By the time we learn a few of the lessons life teaches we stop
living. I should have known it is the unexpected that happens, but I
forgot it. What I expected at Claxon did not come to pass.
At a little station a few miles east of the tiny town to which we
were going, Tom and Madeleine left our train and waited for a
crawling accommodation to Shelby, where, later, they would be
married. From the car window I waved to them and tried to transmit a
portion of my courage, for which there was no credit, and of my
enjoyment, of which I should have been ashamed and was not ashamed.
A taste for adventure will ever be a part of me, and I was getting
much more pleasure out of an unexpected experience than Madeleine
was. The playing of shadow to her substance was not so serious for
me as for her, and then, too, I had the joyful irresponsibility of
not going to be married. I do not want to be a married person yet.
As we left the car at Claxon I glanced in the mirror at the end of
our coach and was pleased. About me was a bridal atmosphere that was
unmistakable. Madeleine's clothes were new and lovely and I looked
well. So did Selwyn. As we reached the platform I was undecided
whether to cling timidly to Selwyn's arm or to walk bravely apart,
and the indecision, together with the certainty that some one would
put a hand on Selwyn's shoulder and say words I had never before
heard, made my heart beat with a rapidity that was as genuine as if I
were soon to become a bride in very truth. The sensation was
exhilarating. I liked it.
On the platform of the little station a few negroes in overalls, two
boys, and five men, having apparently nothing to do, were hanging
around, hands in their pockets; and, looking about me, I waited.
Nothing happened. Ahead of us and across a muddy road half a dozen
stores, hunched together in a row of detached and shabby frame
houses, with upper stories seemingly used for residential purposes,
comprised the business portion of the little town, and on our right
the post-office, telegraph and express offices, and telephone
exchange were in the one large building of the place. Out of each
window facing us some one was looking, and in the open door a man was
standing, hat off and sweater-coated, who, at regular intervals, and
with unfailing accuracy of aim, ejected tobacco juice into a puddle
of water some distance away. No one but ourselves got off the train,
and, its stay at the station being short, the attention of the
loungers near by and those resting themselves on boxes and barrels in
front of the stores across the road was turned determinatedly to us.
I looked at Selwyn. In his face was relief. In mine was anxiety
and, I'm afraid, disappointment. The situation was flat.
I had read various accounts of runaway marriages which had taken
place at Claxon, several of which had only succeeded after eluding
the sheriff, waiting under orders from irate parents to arrest them;
and feeling confident Mrs. Swink would wire the proper person to
prevent the marriage of her daughter, I looked around for the one
most likely to do the work. No one appeared. What if my plan had
failed and Madeleine, in my un-wedding garments, was to be taken into
custody in Shelby? I turned to Selwyn.
"Do you suppose--" My voice was low. A man close to me, with hands
in his pockets, hat on the back of his head, and his left cheek
lumpy, was looking at us appraisingly. "Do you suppose anything will
happen at Shelby? Nothing is happening here."
Selwyn's sigh of relief was long. "If nothing happens here I'll
thank God. To keep it out of the papers would have been impossible.
Stay here while I see if there is a decent hotel." He looked around
speculatively. In the distance a man could be seen on horseback
coming down the road which wound from the top of a mountain to the
valley below, while at our left a covered ox-cart, a farm wagon, and
a Ford car were waiting for their owners. Nothing in which we could
ride, however, was seemingly in sight. A sudden desire to go
somewhere, do something, possessed me. The day was mild, and the air
clean and clear and calling, and the sunshine brilliant. It was a
beautiful day. We must go somewhere.
For weeks I had been face to face with cruel conditions of life, had
seen hardships and denials and injustices, and dreary monotony of
days, and I wanted for a while to get away from it all, to breathe
deep of that which would renew and reinforce and revitalize; wanted
to be a child again, and, with Selwyn as my playmate, wander along
the winding road with faces to the sun, and hearts of hope, and faith
that God would not forget, and the world would yet be well. If
nobody was going to do anything to us, if we were not needed to play
a part, the hours ahead could be ours. The train on which we were to
return did not leave until three-thirty. I looked at my watch. It
was ten-thirty.
