LEAVING HOME
As the time for leaving came on Rose had hours of depression, wherein
she wondered if it were worth while. Sometimes it began when she noticed
a fugitive look of sorrow on her father's face, and sometimes it was at
parting with some of her girl friends, and sometimes it was at thought
of Carl. She had spent a year in the Siding in preparation for the work
in Madison, and the time of her adventure with the world was near.
Carl came to be a disturbing force during those last few weeks. He had
been a factor in all of the days of her life. Almost without thought on
her part she had relied upon him. She had run to him for any sort of
material help, precisely as to a brother, and now he was a man and would
not be easily set aside.
He generally drove her to meeting on Sunday, and they loitered on the
shady stretches of the coule roads. He generally put his arm around her,
and she permitted it because it was the way all the young fellows did
but she really never considered him in the light of a possible husband.
Most of the girls were precocious in the direction of marriage, and
brought all their little allurements to bear with the same object in
view which directs the coquetry of a city belle. At sixteen they had
beaux, at seventeen many of them actually married and at eighteen they
might often be seen riding to town with their husbands, covered with
dust, clasping wailing babes in their arms; at twenty they were often
thin and bent in the shoulders, and flat and stiff in the hips, sallow
and querulous wives of slovenly, careless husbands.
Rose did not hold that Carl had any claim upon her. The incidents of two
years before were lived down, both by herself and Carl, for as manhood
and womanhood came to them they put away all that which they had done in
the thoughtlessness of childhood. To Rose it was an unpleasant memory,
because associated with her father's grief. She supposed Carl to feel in
the same way about it, and so no allusion to it was ever made by any
one.
But Carl was grown to be a great stalwart young fellow, with the blood
and sinew of a man, and the passions of a man were developing in his
rather thick head. The arm which he laid along the buggy seat was less
passive and respectful of late. It clutched in upon her at times; though
she shook herself angrily each time, he merely laughed.
So matters stood when she told him she was going away to school in
Madison.
"That so?" he said, and not much else till the next Sunday. With all the
week to think about it in, he began to ask himself in current slang,
"Where do I come in?"
So the next time they drove together he tried again to tighten his arm
about her while he said:
"I'll miss you, Rosie."
"So'll pap," she said.
There was a long pause, then he said: "What's the use o' going away
anyhow? I thought you an' me was goin' to be married when we grew up."
She shook herself free. "We ain't grown up yet."
"I guess we won't never get our growth, then," he said with a chuckle;
"you don't need that extra schoolin' any more'n I do."
They rode in silence down the beautiful valley, with the charm of early
autumn lying over it.
"You mustn't go and forget me off there in Madison," he said, giving her
a squeeze.
"Carl, you stop that! You mustn't do that! I'll jump out o' the buggy if
you do that again!"
There was genuine anger in her voice.
"Why, it's all right, Rosie; ain't we engaged?"
"No, we're not, and we never will be, either."
There was a note in her voice that struck through even Carl's thick
thought. He did not reply, but continued to dwell upon that reply until
its entire meaning came to him. Then his face became pitiful to see. It
was usually round and red, but now it looked long and heavy and bitter.
He was so infertile of phrases he could only say:
"Then we might as well drive right back home."
"Well, you made me say it," she went on in a softer tone, being much
moved by the change in his face. "I like you, Carl, but I'm not a-goin'
to promise anything. I'll see when I come back, after I graduate."
They drove on. She was not much more of a talker than he, and so they
rode in silence that was sullen on Carl's part. At the gate she relented
a little. "Won't you come in, Carl?"
"No, I guess not," he said shortly, and drove off.
After she went in the house she felt more and more the injustice of her
anger. "If he hadn't pinched me like that," she said to herself.
She went to work at her packing again, putting in things she would not
possibly have any use for. As she worked the ache and weariness at her
heart increased, and when they called her to supper the tears were
falling again like a shower. It was a silent and miserable meal, though
the doors and windows were open and the pleasant sounds of the farm-yard
came in, and the red light of the setting sun shone in magically warm
and mellow.
John ate slowly, his eyes fixed on his plate. Rose ate not at all and
looked out of the window, with big tears rolling childishly down her
cheeks. She didn't want to go at all now. Her home seemed all at once so
comfortable and happy and safe!
John looked up and saw her tears, and immediately he was choked and
could not eat.
"There, there! Rosie, don't cry. We'll be all right, and you'll be back
almost 'fore you know it. June comes early in the summer, you know."
They were both so childlike they did not consider it possible to come
home before the year was up. She came around and knelt down by his side
and buried her face on his knees.
