"It depends upon the young man. Edith could do worse than marry a good, clean, wholesome fellow like that."
"Good gracious! You deon't allow your mind to go that fah?"
"Why, certainly! I'd much rather she'd marry a strong young workingman than some burnt-out third-generation wreck of her own set in the city."
"But the fellow has no means."
"He has muscle and brains, and besides, she has something of her own."
Saulisbury filled his pipe slowly.
"Luckily, it's all theory on our part; the contingency isn't heah—isn't likely to arrive, in fact."
"Don't be too sure. If I can read a girl's heart in the lines of her face, she's got where principalities and powers are of small account."
"Really?"
"Sure as shooting," she smilingly said.
Saulisbury mused and puffed.
"In that case, we will have to turn in and give the fellow what you Americans call a boost."
"That's right," his wife replied slangily.
Edith went to her room that night with a mind whirling in dizzying circles, whose motion she could not check. It was terrible to have it all come in this way.
She knew Arthur cared for her—she had known it from the first—but with the happy indifference of youth, she had not looked forward to the end of the summer. The sure outcome of passion had kept itself somewhere in a golden glimmer on the lower sweep of the river.
She wished for some one to go to for advice. Mrs. Thayer, she knew, would exclaim in horror over the matter. The Major had hinted the course she would have to take, which was to show Arthur he had no connection with her life—if she could. But deep in her heart she knew she could not do that.
Suddenly a thought came to her which made her flush till the dew of shame stood upon her forehead. He had never been to see her; she had always been to see him!
She knew that this was true. She did not attempt to conceal it from herself now. The charm of those rides with her uncle was the chance of seeing Arthur. The sweet, never-wearying charm that made this summer one of perfect happiness, that had made her almost forget her city ways and friends, that had made her brown and strong with the soil and wind, was daily contact with a robust and wholesome young man, a sturdy figure with brown throat and bare, strong arms.
She went off at this point into a retrospective journey along the pathways of her summer outing. At this place he stood at the watering trough, leaning upon his great gray horse. Here he was walking behind his plow; he was lifting his hat—the clear sunshine fell over his face. She saw again the splendid flex of his side and powerful thigh. Here he was in the hayfield, and she saw the fork-handle bend like a willow twig under his smiling effort, the muscles on his brown arms rolling like some perfect machinery. She idealized all he did, and the entire summer and the wide landscape seemed filled with prismatic colors.
Then her self-accusations came back. She had gone down into the field to see him; perhaps the very man who was with him then was one of those who had jested of her and whom he had punished. Her little hands clutched.
"I'll never go out there again! I'll never see him again—never!" she said, with her teeth shut tight.
Mrs. Thayer did not take any very great interest in the matter until Mrs. Saulisbury held a session with her. Then she sputtered in deep indignation.
"Why, how dare he make love to my niece? Why, the presumptuous thing! Why, the idea! He's a workingman!"
Mrs. Saulisbury remained calm and smiling. She was the only person who could manage Mrs. Thayer.
"Yes, that's true. But he's a college-bred man, and——"
"College-bred! These nasty little Western colleges—what do they amount to? Why, he curries our horses."
Mrs. Saulisbury was amused.
"I know that is an enormity, but I heard the Major tell of currying horses once."
"That was in the army—anyhow, it doesn't matter. Edith can simply ignore the whole thing."
"I hope she can, but I doubt it very much."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Edith is interested in him."
"I don't believe it! Why, it is impossible! You're crazy, Jeannette!"
"He's very handsome in a way."
"He's red and big-jointed, and he's a common plowboy." Mrs. Thayer gasped, returning to her original charge.
Mrs. Saulisbury laughed, being malevolent enough to enjoy the whole situation.
"He appears to me to be a very uncommon plowboy. Well, I wouldn't try to do anything about it, Charlotte," she added. "You remember the fate of the Brookses, who tried to force Maud to give up her clerk. If this is a case of true love, you might as well surrender gracefully."
"But I can't do that. I'm responsible for her to her father. I'll go right straight and ask her."
