world. And soon, soon, soon, I shall walk the woods no more.'
'Since you must go, do not be discomfited,' she replied; 'nor trouble at
all this. If as a kind of lasting torment, to match my own, you were
permitted, after death, to be near, to see this man kiss and possess me,
you have but to remember the night by the river in the moonlight. You
are but to remember that this is the only night in the world; that there
are no others; that the rest are dreams; that no lips but yours have
ever really touched mine.' Her voice was beautiful, rich; a kind of
farewell in itself. 'You must promise me this.'
Her husband leaned forward a little impatiently.
'We are nearly there. Can’t you find out, Louise, what I want you to?
The thing I want to know is whether he still has an interest in the coal
lands. If he has it will be worth a good many thousands. Now do your
best. Try.'
'But you must have patience,' she said, 'I am trying to find out
something.'
'I cannot quite get it out of my head,' said the other, 'that we deserve
to be damned for this. Does not your conscience misgive you?'
'No; rather my honor. I have a hatred of deception. It is the only time
in my life that I have deceived. And you?'
'I might do penance.'
He smiled, I thought. He drew the cord of his habit through his slim
transparent fingers until one of the knots rested in his palms.
'You could not really mean anything so horrible! And your body, so slim,
so beautiful, that I have loved!'
His voice, though it was low, rang also, now--quivered almost.
'You forget that the stripes might be sweet, my well-beloved,'--I could
see that his lips trembled,--'something still suffered for your sake.'
She put her hand to her brow, a little lovely gesture, as though all
this troubled her, perhaps dazed her; or perhaps it was some old
recollection in his voice.
'How absurd we are! We shall be parting soon.'
'Yes,' he said, 'for always. What can I say to you that you will
remember?'
'Only say that you can never forget the night by the river.'
'I can never forget it.'
Something in his words fell final, like a fate.
She turned now to her husband. The stage was already slowing up.
'Is this the county seat? I have found out quite a great deal. I will
tell you more about the coal lands as we drive. He is an interesting
man.'
Suddenly, from having been intently upon them, my attention became aware
of a familiar sound, the thudding hundred-hoofed sound of an approaching
herd; I had been so absorbed in the strange world of the other happening
that I had not known of their approach. Almost suddenly they were about
us, black and brown backs, spreading horns, broad wet noses, massive
foreheads.
The driver looked down through the little hole reassuringly.
'Just wait till they get past. They’re on their way to the stockyards!'
We waited, the four of us, huddled together, with a strange kind of
intimacy, it seemed, in the 'bus, while the trampling mass of driven
dumb creatures surged and swayed around us, and finally struggled
painfully by, each crowding the other, on their way to death. The woman
watched them with eyes in which there met fear and pity.
With the last of the herd past, the driver was already opening the stage
door. The woman’s husband rose, stooping.
'If you’ll allow me, I’ll get out first with these.'
He took the satchels and got out of the 'bus, heavily.
He turned to assist the woman. She did not give him her hand at once.
The Franciscan drew back a little to let her pass. She paused the
fraction of a moment and gave her hand to him.
'Good-bye.'
When she was beside the large man on the road, he also offered his hand
to the Franciscan.
'Thank you; thank you very much indeed.'
He turned. 'Guess that’s our surrey over there, Louise.' The darkey
driver of the surrey hurried toward him. 'Yes; take these.'
The woman followed him. She did not look back. He assisted her into the
surrey and followed, himself, his weight bending it heavily to one side
as he entered.
I saw them drive away, along a broad cross-road into the lovely rolling
country, her brown veil floating a little, unknown to her, but like a
living thing, with a little wild waving of its folds. The Franciscan I
saw follow a road in another direction. The curve of it soon hid him. I
did not see him again.
I remained in the 'bus. We were to stay only a little while at the
county seat, for we were already late. New horses were put to the pole,
and within twenty minutes we were driving over the same road by which we
had come.
