THINGS TAKE THEIR COURSE
_A Couple of Hours from Mr. Welles' New Life_.
I
April 10.
One of the many things which surprised Mr. Welles was that he seemed to
need less sleep than in the city. Long hours in bed had been one of the
longed-for elements of the haven of rest which his retiring from the
office was to be. Especially as he had dragged himself from bed to stop
the relentless snarl of his alarm-clock, had he hoped for late morning
sleeps in his new home, when he could wake up at seven, feel himself
still heavy, unrefreshed, unready for the day, and turn on the pillow to
take another dose of oblivion.
But here, after the first ten days of almost prostrate relaxation, he
found himself waking even before the dawn, and lying awake in his bed,
waiting almost impatiently for the light to come so that he could rise
to another day. He learned all the sounds of the late night and early
morning, and how they had different voices in the dark; the faint
whisper of the maple-branches, the occasional stir and muffled chirp of
a bird, the hushed, secret murmur of the little brook which ran between
his garden and the Crittenden yard, and the distant, deeper note of the
Necronsett River as it rolled down the Ashley valley to The Notch. He
could almost tell, without opening his eyes, when the sky grew light
over the Eagle Rocks, by the way the night voices lifted, and carried
their sweet, muted notes up to a clearer, brighter singing.
When that change in the night-voices came, he sat up in bed, turning
his face from the window, for he did not want any mere partial glimpse
for his first contact with the day, and got into his clothes, moving
cautiously not to waken Vincent, who always sat up till all hours and
slept till ten. Down the stairs in his stocking-feet, his shoes in his
hand; a pause in the living-room to thread and fasten shoe-laces; and
then, his silly old heart beating fast, his hand on the door-knob. The
door slowly opened, and the garden, his own shining garden, offered
itself to him anew, so fresh in the dew and the pale gold of the
slanting morning sun-rays, that he was apt to swallow hard as he first
stepped out into it and stood still, with bare head lifted, drawing one
long breath after another.
He was seldom alone in those early hours, although the house slept
profoundly behind him; a robin, the only bird whose name he was sure of,
hopped heavily and vigorously about on the sparkling grass; a little
brown bird of whose name he had not the slightest notion, but whose
voice he knew very well by this time, poured out a continuous cascade of
quick, high, eager notes from the top of the elm; a large toad squatted
peaceably in the sun, the loose skin over its forehead throbbing
rhythmically with the life in it; and over on the steps of the
Crittendens' kitchen, the old Indian woman, as motionless as the toad,
fixed her opaque black eyes on the rising sun, while something about
her, he could never decide what, throbbed rhythmically with the life in
her. Mr. Welles had never in all his life been so aware of the rising
sun, had never so felt it like something in himself as on those mornings
when he walked in his garden and glanced over at the old Indian.
Presently, the Crittenden house woke, so to speak, with one eye, and
took on the aspect of a house in which someone is astir. First came the
fox-terrier, inevitable precursor of his little master, and then,
stepping around Touclé as though she were a tree or a rock, came his
little partner Paul, his freckled face shining with soap and the
earliness of the hour. Mr. Welles was apt to swallow hard again, when
he felt the child's rough, strong fingers slip into his.
"Hello, Mr. Welles," said Paul.
"Hello, Paul," said Mr. Welles.
"I thought sure I'd beat you to it for once, this morning," was what
Paul invariably said first. "I can't seem to wake up as early as you and
Touclé."
Then he would bring out his plan for that particular morning walk.
"Maybe we might have time to have me show you the back-road by Cousin
Hetty's, and get back by the men's short-cut before breakfast, maybe?
Perhaps?"
"We could try it," admitted Mr. Welles, cautiously. It tickled him to
answer Paul in his own prudent idiom. Then they set off, surrounded and
encompassed by the circles of mad delight which Médor wove about them,
rushing at them once in a while, in a spasm of adoration, to leap up and
lick Paul's face.