"Charlotte," Mrs. Saulisbury's voice rang with a stern note, "don't you presume to do such a thing! You will precipitate everything. The girl don't know her own mind, and if you go up there and attack this young man, you'll tip the whole dish over. Don't you know you can't safely abuse that young fellow in her hearing? Sit down now and be reasonable. Leave her alone for a while. Let her think it over alone."
This good counsel prevailed, and the other woman settled into a calmer state.
"Well, it's a dreadful thing, anyhow."
"Perfectly dreadful! But you mustn't take a conventional view of it. You must remember, a good, handsome, healthy man should come first as a husband, and this young man is very attractive, and I must admit he seems a gentleman, so far as I can see. Besides, you can't do anything by storming up to that poor girl. Let her alone for a few days."
Following this suggestion, no one alluded to the fight, or appeared to notice Edith's changed moods, but Mrs. Saulisbury could not forbear giving her an occasional squeeze of wordless sympathy, as she passed her.
It was pitiful to see the tumult and fear and responsibility of the world coming upon this dainty, simple-hearted girl. Life had been so straightforward before. No toil, no problems, no choosing of things for one's self. Now suddenly here was the greatest problem of all coming at the end of a summer-time outing.
Meanwhile Arthur was longing to see Edith once more, and wondering why she had stopped coming.
The Major came up on Friday and Saturday, but came alone, and that left only the hope of seeing Edith at church, and the young fellow worked on with that to nerve his arm.
The family respected his departure on Sunday. They plainly felt his depression, and sympathized with it.
"Walk home with her. I would," said Mrs. Richards, as he went through the kitchen.
"So would I. Dang me if I'd stand off," Richards started to say, but Arthur did not stop to listen.
As he rode down to the city, he recovered, naturally, a little of his buoyancy. Sleep had rested his body and cleared his mind for action.
He sat in his usual place at the back of the church, and his heart throbbed painfully as he saw her moving up the aisle, a miracle of lace and coolness, with fragrant linen enveloping her lovely young form, so erect and graceful and slender.
Then his heart bowed down before her, not because she was above him in a social class—he did not admit that—but because he was a lover, and she was his ideal. He was cast down as suddenly as he had been exalted by her timid look around, as was her custom, in order to bow to him.
He stood at the door as they came out, though he felt foolish and boyish in doing so. She approached him with eyes turned away; but as she passed him she flashed an appealing, mystical look at him, and, flushing a radiant pink, slipped out of the side door, leaving him stunned and smarting for a moment.
As he mounted his horse and rode away toward the ranch, his thoughts were busy with that strange look of hers. He came to understand and to believe at last that she appealed to him and trusted in him and waited for him.
Then something strong and masterful rose in him. He lifted his big brown fist in the air in a resolution which was li
ke that of Napoleon when he entered Russia. He turned and rode furiously back toward the town.
As he walked up the gravel path to the Thayer house it seemed like a castle to him. The great granite portico, the curving flight of steps, the splendor of the glass above the door, all impressed him with the terrible gulf between his fortune and hers.
He was met at the door by the girl from the table. He greeted her as his equal, and said:
"Is Miss Newell at home?"
The girl smiled with perfect knowledge and sympathy. She was on his side; and she knew, besides, how much it meant to have the hired man come in at the front door.
"Yes, she's at dinner. Won't you come in, Mr. Ramsey?"
He entered without further words, and followed her into the reception room, which was the most splendid room he had ever seen. He stood with his feet upon a rug which was worth more than his year's pay, and he knew it.
"Just take a seat here, and I'll announce you," said the girl, who was almost trembling with eagerness to explode her torpedo of news.
"Don't disturb them. I'll wait."
But she had whisked out of the room, having plans of her own; perhaps revenges of her own.
Arthur listened. He could not help it. He heard the girl's clear, distinct voice; the open doorways conveyed every word to him.
"It's Mr. Ramsey, ma'am, to see Miss Newell."
