[51] My brother and Dora have often accused me of conspiring to bring
about a certain encounter which took place between them at the farm one
blustery November afternoon, and out of which meeting one of the first
really formative events of my brother’s life was to take shape.
Be that as it may, the simple facts stand duly authentic. Paula, home
for her father’s birthday, happened to remark upon Dora’s reputation at
Tallahassee High for taste and skill at decoration. Winslow jumped at
my suggestion that we ask her over to spend a day and help us stencil
the grass-cloth panels for the dining-room. Certainly anyone with a
pair of eyes in his head could judge for himself that David was looking
peaked, of a complaint easily diagnosed. That same day, calling over at
Mother’s, I did, it is true, ask him to walk back home with me to tend
some ailing stock. Also, the evidence is that there were two sick ewes
and a ram at the farm that day, and Dave’s skill with them was common
knowledge. Further than that, as they say in legal phraseology, I do
not feel called upon to elucidate.
[Illustration: Decorative Image]
_Chapter Thirty-one_
Even at this stage Dave was a good two inches taller than Henry. It
smote him, as he stood there, facing Dora, in an old office-coat of
Henry’s, and trousers covered with the shine of long contact with
Henry’s swivel chair, that he had never in his life worn a suit
designed for his figure. That was why, in those rare moments when he
had occasion to think about his appearance at all, he felt precisely as
if he were dangling by the middle of the back of his coat from a nail.
Short sleeves. Short trousers. Protruding knobs of ankles and wrists.
He confessed to Dora, countless of the reminiscent times in which they
loved later to indulge, that it seemed to him for long moments after
the loud crack of Bek closing the house-door, as if he had hung there
in the clean, sweet-smelling barn, dangling from the middle of the back
of his coat, like a cat when you hold it by the scruff of the neck.
“I’ll race you,” cried Dora suddenly, and on a flash of her unfailing
ability to rise to the exigencies of the moment, sped, a flicker of
white sweater and cap, down the path toward the open road.[52]
That dash along down the road released him, as it were, from that
moment of hanging impaled in her presence. They caught up a quarter
of a mile down, in flurry of quickened heartbeat, and impulsively she
hooked her arm into his, without preliminaries.
“Davey,” she said, “why have you been so mean to me?” And, incredibly,
there were bright and beautiful tears against her eyes, that dried even
as he gazed, giving him a feeling of mirage. “You’re a meany, you are,
David!” she said and a red pompon, on its string, dangled from her
white and woolly cap.
The ground thus immediately cut from under his feet, down he went into
the abyss she had opened for him.
“Gee, Dora,” he said, almost borrowing her tone, “I won’t be—mean—any
more!” And then, overwhelmed by the realization of what her winding
voice had done to him, stopped suddenly and burst out, red and redder
of face, “You mean you’re the mean one!”
“Why, Davey Schuyler, I never was!”
“Weren’t, weren’t you?”
“You know I—weren’t.”
“Oh, all right. Won’t argue—with a lady.”
“Wouldn’t start something I couldn’t finish.”
“Start something I can’t finish! Honest, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, if—if a girl was as meany as you say I’m meany—funny you
couldn’t tell her—how meany.”
“How meany? Huh, as if you didn’t know. Huh!”
(How beautiful she was, and he had just said “huh” to her.)
“Huh!” he said again.
“Well, if I felt that way about a girl, I wouldn’t walk home with
her,” she said, and flopped like an adorable beautiful little minnow.
A minnow on the end of some bait too delectable to even conjure. Bait
would have to be ambrosia for Dora’s lips to nibble. Only one didn’t
nibble ambrosia. The Greeks musta drunk it——
“Well, if I felt that way about a girl——”
“Oh, Dora,” he said, and reached out a long gawk of bare-wristed hand,
“I—I guess I feel every way about you, I guess.”
“Well then—well then—well then, why the dickens don’t you say some of
the good ways,” she cried, and stamped her foot, and let the clear
bright tears pop out in her eyes again, and shook her head, and gritted
her small white teeth.
“I never thought you’d listen, Dora. Honest!”