An old gentleman who, I think, was a lawyer returning from county court,
was the only other occupant, and he was soon dozing. It was a strange
ride back. When we came to Latonia the light was so altered as to make a
new and lovely adventure of it. The sun was not yet set, but the
sunlight had withdrawn to the tops of the tall trees. Below, the hotel
lawn was cool, almost twilit, mysterious in shadows. It was there only a
little while ago that I had first seen these two coming down the path to
enter the 'bus. The last few hours had changed life for me entirely.
Though I did not know it at the time, I know now that the two worlds of
reality and of romance--before that distinct and separate in my mind and
all untried--were forever mingled with each other now, for me, and were
one with my own life. I shall never henceforth be able to see a herd of
cattle on a dusty road without seeing those two in their last meeting;
nor shall I ever see any who remind me of him or her without a sense of
love and death and the inevitable.
* * * * *
This is a true story. I have never told it before. I have kept it locked
away as something too cherished, too intimate to share with any one.
There always seemed to me a finality about it beyond any story I could
ever read. Yet I am telling it now, partly from a sense of honor, partly
from a hidden hope; because it was not, after all, finished that day.
She may still be living. This may chance to meet her eye. If so, I would
have her know that the dark-eyed child who rode with them that day came
in time, by that strange chance, so much more strange in life than in
any story, to meet just what she had met: to meet Love, the glorious
and radiant presence, only to find that there walked beside
Love,--road-companions of the way,--Poverty, and one whose face had all
the likeness of Death. And I would have her know that, because of that
day, and because of the memory of her in my heart, so long cherished, I,
at the chosen moment, laid my hand in that of the shining
Presence,--despite those other presences,--to go with it, in what paths
soever it might lead me.
It is so, I take it, life deals with us more largely than we know. Fools
in our folly; spendthrifts though we may be, throwing priceless wisdom
away to the winds, as these two had done; wasting our wealth and our
substance of joy irretrievably; careless of God’s treasure intrusted to
us; squandering gold worth the ransom of all the kings of the earth, and
this for some trifling thing, some inconsiderable bauble; yet God,
unknown to us, does most usually, no doubt, save from our wrecked
fortunes and our lost argosies something--something precious still, and
above price--with which, at a future day, with merciful largesse of
wisdom and of love, some other soul may yet be blest and may yet be
enriched, as it were by all the treasure of the earth.
CHILDREN WANTED
BY LUCY PRATT
THEY were sitting at the breakfast table when the morning mail came in.
There was something for Mr. Henry Tarbell--there was always something
for him; there was something for Mrs. Henry Tarbell--there was usually
something for her. The only thing at all unusual was that there was
something for Master Crosby Tarbell. It was rather a strange-looking
document, too. Beside the address was a picture of a pony with a long,
sweeping tail, and just under the pony were some words. Crosby was
learning to read in a school which was proud of its 'phonetic method,'
and he read the words slowly, with many little lip sounds to help him
on.
'Would you like a pony for your vacation? You can have her free.'
His father’s glance fell on the picture.
'Hullo, where does all that come from?'
'It says I can have her free,' began Crosby, with a characteristic pause
in the middle of his sentence, which always gave the effect of steadying
the inclination to a slight tremble in his small, earnest voice; 'it
says--I can have her free.' His face flushed. 'Can I--have her, father?'
'Where would you keep her?' inquired his father casually, opening a
letter. 'In the kitchen?'
'No, in the--in the barn! They used to keep a horse there--before we
lived here! I--I could keep her in the barn!'
'M--m, barn? I’m afraid she wouldn’t recognize it.'
'But there’s a stall there! A nice stall! _Couldn’t_ I have her?'
His father looked up again.
'What’s this? A prize contest? Oh, I see.' He smiled absently as he went
on with his mail. 'Yes, it’s safe to say you can have her--if you can
get her.'
Crosby’s face flushed slowly again, and his eyes looked very bright.
