Then suddenly he realized that he would have hard work to get away with that and not meet somebody who would tell his father and there would be all kinds of a row, and they would perhaps block him in his purpose. No, better get out while the getting was good, and not come back until he was on his feet really for keeps.
But he mustn’t go without somehow letting that kid know that he had meant to keep his promise. He would go into Rowley’s and telephone. He hadn’t meant to go to Rowley’s at all, but now this was the quickest way and then he could light out and make his getaway before anybody had an idea he was gone.
So he went in and called Rose.
And when he came out he found himself greatly shaken. Something in her voice when she said she was sorry, when she told him she believed in him and cared whether he went away, made his heart come up somewhere in the region of his throat. Nobody but Joyce had ever spoken to him like that. Gee! what would it be like if he was the kind of fellow who could go with a girl like that and take her places? What if he should go away and get to be the right kind of a fellow somehow and come back someday and go to call on her. Would her eyes light up the way they had when he said he’d go to the meeting with her? Would her voice light up and get all warm the way it had over the telephone?
Walking on out of his home life Jason carried with him a lovely little picture of Rose in her pink dress, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, eyes that had curly lashes with tangles of sunbeams in them, golden curly lashes. And hair that curled like sunbeams, too. Say, she was a pretty girl. She was a honey! There weren’t any girls around like her.
He thought of the wild coarse young hoydens who came to Rowley’s, skinny gaunt creatures with large red lips and vivid cheeks made brighter by the chalk white of the surrounding flesh. Girls with dark plastered hair cut in unusual boyish shapes. Girls who looked like emaciated clowns, and acted the part. Girls with flimsy dirty little dresses, and a great deal of their skinny backs showing. It revolted him that he had ever danced with them. They were coarse little things without an idea in their heads except to get as much out of a boy as they could. Girls who drank and smoked and conducted themselves in a disreputable way generally. When he thought of his desultory contacts with such girls he was disgusted with himself, as if he had suddenly found some defiling substance on his hands and knew not how to cleanse it. He hadn’t had much to do with any of them; he had only danced with them a few times. They hadn’t interested him. They were too low a type perhaps, though he didn’t know that. He was merely getting his eyes open to himself and his own movements. It seemed that he had never really lived until now that he was going out of the environment that he knew, and going for a long time.
Suddenly as he saw all the familiar things disappearing they grew dear to him. The neat little town, the quiet countryside, the long sloping meadows where his father’s cows grazed, the sunsets that flung themselves behind the hills that he could see from his window, the trim compact little bank of clean limestone where he had been so proud to work, where he had really begun to be different and act like a man and not just a kid—all that conjured up because of one girl in a pink dress, with lights in her gold hair and lights in her blue eyes, and a quiver of liking in her voice that was for him!
A strange new sweet thrill went through his young heart when he thought of her voice as she said she believed in him and she cared, and he thought back to school days and how she had smiled sometimes when he played some simple prank and nobody else knew who did it. She had a sense of humor, that girl! Why hadn’t he had sense enough to see when he had the chance what a friend she would be to a fellow if he was just half decent? Of course, he wasn’t paying much attention to girls in those days. He was all for athletics. He thought it was sissy to talk to girls. But now he suddenly longed for that chance back again. Why hadn’t he walked home with Rose and carried her books? Rose—what a sweet name! She looked like a flower in that pink dress!
Maybe her father wouldn’t have cared for a friendship between them, but maybe he would have been different if he had had a friend like Rose. Of course, he had a sister like that! He raised his head proudly and walked along with his back straight and his step firm. Of course, his father was respected, and they had a nice home, and if he had started out going with a girl like that when they were scarcely more than children, likely her father wouldn’t have objected. He had enough background behind him if he had only used it! What a fool he had been!
Perhaps if Joyce hadn’t been away at college when he was in high school she would have invited young people there, and Rose might have come and he would have been there having a good time with them all, and things might have been different.
But there was his stepmother. She had no time for young people. She had to keep the house so immaculate. If you just brought in a grain or two of mud it was all up with you. She wouldn’t have allowed good times. She rode Joyce to death. Even now, she did. He could see that, little as he had stayed at home.
Well, if his own mother had lived, things would have been different.
He sighed heavily and walked wearily on.
There was nothing for it but to go away as he intended and try to be worth something. Probably if he ever did come back in a position to be friends with a girl like Rose, he’d find her married to some chump like Corey Watkins!
Suddenly he ground his teeth together in helpless wrath when he thought of his enemy. What a disaster that would be! Good night! If he thought anything like that could happen he’d turn right around and go back and protect her!
Only of course he couldn’t, not in his present predicament. Not without a decent job.
As he thought back now he almost wished he had eaten humble pie and told Mr. Goodright he would stay on probation and show him he was all right, prove to him that he could make good. After all, Mr. Goodright had been fair. Believing as he did that he, Jason, was a petty thief, he had yet offered him another chance. But it had made him so hot to think that any man could even think such things of him for a minute that he hadn’t even questioned his haughty gesture of refusal.
