XI
THE duties of young Lord Marque, the new man on the Willett estate atCaranay, left him at leisure only after six o'clock, his day being almostentirely occupied in driving a large lawn mower.
Life, for John Marque--as he now called himself--had become exquisitelysimple; eating, sleeping, driving a lawn mower--these three manly sportsso entirely occupied the twenty-four hours that he had scarcely time todo much weeding--and no time at all to sympathise with himself because hewas too busy by day and too sleepy at night.
Sundays he might have taken off for the purpose of condoling withhimself, had it not been for the new telephone operator.
She was a recent incumbent at the railroad station--a tall,clear-skinned, yellow-haired girl of twenty-five who sat at herdesk all day saying in a low, prettily modulated voice,"hello--hello--hello--hello" to unseen creatures of whom John Marquewotted not.
Three things concerning her he had noticed: She wore pink gingham; shenever seemed to see him when he came down to the little sunburnt platformand seated himself on the edge, feet dangling over the rails; he hadnever seen her except when she was seated at the pine table which wasornamented by her instrument and switchboard. She had a bed-room andkitchen in the rear. But he never saw her go into them or emerge; neversaw her except seated at her switchboard, either reading or sewing, or,with the silvery and Greek-like band encircling her hair and supportingthe receiver close to her small ears, repeating in her low, modulatedvoice: hello--hello--hello--hello.
He wondered how tall she might be. He had never seen her standing orwalking. He wondered what her direct gaze might be like. Only herprofile had he yet beheld--a sweet, youthful, profile nobly outlinedunder the gold of her hair; but under the partly lowered lashes as shesat sewing or reading or summoning centrals from the vast expanses ofNorth America, he divined eyes of a soft lilac-blue. And he chewed hispipe-stem and kicked his feet and thought about them.
Few trains stopped at Caranay except for water; the station, an old-timefarm house of small dimensions, overlooking the track and Willow Brook,contained ticket office, telephone, and telegraph in one--all presidedover by the telephone operator. Sometimes as many as two people in a weekbought railroad tickets; sometimes a month would pass without anybodyeither sending or receiving a telegram. Telephone calls were a littlemore frequent.
So the girl had little to do there at her sunny open window, wheremignonette and heliotrope and nasturtiums bloomed in pots, and the bigbumble bees came buzzing and plundering the little window garden. And,except on Sundays, Marque had little leisure to observe her, although inthe long late June evenings it was still light at eight o'clock, and hehad, without understanding how or why, formed the habit of coming down tothe deserted station platform to smoke his pipe and sometimes to fish inthe shallow waters of Willow Brook, and watch the ripples turn from goldto purple, and listen to a certain bird that sat singing every day atsunset on the tip of a fir-balsam across the stream--a black and whitebird with a rosy pink chest.
So lovely the evening song of this bird that Marque, often watching thegirl askance, wondered that the surprising beauty of the melody nevercaused her to lift her head from book or sewing, or even rise from thetable and come out to the doorway to listen.
But she never did; and whether or not the bird's singing appealed to her,he could not determine.
Nobody in the little gossiping hamlet of Caranay seemed to knowmore than her name; he himself knew only a few people--men who,like himself, worked on the Willett place with hoe and rake andspraying cart and barrow--comrades of roller and mower and weed-fork andmole-trap--dull-witted cullers of dandelion and rose-beetle. And mostlytheir names were Hiram.
These had their own kind in the female line to "go with"--Caranay beingfar from the metropolis, and as yet untroubled by the spreading femininerevolution. Only stray echoes of the doings had as yet penetrated toCaranay daisy fields; no untoward consequences had as yet ensued exceptthat old Si Dinglebat's wife, after reading the remains of a New Yorkpaper found on the railroad track, had suddenly, and apparently in a fitof mental aberration, attacked Si with a mop, accompanying the onslaughtwith the reiterated inquiry: "Air wimmen to hev their rights?"
That was the only manifestation of the welt-weh in Caranay--that and theother welt on Si's dome-like and knobby forehead.
He encountered Marque that evening after supper as that young man, inclean blue jeans, carrying a fish-pole and smoking his pipe, waswandering in circles preparatory to a drift in the general direction ofthe railroad station.
"Evenin', neighbour!" he said.
"Good evening," said the young man.
"Goin' sparkin'?" inquired Si, overflowing with natural curiosity andtobacco.
"What?"
"Be you goin' a-sparkin'?"
"Nonsense!" said Marque, reddening. "I don't know any girls in Caranay."
"Waal, I cal'late you know that gal down to the depot, don't ye?"
"No, I don't."
"Hey? I'm a leetle deef."
"No!" shouted Marque, "I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't know her, dammit!"
"Aw, quit yer cussin'," said Si, with a gummy wink. "Folks has beentalkin' ever since the fustest time you set onto that there platform andthat Eden gal fooled ye with her lookin' glass."
"What are you talking about?" said Marque impatiently.
"Issy Eden and her pretendin' not to see nobody--an' her a lookin' intothe leetle glass behind her table and a seein' of ye all the time! I knowshe kin see because she ketched Hi Orville's boy a-hookin' apples outenthe bar'l that--"
"You mean she is able to see _anybody_ on the platform," said Marque,confused and astounded.
"You bet she kin. I know because I peeked in the winder an' I seen hera-lookin' at you when you was fishin'----"
But the young fellow had recovered himself: "All right," he interrupted;"that isn't your business or mine. Who gave you that crack on the lid?"
