Jerome Irving had been courting Anne Stockard for fifteen years. He
had begun when she was twenty and he was twenty-five, and now that
Jerome was forty, and Anne, in a village where everybody knew
everybody else's age, had to own to being thirty-five, the courtship
did not seem any nearer a climax than it had at the beginning. But
that was not Jerome's fault, poor fellow!
At the end of the first year he had asked Anne to marry him, and Anne
had refused. Jerome was disappointed, but he kept his head and went on
courting Anne just the same; that is he went over to Esek Stockard's
house every Saturday night and spent the evening, he walked home with
Anne from prayer meeting and singing school and parties when she would
let him, and asked her to go to all the concerts and socials and
quilting frolics that came off. Anne never would go, of course, but
Jerome faithfully gave her the chance. Old Esek rather favoured
Jerome's suit, for Anne was the plainest of his many daughters, and no
other fellow seemed at all anxious to run Jerome off the track; but
she took her own way with true Stockard firmness, and matters were
allowed to drift on at the will of time or chance.
Three years later Jerome tried his luck again, with precisely the same
result, and after that he had asked Anne regularly once a year to
marry him, and just as regularly Anne said no a little more brusquely
and a little more decidedly every year. Now, in the mellowness of a
fifteen-year-old courtship, Jerome did not mind it at all. He knew
that everything comes to the man who has patience to wait.
Time, of course, had not stood still with Anne and Jerome, or with the
history of Deep Meadows. At the Stockard homestead the changes had
been many and marked. Every year or two there had been a wedding in
the big brick farmhouse, and one of old Esek's girls had been the
bride each time. Julia and Grace and Celia and Betty and Theodosia
and Clementina Stockard were all married and gone. But Anne had never
had another lover. There had to be an old maid in every big family she
said, and she was not going to marry Jerome Irving just for the sake
of having Mrs. on her tombstone.
Old Esek and his wife had been put away in the Deep Meadows
burying-ground. The broad, fertile Stockard acres passed into Anne's
possession. She was a good business-woman, and the farm continued to
be the best in the district. She kept two hired men and a servant
girl, and the sixteen-year-old of her oldest sister lived with her.
There were few visitors at the Stockard place now, but Jerome "dropped
in" every Saturday night with clockwork regularity and talked to Anne
about her stock and advised her regarding the rotation of her crops
and the setting out of her orchards. And at ten o'clock he would take
his hat and cane and tell Anne to be good to herself, and go home.
Anne had long since given up trying to discourage him; she even
accepted attentions from him now that she had used to refuse. He
always walked home with her from evening meetings and was her partner
in the games at quilting parties. It was great fun for the young
folks. "Old Jerome and Anne" were a standing joke in Deep Meadows. But
the older people had ceased to expect anything to come of it.
Anne laughed at Jerome as she had always done, and would not have
owned for the world that she could have missed him. Jerome was useful,
she admitted, and a comfortable friend; and she would have liked him
well enough if he would only omit that ridiculous yearly ceremony of
proposal.
It was Jerome's fortieth birthday when Anne refused him again. He
realized this as he went down the road in the moonlight, and doubt and
dismay began to creep into his heart. Anne and he were both getting
old--there was no disputing that fact. It was high time that he
brought her to terms if he was ever going to. Jerome was an
easy-going mortal and always took things placidly, but he did not
mean to have all those fifteen years of patient courting go for
nothing He had thought Anne would get tired of saying no, sooner or
later, and say yes, if for no other reason than to have a change; but
getting tired did not seem to run in the Stockard blood. She had said
no that night just as coolly and decidedly and unsentimentally as she
said it fifteen years before. Jerome had the sensation of going around
in a circle and never getting any further on. He made up his mind that
something must be done, and just as he got to the brook that divides
Deep Meadows West from Deep Meadows Central an idea struck him; it was
a good idea and amused him. He laughed aloud and slapped his thigh,
much to the amusement of two boys who were sitting unnoticed on the
railing of the bridge.
"There's old Jerome going home from seeing Anne Stockard," said one.
"Wonder what on earth he's laughing at. Seems to me if I couldn't get
a wife without hoeing a fifteen-year row, I'd give up trying."
But, then, the speaker was a Hamilton, and the Hamiltons never had any
perseverance.
Jerome, although a well-to-do man, owning a good farm, had, so to
speak, no home of his own. The old Irving homestead belonged to his
older brother, who had a wife and family. Jerome lived with them and
was so used to it he didn't mind.
At forty a lover must not waste time. Jerome thought out the details
that night, and next day he opened the campaign. But it was not until
the evening after that that Anne Stockard heard the news. It was her
niece, Octavia, who told her. The latter had been having a chat up the
lane with Sam Mitchell, and came in with a broad smile on her round,
rosy face and a twinkle in her eyes.
"I guess you've lost your beau this time, Aunt Anne. It looks as if he
meant to take you at your word at last."
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Anne, a little sharply. She was in
the pantry counting eggs, and Octavia's interruption made her lose her
count. "Now I can't remember whether it was six or seven dozen I said
last. I shall have to count them all over again. I wish, Octavia, that
you could think of something besides beaus all the time."
