If You Touch Them They Vanish Read online

  XI

  "You can get away from people, but you can't get away from moths."

  It was Martha herself, carrying a great paper bag of camphor-balls and agreat roll of tarred paper, who announced this truth.

  Rain was falling in torrents. Even the Poor Boy did not feel like goingout. He looked with a certain longing at the bag of camphor balls.

  "Going to put the furs away?"

  Martha said that she was.

  Time was hanging heavily that morning. There was neither music in thePoor Boy nor desire to read.

  "I think--" he began, and was ashamed.

  "You think?"

  "Nothing."

  "Out with it."

  "Just that--well, you see, I've never done it--always had you. But I'mthinking it must be rather fun to fold things carefully, and put them incedar chests, and sprinkle moth-balls over them, and tuck them in withtar-paper."

  "And you think wrong," said Martha. "It is no fun at all."

  "Oh!" said the Poor Boy. "You're used to it. You've always done it. ButI haven't."

  "No more," said Martha, "have you ever knit a comforter."

  "I think that would be fun too," twinkled the Poor Boy; "a very littlecomforter. I should use very thick worsted and make very big, loopy,spready stitches. I think, if you don't mind, I'll put my own thingsaway for the summer."

  Martha clutched the bag and the roll of paper tighter. Her jaws set.

  "Don't be selfish, Martha."

  Her jaws relaxed.

  "What do I do first, Martha?"

  "First you get all your things in one place. Then you brush them andfold them. Then you lay them away in the chests."

  The Poor Boy, in shirt-sleeves, was soon busily employed, making in thecentre of the living-room an enormous pile of winter furs andwoolens--coonskin coats, Shetland socks, stockings, oily Norfolk coatsand mackintoshes, sweaters, mittens, fur gloves, fur robes, steamerrugs, toques, and mackinaws.

  The great pile finished, he sorted his things into smaller piles: a pileto be thrown away, a pile to be given away, a pile to be kept.

  A doubtful garment was a mackinaw of dark gray splashed with blood-colorand black. It had seen better days, on the one hand; on the other, itwas sound, and he had always liked the coloring. He carried it to thelight and looked it over carefully.

  What was there about an old lumberman's coat to bring a look ofbewildered wonder into the Poor Boy's eyes? And what particular memoriesdid he associate with the last time of wearing it?

  He closed his eyes, frowned, thought, remembered.

  "I wore this," he said to himself, "the time I went down to the sea, andnearly died getting back. Then it was mislaid, when I wanted to wear itagain. Then spring came.... When I got back from the sea I thought I sawJoy. I thought she ran, and that I ran after her. Then that she turnedand caught me as I fell.... I was wearing this coat. I haven't worn itsince."

  With fingers that shook he unwound from the top button of the coat along, entangled hair, the color of old Domingo mahogany, which is eithermore brown than red, or more red than brown. Nobody can swear which.

  When Martha came to see how the Poor Boy was getting on with hispacking she was amused to find that he had tired of it. That his thingswere all in a mess, nothing packed or protected from moths, and that hehimself was standing at a window looking out into the dark torrents ofrain. At his feet was an old mackinaw. Martha picked it up and foldedit.

  "Shall I _resoom_ where you've left off?" she asked.

  "Please! But be careful of that coat."

  She began to bring order swiftly out of chaos.

  "Martha!"

  "Don't be stopping me now."

  "What would you do if you knew that something that couldn't possibly betrue absolutely was true?"

  "For that," said Martha bluntly, "I'd take two tablespoonfuls ofcastor-oil."

  "It is true," said the Poor Boy, "and it can't be."

  He passed one hand in front of his face as if brushing a cobweb or--ahair.

  "A hot-water bag at the feet," Martha continued impetuously, "andanother on the pit of the stomick is a favored remedy with some."

  "Martha...."

  "What else?"

  "Has your helper got reddish-brownish, brownish-reddish hair--the colorof the sideboards in the dining-room?"

  "Well," said Martha, "she has and she hasn't. The first of every month'tis that color or thereabouts; but be the twenty-ninth or thirtieth'tis back to a good workin' gray."

  "The day I got back from the sea," said the Poor Boy to himself, "wasabout the twenty-ninth or the thirtieth. But still if I'm going tobelieve what can't be true--I say, Martha, lend me a saucer of alcohol,will you?"

  Old Martha bustled off and returned with what he required. The Poor Boycarried his chemical into the book-room and closed the door firmly, andmuch to Martha's disappointment, she being anxious to know what wastoward in her darling's mind.

  The Poor Boy placed the saucer of alcohol in the light, and dropped intoit the mahogany-colored hair; nothing happened. The hair itselfappeared brighter perhaps, but the crystal liquid was not discolored.The Poor Boy devoted half an hour to the experiment. There was nodevelopment.

  "Not Ed Pinaud," he then said reverently, "dyed this hair, but the LordGod."

  He put it away in a safe place, just over his heart.

  "Not," he said, "because it is hers, but because it is the same color.And because there are stranger things in heaven and earth than ever anyman wotted of in his philosophy."

  Martha knocked on the door.

  "Come in, Martha."

  "Just to tell you that it's stopped raining, and if ye'll not take oilnor hot-water bags, the next best remedy for cobwebs in the brain isexercise."

  The Poor Boy was glad to get out.

  He went straight to Lord Harrow's house and walked with Joy forhours--up and down between the glorious roses on the terrace. The pathwas wide. They could walk side by side without danger of touching eachother.

  She was very grave that afternoon. So was he. It was hard that theyshould love each other so much and not be allowed to talk about it orhold hands. But the Poor Boy knew mighty well that if he touched her shewould vanish.

  "There's comfort," thought the Poor Boy, "in loving a spirit--even if itcan never be quite the real thing. She will always be just as I see hernow, no older, untroubled, gentle, and dear."

  "She will always be just as I see her now, no older,untroubled, gentle and dear."]

  He said poetry to her, and hummed songs. She dropped a rose that she wascarrying. He stooped to pick it up, remembered, and let it lie. Theylooked into each other's eyes, very sadly.

  He saw her mistily through tears. She vanished. Vanished the rosegarden, vanished Lord Harrow's house. And remained only a wild lake, anopen space in which he stood, and wild-woods, and beyond more woods andhills and mountains.

  To the west the forest was intolerably bright, as if it was burning. Thesun was going down.