During the next few weeks Claude often ran his car down to the
mill house on a pleasant evening and coaxed Enid to go into
Frankfort with him and sit through a moving picture show, or to
drive to a neighbouring town. The advantage of this form of
companionship was that it did not put too great a strain upon
one's conversational powers. Enid could be admirably silent, and
she was never embarrassed by either silence or speech. She was
cool and sure of herself under any circumstances, and that was
one reason why she drove a car so well,--much better than Claude,
indeed.
One Sunday, when they met after church, she told Claude that she
wanted to go to Hastings to do some shopping, and they arranged
that he should take her on Tuesday in his father's big car. The
town was about seventy miles to the northeast and, from
Frankfort, it was an inconvenient trip by rail.
On Tuesday morning Claude reached the mill house just as the sun
was rising over the damp fields. Enid was on the front porch
waiting for him, wearing a blanket coat over her spring suit. She
ran down to the gate and slipped into the seat beside him.
"Good morning, Claude. Nobody else is up. It's going to be a
glorious day, isn't it?"
"Splendid. A little warm for this time of year. You won't need
that coat long."
For the first hour they found the roads empty. All the fields
were grey with dew, and the early sunlight burned over everything
with the transparent brightness of a fire that has just been
kindled. As the machine noiselessly wound off the miles, the sky
grew deeper and bluer, and the flowers along the roadside opened
in the wet grass. There were men and horses abroad on every hill
now. Soon they began to pass children on the way to school, who
stopped and waved their bright dinner pails at the two
travellers. By ten o'clock they were in Hastings.
While Enid was shopping, Claude bought some white shoes and duck
trousers. He felt more interest than usual in his summer clothes.
They met at the hotel for lunch, both very hungry and both
satisfied with their morning's work. Seated in the dining room,
with Enid opposite him, Claude thought they did not look at all
like a country boy and girl come to town, but like experienced
people touring in their car.
"Will you make a call with me after dinner?" she asked while they
were waiting for their dessert.
"Is it any one I know?"
"Certainly. Brother Weldon is in town. His meetings are over, and
I was afraid he might be gone, but he is staying on a few days
with Mrs. Gleason. I brought some of Carrie's letters along for
him to read."
Claude made a wry face. "He won't be delighted to see me. We
never got on well at school. He's a regular muff of a teacher, if
you want to know," he added resolutely.
Enid studied him judicially. "I'm surprised to hear that; he's
such a good speaker. You'd better come along. It's so foolish to
have a coolness with your old teachers."
An hour later the Reverend Arthur Weldon received the two young
people in Mrs. Gleason's half-darkened parlour, where he seemed
quite as much at home as that lady herself. The hostess, after
chatting cordially with the visitors for a few moments, excused
herself to go to a P. E. O. meeting. Every one rose at her
departure, and Mr. Weldon approached Enid, took her hand, and
stood looking at her with his head inclined and his oblique
smile. "This is an unexpected pleasure, to see you again, Miss
Enid. And you, too, Claude," turning a little toward the latter.
"You've come up from Frankfort together this beautiful day?" His
tone seemed to say, "How lovely for you!"
He directed most of his remarks to Enid and, as always, avoided
looking at Claude except when he definitely addressed him.
"You are farming this year, Claude? I presume that is a great
satisfaction to your father. And Mrs. Wheeler is quite well?"
Mr. Weldon certainly bore no malice, but he always pronounced
Claude's name exactly like the word "Clod," which annoyed him. To
be sure, Enid pronounced his name in the same way, but either
Claude did not notice this, or did not mind it from her. He sank
into a deep, dark sofa, and sat with his driving cap on his knee
while Brother Weldon drew a chair up to the one open window of
the dusky room and began to read Carrie Royce's letters. Without
being asked to do so, he read them aloud, and stopped to comment
from time to time. Claude observed with disappointment that Enid
drank in all his platitudes just as Mrs. Wheeler did. He had
never looked at Weldon so long before. The light fell full on the
young man's pear-shaped head and his thin, rippled hair. What in
the world could sensible women like his mother and Enid Royce
find to admire in this purring, white-necktied fellow? Enid's
dark eyes rested upon him with an expression of profound respect.
She both looked at him and spoke to him with more feeling than
she ever showed toward Claude.
"You see, Brother Weldon," she said earnestly, "I am not
naturally much drawn to people. I find it hard to take the proper
interest in the church work at home. It seems as if I had always
been holding myself in reserve for the foreign field,--by not
making personal ties, I mean. If Gladys Farmer went to China,
everybody would miss her. She could never be replaced in the High
School. She has the kind of magnetism that draws people to her.