"By gum," he said, "Hetty done it. I was that took! Forty year, and sheain't never throwed s'much as a dish pan at me. I wa'n't lookin' for nosech thing at my time o' life, young man. So when I come in to wash upfor supper, I sez to my woman, 'Hello, Het,' sez I, an' she up an'screeched an' fetched me a clip.
"'Lord a'mighty!' sez I. 'Look out what ye doin',' sez I. 'Air wimmen tohev their rights?' sez she, makin' for me some more. 'Is wimmen to befree?' she sez.
"'Yew bet,' sez I, grabbin' onto her. 'I'll make free with ye,' sez I.An' I up an' tuk an' spanked Hetty--the first time in forty year, youngman! An' it done her good, I guess, for she ain't never cooked like shecooked supper to-night. God a'mighty, what biscuits them was!"
Marque listened indifferently, scarcely following the details of thedomestic episode because his mind was full of the girl at the station andthe amazing discovery that all these days she could have seen himperfectly well at any moment if she had chosen to take the trouble,without moving more than her dark, silky lashes. Had she ever taken thattrouble? He did not know, of course. He would like to have known.
He nodded absently to the hero of the welt-weh clash, and, pipe in onehand, pole in the other, walked slowly down the road, crossed the track,and seated himself on the platform's edge.
She was at her desk, reading. And the young man felt himself turning redas he realised that, if she had chosen, she could have seen him sittinghere every evening with his eyes fixed--yes, sentimentally fixed upon theback of her head and her pretty white neck and the lovely contour of herdelicately curved cheek.
All by himself he sat there and blushed, head lowered, apparently fussingwith his line and hook and trying to keep his eyes off her, without muchsuccess.
His angling methods were simple; he crossed the grass-grown track, sethis pole in position, and returned to seat himself on the platform'sedge, where he could see his floating cork and--her. Then, as usual, herelapsed into meditation.
If only just once she had ever betrayed the slightest knowledge of hispresence i
n her vicinity he might, little by little, cautiously, and bydegrees, have ventured to speak to her.
But she never had evinced the slightest shadow of interest in anything asfar as he had noticed.
Now, as he sat there, the burnt out pipe between his teeth, watchingalternately his rod and his divinity, the rose-breasted grosbeak began tosing in the pink light of sunset. Clear, pure, sweet, the song rangjoyously from the tip of the balsam's silver-green spire. He rested hishead on one hand and listened.
The song of this bird, the odour of heliotrope, the ruddy sunlightnetting the ripples--these, for him, must forever suggest her.
He had curious fancies about her and himself. He knew that, if she everdid turn and look at him out of those lilac-tinted eyes, he must fall inlove with her, irrevocably. He admitted to himself that already he was inlove with all he could see of her--the white neck and dull gold hair, thefair cheek's curve, the glimpse of her hand as she deliberately turned apage in the book she was reading.
But that evening passed as had the others; night came; she lowered hercurtain; a faint tracery of lamplight glimmered around the edges; and, asalways, he lighted his pipe and took his fish, and shouldered his poleand went home to die the little death we call sleep until the sun of toilshould glitter above the eastern hills once more.
A few days later he decided to make an ass of himself, having been sentwith a wagon to Moss Centre, a neighbouring metropolis.
First he sent a telegram to himself at Caranay, signing it William Smith.Then he went to the drug store telephone, and called up Caranay.
"Hello! What number, please?" came a far, sweet voice; and Marquetrembled: "No number. I want to speak to Mr. Marque--Mr. John Marque."
"He isn't here."
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly. I saw him driving one of Mr. Willett's wagons across thetrack this morning."
"Oh, that's too bad. Could I--might I--ask a little information of you?"
"Certainly."
"What sort of a fellow is this John Marque? He doesn't amount to much Iunderstand."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I might want to employ him, but I don't believe he is the sort ofman to trust----"
"You are mistaken!" she said crisply.
"You mean he is all right?"
"Absolutely."
"Honest?"
"Of course."
"Capable?"
"Certainly."
"Sober?"
"Perfectly."
"M-moral?"
"Unquestionably!" she said indignantly.
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
"How do you know?"
"I have means of information which I am not at liberty to disclose. Whois this speaking?"
"William Smith of Minnow Hollow."
"Are you going to take Mr. Marque to Minnow Hollow?"
"I may."
"You can't. Mr. Willett employs him."
"Suppose I offer him better wages----"
"He is perfectly satisfied here."
"But I----"
"No! Mr. Marque does not care to leave Caranay."
"But----"
"I am sorry. It is useless to even suggest it to him. Good-bye!"
With cheeks flushed and a slightly worried expression she resumed hersewing through the golden stillness of the afternoon. Now and then theclank of wagon wheels crossing the metals caused her to glance swiftlyinto her mirror to see what was going on behind her. And at last she sawMarque drive up, cross the track, then, giving the reins to the boy whosat beside him, turn and walk directly toward the station. And her heartgave a bound.
For the first time he came directly to her window; she saw and heard him,knew he was waiting behind the mignonette and heliotrope, and went onserenely sewing.
"Miss Eden?"
She waited another moment--time enough to place her sewing leisurely onthe table. Then, very slowly she turned in her chair and looked at himout of her dark lilac-hued eyes.
He heard himself saying, as in a dream:
"Is there a telegram for me?"
And, as her delicate lifted brows questioned him:
"I am John Marque," he said.
She picked up the telegram which lay on her table and handed it to him.
"Thank you," he said. After he had gone she realised that she had notspoken.
The Gay Rebellion Page 12