It was April in New England, but here at Elaine it was May――warm,
verdant, fragrant May. To be sure, they called it April, but John,
sprawled out on his back on the terrace before the house, with the
soft swaying of branches above him and the sun-flecks dancing back and
forth across his face, knew better. It was utter nonsense to pretend
that only five days had passed since they had left Cambridge. He took
his pipe from the corner of his mouth, gripped his hands anew under his
head, sighed luxuriously and closed his eyes.
The morning world was filled with sound, with warmth, with colour.
From the direction of the stables came the whinnying of a young colt
in paddock; the turkeys, peafowls and chickens uttered their notes
which, discordant in themselves, yet fitted harmoniously into the great
chorus as the growling of the bassoon, the rasping of the bass-viol
or the shrilling of the piccolo fits into and lends completeness to a
full orchestral effect. Birds, thousands of them, it seemed, piped
and trilled, chirped and bubbled――feathered flutes and ’cellos and
clarionettes, tossing their melody into the soft air from swaying
tree-top or dropping it from leaf-hidden branch to filter downward
with the dripping sunbeams. Bees were abroad, too, workers and drones,
adding their booming bass to the symphony, while through all, the wind
and the leaves, masters of melody, supplied a low, murmurous strain,
insistent yet unobtrusive, the theme of Nature’s spring-song.
And for this performance what a stage-setting was there! Overhead,
the bluest blue that ever poet sang or artist strove to catch, and
against it a few soft, fluffy clouds, caught here and there against the
heavens like clots of snowy foam. Below, wide, far-stretching fields
and hillsides of new, tender green arabesqued with winding brown roads,
vine-decked fences and shimmering blue water laughing through bordering
trees. Fields were no longer bare expanses of warm, upturned loam; they
were carpets of green velvet. Far and near the trees were in leaf, some
fully arrayed for the summer, others just trying on their new garments
with bashful diffidence. And what a wealth, what a bewildering variety
of greens they presented! Golden-greens and russet-greens, blue-greens
and gray-greens, the green of chrysoberyl and of emerald; every hue and
tint and gradation of tint!
The far hills were asleep in the sunlight under slumber-robes of palest
mauve. In the direction of Melville fantastic spirals and swirls
of smoke and steam arose and melted into the sky. Here and there a
farmhouse peered out from an embowering group of trees. Half a mile
away a great blue wagon, drawn by six horses, jolted along the road;
and the creaking of the great wheels, the voice of the driver and the
tinkling of the bells came, mellowed by distance, up the hill. John
lifted his head lazily and watched it for a moment. Behind him Elaine
basked, white-walled and pillared, leaf-shadowed, in the sunlight.
Flowers blossomed and the air was redolent of their perfume.
Presently John raised himself on his elbow, yawned and looked about
him. In the shadow of the portico Phillip was stretched fast asleep in
a steamer chair, the magazine which he had been reading a half-hour ago
sprawling with rumpled leaves beside him where it had fallen from his
hands. Maid dozed beside him.
“Lazy beggar,” muttered John virtuously.
He recovered his pipe from the grass, thereby interfering with the
interested examination of a black ant, and filled it slowly, his gaze
loitering lovingly across the landscape.
“It seems too good to be true,” he said to himself, bringing his feet
together tailor-fashion and scratching a sputtering match on the sole
of one broad shoe. “I can’t imagine a man wanting anything better than
this.” He lighted his pipe and sent a column of soft gray smoke up into
the branches of the big oak. “To know that this big, beautiful chunk of
God’s earth is yours, with its fields and forests, hills and streams,
yours to do with as you wish――――” He shook his head eloquently and
blew another cloud of smoke into the sunlight. “To be master of it! To
plow its soil and seed it; to cut its timber and build upon it―――― To
the dickens with your wire nails and your stuffy offices; to the deuce
with cities and clubs and white waistcoats; to the――――” Language again
failed him. He blew more smoke.