But that was before he talked with Rose over the telephone. That was before her voice had those tears in it about his going away in anger from his home and his job. That was before she had said she cared, and she believed in him.
Of course, he could turn now and go back to the bank and tell Mr. Goodright he had changed his mind and decided to stay and show him that he was mistaken in him. But how could he? With his old enemy Corey there it would scarcely be possible. He couldn’t tell Mr. Goodright to watch Corey Watkins, a man older than he was, who had gained the respect of everybody in town by his smug ways. Nobody would believe him even if he told what he knew. And it was unthinkable that he should tell. That was his one bit of virtue that he held to.
Besides, if he went back now, under a cloud, somehow it would seep out. It probably had already. And nobody would have anything to do with him, not even if he never went to Rowley’s again. They had him tagged and he couldn’t get away from that, not unless he went away long enough for them to forget his past, and made a new name for himself. Then he could come home and they would probably accept him on a new basis. But if he went back now he wouldn’t likely be allowed to see Rose at all. If he did once or twice he would have the whole nasty prying town talking about her, and he wouldn’t stand for that. No, it was better to go on. He couldn’t go back and meet his father’s roar of disgust, his stepmother’s contemptuous sarcasm, and his sister’s sad eyes. There wasn’t anything he could do but go on.
Then he thought of Rowan. That gave a wrench to his heart. Rowan wouldn’t understand. Rowan had acted as if he believed in him. They had had nice times together. They were buddies. Rowan wouldn’t go back on him even if the town did, or his family, or anybody. But of course, he wouldn’t go back and involve Rowan in a friendship that was unworthy of him, either. Rowan and Joyce and the girl, Rose! He sighed heavily as he plodded on, his eyes down. The world looked black
indeed to him, and he was beginning to see that it was mostly his fault. For the first time in his life he was seeing that his disappointments were largely of his own making. He hadn’t suspected it before. He had thought that everybody else was to blame.
Perhaps if he had gone to Rowan with the whole story Rowan would have helped him work something out without this pilgrimage afar. He had told Rowan once what he meant to do sometime if things went wrong again, and Rowan had laughed at him. Had told him that the way to straighten things out was to stay where the trouble had begun and face it, untangle it, find out what was wrong and set it right.
But Jason was too proud to take such advice. Even now he was too proud. He could not go back to a girl who believed in him and face a time of ignominy.
No, he would take her belief in him as a precious talisman and he would hide it away in his heart to help him to success. She cared; well, he would make her care more. He would be what she wanted him to be.
Oh, she hadn’t said anything about being different, of course, only she had voiced that one little fear when she asked him if he had done anything—no, she hadn’t put it that way. She had said, “You haven’t have you?” She had taken it for granted that it wasn’t his fault, and yet she must have had a fear. Yes, of course, he hadn’t given her reason to be sure about him, but he would in the future. And just as soon as he got established somewhere and was in a fair way to success he would write to her and tell her about it. He would have to do it quickly, too, before some other guy discovered what a lovely little flower she was and tried to snatch her for himself.
The thought spurred him onward. He must hurry up and succeed.
Perhaps when he got located somewhere he’d venture to write to her. Not too soon, for he wanted to have something definite in mind. He wanted to be able to say: “I’ve accepted a position with the So and So Company of Blank, and I’m in a fair way to success,” etc. He wanted to tell her how it had helped him to know she believed in him and cared whether he succeeded or not. That would be enough for a first letter, and then if she answered that perhaps they could go on and correspond, and he would feel that he had an anchor out somewhere and wasn’t just drifting. It would be wonderful to have somebody you dared tell your inmost thoughts to, somebody who wouldn’t laugh.
Perhaps he would write to Rowan sometime later, too. But you couldn’t tell a man who was older than you were just all you were thinking. He hadn’t thought ever before that you could tell any girl things like inside thoughts, not until he heard Rose’s voice when she said she cared.
Of course she didn’t mean anything silly by that, as some girls would mean. She meant real things, things like mothers would say, if you had a mother who cared. Things even deeper than that. things that God made you feel. Jason wasn’t very well acquainted with God. His father asked the blessing at the table in a sort of a mumble that raced along to get done; it was just a gesture heavenward; his father’s life didn’t seem to match up with even such a blessing. God was very far away to Jason, and dim and vague. But he guessed there was a God somewhere who made women like Rose. She was not just a good-looking body that could show you a good time; she cared about your soul.
So Jason walked on swiftly, unaware of his extreme weariness, unaware that the sun was getting lower and he was footsore and hungry, intent only on getting on.