The young man's strained ears heard the sudden pause in the click of knives and plates. He divined the gasps of astonishment with which Mrs. Thayer's utterance began.
"Well, I declare! Now, Major, you see what I told you?"
"The plucky young dog!" said Saulisbury, in sincere admiration.
Mrs. Thayer went on:
"Now, Mr. Thayer, this is the result of treating your servants as equals."
The Major laughed.
"My dear, you're a little precipitate. It may be a mistake. The young man may be here to tell me one of the colts is sick."
"You don't believe any such thing! You heard what the girl said—Oh, look at Edith!"
There was a sudden pushing and scraping of chairs. Arthur rose, tense, terrified. A little flurry of voices followed.
"Here, give her some wine! The poor thing! No wonder——"
Then a slight pause.
"She's all right," said the Major in a relieved tone. "Just a little surprised, that's all."
There came a little inarticulate murmur from the girl, and then another pause.
"By Jove! this is getting dramatic!" said Saulisbury.
"Be quiet, Sam," said his wife. "I won't have any of your scoffing. I'm glad there is some sincerity of emotion left in our city girls."
Mrs. Thayer broke in:
"Major, you go right out there and send that impudent creature away. It's disgraceful!"
Arthur turned cold and hard as granite. His heart rose with a murderous, slow swell. He held his breath, while the calm, amused voice of the Major replied:
"But, see here, my dear, it's none of my business. Mr. Ramsey is an American citizen—I like him—he has a perfect right to call——"
"H'yah, h'yah!" called Saulisbury in a chuckle.
"He's a man of parts, and besides, I rather imagine Edith has given him the right to call."
The anger died out of Arthur's heart, and the warm blood rushed once more through his tingling body. Tears came to his eyes, and he could have embraced his defender.
"Nothing like consistency, Majah," said Saulisbury.
"Sam, will you be quiet?"
The Major went on:
"I imagine the whole matter is for Edith to decide. It's really very simple. Let her send word to him that she does not care to see him, and he'll go away—no doubt of it."
"Why, of course," said Mrs. Thayer. "Edith, just tell Mary to say to Mr. What's-his-name——"
Again that creeping thrill came into the young man's hair. His world seemed balanced on a needle's point.
Then a chair was pushed back slowly. There was another little flurry. Again the blood poured over him like a splash of warm water, leaving him cold and wet.
"Edith!" called the astonished, startled voice of Mrs. Thayer. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to see him," said the girl's firm voice.
There was a soft clapping of two pairs of hands.
As she came through the portière, Edith walked like a princess. There was amazing resolution in her back-flung head, and on her face was the look of one who sets sail into unknown seas.
Someway—somehow, through a mist of light and a blur of sound, he met her—and the cling of her arms about his neck moved him to tears.
No word was uttered till the Major called from the doorway:
"Mr. Ramsey, Mrs. Thayer wants to know if you won't come and have some dinner."
* * *
A STOP-OVER AT TYRE.
I.
Albert Lohr was studying the motion of the ropes and lamps, and listening to the rumble of the wheels and the roar of the ferocious wind against the pane of glass that his head touched. It was the midnight train from Marion rushing toward Warsaw like some savage thing unchained, creaking, shrieking, and clattering through the wild storm which possessed the whole Mississippi Valley.
Albert lost sight of the lamps at last, and began to wonder what his future would be. "First I must go through the university at Madison; then I'll study law, go into politics, and perhaps some time I may go to Washington."
In imagination he saw that wonderful city. As a Western boy, Boston to him was historic, New York was the great metropolis, but Washington was the great American city, and political greatness the only fame.
The car was nearly empty: save here and there the wide-awake Western drummer, and a woman with four fretful children, the train was as deserted as it was frightfully cold. The engine shrieked warningly at intervals, the train rumbled hollowly over short bridges and across pikes, swung round the hills, and plunged with wild warnings past little towns hid in the snow, with only here and there a light shining dimly.
One of the drummers now and then rose up from his cramped bed on the seats, and swore dreadfully at the railway company for not heating the cars. The woman with the children inquired for the tenth time, "Is the next station Lodi?"
