Chapter XVI
I GO TO NEW YORK FOR A PURPOSE
I shall not here recount the events on the farm during the weeks whichfollowed Miss Stella's departure. They did not particularly interest me.My whole psychological make-up had been violently shaken, the centres ofattention had been shifted, and I was constantly struggling for areadjustment which did not come. The post-office appealed to me morethan the peas, and I laboured harder over my photographs of the sundialbeds than over the beds themselves. I sent for a ray filter and awide-angle lens, spending hours in experiment and covering a plankin front of the south door with printing frames.
I had written to her the day after she had departed, but no replycame for a week, and then only a brief little note, telling me it washot in town and conveying her regards to the roses. I, too, waited aweek--though it was hard--and then answered, sending some photographs,one of them a snapshot of a bird on the edge of the bath, one ofthem of Buster sitting on his hind legs. Again she answered briefly,merrily, conveying her especial regards to Buster, but ending with aplaintive little postscript about the heat.
I sat, the evening after this letter arrived, in my big, cool room, withBuster beside me, and thought of her down there in the swelter of town.I wanted to answer her letter, and wanted to answer it tenderly. I waslonely in my great, cool room; I was unspeakably lonely.
Suddenly it occurred to me that this was the evening of Class Day.The Yard was full of lanterns, of music, of shimmering dresses, ofpretty faces, of young men in mortar boards and gowns. I might havebeen sitting in the deep window recess of my old room above the Yard,drinking in the scene with the pleasant impersonal wistfulness of anolder man in the presence of happy youth. But I wasn't. I was sittinghere alone with Buster, thinking of a poor girl in a hot, lonely New Yorklodging-house. I pulled my pad toward me and wrote her a letter. It read:
Dear, Nice Lady: I'm lying here on the rug, my tail quite tired after a hard day's work, looking up in Mr. John's face. His face is kind of glum and his eyes sort of faraway looking. I don't know what's the matter with him. He's been that way nights for two or three weeks now, which makes me sad, too; only he goes to the post-office often, which makes me glad, 'cause I love to walk or to run behind the buggy, and there's a collie pup on the way who is very nice. What do you suppose is the trouble? Sometimes he goes to the brook and sits on a stone by a pool there, while I go wading and get my stummick wet and drippy and cool. I wish you'd come back. I didn't get to know you so awful well, but I liked you, and a house with just one glum, stupid man in it ain't--I mean isn't--very nice, 'specially as Peter's still at school. Schools last awful late up here.
I am yours waggishly--
"Here, Buster," said I. The pup rose and snuggled his nose into my lap.I picked him up, held his forepaw firmly and put some ink on it with theend of a match. Then I held the paper below it, pressed the paw down,and made a signature, wiping the paw afterward with a blotter. Busterenjoyed the strange operation, and wagged his tail furiously. I sealedand addressed the letter, and went to bed.
A few days later a box came addressed to Buster in my care. I openedit in Buster's presence, indeed literally beneath his nose. On topwas a small package, tied with blue ribbon, and labelled "For Buster."It proved to be a dog biscuit, which the recipient at once took to thehearth and began upon. Beneath this was a note, which I opened with eagerfingers. It began:
DARLING BUSTER: Your waggish epistle received and contents noted. While most of us at times agree with him who said that the more he saw of men the better he liked dogs, nevertheless the canine intelligence is in some ways limited. Pray do not misunderstand me, dear Buster. In its limits lies its loyalty! No man is a hero to his valet, but every man to his dog. However, these same limits of the canine intelligence, which logic compels me to assume that you also possess, are probably responsible for your mistake in assigning the term glumness to what you observe in Master John, when it is really lack of occupation. You see, dear Buster, he has got Twin Fires so far under way that he doesn't work at it all the time, so he ought to be at his writing of stories, made up of big dictionary words which I am defining or inventing for him down here in a very hot, dirty, dusty, smelly town. He isn't doing that, is he? Won't you please tell him to? Tell him that's all the trouble. He has a reaction from his first farming enthusiasm, and doesn't realize that the thing to do is to go to work on the new line, _his_ line. For it _is_ his line, you know, Buster.
Underneath this you'll find something to give him, with my best wishes for sunshine on the dear garden. I'd kiss you, Buster, only dogs are terribly germy.
Stella.
P.S. That _is_ a nice pool, isn't it?
