THE WALK HOME.
You expect me to describe that walk. You have had enough of the Jack
Meanses and the Squire Hawkinses, and the Pete Joneses, and the rest.
You wish me to tell you now of this true-hearted girl and her lover; of
how the silvery moonbeams came down in a shower--to use Whittier's
favorite metaphor--through the maple boughs, flecking the frozen ground
with light and shadow. You would have me tell of the evening star, not
yet gone down, which shed its benediction on them. But I shall do no
such thing. For the moon was not shining, neither did the stars give
their light. The tall, black trunks of the maples swayed and shook in
the wind, which moaned through their leafless boughs. Novelists always
make lovers walk in the moonlight. But if love is not, as the cynics
believe, all moonshine, it can at least make its own light. Moonlight is
never so little needed or heeded, never so much of an impertinence, as
in a love-scene. It was at the bottom of the first hollow beyond the
school-house that Ralph overtook the timid girl walking swiftly through
the dark. He did not ask permission to walk with her. Love does not go
by words, and there are times when conventionality is impossible. There
are people who understand one another at once. When one soul meets
another, it is not by pass-word, nor by hailing sign, nor by mysterious
grip that they recognize. The subtlest freemasonry in the world is this
freemasonry of the spirit.
Ralph and Hannah knew and trusted. Ralph had admired and wondered at the
quiet drudge. But it was when, in the unaccustomed sunshine of praise,
she spread her wings a little, that he loved her. He had seen her awake.
You, Miss Amelia, wish me to repeat all their love-talk. I am afraid
you'd find it dull. Love can pipe through any kind of a reed. Ralph
talked love to Hannah when he spoke of the weather, of the crops, of the
spelling-school. Weather, crops, and spelling-school--these were what
his words would say if reported. But below all these commonplaces there
vibrated something else. One can make love a great deal better when one
doesn't speak of love. Words are so poor! Tones and modulations are
better. It is an old story that Whitefield could make an audience weep
by his way of pronouncing the word Mesopotamia. A lover can sound the
whole gamut of his affection in saying Good-morning. The solemnest
engagements ever made have been without the intervention of speech.
And you, my Gradgrind friend, you think me sentimental. Two young fools
they were, walking so slowly though the night was sharp, dallying under
the trees, and dreaming of a heaven they could not have realized if all
their wishes had been granted. Of course they were fools! Either they
were fools to be so happy, or else some other people are fools not to
be. After all, dear Gradgrind, let them be. There's no harm in it.
They'll get trouble enough before morning. Let them enjoy the evening. I
am not sure but these lovers whom we write down fools are the only wise
people after all. Is it not wise to be happy? Let them alone.
For the first time in three years, for the first time since she had
crossed the threshold of "Old Jack Means" and come under the domination
of Mrs. Old Jack Means, Hannah talked cheerfully, almost gayly. It was
something to have a companion to talk to. It was something to be the
victor even in a spelling-match, and to be applauded even by Flat Creek.
And so, chatting earnestly about the most uninteresting themes, Ralph
courteously helped Hannah over the fence, and they took the usual
short-cut through the "blue-grass pasture." There came up a little
shower, hardly more than a sprinkle, but then It was so nice to have a
shower just as they reached the box-elder tree by the spring! It was so
thoughtful in Ralph to suggest that the shade of a box-elder is dense,
and that Hannah might take cold! And it was so easy for Hannah to yield
to the suggestion! Just as though she had not milked the cows in the
open lot in the worst storms of the last three years! And just as though
the house were not within a stone's-throw! Doubtless it was not prudent
to stop here. But let us deal gently with them. Who would not stay in an
earthy paradise ten minutes longer, even though it did make purgatory
the hotter afterward? And so Hannah stayed.
"Tell me your circumstances," said Ralph, at last. "I am sure I can help
you in something."
"No, no! you cannot," and Hannah's face was clouded. "No one can help
me. Only time and God. I must go, Mr. Hartsook." And they walked on to
the front gate in silence and in some constraint. But still in
happiness.
As they came to the gate, Dr. Small pushed past them in his cool,
deliberate way, and mounted his horse. Ralph bade Hannah good-night,
having entirely forgotten the errand which had been his excuse to
himself for coming out of his way. He hastened to his new home, the
house of Mr. Pete Jones, the same who believed in the inseparableness of
"lickin' and larnin'."
"You're a purty gal, a'n't you? You're a purty gal, a'n't you? _You_
air! Yes, you _air_" and Mrs. Means seemed so impressed with Hannah's
prettiness that she choked on it, and could get no further. "A purty
gal! you! Yes! you air a mighty purty gal!" and the old woman's voice
rose till it could have been heard half a mile. "To be a-santerin' along
the big road after ten o'clock with the master! Who knows whether he's a
fit man fer anybody to go with? Arter all I've been and gone and done
fer you! That's the way you pay me! Disgrace me! Yes, I say disgrace me!
You're a mean, deceitful thing. Stuck up bekase you spelt the master
down. Ketch _me_ lettin' you got to spellin'-school to-morry night!
Ketch ME! Yes, ketch ME, I say!"
"Looky here, marm," said Bud, "it seems to me you're a-makin' a blamed
furss about nothin'. Don't yell so's they'll hear you three or four
mile. You'll have everybody 'tween here and Clifty waked up." For Mrs.
Means had become so excited over the idea of being caught allowing
Hannah to go to spelling-school that she had raised her last "Ketch
me!" to a perfect whoop.
"That's the way I'm treated," whimpered the old woman, who knew how to
take the "injured innocence" dodge as well as anybody. "That's the way
I'm treated. You allers take sides with that air hussy agin your own
flesh and blood. You don't keer how much trouble I have. Not you. Not a
dog-on'd bit. I may be disgraced by that air ongrateful critter, and you
set right here in my own house and sass me about it. A purty fellow you
air! An' me a-delvin' and a-drudgin' fer you all my born days. A purty
son, a'n't you?"
Bud did not say another word. He sat in the chimney-corner and whistled
"Dandy Jim from Caroline." His diversion had produced the effect he
sought: for while his tender-hearted mother poured her broadside into
his iron-clad feelings, Hannah had slipped up the stairs to her garret
bedroom, and when Mrs. Means turned from the callous Bud to finish her
assault upon the sensitive girl, she could only gnash her teeth in
disappointment.
Stung by the insults to which she could not grow insensible, Hannah lay
awake until the memory of that walk through the darkness came into her
soul like a benediction. The harsh voice of the scold died out, and the
gentle and courteous voice of Hartsook filled her soul. She recalled
piece by piece the whole conversation--all the commonplace remarks about
the weather; all the insignificant remarks about the crops; all the
unimportant words about the spelling-school. Not for the sake of the
remarks. Not for the sake of the weather. Not for the sake of the crops.
Not for the sake of the spelling-school. But for the sake of the
undertone. And then she traveled back over the three years of her
bondage and forward over the three years to come, and fed her heart on
the dim hope of rebuilding in some form the home that had been so happy.
And she prayed, with more faith than ever before, for deliverance. For
love brings faith. Somewhere on in the sleepless night she stood at the
window. The moon was shining now, and there was the path through the
pasture, and there was the fence, and there was the box-elder.
She sat there a long time. Then she saw someone come over the fence and
walk to the tree, and then on toward Pete Jones's. Who could it be? She
thought she recognized the figure. But she was chilled and shivering,
and she crept back again into bed, and dreamed not of the uncertain days
to come, but of the blessed days that were past--of a father and a
mother and a brother in a happy home. But somehow the school-master was
there too.