"Nonsense, nonsense, Cap'n Lote!" he protested."You ain't fair to yourself.You never treated Al anyhow but just honest and fair and square.If he was here now instead of layin' dead over there in France, poor feller, he'd say so, too.Yes, he would.Course he would."The captain made no reply, but walked from the room.Laban turned to Mrs.Ellis.
"The old man broods over that," he said."I wish....Eh?
What's the matter, Rachel? What are you lookin' at me like that for?"The housekeeper was leaning forward in her chair, her cheeks flushed and her hands clenched.
"How do you know he's dead?" she asked, in a mysterious whisper.
"Eh? How do I know who's dead?"
"Albert.How do you know he's dead?"
Laban stared at her.
"How do I know he's DEAD!" he repeated."How do I know--""Yes, yes, yes," impatiently; "that's what I said.Don't run it over three or four times more.How do you know Albert's dead?""Why, Rachel, what kind of talk's that? I know he's dead because the newspapers say so, and the War Department folks say so, and this cap'n man in France that was right there at the time, HE says so.All hands say so--yes, yes.So don't--""Sh! I don't care if they all say so ten times over.How do they KNOW? They ain't found him dead, have they? The report from the War Department folks was sent when they thought that other body was Albert's.Now they know that wasn't him.Where is he?""Why, under the ruins of that cottage.'Twas all blown to pieces and most likely--""Um-hm.There you are! 'Most likely!' Well, I ain't satisfied with most likelys.I want to KNOW.""But--but--"
"Laban Keeler, until they find his body I shan't believe Albert's dead.""But, Rachel, you mustn't try to deceive yourself that way.Don't you see--""No, I don't see.Labe, when Robert Penfold was lost and gone for all them months all hands thought he was dead, didn't they? But he wasn't; he was on that island lost in the middle of all creation.
What's to hinder Albert bein' took prisoner by those Germans? They came back to that cottage place after Albert was left there, the cap'n says so in that letter Cap'n Lote just read.What's to hinder their carryin' Al off with 'em? Eh? What's to hinder?""Why--why, nothin', I suppose, in one way.But nine chances out of ten--""That leaves one chance, don't it.I ain't goin' to give up that chance for--for my boy.I--I-- Oh, Labe, I did think SO much of him.""I know, Rachel, I know.Don't cry any more than you can help.
And if it helps you any to make believe--I mean to keep on hopin'
he's alive somewheres--why, do it.It won't do any harm, Isuppose.Only I wouldn't hint such a thing to Cap'n Lote or Olive.""Of course not," indignantly."I ain't quite a fool, I hope....
And I presume likely you're right, Laban.The poor boy is dead, probably.But I--I'm goin' to hope he isn't, anyhow, just to get what comfort I can from it.And Robert Penfold did come back, you know."For some time Laban found himself, against all reason, asking the very question Rachel had asked: Did they actually KNOW that Albert was dead? But as the months passed and no news came he ceased to ask it.Whenever he mentioned the subject to the housekeeper her invariable reply was: "But they haven't found his body, have they?" She would not give up that tenth chance.As she seemed to find some comfort in it he did not attempt to convince her of its futility.
And, meanwhile The Lances of Dawn, Being the Collected Poems of Albert M.C.Speranza was making a mild sensation.The critics were surprisingly kind to it.The story of the young author's recent and romantic death, of his gallantry, his handsome features displayed in newspapers everywhere, all these helped toward the generous welcome accorded the little volume.If the verses were not inspired--why, they were at least entertaining and pleasant.
And youth, high-hearted youth sang on every page.So the reviewers were kind and forbearing to the poems themselves, and, for the sake of the dead soldier-poet, were often enthusiastic.The book sold, for a volume of poems it sold very well indeed.
At the Snow place in South Harniss pride and tears mingled.Olive read the verses over and over again, and wept as she read.Rachel Ellis learned many of them by heart, but she, too, wept as she recited them to herself or to Laban.In the little bookkeeper's room above Simond's shoe store The Lances of Dawn lay under the lamp upon the center table as before a shrine.Captain Zelotes read the verses.Also he read all the newspaper notices which, sent to the family by Helen Kendall, were promptly held before his eyes by Olive and Rachel.He read the publisher's advertisements, he read the reviews.And the more he read the more puzzled and bewildered he became.
"I can't understand it, Laban," he confided in deep distress to Mr.
Keeler."I give in I don't know anything at all about this.I'm clean off soundin's.If all this newspaper stuff is so Albert was right all the time and I was plumb wrong.Here's this feller,"picking up a clipping from the desk, "callin' him a genius and 'a gifted youth' and the land knows what.And every day or so I get a letter from somebody I never heard of tellin' me what a comfort to 'em those poetry pieces of his are.I don't understand it, Labe.
It worries me.If all this is true then--then I was all wrong.Itried to keep him from makin' up poetry, Labe--TRIED to, I did.If what these folks say is so somethin' ought to be done to me.I--I--by thunder, I don't know's I hadn't ought to be hung!...And yet--and yet, I did what I thought was right and did it for the boy's sake...And--and even now I--I ain't sartin I was wrong.
