The Bondboy. George W. Ogden

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      “Well, because I like it, for one thing,” said he, “and because it’s the only book I’ve got here, for another.”

      “My, I think it’s awful slow!” said she.

      “Do you?” he inquired, as if interested in her likes and dislikes at last.

      “I’d think you’d like other books better–detective stories and that kind,” she ventured. “Didn’t you ever read any other book?” 55

      “Some few,” he replied, a reflection as of amusement in his eyes, which she thought made them look old and understanding and wise. “But I’ve always read the Bible. It’s one of the books that never seems to get old to you.”

      “Did you ever read True as Steel?”

      “No, I never did.”

      “Or Tempest and Sunshine?”

      He shook his head.

      “Oh-h,” said she, fairly lifting herself by the long breath which she drew, like the inhalation of a pleasant recollection, “you don’t know what you’ve missed! They are lovely!”

      “Well, maybe I’d like them, too.”

      He stooped again, and this time came up with his pails.

      “I’m glad you’re not religious, anyhow,” she sighed, as if heaving a trouble off her heart.

      “Are you?” he asked, turning to her wonderingly.

      “Yes; religious people are so glum,” she explained. “I never saw one of them laugh.”

      “There are some that way,” said Joe. “They seem to be afraid they’ll go to hell if they let the Almighty hear them laugh. Mother used to be that way when she first got her religion, but she’s outgrowing it now.”

      “The preachers used to scare me to death,” she declared. “If I could hear some comfortable religion I might take up with it, but it seems to me that everybody’s so sad after they get it. I don’t know why.”

      Joe put down the pails again. Early as the day was, it was hot, and he was sweating. He pushed his hat back from his forehead. It was like lifting a shadow from his serious young face. She smiled.

      “A person generally gets the kind of religion that he hears preached,” said he, “and most of it you hear is kind of heavy, like bread without rising. I’ve never seen a laughing preacher yet.” 56

      “There must be some, though,” she reflected.

      “I hope so,” said Joe.

      “I’m glad you’re not full of that kind of religion,” said she. “For a long time I thought you were.”

      “You did? Why?”

      “Oh, because–” said she.

      Her cheek was toward him; he saw that it was red, like the first tint of a cherry. She snatched up her bucket then and sped along the path.

      Joe walked on a little way, stopped, turned, and looked after her. He saw the flick of her skirt as her nimble heels flew up the three steps of the kitchen porch, and he wondered why she was glad that he was not religious, and why she had gone away like that, so fast. The pigs were clamoring, shriller, louder. It was no hour for a youth who had not yet wetted his feet in manhood’s stream to stand looking after a pair of heels and try to figure out a thing like that.

      As Joe had said, he was not religious, according to catechisms and creeds. He could not have qualified in the least exacting of the many faiths. All the religion that he had was of his own making, for his mother’s was altogether too ferocious in its punishments and too dun and foggy in its rewards for him.

      He read the Bible, and he believed most of it. There was as much religion, said he, in the Commandments as a man needed; a man could get on with that much very well. Beyond that he did not trouble.

      He read the adventures of David and the lamentations of Jeremiah, and the lofty exhortations of Isaiah for the sonority of the phrasing, the poetry and beauty. For he had not been sated by many tales nor blunted by many books. If he could manage to live according to the Commandments, he sometimes told his mother, he would not feel uneasy over a better way to die. 57

      But he was not giving this matter much thought as he emptied the swill-pails to the chortling hogs. He was thinking about the red in Ollie’s cheeks, like the breast of a bright bird seen through the leaves, and of her quick flight up the path. It was a new Ollie that he had discovered that morning, one unknown and unspoken to before that day. But why had her face grown red that way, he wondered? Why had she run away?

      And Ollie, over her smoking pan on the kitchen stove, was thinking that something might be established in the way of comradeship between herself and the bound boy, after all. It took him a long time to get acquainted, she thought; but his friendship might be all the more stable for that. There was comfort in it; as she worked she smiled.

      There was no question of the need in which Ollie stood of friendship, sympathy, and kind words. Joe had been in that house six months, and in that time he had witnessed more pain than he believed one small woman’s heart could bear. While he was not sure that Isom ever struck his wife, he knew that he tortured her in endless combinations of cruelty, and pierced her heart with a thousand studied pangs. Often, when the house was still and Isom was asleep, he heard her moaning and sobbing, her head on the kitchen table.

      These bursts of anguish were not the sudden gusts of a pettish woman’s passion, but the settled sorrow of one who suffered without hope. Many a time Joe tiptoed to the bottom of the staircase in his bare feet and looked at her, the moonlight dim in the cheerless kitchen, her head a dark blotch upon the whiteness of her arms, bowed there in her grief. Often he longed to go to her with words of comfort and let her know that there was one at least who pitied her hard fate and sad disillusionment.

      In those times of tribulation Joe felt that they could be of mutual help and comfort if they could bring themselves to 58 speak, for he suffered also the pangs of imprisonment and the longings for liberty in that cruel house of bondage. Yet he always turned and went softly, almost breathlessly, back to his bed, leaving her to sob and cry alone in the struggle of her hopeless sorrow.

      It was a harder matter to keep his hands from the gristly throat of grim old Isom Chase, slumbering unfeelingly in his bed while his young wife shredded her heart between the burr-stones of his cruel mill. Joe had many an hour of struggle with himself, lying awake, his hot temples streaming sweat, his eyes staring at the ribs of the roof.

      During those months Joe had set and hardened. The muscles had thickened over his chest and arms; his neck was losing the long scragginess of youth; his fingers were firm-jointed in his broadening hands. He knew that Isom Chase was no match for him, man to man.

      But, for all his big body and great strength, he was only a boy in his sense of justice, in his hot, primitive desire to lunge out quickly and set the maladjustments of that household straight. He did not know that there was a thing as old as the desires of men at the bottom of Ollie’s sorrow, nor understand the futility of chastisement in the case of Isom Chase.

      Isom was as far as ever СКАЧАТЬ