The Portygee Part 63

Down went the basket and the codfish and Mr. Kendall seized him by both hands.

"Why, of course, of course," he cried. "Of course, of course. It's our young hero, isn't it. Our poet, our happy warrior. Yes,--yes, of course.

So glad to see you, Albert... . Er ... er ... How is your mother?"

"You mean my grandmother? She is very well, thank you."

"Yes--er--yes, your grandmother, of course... . Er ... er... .

Did you see my codfish? Isn't it a magnificent one. I am very fond of codfish and we almost never have it at home. So just now, I happened to be pa.s.sing Jonathan Howes'--he is the--er--fishdealer, you know, and ... Jonathan is a very regular attendant at my Sunday morning services.

He is--is... . Dear me... . What was I about to say?"

Being switched back to the main track by Albert he explained that he had seen a number of cod in Mr. Howes' possession and had bought this specimen. Howes had lent him the basket.

"And the newspaper," he explained; adding, with triumph, "I shall dine on codfish to-day, I am happy to say." Judging by appearances he might dine and sup and breakfast on codfish and still have a supply remaining.

Albert insisted on carrying the spoil to the parsonage. He was doing nothing in particular and it would be a pleasure, he said. Mr. Kendall protested for the first minute or so but then forgot just what the protest was all about and rambled garrulously on about affairs in the parish. He had failed in other faculties, but his flow of language was still unimpeded. They entered the gate of the parsonage. Albert put the basket on the upper step.

"There," he said; "now I must go. Good morning, Mr. Kendall."

"Oh, but you aren't going? You must come in a moment. I want to give you the ma.n.u.script of that sermon of mine on the casting down of Baal, that is the one in which I liken the military power of Germany to the brazen idol which... . Just a moment, Albert. The ma.n.u.script is in my desk and... . Oh, dear me, the door is locked... . Helen, Helen!"

He was shaking the door and shouting his daughter's name. Albert was surprised and not a little disturbed. It had not occurred to him that Helen could be at home. It is true that before he left for New York his grandmother had said that she was planning to return home to be with her father, but since then he had heard nothing more concerning her. Neither of his grandparents had mentioned her name in their letters, nor since his arrival the day before had they mentioned it. And Mr. Kendall had not spoken of her during their walk together. Albert was troubled and taken aback. In one way he would have liked to meet Helen very much indeed. They had not met since before the war. But he did not, somehow, wish to meet her just then. He did not wish to meet anyone who would speak of Madeline, or ask embarra.s.sing questions. He turned to go.

"Another time, Mr. Kendall," he said. "Good morning."

But he had gone only a few yards when the reverend gentleman was calling to him to return.

"Albert! Albert!" called Mr. Kendall.

He was obliged to turn back, he could do nothing else, and as he did so the door opened. It was Helen who opened it and she stood there upon the threshold and looked down at him. For a moment, a barely perceptible interval, she looked, then he heard her catch her breath quickly and saw her put one hand upon the door jamb as if for support. The next, and she was running down the steps, her hands outstretched and the light of welcome in her eyes.

"Why, Albert Speranza!" she cried. "Why, ALBERT!"

He seized her hands. "Helen!" he cried, and added involuntarily, "My, but it's good to see you again!"

She laughed and so did he. All his embarra.s.sment was gone. They were like two children, like the boy and girl who had known each other in the old days.

"And when did you get here?" she asked. "And what do you mean by surprising us like this? I saw your grandfather yesterday morning and he didn't say a word about your coming."

"He didn't know I was coming. I didn't know it myself until the day before. And when did you come? Your father didn't tell me you were here.

I didn't know until I heard him call your name."

He was calling it again. Calling it and demanding attention for his precious codfish.

"Yes, Father, yes, in a minute," she said. Then to Albert, "Come in.

Oh, of course you'll come in."

"Why, yes, if I won't be interfering with the housekeeping."

"You won't. Yes, Father, yes, I'm coming. Mercy, where did you get such a wonderful fish? Come in, Albert. As soon as I get Father's treasure safe in the hands of Maria I'll be back. Father will keep you company.

No, pardon me, I am afraid he won't, he's gone to the kitchen already.

And I shall have to go, too, for just a minute. I'll hurry."