"Well, but listen," persisted Octavia wickedly. "Jerome Irving was at
the social at the Cherry Valley parsonage last night, and he had
Harriet Warren there--took her there, and drove her home again."
"I don't believe it," cried Anne, before she thought. She dropped an
egg into the basket so abruptly that the shell broke.
"Oh, it's true enough. Sam Mitchell told me; he was there and saw him.
Sam says he looked quite beaming, and was dressed to kill, and
followed Harriet around like her shadow. I guess you won't have any
more bother with him, Aunt Anne."
In the process of picking the broken egg out of the whole ones Anne
had recovered her equanimity. She gave a careful little laugh.
"Well, it's to be hoped so. Goodness knows it's time he tried somebody
else. Go and change your dress for milking, Octavia, and don't spend
quite so much time gossiping up the lane with Sam Mitchell. He always
was a fetch-and-carry. Young girls oughtn't to be so pert."
When the subdued Octavia had gone, Anne tossed the broken eggshell out
of the pantry window viciously enough.
"There's no fool like an old fool. Jerome Irving always was an idiot.
The idea of his going after Harriet Warren! He's old enough to be her
father. And a Warren, too! I've seen the time an Irving wouldn't be
seen on the same side of the road with a Warren. Well, anyhow, I don't
care, and he needn't suppose I will. It will be a relief not to have
him hanging around any longer."
It might have been a relief, but Anne felt strangely lonely as she
walked home alone from prayer meeting the next night. Jerome had not
been there. The Warrens were Methodists and Anne rightly guessed that
he had gone to the Methodist prayer meeting at Cherry Valley.
"Dancing attendance on Harriet," she said to herself scornfully.
When she got home she looked at her face in the glass more critically
than she had done for years. Anne Stockard at her best had never been
pretty. When young she had been called "gawky." She was very tall and
her figure was lank and angular. She had a long, pale face and dusky
hair. Her eyes had been good--a glimmering hazel, large and
long-lashed. They were pretty yet, but the crow's feet about them were
plainly visible. There were brackets around her mouth too, and her
cheeks were hollow. Anne suddenly realized, as she had never realized
before, that she had grown old--that her youth was left far behind.
She was an old maid, and Harriet Warren was young, and pretty. Anne's
long, thin lips suddenly quivered.
"I declare, I'm a worse fool than Jerome," she said angrily.
When Saturday night came Jerome did not. The corner of the big,
old-fashioned porch where he usually sat looked bare and lonely. Anne
was short with Octavia and boxed the cat's ears and raged at herself.
What did she care if Jerome Irving never came again? She could have
married him years ago if she had wanted to--everybody knew that!
At sunset she saw a buggy drive past her gate. Even at that distance
she recognized Harriet Warren's handsome, high-coloured profile. It
was Jerome's new buggy and Jerome was driving. The wheel spokes
flashed in the sunlight as they crept up the hill. Perhaps they
dazzled Anne's eyes a little; at least, for that or some other reason
she dabbed her hand viciously over them as she turned sharply about
and went upstairs. Octavia was practising her music lesson in the
parlour below and singing in a sweet shrill voice. The hired men were
laughing and talking in the yard. Anne slammed down her window and
banged her door and then lay down on her bed; she said her head ached.
The Deep Meadows people were amused and made joking remarks to Anne,
which she had to take amiably because she had no excuse for resenting
them. In reality they stung her pride unendurably. When Jerome had
gone she realized that she had no other intimate friend and that she
was a very lonely woman whom nobody cared about. One night--it was
three weeks afterward--she met Jerome and Harriet squarely. She was
walking to church with Octavia, and they were driving in the opposite
direction. Jerome had his new buggy and crimson lap robe. His horse's
coat shone like satin and had rosettes of crimson on his bridle.
Jerome was dressed extremely well and looked quite young, with his
round, ruddy, clean-shaven face and clear blue eyes.
Harriet was sitting primly and consciously by his side; she was a very
handsome girl with bold eyes and was somewhat overdressed. She wore a
big flowery hat and a white lace veil and looked at Anne with a
supercilious smile.
Anne felt dowdy and old; she was very pale. Jerome lifted his hat and
bowed pleasantly as they drove past. Suddenly Harriet laughed out.
Anne did not look back, but her face crimsoned darkly. Was that girl
laughing at her? She trembled with anger and a sharp, hurt feeling.
When she got home that night she sat a long while by her window.
Jerome was gone--and he let Harriet Warren laugh at her and he would
never come back to her. Well, it did not matter, but she had been a
fool. Only it had never occurred to her that Jerome could act so.
"If I'd thought he would I mightn't have been so sharp with him," was
as far as she would let herself go even in thought.
When four weeks had elapsed Jerome came over one Saturday night. He
was fluttered and anxious, but hid it in a masterly manner.
Anne was taken by surprise. She had not thought he would ever come
again, and was off her guard. He had come around the porch corner
abruptly as she stood there in the dusk, and she started very
perceptibly.
"Good evening, Anne," he said, easily and unblushingly.
