. He didn't want his mother to cry.
And he said, "What's the matter, mother? Are you sad?"
She squeezed him to her. "Dear little boy," she murmured, and there seemed to be a catch in her voice. "Dear little boy. No I am not sad but come I want to show you the house which I am building for you."
So together they turned their backs on the river and walked once more across the field to where a big house loomed up on the prairie, homelike, comfortable, friendly. Together they walked through the silent halls. They alone were in the house.
"This is the home I am building for you," she repeated, "and I am putting all my love for you into it. Into the halls my songs have been woven, into the long winding halls, my thoughts, my dreams, my hopes for you. If anything should happen to me and I am not able to walk with you through life, I want the house to be your mother. I want it to watch over you. Perhaps some day as you walk through the rooms you will hear my songs."
And Scobee felt very sad and melancholy. He could not help crying, the tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He sat down in a huge chair and buried his head in his arms. He didn't want his mother to go away from him. He wanted her to stay with him always. And so he sat and sobbed and sobbed, with no thought for anything except the measure of his woe.
At last he lifted his head from his arms and gazed about him. Everything was black. He could not see anything. It must be night.
"Mother," he whispered. "Mother!"
Then he suddenly realized that he was sitting in the attic by the window. He had been dozing and dreaming. He had caught for a brief moment at the childhood which he had never known but which his mother had planned for him. Why, oh why, did he have to awaken? Stern, grim reality was a frightful thing. Oh, to be a child once more, without care or worry, playing about in the woods and fields.
He heard a stir in the far corner of the room.
"Is that you, Hung Long Tom?" he asked.
"Yes," was the reply. "I guess you have been dreaming. I too have slept a bit."
"I dreamed of my mother," said Scobee. "Now I have something to live for. Perhaps in dreams she will come to me again. Sometimes a man lives more greatly in a dream than in his waking hours. Who knows? All through my life her personality watched over me, the house sheltered and protected me. It is only logical that she would care and watch over me now when I need her so utterly."