Thus on one of these mornings in April, they were on the back-road to
Cousin Hetty's, the right-hand side solemn and dark with tall pines,
where the ground sloped up towards the Eagle Rocks; jungle-like with
blackberry brambles and young pines on the left side where it had been
lumbered some years ago. Paul pointed out proudly the thrifty growth of
the new pines and explained it by showing the several large trees left
standing at intervals down the slope towards the Ashley valley. "Father
always has them do that, so the seeds from the old trees will seed up
the bare ground again. Gosh! You'd ought to hear him light into the
choppers when they forget to leave the seed-pines or when they cut under
six inches butt diameter."
Mr. Welles had no more notion what cutting under six inches butt
diameter meant than he had of the name of the little brown bird who sang
so sweetly in his elm; but Paul's voice and that of the nameless bird
gave him the same pleasure. He tightened his hold of the tough, sinewy
little fingers, and looked up through the glorious brown columns of the
great pines towards where the sky-line showed, luminous, far up the
slope.
"That's the top of the Eagle Rocks, where you see the sky," explained
his small cicerone, seeing the direction of his eyes. "The Powerses lost
a lot of sheep off over them, last year. A dog must ha' started running
them down in the pasture. And you know what fools sheep are. Once they
get scared they can't think of anything to do except just to keep
a-running till something gets in their way. About half of the Powers
flock just ran themselves off the top of the Rocks, although the dog had
stopped chasing them, way down in the valley. There wasn't enough of
them left, even to sell to the butcher in Ashley for mutton. Ralph
Powers, he's about as old as I am, maybe a little bit older, well, his
father had given him a ewe and two twin lambs for his own, and didn't
they all three get killed that day! Ralph felt awful bad about it. He
don't ever seem to have any luck, Ralph don't."
. . . How sweet it was, Mr. Welles thought to himself, how awfully sweet
to be walking in such pine-woods, on the early morning, preceded by such
a wildly happy little dog, with a little boy whose treble voice ran on
and on, whose strong little hand clasped yours so tightly, and who
turned up to you eyes of such clear trust! Was he the same man who for
such endless years had been a part of the flotsam cast out every morning
into the muddy, brawling flood of the city street and swept along to
work which had always made him uneasy and suspicious of it?
"There's the whistle," said Paul, holding up a finger. "Father has the
first one blown at half-past six, so's the men can have time to get
their things ready and start; and not have to hurry."
At this a faint stirring of interest in what the child was saying broke
through the golden haze of the day-dream in which Mr. Welles was
walking. "Where do they come from anyhow, the men who work in your
father's mill?" he asked. "Where do they live? There are so few homes at
Crittenden's."
"Oh, they live mostly over the hill in the village, in Ashley. There are
lots of old houses there, and once in a while now they even have to
build a new one, since the old ones are all filled up. Mr. Bayweather
says that before Father and Mother came here to live and really run the
mill, that Ashley Street was all full of empty houses, without a light
in them, that the old folks had died out of. But now the men have bought
them up and live in them. It's just as bright, nights! With windows
lighted up all over. Father's had the electric current run over there
from the mill, now, and that doesn't cost anything except . . ."
Mr. Welles' curiosity satisfied, he fell back into his old shimmer of
content and walked along, hearing Paul's voice only as one of the
morning sounds of the newly awakened world.
Presently he was summoned out of this day-dream by a tug at his hand.
Paul gave out the word of command, "We turn here, so's to get into the
men's short-cut."
This proved to be a hard-trodden path, lying like a loosely thrown-down
string, over the hill pasture-land which cut Ashley village off from
Crittenden's mill. It was to get around this rough tract that the road
had to make so long a detour.
"Oh, I see," said Mr. Welles. "I'd been thinking that it must bother
them a lot to come the two miles along the road from the village."
"Sure," said Paul. "Only the ones that have got Fords come that way.
This is ever so much shorter. Those that step along fast can make it
easy in twelve or fifteen minutes. There they come now, the first of
them." He nodded backward along the path where a distant dark line of
men came treading swiftly and steadily forward, tin pails glistening in
their hands.
"Some of those in that first bunch are really choppers by rights," Paul
diagnosed them with a practised eye, "but of course nobody does much
chopping come warmer weather. But Father never lays off any men unless
they want to be. He fixes some jobs for them in the lumber-yard or in
the mill, so they live here all the year around, same's the regular
hands."
