"I MEAN IT"
Six hundred miles an hour, to old-time travelers, might seem fast. High
up in the air, however, some miles above the earth with nothing beneath
but the Atlantic Ocean, it seems a moderate pace. There are none of the
usual landmarks to gauge one's speed; no telegraph poles, houses, or
towns. The few ships one passes, seen far below, are movable objects
with no definite relation to your own progress. Also, in a practically
air tight conveyance no wind can beat against your face.
While three hours may seem brief for a transatlantic passage it must
be remembered that the time Cyrus lost in going Eastward he gained in
going West. The surface of our little earth moves eastward about a
thousand miles an hour; so, with North America rushing forward to meet
him he could easily make the journey of five thousand miles and more
in the four hours, and almost without hurrying. There is a startling
difference in celerity between an automobile and a yoke of oxen;
more still between a steamship and a cannon-ball: and Cyrus' device
was capable of any speed that he dared to travel. The only delays
were in starting off, and in approaching his own Coast. Once above
Massachusetts, however, he could easily find Longfields. The landmarks
were familiar.
During this journey very little conversation took place between his
passenger and himself. Sitting on the floor in front of him, her
shoulders between his knees, he could not see her face. She made no
acknowledgment of his speeches and gave no answer to any questions. He
was correct in his belief that she was both alarmed and angry. But he
did not know at the time that her anger far exceeded her alarm. This he
realized, however, when he helped her from the car at the door of her
aunt's house in Longfields.
For a moment she leaned against the door, weak, trembling, dazed, her
hair disarranged, her cheeks hot. No words had been spoken during the
last two hours. This long silence he was the first to break.
"You will forgive me, Ruth, won't you?"
It was too dark to see each other's faces, but this time had her eyes
met his there would be nothing to conceal. Her anger and her dislike
were deep and sincere. She answered in a low tone, but the tone and
manner revealed a repugnance of whose existence there could be no doubt.
"Do not speak to me again; ever. Do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear."
"I mean it."
With a quivering hand she turned the knob, entered the house and shut
the door behind her.
That Ruth meant all she said was soon made clear to Cyrus--very clear
indeed. Two days later--after giving her time to recover--he came to
her aunt's house with a little bouquet of flowers, hopefully gathered
by his own hands in his own garden. With it was a note, an eloquent
little plea for forgiveness, so humble and so sincere as to soften a
heart of granite. He knocked at the front door, and waited. At last--it
might have been a year that he waited--the door was opened.
"Good morning, Stella."
"Good morning, Cyrus."
Stella was the daughter of Abner Phillips, the harness maker, and she
and Ruth and Cyrus had been playmates together in the old days at the
red school house. The little harness business had suffered--even more
than other things--with the decline of Longfields, and had finally
expired. Stella had been out at service for the last few years. She was
an angular maiden with thin lips and sharp eyes.
"Will you please take this note and the flowers to Ruth, Stella, and
ask if I can see her?"
"Yes, of course, won't you come in?"
"No, thank you. I'll just wait here."
On the doorstep he waited, but not long; Stella quickly returned with
the note and the flowers.