WE GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING
"Sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled."
With these words our chronicle began, and they again slip from the pen
as I begin these last pages. When Morton Bassett left her at the door of
Elizabeth House she had experienced a sudden call of the truant spirit.
Sylvia wanted to be alone, to stand apart for a little while from the
clanging world and take counsel of herself. Hastily packing a bag she
caught the last train for Montgomery, walked to the Kelton cottage, and
roused Mary, who had been its lone tenant since the Professor's death.
She sent Mary to bed, and after kindling a fire in the grate, roamed
about the small, comfortable rooms, touching wistfully the books, the
pictures, the scant bric-à-brac. She made ready her own bed under the
eaves where she had dreamed her girlhood dreams, shaking from the sheets
she found in the linen chest the leaves of lavender that Mary had strewn
among them. The wind rose in the night and slammed fitfully a blind
that, as long as she could remember, had uttered precisely that same
protest against the wind's presumption. It was all quite like old times,
and happy memories of the past stole back and laid healing hands upon
her.
She slept late, and woke to look out upon a white world. Across the
campus floated the harsh clamor of the chapel bell, and she saw the
students tramping through the swirling snow just as she had seen them in
the old times, the glad and happy times when it had seemed that the
world was bounded by the lines of the campus, and that nothing lay
beyond it really worth considering but Centre Church and the court-house
and the dry-goods shop where her grandfather had bought her first and
only doll. She bade Mary sit down and talk to her while she ate
breakfast in the little dining-room; and the old woman poured out upon
her the gossip of the Lane, the latest trespasses of the Greek
professor's cow, the escapades of the Phi Gamma Delta's new dog, the
health of Dr. Wandless, the new baby at the house of the Latin
professor, the ill-luck of the Madison Eleven, and like matters that
were, and that continue to be, of concern in Buckeye Lane. Rumors of the
sale of the cottage had reached Mary, but Sylvia took pains to reassure
her.
"Oh, you don't go with the house, Mary! Mrs. Owen has a plan for you.
You haven't any cause for worry. But it's too bad to sell the house. I'd
like to get a position teaching in Montgomery and come back here and
live with you. There's no place in the world quite like this."
"But it's quiet, Miss, and the repairs keep going on. Mr. Harwood had to
put a new downspout on the kitchen; the old one had rusted to pieces.
The last time he was over--that was a month ago--he came in and sat down
to wait for his train, he said; and I told him to help himself to the
books, but when I looked in after a while he was just sitting in that
chair out there by the window looking out at nothing. And when I asked
him if he'd have a cup of tea, he never answered; not till I went up
close and spoke again. He's peculiar, but a good-hearted gentleman. You
can see that. And when he paid me my wages that day he made it five
dollars extra, and when I asked him what it was for, he smiled a funny
kind of smile he has, and said, 'It's for being good to Sylvia when she
was a little girl.' He's peculiar, very peculiar, but he's kind. And
when I said I didn't have to be paid for that, he said all right, he
guessed that was so, but for me to keep the money and buy a new bonnet
or give it to the priest. A very kind gentleman, that Mr. Harwood, but
peculiar."
The sun came out shortly before noon. Sylvia walked into town, bought
some flowers, and drove to the cemetery. She told the driver not to
wait, and lingered long in the Kelton lot where snow-draped evergreens
marked its four corners. The snow lay smooth on the two graves, and she
placed her flowers upon them softly without disturbing the white
covering. A farmboy whistling along the highway saw her in the lonely
cemetery and trudged on silently, but he did not know that the woman
tending her graves did not weep, or that when she turned slowly away,
looking back at last from the iron gates, it was not of the past she
thought, nor of the heartache buried there, but of a world newly
purified, with long, broad vistas of hope and aspiration lengthening
before her. But we must not too long leave the bell--an absurd
contrivance of wire and knob--that tinkled rather absently and eerily in
the kitchen pantry. Let us repeat once more and for the last time:--
Sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled.
Truly enough, a book lay in her lap, but it may be that, after all, she
had not done more than skim its pages--an old "Life of Nelson" that had
been a favorite of her grandfather's. Sylvia rose, put down the book,
marked it carefully as on that first occasion which so insistently comes
back to us as we look in upon her. Mary appeared at the library door,
but withdrew, seeing that Sylvia was answering the bell.
Some one was stamping vigorously on the step, and as Sylvia opened the
door, Dan Harwood stood there, just as on that other day; now, to be
sure, he seemed taller than then, though it must be only the effect of
his long ulster.
