People died in Longfields, but few were born. Pupils at the little red school house dwindled to about a dozen. The teacher's pay was so small that to accept the position became an act of charity to the village.
When Judge David Lincoln moved away he expressed sincere regret: "I am sorry to go, but lawyers cannot thrive on memories alone."
Wits of neighboring towns referred to the sleeping village as Pompeii, Old Has Been and Long Memories. The main street with its overhanging elms was always silent. And the common, once noisy with excited children, was solemn in its stillness. Every day seemed Sunday.
In short, Longfields went the way of many other New England villages. It became a restful and picturesque reminder of better days. But, after all, it was merely following, in its decay, the example of famous queens of fashion, Troy, Babylon and Thebes.
This gentle retirement to oblivion affected Cyrus less than his father. For Dr. Alton sent him away to school, to prepare for college, and the absent boy almost forgot the tragedies of his home. Moreover, Cyrus found much excitement in his new surroundings; much to learn—and unlearn—from contact with so many others of his age. They came from town and country and from almost every state. What he got from books was least in interest and often the least in value. That million-sided problem, Human Nature, was, as usual, the hardest to understand, the last to be solved.
Rarely does a boy with Anglo Saxon blood in his veins find it necessary to cure himself of too much polish. But even in this case Old Human Nature was triumphant. When away from Longfields Cyrus found his ceremonious courtesy was misapplied, misunderstood and almost a misdemeanor. His eighteenth century bows were regarded by his chambermaid as ironical; by his classmates as a silly affectation, and were resented by his instructors as efforts to be funny at their expense.
Further discouragement came one day in the friendly warning of an older boy. "You know, Drowsy, or you don't know, that those salaams of yours give the impression that before you came to this academy you were the colored porter on a parlor car."
The result was that before the end of the first term his manners were only a trifle better than those of other boys. Except, of course, when taken off his guard, as in his interview with the wife of a certain prosperous citizen who slipped and fell in coming out of the post office. She was a sensitive lady, irascible and of massive proportions. As she landed on the sidewalk, two snow white stockings with stalwart limbs inside waved briefly before the public eye. They resembled the whitened limbs of a billiard table. Letters fell from one of her hands. With the other she clung convulsively to a large umbrella. Three girls involuntarily laughed aloud.
As the lady climbed to her feet two light blue eyes shot fury from a purple face. When Cyrus stepped forward to gather up the scattered letters he forgot all his recent training, raised his cap, moved it gracefully in the air and bent low and reverentially—as the First Lord of the Bed Chamber might salute his Sovereign. But the boiling lady identified this seeming mockery with the laughter of the maidens. She brought the fat umbrella hard down upon the head of Cyrus, and she struck with all her might. Luckily for the recipient her hand was quivering with rage, and no physical damage was accomplished. But the damage to his pride was serious. As he straightened up and looked the lady in the face his cheeks were hot. The erstwhile drowsy eye showed astonishment—and anger. His cherubic lips had parted: "Then pick 'em up yourself, you stupid old——"
At that instant he recalled an injunction of his father. "Whatever may happen, Cyrus, always be a gentleman." He had not been told just how a gentleman should behave when beaten on the head with an umbrella—and in public. But he closed his lips without even beginning the sentence. He bowed again, and this bow was even more elaborate than the first.