wiping crumbs off it with a paper napkin, asked him the time of day. She
explained that she had loaned her watch--gold--patent lever--to her
husband, who was a printer. She said the chain of the watch was made of
her mother's hair. She also stated that her husband was an atheist, and
had a most singular mole on his back, and that she had been called by
telegraph to the care of an aunt taken down with measles and whose
husband was a steamboat pilot, and an excellent self-taught banjoist;
that she, herself, had in childhood been subject to membranous croup,
which had been cured with pulsatilla, which the doctor had been told to
prescribe, by his grandmother, in a dream; also that her father,
deceased, was a man of the highest refinement, who had invented a
stump-extractor; that her sisters were passionately fond of her; that
she never spoke to strangers when traveling, but, somehow, he, March,
did not seem like a stranger at all; and that she had brought her dinner
with her in a pasteboard shirt-box rather than trust railroad cooking,
being a dyspeptic. She submitted the empty box in evidence, got him to
step to the platform and throw it away, and on his return informed him
that it was dyspepsia had disabled her mouth, and not overwork, as she
and her sisters had once supposed.
Still March did finish his letter. Then he went and smoked another
cigar. And then he came again and found the four traveling men playing
whist, Mr. and Mrs. Fair dozing, and Miss Garnet looking out of a window
on the other side in a section at the far end of the car, the only one
not otherwise occupied.
"I'm in your seat," she said.
"O don't refuse to share it with me; you take away all its value."
She gradually remarked that she was not the sort of person wilfully to
damage the value of a seat in a railroad car, and they shared it.
For a time they talked at random. He got out a map and time-table and,
while he held one side and she the other, showed where they had had to
lie five hours at a junction the night before. But when these were
folded again there came a silent interval, and then John sank lower in
his place, dropped his tone, and asked,
"Do you remember what we were speaking of before dinner?"
Barbara dreamily said yes, and they began where they had left off.
Three hours later, on the contrary, they left off where they had begun.
LVII.
GO ON, SAYS BARBARA
Miss Garnet said she ought to rejoin her friends, and John started with
her.
On their way the dyspeptic stopped them affectionately to offer Barbara
a banana, and ask if she and the gentleman were not cousins. Miss Garnet
said no, and John enjoyed that way she had of smiling sweetly with her
eyes alone. But she smiled just as prettily with her lips also when the
woman asked him if he was perfectly sure he hadn't relations in Arkansas
named Pumpkinseed--he had such a strong Pumpkinseed look. The questioner
tried to urge the banana upon him, assuring him that it was the last of
three, which, she said, she wouldn't have bought if she hadn't been so
lonesome.
Barbara sat down with her, to John's disgust, a feeling which was not
diminished when he passed on to her Northern friends, and Mr. Fair tried
very gently to draw him out on the Negro question! When he saw Mrs. Fair
glancing about for the porter he sprang to find and send him, but
lingered, himself, long among the mirrors to wash and brush up and
adjust his necktie.
The cars stopping, he went to the front platform, where the dyspeptic,
who was leaving the train, turned to thank him "for all his kindness"
with such genuine gratitude that in the haste he quite lost his tongue,
and for his only response pushed her anxiously off the steps. He still
knew enough, however, to reflect that this probably left Miss Garnet
alone, and promptly going in he found her--sitting with the Fairs.
Because she was perishing to have Mr. March again begin where he had
left off, she conversed with the Fairs longer than ever and created half
a dozen delays out of pure nothings. So that when she and John were once
more alone together he talked hither and yon for a short while before he
asked her where the poems were.
Nevertheless she was extremely pleasant. Their fellow-passenger just
gone, she said, had praised him without stint, and had quoted him as
having said to her, "It isn't always right to do what we have the right
to do."
"O pshaw!" warmly exclaimed John, started as if she had touched an
inflamed nerve, and reddened, remembering how well Miss Garnet might
know what that nerve was, and why it was so sore.
"I wish I knew how to be sen-ten-tious," said Barbara, obliviously.
"It was she led up to it." He laughed. "She said it better, herself,
afterward!"
"How did she say it?"
"She? O she said--she said her pastor said it--that nothing's quite
right until it's noble."
"Well, don't you believe that principle?"
"I don't know! That's what I've asked myself twenty times to-day."
"Why to-day?" asked Miss Garnet, with eyes downcast, as though she could
give the right answer herself.