“Oh, you know well enough I’d listen, all right. You’ve always just
kind of tried to make me feel little. I—I should worry!”
“Little?”
“Yes, little! My parties and all—your never coming and you in our
barn every morning—you never looking anywheres near the house where
I might be. That day—that day—soap—Kenneth—the way you walked off on
me—something I couldn’t help. How do you think I felt that day—walking
off on me—thataway——”
“Why—how do you think I felt?”
“As if I didn’t know, Davey,” she said and turned her eyes full upon
him, as they stood face to face in the rutted road, a hard, windy,
slate-colored twilight blustering about them. “I’ve cried and cried.”
“You’ve cried, Dora?”
“You know I have,” she said, and stamped her foot again, the bright,
angry tears drying as soon as they formed. “You hate me—that’s what I
believe.”
Hate Dora! Why, just as likely that he hate moon. Hate stars. Hate
firmament encrusted in eternity. Hate Dora—why—why——. Where were
his words, to tell her? And so there he stood helpless before her
indictment. And yet again, strangely, so strangely, there was something
sweet about the indictment. There was something about hating—that was
fiercely akin to loving.
“I’ve always tried,” she said—“I’ve always tried——tried——”
“Tried what?”
The quivering would not let her get it said; and while he stood flaming
with the same sense of exhilaration over her fumbling that the word
“hate” had fired in him, he wanted to lie flat on his back before her,
that she might walk over him with flaming heels. The trembling of her
lips was cruelly pleasant to him, and yet he wanted to fling himself
before her, because those lovely, trembling, pink ledges were trembling
of his doings. Here was a hurt bird needing him. Here was a ewe with
soft, sick eyes. Here were all the things in one that were tender and
wounded.
“Well, well, tried what?”
“To—to—let you know I—how to let you know I—I wanted you not to—to hate
me.”
He could have bitten and ground the next words back against his tongue
when they came. But there they were, said!
“Kenneth Chipman!” he barked.
“Silly! You silly! You silly of sillies!” (How lovely she was, as she
grew pinker and her teeth whiter.) “You silly!”
Silly—silly—silly—why, there was even the same ecstasy in being that.
To her.
“Haven’t you eyes? Couldn’t you see?”
“See what? See what?”
“That was part of the trying. Everything was. I—don’t care now. I might
as well tell. An idiot might as well tell on herself.”
(Idiot! Idiot! Blessed be idiots!)
“Why do you think I took all my lunches at Stevey’s and Claire’s? Huh?
Huh? Huh?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t I have my own cousins, Essie and Tad, going home to their house
every day right out of my same class and my aunt feeling offended, and
all, because I went to Claire’s and Stevey’s?”
Gump! Gump! He hadn’t thought of that.
“Don’t just stare. Say something. Didn’t I? Didn’t I? And why? Why?”
“Why?”
“Because I thought sometimes you might be around all your relations.
Then Kenneth—I—I—let Kenneth walk with me noontimes—thinking—oh,
I’m not ashamed now—now that I wouldn’t be friends with you for
anything. Just not for anything. I let Kenneth walk with me noontimes,
thinking—maybe you’d be there and see. Meany, Meany, you!” she cried,
as the tears jetted and careened down to her lips. Then she broke
from him and ran, down the rutted road, turning her ankle, lunging,
and giving him run until he hurled himself around in front of the
Tarkingtons’, and blocked her.
“Quit now, stopping me. Papa gets worried if I’m out after six.”
“Want to tell you something.”
“No!”
“Dora!”
“No!”
“Dora! I like you! Terrible!”
“Well then—why’ncha say so?”
“You—you got so big, Dora. You got so big and so—so pretty. Us having
to move away. You got so pretty on me, Dora; and I stayed—just me.
Not even a look-in at High School—me—didn’t dare. I wouldn’t any more
dared come near you. I thought, you see—slick-looking college-fellow
like—like Kenneth. Patent-leather-haired. Dora—I like you so. I just
can’t seem to get my mind on anything. That’s my trouble, Dora. Liking
you. I’m full of always wanting to do a million big things that will
make you look at me; and then, for thinking about you, Dora, I can’t
do a one of them. Crazy-like. Around in a circle. That’s what’s the
trouble with me, Dora. I can’t seem to think my way out of anything for
seeing you. Just can’t care about wanting anything unless it’s got you
in. Dora!”