"I wish I hadn't promised to go," she wailed; "I don't want to go one
bit. I want to stay with you."
He understood her feeling and soothed her and diverted her, though tears
would have been a relief to him.
She went with him out to the barn, and she cried over the bossies and
the horses, and said good-by to them under her breath, so that her
father might not hear.
When she went to bed she lay down disconsolate and miserable. O it was
so hard to go, and it was hard not to go. Life was not so simple as it
had seemed before. Why did this great fear rise up in her heart? Why
should she have this terrible revulsion at the last moment? So she
thought and thought. Her only stay in the midst of chaos was Dr.
Thatcher. William De Lisle was very far away, like a cold white star.
Just as she made up her mind that she could not sleep, she heard her
father call her.
"Rose, time to get up!"
Her heart contracted with a sharp spasm that almost made her scream. The
time had come for action--momentous, irrevocable action, like Napoleon's
embarking from Elba for France.
It was very chill and dark. She rose and groped about for a light. Her
teeth chattered with cold and it seemed to her she was going to be sick.
She dressed hurriedly and went down.
John and her aunt were seated at breakfast. She slipped into her seat,
white and silent. It was still dark and the lighted lamps made it seem
like a midnight meal.
John was strenuously cheerful. "We have to get up early if we get that
seven o'clock train," he said.
"Better take some coffee anyhow," urged Mrs. Diehl.
"O, I can't eat a thing," Rose insisted.
"Don't worry her, sis," interposed John. "She'll feel like it later."
While John went to get the team Rose got on her things and walked about,
uttering a little moaning sound, like a babe in delirium. It was
terrible to hear her and Mrs. Diehl lost patience at last.
"Stop that fuss! Good land! anybody'd think you was goin' to die dead as
a hammer, the way you take on, and after all the time we've had gettin'
you ready. I declare to goodness I never see such a young'un in all my
born days. I will be glad to get rid of you!"
This was good strong medicine to Rose, and she uttered no more of her
grief. She punished her aunt by refusing to say good-bye at the door,
which grieved John very much.
"You folks had a tiff this morning a'ready?"
It was cold and damp. The wind pushed against their faces like the touch
of wet palms. The horses splashed along in pools of water, and out of
the dim light the hills rose against the sky full of soft sprawling
rain-clouds.
They rode in silence. Rose saw no more of the splendid visions of the
world. It was all dark and rainy ahead. Home, and peace, and comfort
were all behind her. She was so miserable it seemed as if she must cry
out, but her aunt's contemptuous words helped her to silence.
John talked a little about the trains on the road, and the weather, but
talk was an effort to him also. As he rode he thought of it all again.
He felt as if he were losing his heart, but he did not waver.
He helped her on the cars and then stooped and hugged her hard without
kissing her, and so stumbled out again, while she sat white and rigid,
breathing hard.
The sun came out after a little, and covered the earth with a glory that
found its way into the girl's heart. She ceased to sob, and the ache
passed out of her throat, although the shadow still hung in her eyes.
The car interested her. It seemed a palace and of enormous size. She
figured out the number of people it would hold, and wondered how the
seats which were turned the other way came to be so. The car was mainly
occupied by men in careless clothing. Everybody seemed sleepy and
unkempt. She wondered where they all came from, and so speculating, she
lost something of her poignant sorrow.
Then came one moment of quiet elation. She was going out into the world!
the enormous, the incredible had happened! She was going to Madison, the
state capital. The speed of the train, which seemed to her very great,
aided her to realize how swiftly she was getting into the world. The
fields and farms whirled by in dizzying fashion, and the whistle of the
engine was like the furious, defiant neigh of a rushing horse. It was
all on a scale more splendid than her dreams.
In the midst of her exultant moment the brakeman came through and eyed
her with the glare of a sex-maniac. She felt as if a hot iron had
touched her flesh, and she shrank back into herself, like a scared
mollusk. The man passed on, but her exultation was gone.
She noticed that the hills grew lower as they sped southward, and queer
rocks rose squarely out of the flat lands, which were covered with wild
swamps of small trees, out of which long skeletons of dead pines lifted
with a desolate effect.
There were several tunnels, and every time they went through one Rose
clung to the seat in terror. Some young men in the rear of the car
smacked their lips to represent kisses, and laughed boisterously
afterward, as if that were a very good joke indeed.
The conductor, when he came through the next time, eyed her closely and
smiled broadly. She did not understand why he should smile at her. After
he had been through the car several times he came and sat down by her.
"Nice day, ain't it? Live in Madison?"
"No, sir," she replied, looking away. She did not want to say more, but
some power made her add, "I am going to school there."