"O"--he smiled--"something set me to thinking about it. But, now, Miss
Garnet, is it true? Isn't it sometimes allowable, and sometimes even
necessary--absolutely, morally necessary--for a fellow to do what may
look anything but noble?"
He got no reply.
"O of course I know it's the spirit of an act that counts, and not its
look; but--here now, for example,"--John dropped his voice
confidentially--"is a fellow in love with a young lady, and----Do I
speak loud enough?"
"Yes, go on."
He did so for some time. By and by:
"Ah! yes, Mr. March, but remember you're only supposing a case."
"O, but I'm not only supposing it; it's actual fact. I knew it. And, as
I say, whatever that feeling for her was, it became the ruling passion
of his life. When circumstances--a change of conditions--of
relations--made it simply wrong for him to cherish it any more it wasn't
one-fourth or one-tenth so much the unrighteousness as the ignobility of
the thing that tortured him and tortured him, until one day what does he
up and do but turn over a new leaf. Do I speak too low?"
"No, go on, Mr. March."
"Well, for about twenty-four hours he thought he had done something
noble. Then he found that was just what it wasn't. It never is; else
turning over new leaves would be easy! He didn't get his new leaf turned
over. He tried; he tried his best."
"That's all God asks," murmured Barbara.
"What?"
"Nothing. Please don't stop. How'd it turn out?"
"O bad! He put himself out of sight and reach and went on trying, till
one day--one night--without intention or expectation, he found her when,
by the baseness--no, I won't say that, but--yes, I will!--by the
baseness of another, she was all at once the fit object of all the pity
and the sort of love that belongs with pity, which any heart can give."
"And he gave them!"
"Yes, he gave _them_. But the old feeling--whatever it was----" John
hesitated.
"Go on. Please don't stop."
"The--the old feeling--went out--right there--like a candle in the wind.
No, not that way, quite, but like a lamp drinking the last of its oil.
Where he lodged that night----"
"Yes----"
"--He heard a clock strike every hour; and at the break of day
that--feeling--whatever it was--with the only real good excuse to live
it ever had--was dead."
"And that wasn't true love? Don't you believe it was?"
"Do you, Miss Barbara Garnet? Could true love lie down and give up the
ghost at such a time and on such a pretext as that? Could it? Could it?"
"I think--O--I think it--you'll forgive me if----"
"Forgive! Why, how can you offend _me_? You don't imagine----"
"O no! I forgot. Well I think the love was true in degree; not the very
truest. It was only _first_ love; but it was the first love of a true
heart."
"To be followed by a later and truer love, you think?"
"You shouldn't--O I don't know, Mr. March. What do you think?"
"Never! That's what I think. He may find refuge in friendship. I believe
such a soul best fitted for that deep, pure friendship so much talked of
and so rarely realized between man and woman. Such a heart naturally
seeks it. Not with a mere hunger for comfort----"
"O no."
"--But because it has that to give which it cannot offer in love, yet
which is good only when given; worthless to one, priceless to two.
Sometimes I think it's finer than love, for it makes no demands, no
promises, no compacts, no professions----"
"Did you ever have such a friendship?"
"No, indeed! If I had--oh pshaw! I never was or shall be fit for it. But
I just tell you, Miss Garnet, that in such a case as we've spoken of,
the need of such a heart for such a friendship can't be reckoned!"
He smiled sturdily, and she smiled also, but let compassion speak in her
eyes before she reverently withdrew them. He, too, was still.
They were approaching a large river. The porter, growing fond of them,
came, saying:
"Here where we crosses into Yankeedom. Fine view fum de rear
platfawm--sun jes' a-sett'n'."
They went there--the Fairs preferred to sit still--and with the eddies
of an almost wintry air ruffling them and John's arm lying along the
rail under the window behind them, so as to clasp her instantly if she
should lurch, they watched the slender bridge lengthen away and the cold
river widen under it between them and Dixie.
Their silence confessed their common emotion. John felt a condescending
expansion and did not withdraw his arm even after the bridge was passed
until he thought Miss Garnet was about to glance around at it, which she
had no idea of doing.
"I declare, Miss Garnet, I--I wish----"
She turned her eyes to his handsome face lifted with venturesome
diffidence and frowning against the blustering wind.
"I'm afraid "--he gayly shook his head--"you won't like what I say if
you don't take it just as I mean it." He put his hand over the iron-work
again, but she was still looking into his face, and he thought she
didn't know it.
"It wouldn't be fair to take it as you don't mean it," she said. "What
is it?"