They kissed timidly, lightly, there in the dusk. Wonder was out over
them. “If only I’da known all along.”
“If only I’da.”
“You’re so smart, Dave, and I’m just like everybody else.”
“Smart, nothing! I haven’t even finished County Grade.”
“Alma Dreyfous’s father says he walked a little way alongside of
you on the road one morning, and you talked about airships and—and
whatchamacallit—tariff, or whatever it is, and Woodrow Wilson, and
where Ohio gets her water power from, like a Philadelphia lawyer; and
Miss Weil, over at Tallahassee, told her class that the smartest boy in
this county was a boy who’d never even finished county school, but put
every single moment to cramming new ideas into his head.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Was so, because Efram Juss asked right out if it was, and she said
yes.”
“Shucks!”
“I like your being smart, Dave. So much smarter than me.”
“Dora—if you like me—any way—at all—that’s all I need.”
“I do, Dave—only—You won’t be mad?”
“No.”
“Sure? Davey—that _isn’t_ all you need. Papa thinks it’s awful,
Davey—that—that you—You won’t get mad, if I say it?”
“No.”
“——thinks it’s awful that you’re only a——”
“Only a——?”
“You won’t get mad, Davey?”
“Only a farm-hand, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Huh, don’t I know that? Sure. He’s right, all right. Only I’m not
going to be a farm-hand any more. Now. Fellow’s got a reason to make
something out of himself—all a fellow’s got to do now is make sure of
what he wants to be, and then—be it!”
“Davey, what do you want to be?”
“You know what, Dora? Know what I think I’d like to be?”
“What, Davey?”
“First of all, before we talk, we’re engaged, aren’t we?”
She turned him the fresh flower of her face.
“Yes, David!”
“Well then, Dora, how’d you like me to be something big for you?”
“I would!”
“I was thinking last night, as I was driving along a flock of
black-face sheep from the Howey stock—funny thing about that
species—they’re hornless, yet they belong to the hollow-horn family.”
“But, Davey——”
“The interesting part is that you can’t—exactly place where this
species passes over into the goat family——”
“But, Davey—that’s all right—about—about goats. But what about us?”
“That’s just it, Dora. How’d you like for me to be a big-gun in the
study of sheep-culture?”
“Pouf!” she said, and made a pink trumpet of her mouth. “Sheep! You’re
too smart for that!”
“Too smart! Huh! If I was smart enough to know everything there is to
know about a great industry like wool—know what I’d be?”
“Wool. Woolen underwear. Sure enough. I never thought of that. I was
just thinking of sheep. Only I hate woolen underwear next to my skin——”
“And you know what interests me a lot, too, Dora? I was talking it over
with Henry the other night. Now, you take this here wool-industry, and
then you take this here tariff-situation, and then you——”
“But, Davey—all that far-away, highfalutin’ talk—what’s the use? We’re
engaged. When a fellow’s engaged, he can’t stand around talking about
whole industries. He’s got to talk about a—job.”
“Engaged! Oh, Dora!”
“Papa says the trouble with young people nowadays is that they have to
have so much more to start on than they used to.”
“Of course! A job. I’ll tell you what, Dora, has always interested
me a lot. I read a book on silk the other day. Dora, let me tell you
something about this here little fellow, the silkworm.”
“But, Davey—there you go again. Silkworms aren’t—practical.”
“Oh, I mean a job all right! Now, if I could get a job with some
silk-firm. You see, now that the little old silkworm isn’t the whole
silk-show any more, this here artificial-silk industry is the coming
thing in the whole industry.”
“There you go again. Whole industry.”
“But I’m talking about a job, Dora. If I could get a job, say in
Chicago, with one of the big silk-firms, or in Springfield, where my
brother Phil lives. There’s a future to a job with a big mercantile
house, Dora. Some day—maybe when I’m a big-gun in a silk-firm—I’ll have
to go to China!—you and me—China!”