Anne choked up. She was very angry, or thought she was. Jerome
appeared not to notice her lack of welcome. He sat coolly down in his
old place. His heart was beating like a hammer, but Anne did not know
that.
"I suppose," she said cuttingly, "that you're on your way down to the
bridge. It's almost a pity for you to waste time stopping here at all,
any more than you have of late. No doubt Harriet'll be expecting you."
A gleam of satisfaction flashed over Jerome's face. He looked shrewdly
at Anne, who was not looking at him, but was staring uncompromisingly
out over the poppy beds. A jealous woman always gives herself away. If
Anne had been indifferent she would not have given him that slap in
the face.
"I dunno's she will," he replied coolly. "I didn't say for sure
whether I'd be down tonight or not. It's so long since I had a chat
with you I thought I'd drop in for a spell. But of course if I'm not
wanted I can go where I will be."
Anne could not get back her self-control. Her nerves were "all strung
up," as she would have said. She had a feeling that she was right on
the brink of a "scene," but she could not help herself.
"I guess it doesn't matter much what I want," she said stonily. "At
any rate, it hasn't seemed that way lately. You don't care, of course.
Oh, no! Harriet Warren is all you care about. Well, I wish you joy of
her."
Jerome looked puzzled, or pretended to. In reality he was hugging
himself with delight.
"I don't just understand you, Anne," he said hesitatingly "You appear
to be vexed about something."
"I? Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Irving. Of course old friends don't count
now. Well, I've no doubt new ones will wear just as well."
"If it's about my going to see Harriet," said Jerome easily "I don't
see as how it can matter much to you. Goodness knows, you took enough
pains to show me you didn't want me. I don't blame you. A woman has a
right to please herself, and a man ought to have sense to take his
answer and go. I hadn't, and that's where I made my mistake. I don't
mean to pester you any more, but we can be real good friends, can't
we? I'm sure I'm as much your friend as ever I was."
Now, I hold that this speech of Jerome's, delivered in a cool,
matter-of-fact tone, as of a man stating a case with dispassionate
fairness, was a masterpiece. It was the last cleverly executed
movement of the campaign. If it failed to effect a capitulation, he
was a defeated man. But it did not fail.
Anne had got to that point where an excited woman must go mad or cry.
Anne cried. She sat flatly down on a chair and burst into tears.
Jerome's hat went one way and his cane another. Jerome himself sprang
across the intervening space and dropped into the chair beside Anne.
He caught her hand in his and threw his arm boldly around her waist.
"Goodness gracious, Anne! Do you care after all? Tell me that!"
"I don't suppose it matters to you if I do," sobbed Anne. "It hasn't
seemed to matter, anyhow."
"Anne, look here! Didn't I come after you for fifteen years? It's you
I always have wanted and want yet, if I can get you. I don't care a
rap for Harriet Warren or anyone but you. Now that's the truth right
out, Anne."
No doubt it was, and Anne was convinced of it. But she had to have her
cry out--on Jerome's shoulder--and it soothed her nerves wonderfully.
Later on Octavia, slipping noiselessly up the steps in the dusk, saw a
sight that transfixed her with astonishment. When she recovered
herself she turned and fled wildly around the house, running bump into
Sam Mitchell, who was coming across the yard from a twilight
conference with the hired men.
"Goodness, Tavy, what's the matter? Y' look 'sif y'd seen a ghost."
Octavia leaned up against the wall in spasms of mirth.
"Oh, Sam," she gasped, "old Jerome Irving and Aunt Anne are sitting
round there in the dark on the front porch and he had his arms around
her, kissing her! And they never saw nor heard me, no more'n if they
were deaf and blind!"
Sam gave a tremendous whistle and then went off into a shout of
laughter whose echoes reached even to the gloom of the front porch and
the ears of the lovers. But they did not know he was laughing at them
and would not have cared if they had. They were too happy for that.
There was a wedding that fall and Anne Stockard was the bride. When
she was safely his, Jerome confessed all and was graciously forgiven.
"But it was kind of mean to Harriet," said Anne rebukingly, "to go
with her and get her talked about and then drop her as you did. Don't
you think so yourself, Jerome?"
Her husband's eyes twinkled.
"Well, hardly that. You see, Harriet's engaged to that Johnson fellow
out west. 'Tain't generally known, but I knew it and that's why I
picked on her. I thought it probable that she'd be willing enough to
flirt with me for a little diversion, even if I was old. Harriet's
that sort of a girl. And I made up my mind that if that didn't fetch
it nothing would and I'd give up for good and all. But it did, didn't
it, Anne?"
"I should say so. It was horrid of you, Jerome--but I daresay it's
just as well you did or I'd likely never have found out that I
couldn't get along without you. I did feel dreadful. Poor Octavia
could tell you I was as cross as X. How did you come to think of it,
Jerome?"
"A fellow had to do something," said Jerome oracularly, "and I'd have
done most anything to get you, Anne, that's a fact. And there it
was--courting fifteen years and nothing to show for it. I dunno,
though, how I did come to think of it. Guess it was a sort of
inspiration. Anyhow, I've got you and that's what I set out to do in
the beginning."