"Why, ha-ha--I--I wish I were your brother!--ha-ha! Seriously, I don't
believe you can imagine how much a lone fellow--boy or man--can long and
pine for a sister. If I'd had a sister, a younger sister--no boy ever
pined for an older sister--I believe I'd have made a better man. When I
was a small boy----"
Barbara glanced at his breadth and stature with a slow smile.
He laughed. "O, that was away back yonder before you can remember."
"It certainly must have been," she replied, "and yet----"
"And yet--" he echoed, enjoying his largeness.
"I thought all the pre-his-tor-ic things were big. But what was it you
used to do? I know; you used to cry for a sister, didn't you?"
"Yes. Why, how'd you guess that?"
"I can't say, unless it was because I used to cry for a little brother."
"And why a little one?" he asked.
"I was young and didn't know any better."
"But later on, you----"
"I wanted the largest size."
"D'd you ever cry for a brother of the largest size?"
"Why, yes; I nearly cry for one yet, sometimes, when somebody makes me
mad."
"Miss Garnet, I'm your candidate!"
"No, Mr. March. If you were elected you'd see your mistake and resign in
a week, and I couldn't endure the mor-ti-fi-ca-tion."
John colored. He thought she was hinting at fickleness; but she gave him
a smile which said so plainly, "The fault would be mine," that he was
more than comfortable again--on the surface of his feelings, I mean.
And so with Barbara. The train had begun a down-grade and was going
faster and faster. As she stood sweetly contemplating the sunset sky and
sinking hills, fearing to move lest that arm behind her should be
withdrawn and yet vigilant to give it no cause to come nearer, an
unvoiced cry kept falling back into her heart--"Tell him!--For your
misguided father's sake! Now!--Now!--Stop this prattle about friendship,
love, and truth, and tell him his danger!"
But in reality she had not, and was not to have, the chance.
The young land-owner stood beside her staring at nothing and trying to
bite his mustache.
He came to himself with a start. "Miss Garnet----"
As she turned the sky's blush lighted her face.
"That case we were speaking of inside, you know----"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, as I said, I knew that case myself. But, my goodness, Miss
Garnet, you won't infer that I was alluding in any way to--to any
experience of my own, will you?"
She made no reply.
"Law! Miss Garnet, you don't think I'd offer anybody a friendship pulled
out of a slough of despond, do you?"
Barbara looked at him in trembling exaltation. "Mr. March, I know what
has happened!"
He winced, but kept his guard. "Do you mean you know how it is I am on
this train?"
"Yes, I know it all."
"O my soul! Have I betrayed it?"
"No, sir; the train conductor--I led him on--told us all about it before
we were twenty miles from Suez."
"I ought to have guessed you'd find it out," said John, in a tone of
self-rebuke.
"Yes," she replied, driving back her tears with a quiet smile, "I think
you ought."
"Why--why, I--I--I'm overwhelmed. Gracious me! I owe you an humble
apology, Miss Garnet. Yes, I do. I've thrust a confidence on you without
your permission. I--I beg your pardon! I didn't mean to, I declare I
didn't, Miss Garnet."
"It's safe."
"I know it. I'm surer of that than if you were anyone else I've ever
known in my life, Miss Garnet."
"It shall be as if I had never heard it."
"O no! I don't see how it can. In fact--well--I don't see why it
should--unless you wish it so. Of course, in that case----"
"That's not a con-tin-gen-cy," said Barbara, and for more than a minute
they listened to the clangorous racket of the rails. Then John asked her
if it did not have a quality in it almost like music and she brightened
up at him as she nodded.
He made a gesture toward the receding land, bent to her in the uproar
and cried, "It scarcely seems a moment since those hills were full of
spring color, and now they're blue in the distance!"
She looked at them tenderly and nodded again.
"At any rate," he cried, holding his hat on and bending lower, "we have
Dixie for our common mother." His manner was patriotic.
She glanced up to him--the distance was trivial--beaming with sisterly
confidence, and just then the train lurched, and--he caught her.
"H-I conscience! wa'n't it lucky I happened to have my arm back there
just at that moment?"
Barbara did not say. She stood with her back against the car, gazing at
the track, her small feet braced forward with new caution, but she saw
March lapse into reverie and heave another sigh.
However, she observed his mind return and rightly divined he was
thinking her silence a trifle ungracious; so she lifted her hand toward
a white cloud that rose above the vanished hills and river, saying:
"Our common mother waves us farewell."