"Get something from somebody." My hand made movement toward the men
about us and then in the direction of the shacks and sheds and cabins
of the negroes, scattered at wide intervals apart from the village,
which consisted of a long, rambling street with a white frame church
at one end, a gray one at the other, a court-house in the middle, and
a school-house at its back. "Get a buggy and something you can drive
and let's have a holiday--just by ourselves. What is that house over
there?"
I pointed to a square, old-fashioned red-brick building set well back
from the road and surrounded by great oak-trees, and smaller ones of
birch and maple and spruce and pine, and shrubs of various kinds. It
was Claxon's one redemption. Shading my eyes, I read the tin sign
swinging in the wind from a rod nailed at right angles to a sagging
post at its gateless yard. "Swan Tavern." The name thrilled. I was
no longer a twentieth-century person, but a lady of other days, and
if a coach and four with outriders had appeared I would have stepped
in it with delight. It did not appear, nor was Selwyn suddenly in
knee-breeches and buckles and satin coat and brocaded vest. Not even
my imagination could so clothe him. His practicality recalled me.
"I'll go over and find out what sort of place it is, and see if we
can get anything to ride in. Perhaps this man can tell me. Wait
here." He put out his hand as if to prevent my speaking first to the
man. I didn't intend to speak to him.
The man could tell him nothing. He lived seven miles back and had
come to the station to meet a friend who had failed to appear. There
were teams in the neighborhood that might be gotten. Swan Tavern
didn't have any. Used to, but most people nowaday, specially
drummers, wanted automobiles, and old Colonel Tavis, who owned the
place, wouldn't let an automobile come in his yard. Perhaps Major
Bresee might let him have his horse and buggy. The person who gave
the information changed his quid of tobacco from his left to his
right cheek and, spitting on the ground below the plank-loose
platform on which we were standing, pointed to a one-room
office-building down the street, then again surveyed us. Two or
three men across the road came over, and two or three others hanging
around the station drew nearer and nodded to us, while both of the
boys, hands in their pants pockets, stared up at Selwyn as if
something new had indeed come to town.
From each of the group, now uncomfortably close to us, the impression
radiated that the right of explanation was theirs as to why we should
appear in Claxon with no apparent purpose for so appearing.
Seemingly we were not the sort who usually applied for aid to the
minister of the little town, known far and near for his matrimonial
activities, and just what we wanted was a matter concerning which
they were entitled to enlightenment. They said nothing, but looked
much. Frowningly, Selwyn bit his lip. Presently he spoke.
"Can you tell me where I can get a horse and buggy for a few hours?"
He looked first at one man and then another. "We have to wait here
for friends who will return with us on the three-thirty train, and
we'd like to see something of the country round about here while
we're waiting. Can we get lunch over there? And what time do they
have it?" His hand pointed to Swan Tavern.
"Don't have lunch. Dinner's at twelve o'clock." The man farthest
away took his hands from the pockets of his pants and put them in
those of his coat. "I reckon you can get Major Bresee's horse and
buggy if he ain't using 'em. The horse ain't much, but it moves
along. Want me to see if I can get him for you?"
"I would be very much obliged." Selwyn turned to me. "Shall we have
the buggy sent over to us while we see about lunch?" he asked, but
not waiting for an answer spoke again to the man whose kindly offices
he had accepted. "If you can get anything we can ride in
comfortably, bring it over, will you? And bring it as soon as you
can."
Lifting his hat, he turned from the staring strangers and helped me
down the three rickety steps that led to the road across which we had
to go before turning in to the tree-lined lane that led to the quaint
old tavern; and as we walked we were conscious of being watched with
speculation that would become opinion as soon as we were out of
hearing.
Picking our way through the mud, we soon reached the house, and at
its door an untidy old gentleman, with the grace and courtesy of the
days that are no more, greeted us as a gracious host greets warmly
welcomed guests, and we were led to a roaring fire and told to make
ourselves at home.
As he left the room to call his wife I touched Selwyn's arm and
pointed to an open book on an old desk near the window at which
travelers were supposed to register. "Ask him if he can't have a
lunch fixed for us to take with us. Then you won't have to register
or explain. Tell him anything will do, and please to hurry!"
He did not hurry. Nobody hurries in Claxon. It was twelve o'clock
before the buggy was at the door, a basket of lunch in it, and
good-bys said; and giving a last look around the big, dusty, sunshiny
room with cobwebs on its walls and furniture in it that would have
made a collector sick with desire, I walked out on the porch, and
with me went the three dogs which had been stretched in front of the
big log fire. Together we went down the steps.