'If you can get her,' repeated his father, pushing his chair back and
looking at his watch; 'but you can’t, Crosby. There isn’t a chance in a
thousand that you could.' He put his watch in his pocket and looked at
his wife. 'Well, I must go. Come on, old man. Better take your pony
correspondence outside! Too good a day for the house.'
From the low porch-steps Crosby waved an absent good-bye, his eyes still
on the pictured pony. As he tore away some yellow seals, a letter fell
out, and he creased the big folder again and cautiously sat down on it
so that it would not blow away. Then he spread the letter across his
knees.
It was more than half an hour later that he looked up and drew a long
breath of relief. It was the first really full-sized breath that he had
taken since he began the letter--and he had just finished it. His eyes
dwelt on the last sentences again, and as he pulled the folder from
under him, they traveled back to the beginning.
'I have some good news for you!' It read more easily this time. 'What
would make you happier than anything else you can think of? To have me
tell you that you can have a pony of _your own?_' The characteristic,
slow flush came into his cheeks. 'Well, that is just what I _am_ going
to tell you! Because on the twentieth of August we are going to give
away to some boy or girl, one of the prettiest little Indian ponies you
ever saw. Her name is "Lightfoot," and _you can have her if you get
started right away_. The thing is to start right out--'
Oh, he understood the rest perfectly! He was simply to get subscriptions
for the _most delicious breakfast food that had ever been boxed for the
public market!_ Its name? Buttercup Crisps! He was simply to get the
names of people who were willing to put their names down for one order
or more of Buttercup Crisps!
'Buttercup Crisps!' he whispered, and caught another deep breath at the
mere sound of it, as he opened up the big folder. _'A Prize for Every
Contestant!'_ It stared at him in huge letters, and his eyes traveled
swiftly from the shining bicycle to the little mahogany writing-desk, to
the violin, to the beautiful gold watch--then rested again gently,
lingeringly, on THE PONY. Just once again his glance shifted to the
sentence which seemed to shine out from all the others. _'Her name is
"Lightfoot," and you can have her if you get started right away.'_
He gathered up all his papers and went in.
'Mother--' he began; but he found that he needed a steadying pause at
the very beginning. 'Mother--can I go out--for a little while? I want
to--do something.'
She looked at the folded sheets in his hand.
'O Crosby, that’s so foolish!' she protested. 'You know you couldn’t get
that pony, no matter how hard you tried.'
'Well, can I go?' he repeated, sticking characteristically to the
original question.
'Oh, yes, I suppose so. But I wouldn’t waste my time over _that_, if I
were you. It’s too warm a day.'
He was already storing all the papers and pictures inside his waist for
safe keeping, and as he marched steadily down town toward 'the centre,'
he kept one hand of protection upon them and made out a careful plan of
campaign. He must go to every house in town, beginning with the one
right there, next the post-office. But it wasn’t a house. It was a
store. Never mind, he would begin with the store. He felt very strange,
though, as he stood before the counter, while the man behind it waited,
flirting some string which hung down from a suspended ball, and
evidently quite ready for business.
'Would you like,' began Crosby, his voice growing so faint that he had
to swallow to get it back again; 'would you like--some Buttercup
Crisps?'
'Like some _what?_' bawled the man.
Crosby had an idea that he might get arrested if he asked that again, at
least if he didn’t make some variation, so he launched desperately into
another construction.
'It’s something--to eat! For breakfast! Buttercup Crisps! It comes--in
boxes.'
'Well, what about it?' questioned the man behind the counter
distractedly.
'I--do you--do you want some?' continued Crosby bravely.
'No, I don’t,' declared the man behind the counter with both strength
and finality. '’Twouldn’t make any difference _what_ it came in! I’m so
overrun now with these breakfast concoctions that there ain’t room left
for anything else!'
'Yes, sir,' returned Crosby politely, and walked out to the street
again.
It was not a very promising beginning, to be sure, but it was a relief
to have that first dreadful plunge over. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad
after that. And he marched on to the next house, which _was_ a house and
not a store. A middle-aged colored woman, in an ample white apron, came
to the door and stood smiling at him while he screwed his courage into
words again.