"How do you do, Sylvia," he said, and stepped inside without waiting for
a parley like that in which Sylvia had engaged him on that
never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in June. "You oughtn't to try to hide;
it isn't fair for one thing, and hiding is impossible for another."
"It's too bad you came," said Sylvia, "for I should have been home
to-morrow. I came just because I wanted to be alone for a day."
"I came," said Dan, laughing, "because I didn't like being alone."
"I hope Aunt Sally isn't troubled about me. I hadn't time to tell her I
was coming here; I don't believe I really thought about it; I simply
wanted to come back here once more before the house is turned over to
strangers."
"Oh, Aunt Sally wasn't worried half as much as I was. She said you were
all right; she has great faith in your ability to take care of yourself.
I'm pretty sure of it, too," he said, and bent his eyes upon her keenly.
There was nothing there to dismay him; her olive cheeks still glowed
with color from her walk, and her eyes were clear and steady.
"Did you see the paper--to-day's paper?" he asked, when they were seated
before the fire.
"No," she replied, folding her arms and looking at the point of her
slipper that rested against the brass fender.
"You will be glad to know that the trouble is all over. Ramsay has the
senatorship, all but the confirmation of the joint session, which is
merely a formality. They've conferred on me the joy of presenting his
name. Ramsay is clean and straight, and thoroughly in sympathy with all
the new ideas that are sound. Personally I like him. He's the most
popular and the most presentable man we have, and his election to the
Senate will greatly strengthen the party."
He did not know how far he might speak of the result and of the causes
that had contributed to it. He was relieved when she asked, very simply
and naturally,--
"I suppose Mr. Bassett made it possible; it couldn't have been, you
couldn't have brought it about, without him."
"If he hadn't withdrawn he could have had the nomination himself!
Thatcher's supporters were growing wobbly and impatient. We shouldn't
any of us care to see Thatcher occupy a seat in the Senate that has been
filled by Oliver Morton and Joe MacDonald and Ben Harrison and Dave
Turpie. We Hoosiers are not perfect, but our Senators first and last
have been men of brains and character. Ramsay won't break the apostolic
succession; he's all right."
"You think Mr. Bassett might have had it; you have good reason for
believing that?" she asked.
"I could name you the men who were ready to go to him. He had the
stampede all ready, down to the dress rehearsal. He practically gave
away a victory he had been working for all his life."
"Yes; he is like that; he can do such things," murmured Sylvia.
"History has been making rapidly in the past twenty-four hours. Bassett
has bought Thatcher's interest in the 'Courier,' and he proposes editing
it himself. More than that, he was at my office this morning when I got
there, and he asked me, as a special favor to him, to take a few shares
in the company to qualify me as secretary of the corporation, and said
he wanted me to help him. He said he thought it about time for Indiana
to have a share in the general reform movement; talked about it as
though this were something he had always intended doing, but had been
prevented by press of other matters. He spoke of the Canneries case and
wanted to know if I cared to reconsider my refusal to settle it. He put
it quite impersonally--said Fitch told him he couldn't do more than
prolong the litigation by appeals, and that in the end he was bound to
be whipped. And I agreed, on terms that really weren't generous on my
part. He said all right; that he wanted to clear up all his old business
as quickly as possible. As he left my office I almost called him back to
throw off the last pound I had exacted; he really made me feel ashamed
of my greed. The old spell he had for me in the beginning came back
again. I believe in him; I never believed in any man so much, Sylvia!
And if he does throw his weight on the right side it will mean a lot to
every good cause men and women are contending for these days. It will
mean a lot to the state, to the whole country."
"And so much, oh, so much to him!"
Just what had passed between Bassett and Sylvia he only surmised; but it
was clear that the warmth with which he had spoken of his old employer
was grateful to Sylvia. He had not meant to dwell upon Bassett, and yet
the brightening of her eyes, her flash of feeling, the deep inner
meaning of her ejaculation, had thrilled him.
"I've said more than I meant to; I didn't come to talk of those things,
Sylvia."
"I'm glad you thought I should like to know--about him. I'm glad you
told me."
They were quiet for a little while, then he said, "Sylvia!" very
softly.
"Not that, Dan; please! I can't bear to hear that. It will break my
heart if you begin that!"
She rose and faced him, her back to the wall.
He had come to complete the declaration which the song had interrupted
on the lake, and at the first hint the chords that had been touched by
the unknown singer vibrated sharply, bringing back her old heartache. He
crossed to her quickly that he might show her how completely the memory
of that night had been obliterated; that it had vanished utterly and
ceased to be, like the ripple stirred to a moment's life by the brush of
a swallow's wing on still water. He stood beside her and took both her
hands in his strong clasp.
