of man’s unfair treatment to his fellow man. The figure of Mrs. Divers thrust up suddenly. And her treatment of him.
Was the woman his Chillingworth?
Suddenly he rose. He wouldn’t think of her. Instead, he would focus on the beauty of the nearby trees, one to his right particularly, its wonderful golden leaves scintillating in the bright sunlight.
A stream rippled nearby. A splash of water on his face would refresh him. He was feeling uncommonly warm.
With an easy pace, he covered the last hundred yards, over the rise of forest floor before it gentled down to the water.
But what was that by his stream? Two boys with fishing poles.
He barged down the embankment, stirring up dried leaves, not disguising his advance. Both youths glanced over their shoulders, then hastily rose. He recognized one of them. The firecracker boy who had run into Miss Thatcher. He quickened his pace. Up ahead he spied a spot cleared of underbrush, laid out for a fire. Fire! Anger licked through him.
Only a few moments the boys stood frozen. “Loydie!” One of them grabbed their basket. “Let’s get out of here!” Without looking back, both fled along the stream, then scrambled up the embankment.
He almost pursued them, but they had too good a start. Instead, he stopped at the unlit fire ring. Kicked it. Kicked it thoroughly, scattering the wood. Then kicked leaves, twigs, and moss over the dread spot. Kicked until there was no trace of the intended fire.
A fire on his property? A thousand times no!
Smoke! Edward coughed and coughed. Heat scorched his face. He buried his face in his pillow to escape the heat and suffocating fumes. When he raised up, he saw orange and white flames licking round his bedroom door.
Shouts. Screams. Where were they coming from? Below his window? Voices yelled at him to wake up, to get out of the house.
He struggled with the bed covers, flung them off.
Cold air hit him.
He opened bleary eyes to a dark bedroom. What?
Fire. Where was it? The smoke? He rose from his bed, groping his way to the washstand and doused his face with cold water. Doused it again and again.
After drying his face, he walked to the window. Darkness and utter quiet met him. He crossed the room and opened his bedroom door. Shadowy silence reigned in the hall. He stood still for some moments, then shuddered in the cold gloom.
Gradually the brightness, the noise, the fire of the dream subsided. He heaved a great sigh.
The sense of being trapped, that night long ago—had returned with a vengeance. Would he never forget what happened to him as a boy in his grandparents’ home, his cherished boyhood summer home—going up in smoke?
Another shiver shook him.
7
C elia watched Mr. Chestley open the big black portfolio.
“I sent for these art prints from Boston. You know how I like adding to the store’s Old World ambiance. I think something should be framed for that wall near the book discussions. Would you give them a once-over, Celia?”
Celia felt a surge of interest. “How many are there?”
“A dozen or so. I asked for a selection of country scenes from different seasons. Take your time.”
Celia bent over the large folio. The top print was a large pasture of grazing sheep with rolling hills in the distance. Charming. She turned over one after another, each reminiscent of earlier centuries in England or Europe. The last three showed winter scenes, the first with figures skating down a frozen river with little cottages near the water’s edge.
But this last—how different. Radically pruned trees lined a country lane, their knobby ends sprouted straight slender branches—black and brown strokes against a gray-white wash.
Just then the door opened, the little bell jangling. Celia looked up to see Mrs. Smith enter. “Can I help you?”
The old woman’s face brightened on spotting her. “No, I just dropped by to say hello.” Approaching the counter, she craned her neck. “What are you looking at?”
“Art prints.
Was the woman his Chillingworth?
Suddenly he rose. He wouldn’t think of her. Instead, he would focus on the beauty of the nearby trees, one to his right particularly, its wonderful golden leaves scintillating in the bright sunlight.
A stream rippled nearby. A splash of water on his face would refresh him. He was feeling uncommonly warm.
With an easy pace, he covered the last hundred yards, over the rise of forest floor before it gentled down to the water.
But what was that by his stream? Two boys with fishing poles.
He barged down the embankment, stirring up dried leaves, not disguising his advance. Both youths glanced over their shoulders, then hastily rose. He recognized one of them. The firecracker boy who had run into Miss Thatcher. He quickened his pace. Up ahead he spied a spot cleared of underbrush, laid out for a fire. Fire! Anger licked through him.
Only a few moments the boys stood frozen. “Loydie!” One of them grabbed their basket. “Let’s get out of here!” Without looking back, both fled along the stream, then scrambled up the embankment.
He almost pursued them, but they had too good a start. Instead, he stopped at the unlit fire ring. Kicked it. Kicked it thoroughly, scattering the wood. Then kicked leaves, twigs, and moss over the dread spot. Kicked until there was no trace of the intended fire.
A fire on his property? A thousand times no!
Smoke! Edward coughed and coughed. Heat scorched his face. He buried his face in his pillow to escape the heat and suffocating fumes. When he raised up, he saw orange and white flames licking round his bedroom door.
Shouts. Screams. Where were they coming from? Below his window? Voices yelled at him to wake up, to get out of the house.
He struggled with the bed covers, flung them off.
Cold air hit him.
He opened bleary eyes to a dark bedroom. What?
Fire. Where was it? The smoke? He rose from his bed, groping his way to the washstand and doused his face with cold water. Doused it again and again.
After drying his face, he walked to the window. Darkness and utter quiet met him. He crossed the room and opened his bedroom door. Shadowy silence reigned in the hall. He stood still for some moments, then shuddered in the cold gloom.
Gradually the brightness, the noise, the fire of the dream subsided. He heaved a great sigh.
The sense of being trapped, that night long ago—had returned with a vengeance. Would he never forget what happened to him as a boy in his grandparents’ home, his cherished boyhood summer home—going up in smoke?
Another shiver shook him.
7
C elia watched Mr. Chestley open the big black portfolio.
“I sent for these art prints from Boston. You know how I like adding to the store’s Old World ambiance. I think something should be framed for that wall near the book discussions. Would you give them a once-over, Celia?”
Celia felt a surge of interest. “How many are there?”
“A dozen or so. I asked for a selection of country scenes from different seasons. Take your time.”
Celia bent over the large folio. The top print was a large pasture of grazing sheep with rolling hills in the distance. Charming. She turned over one after another, each reminiscent of earlier centuries in England or Europe. The last three showed winter scenes, the first with figures skating down a frozen river with little cottages near the water’s edge.
But this last—how different. Radically pruned trees lined a country lane, their knobby ends sprouted straight slender branches—black and brown strokes against a gray-white wash.
Just then the door opened, the little bell jangling. Celia looked up to see Mrs. Smith enter. “Can I help you?”
The old woman’s face brightened on spotting her. “No, I just dropped by to say hello.” Approaching the counter, she craned her neck. “What are you looking at?”
“Art prints.
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