'Would you like--would you like--to try a few Buttercup Crisps?' he
asked, with a fleeting consciousness that he had made a really elegant
effort.
'W’at’s dat, chile?' inquired the woman of color in kindly tones.
'Buttercup Crisps!' stammered Crosby. '_Crisps!_ A few--'
'One o' dese yere breakfus' fancies, I s’pose?' came the kindly
encouragement. 'An’ it soun' good, too, doan’t it? But'--she lowered her
voice to a note of confidential intimacy--'dey doan’t 'low me ter
transac' no business at de do', chile, no matter _w’at_ yer offers. Dey
wouldn’t trus' it!'
'Yes’m,' returned Crosby faintly, and walked down the steps.
It made him positively dizzy to think of asking that question again. But
his hand rose mechanically to the folded papers under his waist, and
once more a vision of a beautiful, long-tailed pony swept before his
eyes.
'It said I could have her if I got started right away,' he reasoned
steadily, 'and I have got started right away, so I--I guess I better
keep right on.'
He looked so hot and tired when he came in to dinner, that his mother
glanced at him questioningly.
'Why, Crosby, where _have_ you been? You look perfectly roasted. Is is
so hot in the sun? Well, don’t go out again this afternoon until it’s
cooler.'
'I’m not--so very hot,' he assured her.
But he thought, himself, that he wouldn’t go out again right away. He
had been to a good many houses that morning, but for some reason he had
not a real name to show for it. He had not seen the right people! Most
of them had been servants, and of course they couldn’t have bought
Buttercup Crisps--if they had wanted to. No--he must begin asking for
'the lady of the house.' And he must become more familiar with the
literature of his folder. Its advertising value was his chief asset.
He set forth the next morning with new hope and confidence. And
something very exhilarating soon happened. The very first 'lady of the
house' who smiled down at him from her doorway, as he explained with
conscientious, steadying pauses, the full meaning of his call, and then,
pointing to the pictured pony, explained, with even longer steadying
pauses, that he wanted to get her for a prize--why, that very first
generous lady decided that she would give him her name for six boxes of
Buttercup Crisps! Crosby fairly tottered with the monstrous significance
of it. But as he drew more papers out from under his waist and found the
page where subscribers' names were to be written, she glanced it hastily
over.
'Yes, now I am to give you seventy-five cents,' she explained kindly, as
she wrote her name, 'and it tells you in this little notice here that
that counts you one point. It says, too, I see, that it takes six points
to become a contestant.'
'Everybody gets a prize,' explained Crosby; and he unfolded the
beautiful folder again with its large and frequent letters of assurance
still staring joyously.
'Yes, but--' She looked down at his small, upturned face, and flushed
with a kind of helpless shame,--'but don’t you see, dear child--it tells
you here, in fine print, that it takes _six points_ to become a
contestant?'
Crosby looked puzzled. 'Every contestant gets--a prize,' he repeated
slowly. 'Does that mean that if you work--and get names--that perhaps
you won’t get a prize either?'
'That’s just what it means, and I wouldn’t bother with it if I were you.
You see it means so much work for you--and it’s so uncertain.'
'But the letter--was written to me,' explained Crosby. 'And the Pony Man
says--I can’t lose!'
'Well, then he’s saying what isn’t so. Because you can lose very easily,
and I’m very much afraid that you will. But if you want to keep
trying,'--she just touched his cheek with her hands,--'I--I hope that
you will be successful!'
He went down the steps with a troubled face, tying three silver quarters
into the corner of his handkerchief. So he did not yet understand all
those printed documents! He looked up and down the warm, tree-lined
street, and sat down under the first tree, spreading them all carefully
out upon the grass. When he got up and started on again, he still looked
troubled, but there was, too, a look of patient determination about
him--entirely characteristic. He understood it all now. He understood
about the points.