"Yes," he cried with grateful pleasure. Seeing her draw her wrap closer
he added, "You're cold?" And it was true, although she shook her head.
He bent again to explain. "It'll be warmer when we leave this valley.
You see, here----"
"Yes," she nodded so intelligently that he did not finish. Miss Garnet,
however, was thinking of her chaperone and dubiously glanced back at the
door. Then she braced her feet afresh. They were extremely pretty.
He smiled at them. "You needn't plant yourself so firmly," he said, "I'm
not going to let you fall off."
O dear! That reversed everything. She had decided to stay; now she
couldn't.
Once more the Northern pair received them with placid interest. Mr. Fair
presently asked a question which John had waited for all day, and it was
dark night without and lamplight within, and they were drawing near a
large city, before the young man, in reply, had more than half told the
stout plans and hopes of this expedition of his after capital and
colonists.
Mrs. Fair showed a most lively approval. "And must you leave us here?"
Barbara had not noticed till now how handsome she was. Neither had John.
"Yes, ma'am. But I shan't waste a day here if things don't show up
right. I shall push right on to New York."
Barbara hoped Mr. Fair's pleasantness of face meant an approbation as
complete as his wife's, and, to hide her own, meditatively observed that
this journey would be known in history as March's Raid.
John laughed and thanked her for not showing the fears of Captains
Champion and Shotwell that he would "go in like a lion and come out like
a lamb."
They hurried to the next section and peered out into the night with
suppressed but eager exclamations. Long lines of suburban street-lamps
were swinging by. Banks of coke-furnaces were blazing like necklaces of
fire. Foundries and machine-shops glowed and were gone; and, far away,
close by, and far away again, beautifully colored flames waved from the
unseen chimneys of chemical works.
"We've neither of us ever seen a great city," Miss Garnet explained when
she rejoined her protectors. John had been intercepted by the porter
with his brush, and Barbara, though still conversing, could hear what
the negro was saying.
"I lef' you to de las', Cap. Seem like you 'ten'in' so close to business
an' same time enjoyin' yo'seff so well, I hated to 'sturb--thank you,
seh!" The train came slowly to a stand. "O no, seh, dis ain't de depot.
Depot three miles fu'theh yit, seh. We'll go on ag'in in a minute.
Obacoat, seh? Dis yo' ambreel?"
John bade his friends good-by. "And now, Miss Garnet"--he retained her
hand a moment--"don't you go off and forget--Dixie."
She said no, and as he let go her hand she let him see deeper into her
eyes than ever before.
A step or two away he looked back with a fraternal smile, but she was
talking to Mrs. Fair as eagerly as if he had been gone three days. The
train stood so long that he went forward to ask what the delay signified
and saw the four commercial travelers walking away with their hand-bags.
The porter was busy about the door.
"Big smash-up of freight-cyars in de yard; yass, seh. No seh, cayn't
'zac'ly tell jis how long we be kep' here, but 'f you dislikes to wait,
Cap, you needn'. You kin teck a street-cyar here what'll lan' you right
down 'mongs' de hotels an' things; yass, seh. See what; de wreck? No,
seh, it's up in de yard whah dey don't 'llow you to pa-ass."
Out in the darkness beside the train March stood a moment. He could see
Miss Garnet very plainly at her bright window and was wondering how she
and her friends, but especially she, would take it if he should go back
and help them while away this tiresome detention. If she had answered
that last smile of his, or if she were showing, now, any tendency at all
to look out the window, he might have returned; but no, howdy after
farewell lacked dignity. The street-car came along just then and Barbara
saw him get into it.
LVIII.
TOGETHER AGAIN
March did not put up at the most famous and palatial hotel; it was full.
He went to another much smaller and quieter, and equally expensive. When
he had taken supper he walked the dazzling streets till midnight, filled
with the strangeness of the place and the greater strangeness of his
being there, and with numberless fugitive reflections upon the day just
gone, the life behind it, and the life before, but totally without those
shaped and ordered trains of thought which no one has except in books.
Sometimes tenderly, sometimes bitterly, Fannie came to mind, in emotions
rather than memories, and as if she were someone whom he should never
see again. Once it occurred to him that these ghost walkings of thought
and feelings about her must be very much like one's thoughts of a limb
shattered in some disaster and lately cut off by a surgeon. The simile
was not pleasant, but he did not see why he should want a pleasant one.