"We are going to be married, Sylvia; we are going to be married, here,
now, to-day!"
"No, no!"
She turned away her head, but his arms enfolded her; he bent down and
kissed her forehead, her eyes, and her lips last of all.
"Yes; here and now. Unless you say you don't care for me, that you don't
love me. If you say those things I shall go away."
She did not say them. She clung to him and looked long into his face,
and kissed him.
Harwood had chosen the hour well. Sylvia had met bravely the great
crisis of her life, and had stood triumphant and satisfied, weary but
content in the clear ether to which she had climbed; but it was a relief
to yield herself at last to the sway of emotions long checked and
stifled. Save for her grandfather's devoted kindness, and the friendship
of Mrs. Owen, her experiences of affection had been singularly meagre.
She had resolved that if Dan should speak of love again she would be
strong enough to resist him; but she had yielded unhesitatingly at a
word. And it was inexpressibly sweet to yield, to feel his strong arms
clasping her, to hear his protestations and assurances, to know that her
life had found shelter and protection. She knew that she had never
questioned or doubted, but that her faith had grown with her love for
him. Not only had he chosen the hour well, but there was a fitness in
his choice of place. The familiar scene emphasized her sense of
dependence upon him and gave a sweet poignancy to the memories of her
childhood and youth that were enshrined within the cottage walls. In
this room, in the garden outside, on the campus across the Lane, she had
known the first tremulous wonderings and had heard the first whispered
answers to life's riddles and enigmas; and now she knew that in Love
lives the answer to all things.
After a little she rested her hands on his shoulders, half-clinging to
him, half-repelling him, and he pressed his hands upon her cheeks, to be
ready for the question he had read in her eyes.
"But," she faltered, "there are things I have promised to do for Aunt
Sally; we shall have to wait a long time!"
"Not for Aunt Sally," he cried happily. "Here she is at the door now. I
left her and John Ware at Dr. Wandless's."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Mrs. Owen, advancing into the room and throwing
open her coat. "You said you meant to get back to the city in time to
catch that limited for New York, and you haven't got much margin,
Daniel, I can tell you that!"
* * * * *
It seemed to the people who heard of it afterward a most romantic
marriage, that of Sylvia and Dan Harwood; but whatever view we may take
of this, it was certainly of all weddings the simplest. They stood there
before the mantel above which still hung the broken half of a ship's
wheel. Mrs. Owen, very tall and gaunt, was at one side, and Dr. Wandless
at the other; and old Mary, abashed and bewildered, looked on with
dilated eyes and crossed herself at intervals.
John Ware drew a service book from his pocket, and his fingers trembled
as he began. For none in the room, not even for Sylvia, had this hour
deeper meaning than for the gray soldier. He read slowly, as though this
were a new thing in the world, that a man and a woman had chosen to walk
together to the end of their days. And once his voice broke. He who, in
a hill country far away, had baptized this woman into the fold of Christ
the Shepherd, wavered for an instant as he said:--
"Elizabeth, wilt thou have this man--"
Sylvia lifted her head. She had not expected this, nor had Dan; but Dr.
Wandless had already stepped forward to give her in marriage, and as she
repeated her name after the minister, she felt the warm, reassuring
pressure of Dan's hand.
And so they went forth together from the little cottage by the campus
where they had first met; nor may it have been wholly a fancy of Dr.
Wandless's that the stars came out earlier that white, winter evening to
add their blessing!
A POSTSCRIPT BY THE CHRONICLER
Those who resent as an impertinence the chronicler's intrusion upon the
scene may here depart and slam the door, if such violence truly express
their sentiments. Others, averse to precipitous leavetaking, may linger,
hat in hand, for the epilogue.
I attended a public hearing by the senate committee on child labor at
the last session of the general assembly, accompanying my neighbor, Mrs.
Sally Owen, and we found seats immediately behind Mr. and Mrs. Daniel
Harwood.
"There's _E_-lizabeth and Daniel," remarked Mrs. Owen, as they turned
round and nodded to us. I found it pleasant to watch the Harwoods, who
are, as may have been surmised, old friends of mine. The meeting
gathered headway, and as one speaker after another was presented by the
chairman, I observed that Mrs. Harwood and her husband frequently
exchanged glances of approval; and I'm afraid that Mrs. Harwood's
profile, and that winning smile of hers, interested me quite as much as
the pleas of those who advocated the pending bill. Then the
representative of a manufacturers' organization inveighed against the
measure, and my two friends became even more deeply absorbed. It was a
telling speech, by one of the best-known lawyers in the state. Once I
saw Dan's cowlick shake like the plume of an angry warrior as his wife
turned toward him inquiringly. When the orator concluded, I saw them
discussing his arguments in emphatic whispers, and I was so pleased with
the picture they made that I failed to catch the name of the speaker
whom the chairman was introducing. A nudge from Mrs. Owen caused me to
lift my eyes to the rostrum.