He knew just where he was going. Back at home in his room he had a box full of steamship folders. He had spent hours in studying them. He knew where they docked, knew the numbers of the docks where these massive ships that went to faraway corners of the earth were to be found. He had written to steamship companies and to sailing vessels. He was full of information concerning the far countries that had lured him in his misery. He even knew what times of the month certain ones sailed, or thought he did, though of course timetables changed. But he knew their general hours of sailing. He began to calculate what he would like to do if he could make it. But he must get to New York first, and of course he hadn’t very much money to start out in life with, just a puny month’s salary. He must save every cent he could. He had to eat. He must get a job on the ship if possible. Any ship would do, of several lines he knew. He didn’t care much where he landed. There would be chances in one place as well as another, he thought. If he got a job on a ship it would save him trouble about passports and details of which he had the vaguest knowledge possible, as they hadn’t seemed very important. The thing was to get to New York and find his ship. It seemed to him that of course there would be any number of them, just waiting round to take him where he chose, and perhaps actually glad to give him a job.
He walked on briskly, although now he was beginning to be aware of sudden weariness. He was glad when a farmer in an old junker came along and offered him a lift. He climbed in beside him with almost a semblance of his old cheerful grin. Things weren’t going to be so bad when people came along genially like this to help.
The farmer asked him a lot of questions, which he skillfully evaded, answering them without imparting a single fact, he thought, and they jogged along in the general direction of New York.
When the farmer arrived at his destination he pointed out a cheap place to get a night’s lodging. Jason got some supper, quite plain and unfrilled, served on thick ironstone china, and then went to bed. He had a good night’s sleep, dreaming of a girl in a pink dress who smiled at him with dear believing eyes and waved her hand, and Jason arose refreshed, with a zest for his journey. The bitter thoughts that had accompanied him yesterday for a long time were forgotten, and he even whistled quite cheerily as he started on his way again.
As he walked he wondered what they were thinking about him at home. His father likely was mad, and his stepmother was making caustic remarks about him. Not that that mattered, of course, and Joyce was worried. Poor Joyce. He wished he had asked Rose to tell her that he was all right and would let her hear from him sometime. Perhaps he would mail her a postcard at New York just before he sailed. He wouldn’t dare do it sooner, for the family were capable of putting the police on him and hauling him back for discipline and he didn’t mean to have that for a minute. He was not quite nineteen, and he knew they could if they wanted to. So he wouldn’t write until the last minute.
He had several lifts on the way that day, but he walked slower each time he was let off. He was not used to such long steady tramping. A hole was wearing through the sole of one of his shoes. If that kept on he would have to stop and have it repaired. He didn’t get on so fast as the day before, except for the lifts, but in each case those were only for a few miles, and night found him still quite a distance from his destination.
He acquired a map and a clean collar and stayed at a tourist cottage that night, fairly decent and very cheap. He began to perceive that being on his own was not going to be like rolling in luxury, but he assured himself that he would soon be getting a good salary somewhere and putting away money to go home and astonish his fellow townsmen.
The next day he had to stop to have his shoe resoled, and that set him back, so that when he actually arrived in New York City it was very late, and dark and confusing.
He had been to New York only once before. He knew the general way to the wharfs, but was not familiar with the intervening streets. He felt very tired but so excited over being near the sea at last that he walked at once to the shipping district and made his way from one dock to another, inquiring for different lines.
But it seemed to be an off night so far as the ships he knew were concerned. They had either sailed at noon or at six o’clock that day, or they were going to sail the middle or end of next week. He couldn’t wait around to go on certain ships, to certain chosen ports. One port was as good as another, anyway. He could make good anywhere if he tried. So he wandered on along the shore, asking a question now and again of some dock man. And finally someone directed him to a sailing vessel farther down the dock, that was going out that night, or at least early in the morning. They wanted men, too, were short of their crew.
Did he want a job? Was he a sailor? The landsman eyed his bank-clerk suit questioningly and pointed down a long dark way with intermittent lights piercing the blackness and a forest of masts against the luminousness of a cloudy night. It was beginning to rain, and Jason was almost at the limit of his endurance. Another day like this and he would sit down like a baby and cry to go back home. He must get this business settled up quickly, and made irrevocable, or his courage would ooze out in the night.
So he hurried down the cobbled way, stumbling over ropes and strange object, which he was too tired to identify. Down below him somewhere the black water was lapping, lapping, like a monster who had sighted him and was licking his lips in anticipation of devouring him. Strange idea!
Back at home there was a girl named Rose wearing a pink dress and she had sunshine in her hair.
And back at home they were trying to brand him as a thief and a murderer. And the man who was his enemy, and whom he suspected, was calling on his sister.
But that he did not know, or else many things might have been different.
Chapter 12
When Rowan started out in the darkness more than ten hours later than Jason, he was thinking more of the girl he had left behind him than of the man for whom he was going to search. This was the first minute he had had alone with his thoughts since he had left her. There had been the stealthy trip to his room to get his money, the discovery by his mother who always somehow knew his every move no matter how hard he tried to save her from unnecessary pain, the getting away from her caressing voice, and the hurried plunge down the hill in the rattly old car. But now he was out on the highway, eastward bound, and alone in the night with his thoughts.
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