“Oh, Davey!” she said and screwed her round little nose tighter into a
button, and jammed down her cap more snugly over her eyes. “China! That
would be heaven! Only—that would take so long, Davey—from now.”
“How would Civil Service be, Dora? I could pass Regents’ exams easy as
anything. I like jobs that tie up the Government.”
“Not a postman, Davey. I hate postmen. They’re always being waited for.”
“Naw. Wouldn’t be a postman. Know what, Dora? I’d like to be a consul
some day. That gives a fellow a chance to see the world.”
“A fellow and—and—his wife, Dave. All consuls have wives. Or should
have. Or got to have. Or just have.”
“Wife! Gee, Dora! Wi-fe!”
On the magic of the word, they flashed face to face, their fingers
feeling hungrily through the wool of mittens.
“I’d like that, Davey. You and me. Cleone Beal’s father was consul once
to a place called Uruguay.”
“That’s a republic in South America.”
“They lived in a town called Mon—Mon—something.”
“Montevideo. Oh, Dora, wouldn’t I love to live in Montevideo with you!”
“And me with you, Davey! I’d entertain—them all—at balls in Montevideo.”
“How would you like to go off exploring with me, Dora—and add new
territory to the maps? Ever hear of Seward’s Folly? Well, there’s a
fellow, ’course he didn’t exactly go off and find it, but that fellow
had an idea all right. He went to the Government one day, and said,
‘Looka here, Government, here’s a country called Alaska—that some day
is going to——’”
“Now, Davey—there you go again—some day! What about now, getting a job
right now? Just thisaway—talking and dreaming and if-ing and and-ing,
we’ll never—get anywhere!”
Tears, that he wanted to snatch off with angry, frenzied hands, gleamed
along her cheeks.
“Why—why—Dora—my brother Phil can get me a job in a wholesale grocery
concern in Springfield right away! Twelve dollars a week——”
“Oh, Davey, _now_ you’re talking!”
“You see, if I could send my father six out of that—we’re so poor,
you see, Dora—but even with six left—my brother can’t afford to, but
he’ll board me awfully cheap, anyway. Then, Dora, if I went to evening
law-school—there’s something about law I like—suppose I was to do that?”
“How long?”
“I could do a four-years law-course in two. Nights. What do you bet?
And then—a town like Springfield—Springfield’s a capital. I could
practice law there some day.”
“Some day?”
“Law’s the thing, Dora. Look at a fellow like Kenneth. He could marry
now, and he’s only been practicing a couple of years. I’m as smart as
Kenneth—Dora.”
The answering tug of her arm, closer, tighter, warmer, made his long
legs seem to gallop over the frozen ruts of the road.
“How many years, Davey, before you could be ready?”
“It would have to be four before I could be a practicing lawyer,
earning enough to——”
“Four,” she said, her eyes flattening as if they were contemplating
four eternities.
“Dora—what’s four years, when we’ll have a secret—just ours——”
“It’ll have to be secret, Dave. You see, Papa—he——”
“He thinks I’m a bum.”
“He—he says you’re not a go-getter.”
“I’ll go and get now, Dora.”
“Just as I get you—I begin to lose you.”
“Dora, the quicker I begin, the quicker——”
“I know. The quicker you’ll be ready.”
“Dora—isn’t it worth waiting for? Some day. You and me. A little old
place of our own. One of those semi-bungalows. Springfield! Wholesale
groceries—we could start together sooner—if we could count on getting
our groceries wholesale. Maybe, if I get along in the wholesale
grocery-business, I’ll stay there and get to be a big-gun in the
mercantile world.”
“Oh, Davey—the sooner—the grander!”
The darkness was about them like a beatific cloak, except for two
lights from the Tarkington place, which suddenly gleamed at them from
the end of the elm-walk; and some one was sounding a family-whistle of
three staccatos and a long, which Dora answered in fashion.
“That’s Papa.”
“We’re engaged, Dora.”
“Yes, Davey. Say it again.”
“We’re engaged, Dora.”
Parting, they kissed once more, in the light, startled, pecking away.