The Red Moccasins: A Story

by Morrison Heady

Here follows an interval of sleep-like silence, longer than any before. In silent wonderment, not unmixed with awe, they stood around him gazing upon his face, which, while so oblivious of outward things, was yet so brightly expressive of a purer, higher intelligence awaking within. It has been remarked that he was, in every way, a handsome boy, even when his face was wont to be more expressive of evil than of good. But with the great inward changes his whole nature had undergone, an outward change had taken place, which amounted almost to transfiguration—so spiritually beautiful now was his appearance. His words, however fantastic and incoherent they may have seemed to the others present, came burdened with a deep significance to his father, and to his mother, also; for, by this time, Jervis had told Elster of his singular interview with Nick of the Woods. A significance the deeper, since every word struck home to hearts, conscience-stricken and full of self-upbraiding.

Long before the period of our first acquaintance with them had Jervis and Elster begun to feel and acknowledge to each other the grievous mistake they had made in the training of their son, bestowing upon him their abundant affection, untempered by that judicious and habitual exercise of controlling will, without which, parental love but forestalls the very ends it has nearest at heart—the good and the happiness of the offspring. Gold can not be too rich, where only ornament is the object in view; but it needs to be alloyed with silver to be made firm and consistent enough to meet the ends of uses. Their love, from very richness, had been of too soft and yielding a nature to fashion the character of their child into the thing of beauty for which its maker had designed it. Now, had he returned, as it were, from the dead, to upbraid them with the wrong they had done him. All unwittingly had he ministered the rebuke; perhaps, on being restored to his normal self, should never remember what he had done. Yet, for that very reason, all the more bitter was the reflection, since it showed how deep the wrong was, if his innermost soul could be cognizant of it and speak out in his vindication, while his more external nature was as yet incapable of knowing or comprehending it. What remorse they felt at the thought of the sore affliction, which, by their folly, they had brought upon his young life; what good resolutions they formed, looking to atonement and recompense; what prayers they offered up for forgiveness of the past, and for guidance in the future—must be left to the heart and conscience of every judicious parent to conceive.

After some minutes the boy resumed, still with his eyes closed, the windows of the tenement shut, but the light from within shining through the translucent walls.

"Some one is here, who goes and comes as goes and comes none else. Her step is light, her touch soft, her voice gentle and low. I love to have her near me. Where she is can come no evil thing. Wild dreams stand at the door, waiting for her to go away, when they come slipping in to dance around me, to laugh at me, to point the mocking finger at me—sometimes, to scowl and frown upon me. They are after Sprigg, to vex and frighten him, and think that I am he. But the moment she comes back, out they go skipping by another door—make all the haste they can to get away. They are afraid of her, as is every evil thing, because she is as God, in the beginning, made her—all love and truth.

"Sometimes she comes, bringing with her the pleasant smell of the woods—the fresh, green, beautiful woods I love so much. She seems to bring with her the sky, too, so sunny her presence makes all around me; and once more I am happy—so full of rest and sleep. That smell of the woods—it never comes, but I feel as if Meg of the Hills must be near, with her crown of crimson flowers; so wonderful—it is bliss to see their beauty, life to breathe their sweetness. Surely she who goes and comes must have found these flowers and brought them to me! Else I had never been here where I am, this what I am. I think she must be near me now. I will see."

So saying, and before he had fairly reopened his eyes, our Manitou butterfly, now nearly ready to spurn the chrysalis, raised himself again to his elbow and took another dreamy survey of the room. His eyes, however, seemed to find no object to rest on, until they met a pair as dreamy as themselves—the innocent, blue ones, there at the foot of his bed, through which a soul was looking so directly into his own that he could no longer but be cognizant of a fellow creature's presence.

"Yes, there she is. But she looks like Bertha, and Bertha is not a little angel, like the one who goes and comes. Though, if she is not, it must be because the good angels have not yet taken her to themselves; for, now that I see her better, she looks enough like an angel to be the one who goes and comes. Can it be that Meg of the Hills has sent Bertha to me with these flowers, but for which—the life that is in them—I must have died. Yes, that's the reason why; at least, I think it is.

"But, who are these?" Beginning at last to have some dim perception of his actual surroundings. "These are they who have kissed me, embraced me, wept over me, as though I were going to die. Will they do so still? I think not; for they mean it for Sprigg, and Sprigg is dead already—passed away into nothing. They shall never see their old Sprigg again—never, never, never! But they may call me Sprigg if they like. And this pretty woman here, who is laughing and crying both at once, I will call her mother. And this big man, who looks glad enough to laugh and sorry enough to cry, and can't do either, I will call him father."

Sprigg never called them "pap" and "mam" again, the longest day he lived. Neither did Jervis and Elster ever again, the longest day they lived, say "my dear son," without putting in the fond words as much silver for will, as gold for love.