He seemed pleased.
"Ah, hah! Going to the university?"
"Yes, sir."
"O, I see." He put his knee against the back of the seat in front of her
and took an easy position.
"It's a nice town. Wish I could stop off and help you find a
boarding-place."
The brakeman, coming through, winked at the conductor as if to say: "I
like your 'mash,'" and the terror and shame of her position flashed over
Rose, flushing her from head to foot. Her eyes filled with angry tears,
and she looked out of the window, not knowing what to do. She was so
helpless here, for she was out in the world alone.
The conductor went on serenely, knowing well how scared and angry she
was.
"Yes, sir; it's a fine little town. Great place for boating, summer or
winter. You'll see a hundred ice-boats out on Monona there all at once.
I've got a cousin there who has a boat. He'd be glad to take you out if
I'd tell him about you."
"I don't want to know him," she said, in what she intended to be a
fierce tone, but which was a pitifully scared tone.
The conductor saw the brakeman looking at him and in order to convey the
impression that he was getting on nicely he bent forward and looked
around into her face.
"O, you'd like him first rate."
Rose would have screamed, or burst out into some wild action had not the
engine whistled. This gave the conductor an excuse to give the talk up
for the moment.
"She's a daisy and as green as grass," he said to the brakeman. Her
innocence seemed to place her in his hand.
For the next hour they persecuted the girl with their low presences.
First one and then the other came along the aisle and sat down beside
her. And when she put her valise there, blocking the seat, the brakeman
sat on the armrest and tormented her with questions to which she gave no
answer.
Just after Pine City she heard a cool, firm woman's voice ask: "May I
sit with you?"
She looked up and made room for a handsome, middle-aged woman, in a neat
traveling dress.
"It's a shame!" she said. "I've just got in, but I saw at once how those
men were torturing you. Strange no one in the car could see it and take
your part."
Rose turned to her gratefully, and laid her head on the lady's stalwart
shoulder.
"There, there, no harm done! You must learn to expect such things from
some men. It would be libelous on the brutes to call them beasts." She
said a great many things which Rose hardly understood, but her presence
was strong and helpful. Rose liked her very much.
"How far are you going?"
Rose told her in a few words.
"Ah, are you? You could not have made a better choice. Who sends you
there--pardon me?"
"Dr. Thatcher."
"Dr. Thatcher! Well, well, how things come about. I know the Doctor very
well."
"Do you? I'm going to live there for a while."
Rose was smiling now.
"Well, you couldn't be more fortunate. You'll get into the most
progressive home in the city."
From this on they had a royal good time. Rose grew happier than she had
been for weeks. There was something strangely masterful about this woman
in spite of her sweet smile and soft gray eyes.
When the conductor came down the aisle again she met his eye with a
keen, stern glance.
"Young man, I shall have you discharged from this road."
The astonished cur took her card, and when he read the name of a famous
woman lawyer of Milwaukee his face fell.
"I didn't mean any harm."
"I know better. I shall see Mr. Millet, and see that he makes an example
of you."
Rose was awed by her calm and commanding voice.
"It has been our boast that our girls could travel from east to west in
our broad land, and be safe from insult, and I'm not going to let such a
thing pass."
She returned to her grave sweet mood presently, and began to talk of
other things.
As they neared the town where they were to part company, the elder woman
said:
"Now, my dear, I am to get off here. I may never see you again, but I
think I shall. You interest me very much. I am likely to be in Madison
during the year, and if I do I will see you. I am getting old though,
and things of this life are uncertain to us with gray hair. I like that
forehead on you, it tells me you are not to be a victim to the first man
who lays his hand on you. Let me give one last word of advice. Don't
marry till you are thirty. Choose a profession and work for it. Marry
only when you want to be a mother."
She rose. "You don't understand what I mean now, but keep my words in
your mind. Some day you will comprehend all I mean--good-bye." Rose was
tearful as Mrs. Spencer kissed her and moved away.
Rose saw her on the steps and waved her hand back at her as the train
drew away. Her presence had been oppressive in spite of her kindness,
and her last words filled the girl's mind with vague doubts of life and
of men. Everything seemed forcing her thoughts of marriage to
definiteness. Her sex was so emphasized, so insisted upon by this first
day's experience in the world, that she leaned her head against the
window and cried out: "O, I wish I was dead."
But the train shot round the low green hills fringed with the glorious
foliage of the maples, the lake sparkled in the afternoon's sun, the
dome of the capitol building loomed against the sky, and the romance and
terror of her entry into the world came back to her, driving out her
more morbid emotions. She became again the healthy country girl to whom
Madison was a center of art and society and literature.