At dinner-time his eyes looked very bright. He had six names on his list
for varying and assorted orders of Buttercup Crisps! As he brought out
all his money and showed it to his mother, she smiled at him and told
him that he was wasting his time. But he looked back at her with bright,
confident eyes, as he went out again, his precious papers still buttoned
under his waist.
As his campaign went on with steadily growing success, he trudged off as
regularly as possible every morning, back again at noon and again at
night. His mother listened and smiled at explanations of wonderful
progress, at the growing list of names, and occasionally his father half
listened, and smiled too.
After perhaps three weeks of it, there came a day when Crosby’s most
confident hope, at all times unwavering, became a thing which seemed to
soar away with him into a kind of pony heaven, where he heard only the
word 'Lightfoot,' and saw only one beautiful animal with a long,
sweeping tail, because it kept flashing so continuously before his eyes.
That was the day when he was obliged to send for a new subscription
blank. That was the day when his hope, if it had ever in the past
wavered even unconsciously, became a thing of absolute fixedness. And
when there were seven new names on the new blank, and his little bag of
money was so fat and heavy that he doubted whether it would hold any
more, anyway, he had a conference with his mother about dates, and
decided that it was time--it was the _day_ to send everything--all the
returns--to the Pony Man.
She helped him, with the same smile of forbearance, about the
money-order, made out with such dashing effect by the man at the
post-office, and together they got off an impressive-looking envelope
full of impressive-looking matter. It gave just the last touch of safety
and surety to it all to have his mother helping, and Crosby looked up at
her with shining eyes.
'You can ride in the pony-cart,--after the pony comes,--can’t you?'
It took longer pauses than usual to keep things steady that time, and
her glance wandered to his bright eyes.
'Would you be very much disappointed if it didn’t come?'
A puzzled reproach crept over his face. She felt guilty of an
unwarrantable suspiciousness of nature as he looked back at her--and
then hurried off to the old stall in the barn. It seemed so strange not
to have to think about names any more. He could give all his time to the
barn now. He wished that it was a nicer one, but with a little
well-spent labor he thought he might make it very presentable, after
all.
It was the next morning, after he had been working there with a fixed,
concentrated pucker between his eyes for almost three hours, that a
small boy from the next house appeared.
'Say, Crosby.' he began, 'there’s a lady lives up there on the hill
road--you know, after you’ve crossed the long bridge and turned up on
the hill road?' Crosby nodded. 'Well, there’s a lady lives up there says
she’ll be glad to help you. You know, for the pony you’re trying to get.
I was telling her about it yesterday, and she said she didn’t know
anything about the breakfast food, but she’d be glad to help you just
the same.'
'But I’ve sent the names already,' explained Crosby, looking perplexed
with fortune’s almost immoderate favors.
'Well, send hers alone. Can’t you do that?'
Crosby meditated. 'What house did you say she lived in?'
'It’s the only house up there on the hill road. You know! The big, white
house. You couldn’t miss it.'
'I guess I better go up there then.'
He glanced out to the street, where the sun simmered on the white, hot
road, and wiped some little beads of perspiration from his forehead.
Then he walked slowly out through the yard.
When, what seemed a long time afterwards, he dragged himself in from the
simmering, white street again, his legs pulling listlessly behind him,
he even forgot, for the time being, what the walk had all been about,
and sat down vacantly on the cool step in the shade, his cheeks burning
a deep, dull red. Then he remembered and pulled himself up again. And
that evening another letter started on its way to the Pony Man.
The next morning he waked up with a confused consciousness that
something important was hanging over him. Gradually it came back quite
clearly. It was the twentieth. And then, for the first time, he became
aware of facing a quite unheralded question of challenge. _Was there
any doubt about the pony’s coming?_ His long list of subscription names
flashed before his eyes, his big, shining pile of money, his mother’s
smile, the post-office man’s 'whew!' of admiration before he made out
the money-order, the promises in the letter if he began 'right away' and
worked--and he had worked all the time ever since! There was but one
possible answer to that question. The pony would come--to-day--before
night.