I sat on the floor with the letter in my lap, smiling happily over it.Then I took the last package out of the box. It was heavy, evidentlymetal. Removing the papers, I held in my hand an old bronze sundialplate, a round one to fit my column, and upon it, freshly engraved, theancient motto--
Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas
My first thought was of its cost. She couldn't afford it, the silly,generous girl! She'd bought it, doubtless, at one of those expensive NewYork antique shops, and then taken it to an engraver's, for furtherexpense. I ought not accept it. Yet how could I refuse? I couldn't.I hugged it to my heart, and fairly ran to the dial post, Buster at myheels. It was already nearly noon, so I set it on the pedestal, got alevel and a pot of glue, which was the only means of securing it to thepost which I had, and watch in hand waited for the minute of twelve.At the minute, I set the shadow between the noon lines, levelled it withthin bits of match underneath, and glued it down. Then I stood off andsurveyed it, sitting there in the sun--_her_ dial! Then I ran for mycamera.
I developed the film at once, and made a print that afternoon. When itwas made, I went out into the vegetable garden, on a sudden impulse towork off physical energy, took the wheel hoe away from Mike, and beganto cultivate.
Did you ever spend an afternoon with a wheel hoe, up and down, up anddown, between rows of beets and carrots and onions, between cauliflowerplants and tomato vines, between pepper plants and lettuce? Itrequires a certain fixity of attention to keep the weeders or thecultivator teeth close to the plants without also injuring them. Butthere is a soothing monotony in the forward pushes of the machine,and a profound satisfaction in seeing the weeds come up, the groundgrow clean and brown and broken on each side of the row behind you, andto feel, too, how much you are accomplishing with the aid of thiscomparatively simple tool.
My early peas were ready for market. Mike announced that he was goingto take the first lot over in the morning. They had been planted verylate, but fortune had favoured them, and now they were hardly morethan a week behind Bert's, which had been planted early in April. Thefoot-high corn was waving in the breeze, the long rows of delicateonion tops, of beets, carrots, radishes, and lettuce plants were ascharacteristically different as the vegetables themselves. I fixedtheir characteristics in my vision. I suddenly found myself taking arenewed interest in the farm. As I paused to wipe my bronzed foreheador relight my pipe, I would raise my head and look back over the rows,or through the trellis aqueduct to the house, seeing the sundial tellingthe hours on the lawn, and think of Stella, think of her down in thehot city, where I knew at last that I should not let her stay.
Yes, I had no longer any doubts. I wanted her. I should always wanther. Twin Fires was incomplete, I was incomplete, life was incomplete,without her. I pushed the hoe with redoubled zeal, long after Mike hadmilked the cows and departed.
At six I stopped, amazed to find the plot of a story in my head.Heaven knows how it got there, but there it was, almost as full-staturedas Minerva when she sprang from the head of Jove, though considerablyless glacial. I even had the opening sentence all ready framed--tome always the most
difficult point of story or essay, except theclosing sentence. Nor did this tale appear to be one I had incubatedin the past, and which now popped up above the "threshold" from mysubconsciousness. It was a brand-new plot, a perfect stranger to me. Thephenomenon interested me almost as much as the plot. The tale grew evenclearer as I took my bath, and haunted me during supper, so that I wasperemptory in my replies to poor Mrs. Pillig and refused to aid Peterthat evening with his geography.
"To-morrow," said I, vaguely, going into my study and locking the door.
I worked all that evening, got up at midnight to forage for a glass ofmilk and a fresh supply of oil for my lamp, and returned to my desk towork till four, when the sun astonished me. The story was done! Insteadof going to bed, I went down in the cool of the young morning, when onlythe birds were astir, and took my bath in Stella's pool. Then I wentto the dew-drenched pea vines and began to pick peas.
Here Mike found me, with nearly half a bushel gathered, when he appearedearly to pick for market.
"It's the early bird gets the peas," said I.
"It is shurely," he laughed. "You might say you had a tiliphone callto get up--only these ain't tiliphones."
"Mike!" I cried, "a pun before breakfast!"
"Shure, I've had me breakfast," said he.
Which reminded me that I hadn't. I went in the house to get it, readingover and correcting my manuscript as I ate. After breakfast I put onrespectable clothes, tucked the manuscript in my pocket, and mounted theseat of my farm wagon, beside Mike. Behind us were almost two bushelsof peas and several bunches of tall, juicy, red rhubarb stalks from theold hills we found on the place. Mike had greatly enriched the soil, andgrown the plants in barrels.
"Well, I'm a real farmer now," said I.
"Ye are, shurely," Mike replied. "Them's good peas, if they wasplanted late."
We drove past the golf links and the summer hotel, to the market, whereI was already known, I found, and greeted by name as I entered.