Tucking a robe around me, the old gentleman nodded to Selwyn. "Don't
let your wife get cold, suh, and don't stay out too long. The sun's
deceiving and it ain't as warm as it looks." Being deaf, he spoke
loudly. "The battlefields are to your left about half a mile from
the creek with a water-oak hanging over it, and nigh about two miles
from here. You can't miss 'em. Over yonder"--he pointed to the top
of a modest mountain--"is where we had a signal station during the
war. The view from there can't be beat this side of heaven. I ain't
sure the battlements of heaven itself--"
But our horse had started and Selwyn, looking at me, laughed.
"Battlefields have their interest, but not to-day. It's nice, isn't
it, to be--just by ourselves and all the world away? Are you all
right? I have orders to keep my wife warm."
"She's very warm. Where are we going?" I turned from Selwyn's eyes.
"I don't know. Don't care. It is enough that we are to be together."
"Wouldn't you feel better if you said 'I told you so'? Any one would
want to say it. It was a pretty long trip to take unnecessarily, and
as we haven't been of service we needn't have come. I'm sorry--"
"I'm not." Selwyn, paying no attention to the horse, who had turned
into the road leading to the top of the mountain, kept his eyes still
on me. "I don't deserve what has come of our venture, but I shall
enjoy it the more, perhaps, because of undeserving. It is just 'we
two' to-day. I get so mortally tired of people--"
"I don't. I like people. Perhaps if I only knew one sort I would
get tired of them. I used to think my people were those I was born
among, but I'm beginning to glimpse a little that my family is much
larger than I thought, and that all people are my people. Still--"
I laughed and drew in a deep breath of pine-scented air.
"Still--?" Selwyn waited.
"It _is_ nice to get away from everybody now and then, and be with
just you. I mean--" Certainly I had not meant to say what I had
said, and, provoked at my thoughtless revealing, at the chance it
would give Selwyn to say what I did not want him to say, I stopped
abruptly, then quickly spoke again. "Why don't you make the horse go
faster? We'll never get to Signal Hill at this rate. He's crawling."
"What difference does it make whether we get anywhere or not? I
don't want to get anywhere. To be going with you is enough. You are
a cruel person, Danny, or you would not make me go so long a way
alone."
"I am not making you go alone. It is you who are making me. I am
much more alone than you." Again I stopped and stared ahead. What
was the matter with me that I should be saying things I must not say?
In the silence of earth and air I wondered if Selwyn could hear the
quick, thick beating of my heart.
On the winding road no one was in sight, and from our elevation a
view of the tiny town below could be glimpsed through the bare
branches of the trees of the little mountain we were ascending; and
about us was no sound save the crunch of the buggy-wheels on the
gravel road, and the tread of the slow-moving horse. It was a new
world we were in--a kindly, simple, strifeless world of peace and
plenty, and calm and content, and the crowded quarters close to
Scarborough Square, with their poignant problems of sin and
suffering, of scant beauty and weary joy, seemed a life apart and
very far away. And the world of the Avenue, the world of handsome
homes and deadening luxuries, of social exactions and selfish
indulgence, of much waste and unused power, seemed also far away, and
just Selwyn and I were together in a little world of our own.
"We might as well have this out, Danny." An arm on the back of the
buggy, Selwyn looked at me, and in his eyes was that which made me
understand he was right. We might as well have it out. "For three
years you have refused to marry me, and now you say you are more
alone than I. We've been beating the air, been evading something;
refusing to face the thing that is keeping us apart. What is it?
You know my love for you. But yours for me-- You have never told me
that you loved me. Look at me, Danny." He turned my face toward
him. "Tell me. Is it because you do not love me that you will not
marry me?"
"No." A bird on a bough ahead of us piped to another across the
road, and as mate to mate was answered. "It is not because I do not
love you--Selwyn. I do--love you." The crushing of my hands hurt,
but he said nothing. "I shall never marry unless I marry you--but I
am not sure--we should be happy."
"Why not? Is there anything that man could do I would not do to make
you happy? All that I am or may be, all that I have to give--and of
love I have much--is for you. What is it, then, you fear? Your
freedom? I should never interfere with that."
I shook my head. "It is not my freedom. What I fear is our lack of
sympathy with, our lack of understanding of, certain points of view.