But I have always been keeping myself free to do what Carrie is
doing. There I know I could be of use."
Claude saw it was not easy for Enid to talk like this. Her face
looked troubled, and her dark eyebrows came together in a sharp
angle as she tried to tell the young preacher exactly what was
going on in her mind. He listened with his habitual, smiling
attention, smoothing the paper of the folded letter pages and
murmuring, "Yes, I understand. Indeed, Miss Enid?"
When she pressed him for advice, he said it was not always easy
to know in what field one could be most useful; perhaps this very
restraint was giving her some spiritual discipline that she
particularly needed. He was careful not to commit himself, not to
advise anything unconditionally, except prayer.
"I believe that all things are made clear to us in prayer, Miss
Enid."
Enid clasped her hands; her perplexity made her features look
sharper. "But it is when I pray that I feel this call the
strongest. It seems as if a finger were pointing me over there.
Sometimes when I ask for guidance in little things, I get none,
and only get the feeling that my work lies far away, and that for
it, strength would be given me. Until I take that road, Christ
withholds himself."
Mr. Weldon answered her in a tone of relief, as if something
obscure had been made clear. "If that is the case, Miss Enid, I
think we need have no anxiety. If the call recurs to you in
prayer, and it is your Saviour's will, then we can be sure that
the way and the means will be revealed. A passage from one of the
Prophets occurs to me at this moment; 'And behold a way shall be
opened up before thy feet; walk thou in it.' We might say that
this promise was originally meant for Enid Royce! I believe God
likes us to appropriate passages of His word personally." This
last remark was made playfully, as if it were a kind of Christian
Endeavour jest. He rose and handed Enid back the letters.
Clearly, the interview was over.
As Enid drew on her gloves she told him that it had been a great
help to talk to him, and that he always seemed to give her what
she needed. Claude wondered what it was. He hadn't seen Weldon do
anything but retreat before her eager questions. He, an
"atheist," could have given her stronger reinforcement.
Claude's car stood under the maple trees in front of Mrs.
Gleason's house. Before they got into it, he called Enid's
attention to a mass of thunderheads in the west.
"That looks to me like a storm. It might be a wise thing to stay
at the hotel tonight."
"Oh, no! I don't want to do that. I haven't come prepared."
He reminded her that it wouldn't be impossible to buy whatever
she might need for the night.
"I don't like to stay in a strange place without my own things,"
she said decidedly.
"I'm afraid we'll be going straight into it. We may be in for
something pretty rough,--but it's as you say." He still
hesitated, with his hand on the door.
"I think we'd better try it," she said with quiet determination.
Claude had not yet learned that Enid always opposed the
unexpected, and could not bear to have her plans changed by
people or circumstances.
For an hour he drove at his best speed, watching the clouds
anxiously. The table-land, from horizon to horizon, was glowing
in sunlight, and the sky itself seemed only the more brilliant
for the mass of purple vapours rolling in the west, with bright
edges, like new-cut lead. He had made fifty odd miles when the
air suddenly grew cold, and in ten minutes the whole shining sky
was blotted out. He sprang to the ground and began to jack up his
wheels. As soon as a wheel left the earth, Enid adjusted the
chain. Claude told her he had never got the chains on so quickly
before. He covered the packages in the back seat with an oilcloth
and drove forward to meet the storm.
The rain swept over them in waves, seemed to rise from the sod as
well as to fall from the clouds. They made another five miles,
ploughing through puddles and sliding over liquefied roads.
Suddenly the heavy car, chains and all, bounded up a two-foot
bank, shot over the sod a dozen yards before the brake caught it,
then swung a half-circle and stood still. Enid sat calm and
motionless.
Claude drew a long breath. "If that had happened on a culvert,
we'd be in the ditch with the car on top of us. I simply can't
control the thing. The whole top soil is loose, and there's
nothing to hold to. That's Tommy Rice's place over there. We'd
better get him to take us in for the night."
"But that would be worse than the hotel," Enid objected. "They
are not very clean people, and there are a lot of children."
"Better be crowded than dead," he murmured. "From here on, it
would be a matter of luck. We might land anywhere."
"We are only about ten miles from your place. I can stay with
your mother tonight."
"It's too dangerous, Enid. I don't like the responsibility. Your
father would blame me for taking such a chance."
"I know, it's on my account you're nervous." Enid spoke
reasonably enough. "Do you mind letting me drive for awhile?
There are only three bad hills left, and I think I can slide down
them sideways; I've often tried it."
Claude got out and let her slip into his seat, but after she took
the wheel he put his hand on her arm. "Don't do anything so
foolish," he pleaded.
Enid smiled and shook her head. She was amiable, but inflexible.