Only by an effort could he realize she was still of this world, and that
by and by they would be back in Suez again, meeting casually,
habitually, and in a much more commonplace and uninteresting way than
ever they had done in the past. He shuddered, then he sighed, and then
he said ahem! and gave himself the look of a man of affairs. On men who
stared at him he retorted with a frown of austere inquiry, not aware
that they were merely noticing how handsome he was.
For a time he silently went through minute recapitulations of his recent
colloquies with Miss Garnet, who seemed already surprisingly far away;
much farther than any railroad speed could at all account for. He wished
she were "further!"--for he could quote five different remarks of his
own uttered to her that very day, which he saw plainly enough, _now_,
nobody but a perfect fool could have made.
"Oh! Great Scott! What did possess me to drag her into my confidence?"
He "wondered if mesmerism had anything"--but rejected that explanation
with disdain and dismissed the subject. And then this strange thing
happened: He was standing looking into a show-window made gorgeous with
hot-house flowers, when a very low voice close at hand moaned, "O Lord,
no! I simply made an ass of myself," and when he turned sharply around
no one was anywhere near.
He returned to his room and went to bed and to sleep wishing "to
gracious" he might see her once more and once only, simply to show her
that he had nothing more to confide--to her or any similar soft-smiling
she!--The s's are his.
He did not rise early next morning. And in this he was wise. Rejoice,
oh, young man, in your project, but know that old men, without projects,
hearing will not hear--until they have seen their mail and their
cashier; the early worm rarely catches the bird. John had just learned
this in Pulaski City.
At breakfast he was again startled by a low voice very close to him. It
was Mr. Fair.
"Mr. March, why not come over and sit with us?"
The ladies bowed from a table on the far side of the room. Mrs. Fair
seemed as handsome as ever; while Miss Garnet!--well! If she was winsome
and beautiful yesterday, with that silly, facing-both-ways traveling cap
she had worn, what could a reverent young man do here and now but gasp
his admiration under his breath as he followed his senior toward them?
Even in the lively conversation which followed he found time to think it
strange that she had never seemed to him half so lovely in Suez; was it
his over-sight? Maybe not, for in Suez she had never in life been half
so happy. Mrs. Fair could see this with her eyes shut, and poor Barbara
could see that she saw it by the way she shut her eyes. But John, of
course, was blind enough, and presently concluded that the wonder of
this crescent loveliness was the old, old wonder of the opening rose.
Meanwhile the talk flowed on.
"And by that time," said John, "you'd missed your connection. I might
have guessed it. Now you'll take--but you've hardly got time----"
No, Mrs. Fair was feeling rather travel weary; this was Saturday; they
would pass Sunday here and start refreshed on Monday.
In the crowded elevator, when March was gone, Barbara heard Mrs. Fair
say to her husband,
"You must know men here whom it would be good for him to see; why don't
you offer to----" Mrs. Fair ceased and there was no response, except
that Barbara said, behind her smiling lips,
"It's because he's in bad hands, and still I have not warned him!"
March did not see them again that day. In the evening, two men, friends,
sitting in the hotel's rotunda, were conjecturing who yonder guest might
be to whose inquiries the clerk was so promptly attentive.
"He's a Southerner, that's plain; and a gentleman, that's just as
certain."
"Yes, if he were not both he would not be so perfectly at home in
exactly the right clothes and yet look as if he had spent most of his
life in swimming."
"He hasn't got exactly the right overcoat; it's too light and thin."
"No, but that's the crowning proof that he's a Southerner." It was John.
They hearkened to the clerk. "He's just gone to the theatre, Mr. March,
he and both ladies. He was asking for you. I think he wanted you to go."
"I reckon not," said John, abstractedly, and in his fancy saw Miss
Garnet explaining to her friends, with a restrained smile, that in Suez
to join the church was to abjure the theatre. But another clerk spoke:
"Mr. March, did you--here's a note for you."
The clerk knew it was from Miss Garnet, and was chagrined to see John,
after once reading it, dreamily tear it up and drop it to the floor.
Still it increased his respect for the young millionaire--Mr. March,
that is. It was as if he had lighted his cigar with a ten-dollar bill.
John wrote his answer upstairs, taking a good deal of time and pains to
give it an air of dash and haste, and accepting, with cordial thanks,
Mr. and Mrs. Fair's cordial invitation to go with them (and Miss Garnet,
writing at their request) next day to church. Which in its right time he
did.