"Yes, ma'am, it is," snarled the drummer, as he jerked viciously at the strap on his valise; "and darned glad I am, too, I can tell yeh! I'll be stiff as a car-pin if I stay in this infernal ice chest another hour. I wonder what the company think——"
At Lodi several people got on, among them a fat man and his pretty daughter abnormally wide awake considering the time of night. She saw Albert for the same reason that he saw her—they were both young and good-looking.
He began his musings again, modified by this girl's face. He had left out the feminine element; obviously he must recapitulate. He'd study law, yes; but that would not prevent going to sociables and church fairs. And at these fairs the chances were good for a meeting with a girl. Her father must be influential—country judge or district attorney; this would open new avenues.
He was roused by the sound of his own name.
"Is Albert Lohr in this car?" shouted the brakeman, coming in, enveloped in a cloud of fine snow.
"Yes, here!" shouted Albert.
"Here's a telegram for you."
Albert snatched the envelope with a sudden fear of disaster at home; but it was dated "Tyre":
"Get off at Tyre. I'll be there.
"Hartley."
"Well, now, that's fun!" said Albert, looking at the brakeman. "When do we reach there?"
"About 2.20."
"Well, by thunder! A pretty time o' night!"
The brakeman grinned sympathetically. "Any answer?" he asked at length.
"No; that is, none that 'u'd do the matter justice," Albert said, studying the telegram.
"Hartley friend o' yours?"
"Yes; know him?"
"Yes; he boarded where I did in Warsaw."
When he c
ame back again, the brakeman said to Albert, in a hesitating way:
"Ain't going t' stop off long, I s'pose?"
"May an' may not; depends on Hartley. Why?"
"Well, I've got an aunt there that keeps boarders, and I kind o' like t' send her one when I can. If you should happen to stay a few days, go an' see her. She sets up first-class grub, an' it wouldn't kill anybody, anyhow, if you went up an' called."
"Course not. If I stay long enough to make it pay I'll look her up sure. I ain't no Vanderbilt to stop at two-dollar-a-day hotels."
The brakeman sat down opposite Albert, encouraged by his smile.
"Y' see, my division ends at Warsaw, and I run back and forth here every other day, but I don't get much chance to see them, and I ain't worth a cuss f'r letter-writin'. Y'see, she's only aunt by marriage, but I like her; an' I guess she's got about all she can stand up under, an' so I like t' help her a little when I can. The old man died owning nothing but the house, an' that left the old lady t' rustle f'r her livin'. Dummed if she ain't sandy as old Sand. They're gitt'n' along purty——"
The whistle blew for brakes, and, seizing his lantern, the brakeman slammed out on the platform.
"Tough night for twisting brakes," suggested Albert, when he came in again.
"Yes—on the freight."
"Good heavens! I should say so. They don't run freight such nights as this?"
"Don't they? Well, I guess they don't stop for a storm like this if they's any money to be made by sending her through. Many's the night I've broke all night on top of the old wooden cars, when the wind cut like a razor. Shear the hair off a cast-iron mule—woo-o-o! There's where you need grit, old man," he ended, dropping into familiar speech.
"Yes; or need a job awful bad."
The brakeman was struck with this idea. "There's where you're right. A fellow don't take that kind of a job for the fun of it. Not much! He takes it because he's got to. That's as sure's you're a foot high. I tell you, a feller's got t' rustle these days if he gits any kind of a job——"
"Toot, too-o-o-o-t, toot!"
The station passed, the brakeman did not return, perhaps because he found some other listener, perhaps because he was afraid of boring this pleasant young fellow. Albert shuddered with a sympathetic pain as he thought of the men on the tops of the icy cars, with hands straining at the brake, and the wind cutting their faces like a sand-blast. His mind went out to the thousands of freight trains shuttling to and fro across the vast web of gleaming iron spread out on the mighty breast of the Western plains. Oh, those tireless hands at the wheel and throttle!
Wayside Courtships Page 7