Sam sighed, submitting to be kissed, and turned to go up-stairs; but
something made him hesitate,--perhaps his mother's worn face. He came
back, and bending down kissed her cheek. Mrs. Wright caught her breath
with astonishment, but the boy made no explanation. He went on up to
his own room and standing listlessly at the window, said again to
himself, "I had to come back." After a while he added "But I won't
bother her." He had already forgotten the two sore hearts down-stairs.
The next morning he hurried to church; but Mrs. Richie was not there,
and in his disappointment he was as blind to Old Chester's curious
glances as he was deaf to Dr. Lavendar's sermon.
The long morning loitered past. After dinner the Wright family
dispersed for its customary Sunday afternoon nap. The senior warden,
with The Episcopalian, as large as a small blanket, spread over
his face, slept heavily in the library; Mrs. Wright dozed in her
bedroom with one finger marking her place in a closed volume of
sermons; the little girls wandered stealthily about the garden,
memorizing by their father's orders their weekly hymn. The house was
still, and very hot. All the afternoon young Sam lay upon his bed
turning the pages of The Wealth of Nations, and brooding over
his failures: he could not make Mrs. Richie love him; he could not
write a great drama; he could not add up a column of figures; he could
not understand his father's rages at unimportant things; "and nobody
cares a continental whether I am dead or alive!--except mother," he
ended; and his face softened. At five o'clock he reminded himself that
he must go up to The Top for supper. But it was nearly six before he
had energy enough to rise. The fact was, he shrank from telling his
grandfather that the drama was no longer in existence. He had been
somewhat rudely rebuffed by the only person who had looked at his
manuscript, and had promptly torn the play up and scattered the
fragments out of the window of his boarding-house. That was two days
ago. The curious lassitude which followed this acces of passion
was probably increased by the senior warden's reproaches. But Sam
believed himself entirely indifferent both to his literary failure,
and to his father's scolding. Neither was in his mind as he climbed
the hill, and halted for a wistful moment at the green gate in the
hedge; but he had no glimpse of Mrs. Richie.
He found his grandfather sitting on the veranda behind the big white
columns, reading aloud, and gesticulating with one hand: "'But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,
Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire
Or like the snaky wreath of Sisiphon--'"