XXVII
TRANSFORMATION
Wednesday.
Sad news again from Trigger about the babe. "Nothing but a pitiful little passel of bones," said the mail-boy; "purely dying for lack of Blant."
Blant's refusal to use his gun last night has spread abroad, and creates great excitement. "Trojan fotch him his revolver and he wouldn't tech it or use it," is the talk flying about among the boys. "Aiming to let the Cheevers keep his land." "Done give up the war." "Haint going to make no effort to break prison." "Never heared tell of no hero doing such a way!" "Achilles wouldn't," "Nor Hector, neither." Evidently they feel bitter disappointment. They do not dare show it before Nucky, however, or even broach the subject in his presence. I called them in to-night and talked to them about the superiority of moral courage to physical,—with, I fear, no great result. How terribly true are Paul's words, "First the natural man, then"—after what awful birth-pangs, sometimes as cruel as those Blant is experiencing!—"the spiritual".
Saturday.
More and more distressing accounts of the babe. "Minervy Saxby says it won't hold out till the trial." "Just lays and pines and moans." "You can count every bone in its body". Poor Blant! When he hears this, as he certainly will, will he regret that he did not use the revolver? The trial is only ten days off; but if the two-years' penitentiary sentence is to follow, as everybody says it will, there will be no chance whatever for the babe—even a two-weeks' sentence would be too long. I had hoped that Blant's refusal to use his gun on the keeper might turn the tide of public sentiment in favor of an acquittal; but that seems not to be so much as thought of. Nucky has apparently lost all hope and courage, and goes about in miserable, despairing silence. Probably it is as well for him that he is to leave school the end of next week and shoulder the hard work and heavy responsibilities at home,—action may relieve his suffering of mind. But it is harder than I can say for me to let him go, and to know that I am giving him up for at least two years,—probably forever. Indeed, when I think of the whole situation,—the desperate condition of the Marrs family, the dying state of the babe, the tragedy of a boy of Nucky's wonderful promise having to give up schooling and bow his shoulders under a man's burden at twelve years old, I am tempted to wish that in some way, not of bloodshed, Blant could have managed to escape.
Thursday.
Marbles is still in full sway,—I have never seen the boys so fascinated by any game,—they spend at least three-fourths of their playtime making money to buy marbles to play with the other fourth,—for they continue to lose incredible numbers of them. I gave Jason a dime to buy his tenth set to-day.
Geordie informed me as he started to bed a few minutes ago that he had enough money laid by now to take that trip to Virginia this summer and see his mother and the world and the railroad-train. In spite of his talents, I wonder that he has managed to get that much together.