[CHAPTER XIV—THE SACRIFICE OF SILENCE]
| “Greater than the measure of the heroes of renown, He is building for the future, and no hand can hold him down; Though they count him but a common man, he holds the Outer Gate, And posterity will own him as the father of the State.” The Empire Builders. |
As Wilfred walked home through the wet grass his spirits were high with a new-born enthusiasm of youth. The drudgery, the hardship, the toil unlightened by a gleam of humour or a thought except of selfishness, with which the past years of his life had been surrounded, seemed now as an unreal dream. There were greater things in life than cows, and gardens, and fields of wheat; and in a dim way these things of which he had not so much as guessed were opening to his astonished vision. In his hand he carried the little book of poems, but in his heart was the joy of a grassy slope, where they watched the night deepening through the willows, and the sound of her voice, liquid as the little stream before them. He had thought of girls, always, with a shyness strongly seasoned with an element of contempt; but toward her he felt only a reverence so deep it almost hurt. He was young, and buoyant with the first great emotion of his life, and in the crude colourings of his fancy he traced wonderful dreams that drew out of the future and became very real to his intoxicated senses.
But at the door of the Riles’ house his visions fled, and the spirit of cunning that had so long been his best protector brought him back to earth. He slipped quietly in, found the lantern on its nail, and silently climbed the ladder to his room. Here he lit the lantern, and without removing his clothing lay down to read by the smoky light.
Wilfred’s education was very elemental, and he stumbled through many passages with difficulty, but in it all he was able to catch something of the spirit of the verses. At length he settled into “Eugene Aram,” and as the excitement of the dramatic lines tightened about him he read aloud, wholly unconscious of the flight of time.
On his bed below Hiram Riles fancied he heard a mumbling sound come from his garret, and opening his eyes saw a dim light shining through the opening in the ceiling. It was deep in the dead of night, but there was no question that London was talking, in a nervous, agitated voice. Riles could not distinguish the words; he stole to the foot of the ladder and noiselessly ascended it until his head came to the level of the garret floor. Here he saw the boy lying on his mattress, a few rags of blankets about him, his knees drawn up, his head supported by a bundle of clothing, the lantern sitting on the broken chair and throwing an uncertain light upon the little volume in his hands. Riles paused in wonder, and in a moment was rivetted by the words—
“Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a ’eavy stone,
One ’urried gash with a ’asty knife,—
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my feet
But lifeless flesh and bone!
“Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me hill;
And yet Hi feared ’im hall the more
For lying there so still.
There was a manhood in ’is look
That murder could not kill!
“And, lo! the universal hair
Seemed lit with ghastly flame,—
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
Hi took the dead man by ’is ’and——"
Riles’ face was writhing in an effort to find expression, but the vocal organs refused to fill their office. Like most men of low moral nature, while scoffing at religion he was an easy victim to the terrors of the supernatural. The fact that this orphan boy, the victim of his brutality for so many years, should lie awake at the dead of night stammering through these ghastly lines must carry some horrible significance. He tried to speak, but a muffled gurgle in his throat was all the sound that responded.
It was enough. Wilfred’s ears, sharpened by the terror of the thing he read, caught and magnified the guttural noise. With a shriek he sprang from the bed and, standing in the centre of the floor, his body bent forward, his fingers clutching in nervous excitement, he peered about the musty little room. Presently his eyes fell upon the livid face of Riles, just above the floor line. They fixed each other in a stare of terror, but, to his own great surprise, the boy found a strong sense of self-control beginning to bear him up.
He was first to break the silence. “So hit was you, ’Iram Riles. You couldn’t sty awy. These words drew you loike a magnet draws a needle. Listen, w’ile Hi read ye more——"