“There’s everything here to hand,” he went on again; “timber for
planks――there ought to be a sawmill, though――stone for foundations,
gravel for road-building――a whole hill of it ready for the
quarrying――clay for bricks. A man could pretty near get everything he
needed off the land; he might have to send to Melville for window-glass
and doorknobs. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if there was ochre
somewhere about; a chap could grind his own paint.
“There’s the site for the house over yonder――‘yonder’s’ appropriately
Southern, by the way――on that round hill,” he thought, taking his pipe
from his mouth and pointing with the stem as though he had a listener.
“It’s almost as high as this; there can’t be more than twenty feet
difference, I guess――that is, I _reckon_. There’d be about three
acres of lawn, and the drive would sweep up to it in a long, easy
curve. I’d have the building face the east, of course. The stables and
outbuildings would be strung together about half-way down the farther
slope, toward the creek bottom. There’d be no use trying to build a
Southern style house so long as Elaine stood here to make it look like
thirty cents. No; a modified old English would be best, something long
and low and hospitable looking. Ten or twelve thousand ought to pay for
it. We mustn’t be extravagant at first; we’ve our living to make.”
He relighted his pipe, which had gone out, and lay back, leaning on
one elbow. Over at the stable Will was cleaning a harness and singing
softly in the sunlight. A peafowl approached tentatively and viewed
John’s recumbent and motionless form with suspicious eye, her neck
stretched forth ludicrously, her expressionless, unblinking eyes like
beads of glass.
“Oh, rubber!” muttered John. He tossed a pebble at her and she turned
with a disgusted squawk and hurried away. He went on with his dreaming.
“I’d get Markham, if I could; Phil would scarcely need him, I should
think. He ought to go with the place, anyhow, like any other fixture.
He’s a genuinely good fellow, and I guess, as Phil says, he’s the best
overseer in the county. I think, with Markham here, I could make it go
from the start. Of course, there’d be somewhat of an outlay at first. I
can see where twenty or thirty thousand could be sunk without trouble;
yes, easily that. I guess dad was about right when he put it at fifty
thousand.
“There’d be plenty of hard work, and that’s what I want――work that’ll
make a fellow hungry and tired and sleepy. But I’d be going ahead all
the time; every day’s labour would show, and the end would be worth
toiling for. It’d be just the kind of work that’s more than half
pleasure. And there’d be plenty of fun, too. There’s the shooting; and
there’d be a few good nags and some dogs; and I’d have Davy down here
often, of course; maybe he’d stay awake if he was riding to hounds. And
I’d lay out a links and teach the natives to play golf; there’s old
Colonel What’s-his-name――Brownell, isn’t it? He’s a regular old sport,
and I’ll bet he’d take hold in great style. And there’s Phil, and some
of those chaps in town; also there’s ‘Uncle Bob’――he’d come any old
time, I guess, and stay as long as there was a drop of liquor left. Oh,
I wouldn’t want for society. Only if――if what I want happens they can
all go hang!
“If!” he sighed and shook his head. “So much depends on ‘if’! I’ll know
some day.” He took a letter from his pocket and looked at it, tapping
it approvingly with his knuckles. It bore a foreign stamp and postmark
and had the appearance of having been carried about in that pocket for
some time. Presently he drew forth the inclosure and began to read:
“DEAR JOHN:――Yours of the 22nd ult. at hand and finds us till
at Cannes. My health continues to improve, I am glad to say,
and your mother’s illness is passed. We are both looking
forward with impatience to the return, which will be, unless
present plans change, the 3rd June from Havre. Now about that
Virginia place. You say you want it and so I say go ahead and
get it. Keep an eye on your option. I don’t fear Corliss. He’s
as honest as they’re made. But I don’t know as much about the
owners. So advise you to see to an extension about a fortnight
before option runs out. If they won’t extend you may buy if you
want to. I’ve directed McCullough to honour your draft for five
thousand. That ought to hold it until I reach home.