"I'll buy anything you'll sell me," said the proprietor, "and beglad to get it. Funny thing about this town, the way folks won't takethe trouble to sell what they raise. Most of the big summer estates havetheir own gardens, of course, but there's nearly a hundred familiesthat don't, and four boarding-houses, and the hotels. Why, the hotelssend to New York for vegetables--if you can beat that! Guess all ourfarmers with any gumption have gone to the cities."
"Well," said I, "I'm not in farming for my health, which has alwaysbeen good. I've got more than a bushel of peas out there."
"Peas!" cried the market man. "Why, I have more demands for peas thanI can fill. The folks who could sell me peas won't plant 'em 'causeit's too much trouble or expense to provide the brush. I'll give youeight cents a quart for peas to-day."
"This is too easy," I whispered to Mike, as we went out to get thebaskets.
I sold my rhubarb also, and came away with a little book in which therewas entered to my credit $4.16 for peas and $1.66 for rhubarb. I putthe book proudly in my pocket, for it represented my first earnings fromthe farm, and mounting the farm wagon again told Mike to drive me to thehotel.
As we pulled up before the veranda, the line of old ladies in rockersfocussed their eyes upon us.
"Shure," whispered Mike, "they look like they was hung out to dry!"
I went up the steps and into the office, where the hotel proprietorsuavely greeted me, asked after my health, and inquired how my "estate"was getting on.
"You mean my farm," said I.
He smiled politely, but not without a skepticism which annoyed me. Ihastened from him, and left my manuscript with the stenographer, whohad arrived for the summer.
"I'll call for the copy to-morrow noon," said I. Then I went to thetelegraph booth and sent a day letter to Stella. "Buster sending me tothank you," it read. "Meet me Hotel Belmont six to-morrow. Sold over abushel of peas to-day. Prepare to celebrate."
"Mike," said I, returning to the cart, "drop me at the golf club. TellMrs. Pillig not to expect me to lunch."
It was ten o'clock when we arrived at the entrance to the club. I jumpedout and Mike drove on. The professional took my name, and promisedto hand it to the proper authorities as a candidate. Then I paid thefee for the day, borrowed some clubs from him, and we set out. I had nottouched a club since the winter set in. How good the driver felt inmy hand! How sweetly the ball flew from the club (as the golf balladvertisements phrase it), on the first attempt! I sprang down thecourse in pursuit, elated to see that I had driven even with the pro.Alas! my second was not like unto it! His second spun neatly up on thegreen and came to rest. Mine went off my mashie like a cannon ball, andovershot into the road. My third went ten feet. But it was glorious.Why shouldn't a farmer play golf? Why shouldn't a golfer run a farm?Why shouldn't either write stories? Heavens, what a lot of pleasantthings there are to do in the world, I thought to myself, as I finallyreached the green and sank my putt. Poor Stella, sweltering over adictionary in New York! Soon she'd be here, too. She should learn toplay golf, she should dig flower beds, she should wade in a brook. Iflubbed my second drive.
"You're taking your eye off," said the pro.
"I'm taking my mind off," said I. "Give me a stroke a hole from here,for double the price of the round, or quits?"
"You're on," said he.
I stung him, too! I felt so elated that I went back to the hotel for anelaborate luncheon, and returned for eighteen holes more. The feats a mancan perform the first day after he has had no sleep are astonishing. Thesecond day it is different. In fact, I began to get groggy about thetenth hole that afternoon, so that the pro. got back his losses, as ina burst of bravado I had offered to double the morning bet. He came backwith an unholy 68 that afternoon, confound him! They always do when thebet is big enough, which is really why they are called professionals.
That night I slept ten hours, worked over my manuscripts most of thenext morning, packed a load of them in my suitcase, and after an earlydinner got Peter to drive me to the train, for his school had now closed.
"Peter," said I at the station, "your job is to take care of yourmother, and keep the kindlings split, and drive to market for Mike whenhe needs you. Also to water the lawn and flower beds with the spraynozzle every morning. Mind, now, the spray nozzle! If I find you'veused the heavy stream, I'll--I'll--I'll sell Buster!"
That amiable creature tried to climb aboard the train with me, and Peterhad to haul him off by the tail. My last sight of Bentford was a yellowdog squirming and barking in a small boy's arms.
The train was hot and stuffy. It grew hotter and stuffier as we cameout of the mountains into the Connecticut lowlands, and we were allsweltering in the Pullman by the time New York was reached. As I steppedout of the Grand Central station into Forty-second Street my ears wereassaulted by the unaccustomed din, my nose by the pungent odour of citystreets, my eyes smarted in a dust whirl. But my heart was poundingwith joy and expectation as I hurried across the street.