The two stood still now, watching the men as their long, powerful
strides brought them rapidly nearer. Back of them the sun rose up
splendid in the sparkling, dustless mountain air. The pasture grass on
either side of the sinuous path lay shining in the dew. Before them the
path led through a grove of slim, white birches, tremulous in a pale
cloud of light green.
"Well, they've got a pretty good way to get to their work, all right,"
commented Mr. Welles.
"Yep, pretty good," agreed Paul. "It's got tramped down so it's quite
smooth."
A detachment of the file of tall, strongly built, roughly dressed men
had now reached them, and with friendly, careless nods and greetings to
Paul, they swung by, smoking, whistling, calling out random remarks and
jokes back and forth along the line.
"Hello, Frank. Hello, Mike. Hello, Harry. Hello, Jom-bastiste. Hello,
Jim." Paul made answer to their repeated, familiar, "Hello, Paul."
* * * * *
Mr. Welles drew back humbly from out their path. These were men, useful
to the world, strong for labor. He must needs stand back with the child.
With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, still
valid, still fit for something. For a moment it did not seem as sweet as
he had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old and
useless.
II
April 12.
He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morning
applied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work. Surely this must
be late enough, even in this "suburb of the North Pole," as Vincent
called Vermont. Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping her
rapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, if
he was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for the
sweet peas. It wouldn't do any harm to plant them now, though it might
not do any good either; and he mustn't be surprised to find occasional
chunks of earth still frozen. She would be over in a little while to
show him about it. Let him get his pick-mattock, spade, and rake ready,
up by the corner of his stone wall.
* * * * *
He was waiting there, ten minutes later, the new implements (bought at
Mrs. Crittenden's direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall.
The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earth
alive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held it
like stone when he had first trod his garden. He leaned against the
stone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, and
looked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones. There
it lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stems
of last year's weeds, and unsightly with half-rotten lumps of manure.
And that would feed and nourish . . .
For an instant there stood there before his flower-loving eyes the
joyful tangle of fresh green vines, the pearly many-colored flesh of the
petals, their cunning, involved symmetry of form--all sprung from a
handful of wrinkled yellow seeds and that ugly mixture of powdered stone
and rotten decay.
It was a wonderful business, he thought.
Mrs. Crittenden emerged from her house now, in a short skirt, rough
heavy shoes, and old flannel shirt. She looked, he thought, ever so trig
and energetic and nice; but suddenly aware that Vincent was gazing idly
out of an upper window at them, he guessed that the other man would not
admire the costume. Vincent was so terribly particular about how ladies
dressed, he thought to himself, as he moved forward, mattock in hand.
"I'm ashamed to show you how dumb I am about the use of these tools," he
told her, laughing shamefacedly. "I don't suppose you'll believe me, but
honestly I never had a pick-mattock in my hand till I went down to the
store to buy one. I might as well go the whole hog and confess I'd never
even heard of one till you told me to get it. Is this the way you use
it?" He jabbed ineffectually at the earth with the mattock, using a
short tight blow with a half-arm movement. The tool jarred itself half
an inch into the ground and was almost twisted out of his hand.
"No, not quite," she said, taking the heavy tool out of his hand. If she
were aware of the idle figure at the upper window, she gave no sign of
it. She laid her strong, long, flexible hands on the handle, saying,
"So, you hold it this way. Then you swing it up, back of your head.
There's a sort of knack to that. You'll soon catch it. And then, if the
ground isn't very hard, you don't need to use any strength at all on the
downward stroke. Let Old Mother Gravity do the work. If you aim it
right, its own weight is enough for ordinary garden soil, that's not in
sod. Now watch."
She swung the heavy tool up, shining in the bright air, all her tall,
supple body drawn up by the swing of her arms, cried out, "See, now I
relax and just let it fall," and bending with the downward rush of the
blade, drove it deep into the brown earth. A forward thrust of the long
handle ("See, you use it like a lever," she explained), a small
earthquake in the soil, and the tool was free for another stroke.
At her feet was a pool of freshly stirred fragments of earth, loose,
friable, and moist, from which there rose in a gust of the spring
breeze, an odor unknown to the old man and thrilling.