“Think your decision not to purchase unless owners want you as
a neighbour rather quixotic, but of course don’t know the ins
and outs of the matter. I’ll trust you to do what’s sensible,
John. Be sure and have the title examined into thoroughly
before you buy. Get a local man to do this; it’s a better plan.
Offer him a good sum to find a flaw. If he can’t win his money
you may be pretty certain that title’s O. K. I don’t want to
bank on the success of your project yet. I’d rather learn
something about it. I know wire nails, John, but beef cattle
are out of my books. Anyhow, you can’t stand to lose a great
deal, and if the climate down there agrees with me I’ll buy
you out, maybe, if you can’t make a go of it. I don’t promise,
understand. Anyhow, it’s your money you’re buying with. I
told you that in the first letter. So think of it as that and
stretch it as far as it will go. Get a good grip on each end
and pull like blazes.
“If your house is ready by winter we’ll have a try at your
wonderful climate. Don’t know about the benefit to be
derived from riding horses over fences after a lot of yellow
hound-dogs, but maybe I’ll have a try at it. Like the idea of
those partridges better. When you get to be fifty-four yourself
you’ll understand why I’m not keen about chasing foxes. I’ve
got about three dozen more bones to ache than you have, I
guess. Colonel Thingmabob must be a blanked old idiot to
scurry around the country at his age. That’s my opinion of the
Colonel, John.
“Don’t trouble about the factory. I’d rather see you a good
cattle raiser or farmer than a poor mill man. And I’ve had
my doubts for two or three years past as to your ever turning
out the latter. We’ll be back in plenty of time to see you
graduate, so do things up properly and don’t be niggardly when
it comes to spreading. No cheap claret-cup for your old father,
John; remember that. Let me hear how the negotiations progress.
Your mother sends her love and says she will write on Sunday.
Be a good boy and don’t let business interfere with study.
“Your aff’te father,
“WILLIAM H. NORTH.”
John smiled and returned the thin, crinkly sheets to their envelope.
“Dad’s a mighty good sort,” he told himself warmly. “But he’ll never
get a chance to buy me out; not in a thousand years. This thing is
going to go! If――oh, hang that ‘if’! I’m going to settle it right now!”
He sprang to his feet with a sudden squaring of his shoulders, knocked
the tobacco from his pipe and strode toward the house. As he went up
the steps Phillip stirred and opened his eyes, blinking wonderingly.
“I must have been asleep, I reckon,” he said drowsily.
“I reckon you were,” laughed John. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a two-year-old.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawned, and
smiled contentedly up into the other’s face. “This is great, isn’t it?”
he asked.
“Yes; great! I wish I was going to stay for more of it.”
“Oh, you’re not going to-morrow,” Phillip replied.
“I think I am, though.” After a pause he continued: “There’s just one
thing that can keep me, Phil, and I’m greatly afraid that it isn’t
going to happen.”
“What is it? I’ll make it happen!”
“You couldn’t,” laughed John, moving toward the door.
“But―――― Here, hold on! What is it?” cried Phillip. But John’s
footsteps were dying away in the hall, and Phillip moved as though to
follow, hesitated, yawned again, closed his eyes sleepily and presently
dozed off once more. A great bumble-bee, lumbering majestically about
in a new spring suit of black velvet, spied the gay-hued colour of
the neglected magazine and settled down upon a lithographed spray of
apple blossoms with an anticipatory boom of pleasure. There followed a
moment of pregnant silence. Then he arose, quivering with amazement and
disgust, and circled off into the golden air, buzzing loud tidings of
the deception.
The sun rose higher and higher and the shadow of the house crept inch
by inch across the portico floor. In the trees the tireless birds sang
on and on, allegro, adagio, scherzo, over and over, a pæan of exquisite
joy. At the stable the colt lay asleep in the paddock, and before
the door, with a half-cleaned bridle over his knees, Will slumbered
peacefully in the sunshine. From the cool, dim hall came eleven soft
and silvery chimes from the old rosewood clock.