Dream Days | Page 8

what it had and what it had not--that
too familiar dowdiness of common places of worship. They had also
fed me in their dining-hall, where a long table stood on trestles plain to
view, and all the woodwork was natural, unpainted, healthily scrubbed,

and redolent of the forest it came from. I brought away from that visit,
and kept by me for many days, a sense of cleanness, of the freshness
that pricks the senses--the freshness of cool spring water; and the large
swept spaces of the rooms, the red tiles, and the oaken settles,
suggested a comfort that had no connection with padded upholstery.
On this particular morning I was in much too unsociable a mind for
paying friendly calls. Still, something in the aspect of the place
harmonized with my humour, and I worked my way round to the back,
where the ground, after affording level enough for a kitchen-garden,
broke steeply away. Both the word Gothic and the thing itself were still
unknown to me, yet doubtless the architecture of the place, consistent
throughout, accounted for its sense of comradeship in my hour of
disheartenment. As I mused there, with the low, grey,
Purposeful-looking building before me, and thought of my pleasant
friends within, and what good times they always seemed to be having,
and how they larked with the Irish terrier, whose footing was one of a
perfect equality, I thought of a certain look in their faces, as if they had
a common purpose and a business, and were acting under orders
thoroughly recognized and understood. I remembered, too, something
that Martha had told me, about these same fellows doing "a power o'
good," and other hints I had collected vaguely, of renouncements, rules,
self-denials, and the like. Thereupon, out of the depths of my morbid
soul swam up a new and fascinating idea; and at once the career of
arms seemed over-acted and stale, and piracy, as a profession, flat and
unprofitable. This, then, or something like it, should be my vocation
and my revenge. A severer line of business, perhaps, such as I had read
of; something that included black bread and a hair-shirt. There should
be vows, too-- irrevocable, blood-curdling vows; and an iron grating.
This iron grating was the most necessary feature of all, for I intended
that on the other side of it my relations should range themselves--I
mentally ran over the catalogue, and saw that the whole gang was
present, all in their proper places--a sad-eyed row, combined in tristful
appeal. "We see our error now," they would say; "we were always dull
dogs, slow to catch--especially in those akin to us--the finer qualities of
soul! We misunderstood you, misappreciated you, and we own up to it.
And now "Alas, my dear friends," I would strike in here, waving

towards them an ascetic hand--one of the emaciated sort, that lets the
light shine through at the fingertips--" Alas, you come too late! This
conduct is fitting and meritorious on your part, and indeed I always
expected it of you, sooner or later; but the die is cast, and you may go
home again and bewail at your leisure this too tardy repentance of
yours. For me, I am vowed and dedicated, and my relations henceforth
are austerity and holy works. Once a month, should you wish it, it shall
be your privilege to come and gaze at me through this very solid
grating; but--" Whack! A well-aimed clod of garden soil, whizzing just
past my ear, starred on a tree-trunk behind, spattering me with dirt, The
present came back to me in a flash, and I nimbly took cover behind the
trees, realizing that the enemy was up and abroad, with ambuscades,
alarms, and thrilling sallies. It was the gardener's boy, I knew well
enough; a red proletariat, who hated me just because I was a gentleman.
Hastily picking up a nice sticky clod in one hand, with the other I
delicately projected my hat beyond the shelter of the tree-trunk. I had
not fought with Red-skins all these years for nothing. As I had expected,
another clod, of the first class for size and stickiness, took my poor hat
full in the centre. Then, Ajax-like, shouting terribly, I issued from
shelter and discharged my ammunition. Woe then for the gardener's
boy, who, unprepared, skipping in premature triumph, took the clod full
in his stomach! He, the foolish one, witless on whose side the gods
were fighting that day, discharged yet other missiles, wavering and
wide of the mark; for his wind had been taken with the first clod, and
he shot wildly, as one already desperate and in flight. I got another clod
in at short range; we clinched on the brow of the hill, and rolled down
to the