I climbed the broad steps to the lobby of the hotel, and scarcely hadmy feet reached the top than I saw a familiar figure rise from a chair.I ran toward her, waving off the boy who rushed to grab my bag. A secondlater her hand was in mine, her eyes upon my eyes.
"It--it was nice of Buster to send you," she said.
"You look so white, so tired," I answered. "Where is all your tan?"
"Melted," she laughed. "Have you business in town? It's awfully hothere, you poor man."
"Yes," said I, "I have business here, very important business. Butfirst some supper and a spree. I've got 'most two bushels of peas tospend!"
We had a gay supper, and then took a cab, left my grip at my collegeclub, where I had long maintained a non-resident membership, and drovethence to Broadway.
"How like Bentford Main Street!" I laughed, as we emerged fromFourty-fourth Street into the blaze of grotesque electric signs whichhave a kind of bizarre beauty, none the less. "Where shall we go?"
"There's a revival of 'Patience' at the Casino," she sugg
ested,"and there are the Ziegfeld Follies----"
"Not the Follies," I answered. "I'm neither a drummer nor a ruralSunday-school superintendent. Gilbert and Sullivan sounds good, and I'venever heard 'Patience.'"
We found our places in the Casino just as the curtain was going up, andI saw "Patience" for the first time. I was glad it was for the firsttime, because she was with me, to share my delight. As incomparabletune after tune floated out to us the absurdest of absurd words, her eyestwinkled into mine, and our shoulders leaned together, and finally,between the seats, I squeezed her fingers with unrestrainable delight.
"Nice Gilbert and Sullivan," she whispered.
"It's a masterpiece; it's a masterpiece!" I whispered back. "It'sas perfect in its way as--as your sundial! Oh, I'm so glad you are withme!"
"Is it worth coming way to New York for?"
"Under the conditions, around the world for," said I.
She coloured rosy, and looked back at the stage.
After the performance she would not let me get a cab. "You've notthat many peas on the place," she said. So we walked downtown to herlodgings, through the hot, dusty, half-deserted streets, into the oldersection of the city below Fourteenth Street. I said little, save toanswer her volley of eager questions about the farm. At the steps ofan ancient house near Washington Square she paused.
"Here is where I live," she said. "I've had a lovely evening. ShallI see you again before you go back?"
I smiled, took the latchkey from her hand, opened the door, andstepped behind her, to her evident surprise, into the large, silent,musty-smelling hall. She darted a quick look about, but I ignoredit, taking her hand and leading her quickly into the parlour, where,by the faint light from the hall, I could see an array of mid-Victorianplush. The house was silent. Still holding her hand, I drew her to me.
"I am not going back--alone," I whispered. "You are going with me.Stella, I cannot live without you. Twin Fires is crying for its mistress.You are going back, too, away from the heat and dust and the town, into ahouse where the sweet air wanders, into the pines where the hermit singsand the pool is thirsty for your feet."
I heard in the stillness a strange sob, and suddenly her head was on mybreast and her tears were flowing. My arms closed about her.
Presently she lifted her face, and our lips met. She put up her handsand held my face within them. "So that was what the thrush said, afterall," she whispered, with a hint of a happy smile.
"To me, yes," said I. "I didn't dream it was to you. _Was_ it toyou?"
"That you'll never know," she answered, "and you'll always be toostupid to guess."
"Stupid! You called me that once before about the painters. Why wereyou angry about choosing the dining-room paint?"
She grew suddenly wistful. "I'll tell you that," she said. "Itwas--it was because you let a third person into our little drama ofTwin Fires. I--I was a fool, maybe. But I was playing out a kind--akind of dream of home building. Two can play such a dream, if theydon't speak of it. But not three. Then it becomes--it becomes, well,matter-of-facty, and people talk, and the bloom goes, and--you hurt me alittle, that's all."
I could not reply for a moment. What man can before the wistful sweetnessof a woman's secret moods? I could only kiss her hair. Finally wordscame. "The dream shall be reality now," I said, "and you and Itogether will make Twin Fires the loveliest spot in all the hills.To-morrow we'll buy a stair carpet, and--lots of things--together."
"Still with the pea money?" she gurgled, her gayety coming back. "No,sir; I've some money, too. Not much, but a little to take the placeof the wedding presents I've no relatives to give me. I want to helpfurnish Twin Fires." She laid her fingers on my protesting lips. "Ishall, anyway," she added. "We are two lone orphans, you and I, but wehave each other, and all that is mine is yours, all--all--all!"
Suddenly she threw her arms about my neck, and I was silent in themystery of her passion.
The Idyl of Twin Fires Page 16