He stooped down, thrust his hand into the open breast of earth, and took
up a handful of the soil which had lain locked in frost for half a year
and was now free for life again. Over it his eyes met those of the
beautiful woman beside him.
She nodded. "Yes, there's nothing like it, the smell of the first earth
stirred every spring."
He told her, wistfully, "It's the very first stirred in all my life."
They had both lowered their voices instinctively, seeing Vincent emerge
from the house-door and saunter towards them immaculate in a gray suit.
Mr. Welles was not at all glad to see him at this moment. "Here, let me
have the mattock," he said, taking it out of Mrs. Crittenden's hands, "I
want to try it myself."
He felt an anticipatory impatience of Vincent's everlasting talk, to
which Mrs. Crittenden always had, of course, to give a polite attention;
and imitating as well as he could, the free, upward swing of his
neighbor, he began working off his impatience on the unresisting earth.
But he could not help hearing that, just as he expected, Vincent plunged
at once into his queer, abrupt talk. He always seemed to think he was
going right on with something that had been said before, but really, for
the most part, as far as Mr. Welles could see, what he said had nothing
to do with anything. Mrs. Crittenden must really be a very smart woman,
he reflected, to seem to know what he meant, and always to have an
answer ready.
Vincent, shaking his head, and looking hard at Mrs. Crittenden's rough
clothes and the handful of earth in her fingers, said with an air of
enforced patience with obvious unreasonableness, "You're on the wrong
track, you know. You're just all off. Of course with you it can't be
pose as it looks when other people do it. It must be simply
muddle-headed thinking."
He added, very seriously, "You infuriate me."
Mr. Welles, pecking feebly at the ground, the heavy mattock apparently
invested with a malicious life of its own, twisting perversely, heavily
lop-sided in his hands, thought that this did not sound like a polite
thing to say to a lady. And yet the way Vincent said it made it sound
like a compliment, somehow. No, not that; but as though it were awfully
important to him what Mrs. Crittenden did. Perhaps that counted as a
compliment.
He caught only a part of Mrs. Crittenden's answer, which she gave,
lightly laughing, as though she did not wish to admit that Vincent could
be so serious as he sounded. The only part he really heard was when she
ended, ". . . oh, if we are ever going to succeed in forcing order on the
natural disorder of the world, it's going to take everybody's shoulder
to the wheel. Women can't stay ornamental and leisurely, and elegant,
nor even always nice to look at."
Mr. Welles, amazed at the straining effort he needed to put forth to
manage that swing which Mrs. Crittenden did so easily, took less than
his usual small interest in the line of talk which Vincent was so fond
of springing on their neighbor. He heard him say, with his air of always
stating a foregone conclusion, something so admitted that it needed no
emphasis, "It's Haroldbellwrightism, pure and simple, to imagine that
anything you can ever do, that anybody can ever do, will help bring
about the kind of order _you're_ talking about, order for everybody. The
only kind of order there ever will be, is what you get when you grab a
little of what you want out of the chaos, for your own self, while
there's still time, and hold on to it. That's the only way to get
anywhere for yourself. And as for doing something for other people, the
only satisfaction you can give anybody is in beauty."
Mr. Welles swam out of the breakers into clear water. Suddenly he caught
the knack of the upward swing, and had the immense satisfaction of
bringing the mattock down squarely, buried to the head in the earth.
"There!" he said proudly to Mrs. Crittenden, "how's that for fine?"
He looked up at her, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He wondered for
an instant if she really looked troubled, or if he only imagined it.
There was no doubt about how Vincent looked, as though he thought Mr.
Welles, exulting over a blow with a mattock, an old imbecile in his
dotage.
Mr. Welles never cared very much whether he seemed to Vincent like an
old imbecile or not, and certainly less than nothing about it today,
intoxicated as he was with the air, the sun, and his new mastery over
the soil. He set his hands lovingly to the tool and again and again
swung it high over his head, while Vincent and Mrs. Crittenden strolled
away, still talking. . . . "Doesn't it depend on what you mean by
'beauty'?" Mrs. Crittenden was saying.