We look at life so differently."
"But certainly a woman doesn't expect a man to think just as she
thinks, to feel as she feels, to see as she sees, nor does he expect
her to see and feel and think his way in all things. As individuals
they--"
"Of course I wouldn't expect, wouldn't want my husband to feel toward
all things as I feel. I would not want a stupid husband with no mind
of his own! You know very well it is nothing of that sort. If,
however, we cared not at all for the same sort of books; if we saw
little alike in art and literature, in music or morals, in science or
religion; if the same interests did not appeal; if to the same
impulse there was no response--we could hardly hope for genuine
comradeship. In most of those things we are together, but life is so
much bigger than things, and in our ideas of life and what to do with
it we are pretty far apart."
"Are we? Are you very sure? Are you perfectly sure, Danny, that we
are so very far apart?"
Something warm and sweet, so tempestuously sweet that it terrified,
for a moment surged, and, half-blinded, I looked up at him. "Do you
mean--?" My fingers interlocked with his.
"That I would like to live in Scarborough Square?" He smiled
unsteadily and shook his head. "No, I wouldn't know how to live
there. I wouldn't fit in. I am just myself. You are a dozen selves
in one. But I am beginning to see dimly what you see clearly.
Concerning my selfishness there is certainly nothing hazy. The walls
around my house have been pretty high, and perhaps they should come
down. You have much to teach me. I have a habit of questioning--"
"So have I. All thinking people question. But in spite of my
questioning, perhaps because of it, I know now that my life--must
count. It isn't mine to use just for myself, or in the easiest way.
If there's anything to it, I've got to share it. Down in Scarborough
Square I've been seeing myself in the old life, and when I go back to
it I cannot--keep silent concerning what I have learned. I think
perhaps we've failed--the men and women of our world even more
discouragingly than the men and women of the worlds I've learned to
know. As your wife you might not care to have me say--"
I stopped, silenced by the view which lay revealed before us, then I
gave a little cry. Peak after peak of tree-filled mountains raised
their heads to a sky of brilliant blue whose foam-clouds curled and
tumbled in fantastic shapes, and in the valley below was the silence
and peace of a place unpeopled. I turned to Selwyn, and long
resistance yielding to that for which there was no words, I let him
see the fulness of surrender. For a long moment we did not speak,
then I drew away from his arms. "We must get out. It is a heavenly
vision. I want--"
Getting down from the high, old-fashioned buggy, Selwyn held his arms
out to me, lifted me in them to the ground. "I, too, want here--my
heavenly vision." It was difficult to hear him. Drawing my face to
his, he kissed me again. "You have told me that you loved me. _You
are mine and I am going to marry you_."
He turned his head and listened, in his face something of the old
impatience. The soft whir of an automobile broke the silence of the
sun-filled, breeze-blown air, and I made effort to draw away from
Selwyn's arms. "Some one is coming," I said, under my breath.
"Shall we go on or stay here?"
"Stay here. Why not?" Frowningly, Selwyn for a moment waited, then,
with his hand holding mine, we walked nearer the edge of the
mountain's plateau and looked at the ribbon-like road that wound up
to its top. The noise of the engine was more distinct than the car,
but gradually the latter could be seen clearly, and presently three
figures were distinguished in it.
"They'll have to pass us. There's no other way." Words not
utterable were smothered under Selwyn's breath. "A few more minutes
and they'll be going down the mountain, however, and will soon be out
of sight. Are you cold? Do you mind staying up here for a little
while--with all the world away?"
"No. I want to stay." I leaned forward. In the machine, now near
enough to see that two people were in its back seat and the driver
alone in front, there was also leaning forward; then hurried
movement, then the man behind got up and waved his hat, and the girl
beside him got up also.
Slowly Selwyn turned to me, in his eyes rebellious protest. "It is
Mr. and Mrs. Cressy, and there's no way of getting rid of them.
They've motored over instead of waiting for the train. Have they no
sense, no understanding?"
"And they think they've been so considerate in hurrying to us!" The
tone of my voice was that of Selwyn's. "Is there nothing we can do?"
"Nothing--unless we tell them to wait here while we go over to
Shelby. The reward of virtue was never to my taste! Our one day
together--"
He turned away, but quickly I followed him; in his hand slipped mine.
"I'm sorry, Selwyn--but there will be another day--be many days."