She hastened to the kitchen, whither Mr. Kendall, tugging the fish basket, had preceded her. Albert entered the little sitting-room and sat down in a chair by the window. The room looked just as it used to look, just as neat, just as homelike, just as well kept. And when she came back and they began to talk, it seemed to him that she, too, was just as she used to be. She was a trifle less girlish, more womanly perhaps, but she was just as good to look at, just as bright and cheerful and in her conversation she had the same quietly certain way of dealing directly with the common-sense realities and not the fuss and feathers. It seemed to him that she had not changed at all, that she herself was one of the realities, the wholesome home realities, like Captain Zelotes and Olive and the old house they lived in. He told her so. She laughed.

"You make me feel as ancient as the pyramids," she said.

He shook his head. "I am the ancient," he declared. "This war hasn't changed you a particle, Helen, but it has handed me an awful jolt. At times I feel as if I must have sailed with Noah. And as if I had wasted most of the time since."

She smiled. "Just what do you mean by that?" she asked.

"I mean--well, I don't know exactly what I do mean, I guess. I seem to have an unsettled feeling. I'm not satisfied with myself. And as I remember myself," he added, with a shrug, "that condition of mind was not usual with me."

She regarded him for a moment without speaking, with the appraising look in her eyes which he remembered so well, which had always reminded him of the look in his grandfather's eyes, and which when a boy he resented so strongly.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I think you have changed. Not because you say you feel so much older or because you are uneasy and dissatisfied. So many of the men I talked with at the camp hospital, the men who had been over there and had been wounded, as you were, said they felt the same way. That doesn't mean anything, I think, except that it is dreadfully hard to get readjusted again and settle down to everyday things. But it seems to me that you have changed in other ways. You are a little thinner, but broader, too, aren't you? And you do look older, especially about the eyes. And, of course--well, of course I think I do miss a little of the Albert Speranza I used to know, the young chap with the chip on his shoulder for all creation to knock off."

"Young jacka.s.s!"

"Oh, no indeed. He had his good points. But there! we're wasting time and we have so much to talk about. You--why, what am I thinking of! I have neglected the most important thing in the world. And you have just returned from New York, too. Tell me, how is Madeline Fosd.i.c.k?"

"She is well. But tell me about yourself. You have been in all sorts of war work, haven't you. Tell me about it."

"Oh, my work didn't amount to much. At first I 'Red Crossed' in Boston, then I went to Devens and spent a long time in the camp hospital there."

"Pretty trying, wasn't it?"

"Why--yes, some of it was. When the 'flu' epidemic was raging and the poor fellows were having such a dreadful time it was bad enough. After that I was sent to Eastview. In the hospital there I met the boys who had been wounded on the other side and who talked about old age and dissatisfaction and uneasiness, just as you do. But MY work doesn't count. You are the person to be talked about. Since I have seen you you have become a famous poet and a hero and--"

"Don't!"

She had been smiling; now she was very serious.

"Forgive me, Albert," she said. "We have been joking, you and I, but there was a time when we--when your friends did not joke. Oh, Albert, if you could have seen the Snow place as I saw it then. It was as if all the hope and joy and everything worth while had been crushed out of it.

Your grandmother, poor little woman, was brave and quiet, but we all knew she was trying to keep up for Captain Zelotes' sake. And he--Albert, you can scarcely imagine how the news of your death changed him... . Ah! well, it was a hard time, a dreadful time for--for every one."

She paused and he, turning to look at her, saw that there were tears in her eyes. He knew of her affection for his grandparents and theirs for her. Before he could speak she was smiling again.

"But now that is all over, isn't it?" she said. "And the Snows are the happiest people in the country, I do believe. AND the proudest, of course. So now you must tell me all about it, about your experiences, and about your war cross, and about your literary work--oh, about everything."

The all-inclusive narrative was not destined to get very far. Old Mr.

Kendall came hurrying in, the sermon on the casting down of Baal in his hand. Thereafter he led, guided, and to a large extent monopolized the conversation. His discourse had proceeded perhaps as far as "Thirdly"

when Albert, looking at his watch, was surprised to find it almost dinner time. Mr. Kendall, still talking, departed to his study to hunt for another sermon. The young people said good-by in his absence.

"It has been awfully good to see you again, Helen," declared Albert.

"But I told you that in the beginning, didn't I? You seem like--well, like a part of home, you know. And home means something to me nowadays."

"I'm glad to hear you speak of South Harniss as home. Of course I know you don't mean to make it a permanent home--I imagine Madeline would have something to say about that--but it is nice to have you speak as if the old town meant something to you."

He looked about him.