"The next speaker is Mrs. Allen Thatcher," announced the chairman,
beaming inanely as a man always does when it becomes his grateful
privilege to present a pretty woman to an audience. Having known Marian
a long time, it was almost too much for my composure to behold her
there, beyond question the best-dressed woman in the senate chamber,
with a single American Beauty thrust into her coat, and a bewildering
rose-trimmed hat crowning her fair head. A pleasant sight anywhere on
earth, this daughter of the Honorable Morton Bassett, sometime senator
from Fraser; but her appearance in the legislative hall long dominated
by her father confirmed my faith in the ultimate adjustments of the law
of compensations. I had known Marian of old as an expert golfer and the
most tireless dancer at Waupegan; but that speech broke all her records.
Great is the emotional appeal of a pretty woman in an unapproachable
hat, but greater still the power of the born story-teller! I knew that
Marian visited Elizabeth House frequently and told stories of her own or
gave recitations at the Saturday night entertainments; but this was
Marian with a difference. She stated facts and drove them home with
anecdotes. It was a vigorous, breathless performance, and the
manufacturers' attorney confessed afterward that she had given him a
good trouncing. When she concluded (I remember that her white-gloved
hand smote the speaker's desk with a sharp thwack at her last word), I
was conscious that the applause was started by a stout, bald gentleman
whom I had not noticed before. I turned to look at the author of this
spontaneous outburst and found that it was the Honorable Edward G.
Thatcher, whose unfeigned pride in his daughter-in-law was good to see.
When the applause had ceased, Mrs. Owen sighed deeply and ejaculated:
"Well, well!"
As we walked home Aunt Sally grew talkative. "I used to say it was all
in the Book of Job and believed it; but there are some things that Job
didn't know after all. When I put Marian on the board of trusteees of
_E_-lizabeth House School, it was just to make good feeling in the
family, and I didn't suppose she would attend a meeting; but she's one
of the best women on that job. And _E_-lizabeth"--I loved the way she
drawled the name, and repeated it--"_E_-lizabeth says they couldn't do
without her. I guess between 'em those girls will make _E_-lizabeth
House School go right. That investment will be a dividend payer. And
there's Morton Bassett, that I never took much stock in, why, he's
settled down to being a decent and useful citizen. There ain't a better
newspaper in the country than the 'Courier,' and that first editorial,
up at the top of the page every morning, he writes himself, and it's got
a smack to it--a kind of pawpaw and persimmon flavor that shows it's
honest. I guess settling up that Canneries business cost him some
money, but things had always come too easy for Morton. And now that
they've moved down here, Hallie's cheered up a good deal, and she shows
signs of being cured of the sanatorium habit."
We were passing round the Monument, whose candelabra flooded the plaza
with light, and Mrs. Owen inveighed for a moment against automobiles in
general as we narrowly escaped being run down by a honking juggernaut at
Christ Church corner.
"It seems Morton has grown some," she resumed. "He's even got big enough
to forgive his enemies, and John Ware says only great men do that.
You've noticed that 'Hoosier Folks at Home' column in the 'Courier'?
Well, Ike Pettit runs that; Morton brought him to town on purpose after
Edward Thatcher closed out the Fraserville paper. I read every word of
that column every day. It gives you a kind of moving-picture show of
cloverfields, and children singing in the country schools, and rural
free delivery wagons throwing off magazines and newspapers, and the
interurban cars cutting slices out of the lonesomeness of the country
folks. It's certainly amazing how times change, and I want to live as
long as I can and keep on changing with 'em! Why, these farmers that
used to potter around all winter worrying over their debts to the
insurance companies are now going to Lafayette every January to learn
how to make corn pay, and they're putting bathrooms in their houses and
combing the hay out of their whiskers. They take their wives along with
'em to the University, so they can have a rest and learn to bake bread
that won't bring up the death-rate; and when those women go home they
dig the nails out of the windows to let the fresh air in, and move the
melodeon to the wood-pile, and quit frying meat except when the minister
stops for dinner. It's all pretty comfortable and cheerful and busy in
Indiana, with lots of old-fashioned human kindness flowing round; and
it's getting better all the time. And I guess it's always got to be that
way, out here in God's country."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's A Hoosier Chronicle, by Meredith Nicholson