Free Cup of Gold by John Steinbeck Page A

again.” He stopped and his face flexed with pain. “I used to love the winter so.”
    Old Robert helped him from the room with a hand under his arm, then came and sat again by the fire. He looked at the boy who lay unmoving on the floor.
    “What are you thinking about now, son?” he asked very softly after a time. And Henry drew his gaze back from the land beyond the blaze.
    “I’m thinking I’ll be wanting to go soon, father.”
    “I know, Henry. The whole of this long year I’ve seen it growing in you like a strong tree—London or Guinea or Jamaica. It comes of being fifteen and strong, with the passion for new things on you. Once I saw the valley grow smaller and smaller, too, until finally it smothered me a little, I think. But aren’t you afraid of the knives, son, and the poisons, and the Indians? Do not these things put fear on you?”
    “No-o-o,” Henry said slowly.
    “Of course not—and how could they? The words have no meaning to you at all. But the sadness of Dafydd, and the hurt of him, and his poor, sick body—aren’t you afraid of those? Do you want to go about the world weighed down with such a heart?”
    Young Henry considered long.
    “I would not be like that,” he said at last. “I would be coming back very often for my blood’s sake.”
    His father went on smiling valiantly.
    “When will you be off, Henry? It will be lonely here without you.”
    “Why, I’ll go, now, as soon as I may,” said Henry; and it seemed that he was the older and Robert a little boy.
    “Henry, will you do two things for me before you go? Will you be thinking to-night of the long sleeplessness I’ll have because of you, and of how lost my days will be. And will you remember the hours your mother will fret about your underclothing and the state of your religion. That’s the first thing, Henry; but second, will you go up to old Merlin on the crag-top to-morrow and tell him of your going and listen to his words? He is wiser than you or I may ever be. There is a kind of magic he practices which may be a help to you. Will you do these two things, son?”
    Henry had become very sad.
    “I would like to stay, my father, but you know—”
    “Yes, boy.” Robert nodded. “It is my sorrow that I do know. I cannot be angry nor forbid your going, because I understand. I wish I might prevent it and whip you, thinking that I helped you. But go to bed, Henry, and think and think when the light is out and the dark is around you.”
    Old Robert sat dreaming in his chair after the boy had gone.
    “Why do men like me want sons?” he wondered. “It must be because they hope in their poor beaten souls that these new men, who are their blood, will do the things they were not strong enough nor wise enough nor brave enough to do. It is rather like another chance with life; like a new bag of coins at a table of luck after your fortune is gone. Perhaps the boy is doing what I might have done had I been brave enough years past. Yes, the valley has smothered me, I think, and I am glad this boy of mine finds it in his power to vault the mountains and stride about the world. But it will be—so very lonely here without him.”

II
    Old Robert came in from his rose garden late the next morning and stood in the room where his wife was sweeping. She eyed the good soil on his hands with disapproval.
    “He’ll be wanting to go now, Mother,” Robert said nervously.
    “ Who will be wanting to go, and where?” She was brusque and busy with her sweeping; the quick, inquisitive broom hounded dust from the corners and floor cracks and drove it in little puffs to the open.
    “Why, Henry. He’ll be wanting to go to the Indies now.”
    She stopped her work to stare at him. “The Indies! But, Robert! Oh, nonsense!” she finished, and the broom swung more rapidly in her hands.
    “I’ve seen it for long and long growing in him,” Robert went on. “Then Dafydd came with his tales. Henry told me last night that he must