MY WONDER WOMAN
WHEN I saw Master Joey smiling at me wanly from his pillow the next
morning, his fever gone, his eyes without the abnormal brightness
of the previous two days, and heard his modest request for cornmeal
flapjacks to be stirred up forthwith in the old yellow pitcher, my
heart leaped into my throat for joy. I was so riotously happy that I
went outside to the Dingle, and almost burst my throat with whistling
a welcome to a lazuli-bunting, newly arrived from his winter sojourn
in the south land. He was so azure-blue on his head and back, so tawny
breasted, so clear a white on his underparts that he seemed like some
wondrous jewel dropped from Paradise into the syringa thicket.
I had answered his “here, here--” until I was sure he understood
the cordiality of my welcome, when I heard a fluttering among the
serviceberry bushes and turned to see a sage thrasher fly out and soar
aloft to a hemlock tree. I whistled. He answered with a beautiful song,
and went on to imitate other birds’ songs, ending by emitting a sound
that was strangely like the wail of a naughty youngster. I laughed
outright, and it seemed to me he was attempting to imitate my laughter
as I walked away. The birds were coming back in earnest. How glorious
the early summer was! Was there ever such a rose-gold morning? I was
overflowing with happiness. But when on my way to the spring I hailed
Wanza, who was dipping water out of the big barrel by the kitchen door,
and received a delicately frigid “good morning,” something rather
strange came over me, my glowing heart congealed, and I went out to the
yew grove, and sat down soberly on the railing of the small bridge that
spanned the narrow mountain stream.
I had no quarrel with Wanza for her averted face. But I had a feeling
that the blunder-god had unwarrantably interfered again, and a wish to
lift my affairs up off the knees of the gods once and for all and swing
them myself. I felt big enough to swing them, this morning. Only--I
did not exactly understand the state of my own mind, and this was some
slight detriment to clean swinging.
For one thing--after I had touched Wanza’s unwilling lips last night at
Joey’s bidding, I had sat on the edge of my bunk in the darkness unable
to forget the feeling of those warm lips against my own--feeling myself
revitalized--made new. What had happened to me when I held the girl in
my arms for that brief space? What was the answer?
I sat in deep thought, starting when a water ouzel swooped suddenly
down past my face, and plunged into the water at my very feet. I
watched it emerge, perch on a boulder further down stream, and spread
its slaty wings to dry. The day was languorous, and very sweet. One
of those perfect days that come early in June when the woods are
flower-filled, and the trees full-leaved. The air was tangy with
smells, the honeysuckle and balm o’ Gilead dripped perfume, the clover
was bursting with sweetness, and the wild roses were faintly odorous;
all the “buds and bells” of June were dewy and clean-scented. The
nutty flavor of yarrow was in the air--Achillea millefolium--the
plant which Achilles is said to have used in an ointment to heal his
myrmidons wounded in the siege of Troy. I marked this last flavor
well, separating it from the others. “Poor yarrow,” I said to myself,
“content with spurious corners and waste portions of the earth, what a
splendid lesson of perseverance you teach.” I thought of myself and of
my struggle of the last eight years, and compared myself with the weed.
I had not been content with the neglected corners of the earth; but I
had honestly tried to make the best of the corners; I had attempted to
improve them, and in so doing improve myself.
From that I came to Joey and the two women who had helped to make the
waste places bloom; and like Byron I had a sigh for Joey and Wanza
who loved me; and I had a tender smile for my dream woman--Haidee.
She had come when, steeped in idealism, I was all prepared for the
advent of the radiant creature who was to work a metamorphosis in my
life. She had come, and I had hailed her Wonder Woman. It had been a
psychological moment, and she had appeared. And I had loved her--let
me not cheat myself into any contrary belief--surely I had loved
her--surely; let me admit that. But no--I need not admit even that,
since it was not the truth--since she knew it was not the truth. I had
loved an ideal; not Judith Batterly, indeed, but a vague dream woman.
“There is no wonder woman,” I said to myself, thoughtfully.
Restless with my cogitations, I rose, left the bridge, and went through
the yews to the workshop.
When in sight of the bed of clove pinks I pulled myself up smartly;
Wanza knelt there. I was not too far away to see the glitter of tears
on her cheeks; but in spite of the tears, she was smiling; her face
was downbent, rose-flushed, to the new buds, her hands were clasped on
her breast, she seemed lost in ecstatic revery, and on her head rested
delicately a nuthatch.
“What a wonderful way Wanza has with the birds,” I said to myself. I
turned this over in my mind. “I’ve long marked it,” I added. Presently
still watching her, I decided, “She is a rather wonderful child.”
I continued to watch her.
She began to croon a soft little song; she unclasped her hands and held
them out before her. A second nuthatch left the branch of a pine tree
nearby and descended to settle on her left hand. She gave an indistinct
gurgle of joy, and put her right hand over it.
“Why, she’s a wonder,” I said to myself, “a wonder--girl!” I
hesitated, and then exultantly I murmured: “A wonder woman!” and turned
and beat a hasty retreat to the cabin.
Arrived there I sat down rather breathlessly on the steps. I saw light
at last!
It was under the stars that night that I told Wanza of my discovery.
Joey was sleeping peacefully indoors, watched over by Mrs. Olds, the
doctor had just left, after assuring me that my lad would soon be
convalescent, and Wanza and I walked on the river bank.
“Wanza,” I said, “is that a russet-backed thrush singing?”
“I think so, Mr. Dale.”
“His notes are wonderfully liquid and round, aren’t they?” I gave a
sigh of pure happiness. “I feel like a ‘strong bird on pinions free,’
myself to-night. I feel emancipated--as though life were beginning all
over for me. I am in love with life, Wanza. I want to awake to-morrow
and begin life all over.”
“Do you, Mr. Dale?”
“Isn’t the world beautiful washed in this moonlight! The sky seems so
near--like a purple silk curtain strung with jewels. But it is quite
dark here beneath the pines, isn’t it, Wanza? I have to guess at the
flowers under our feet. There is white hawthorn nearby, I swear, and
the yellow violets are in the grass, and the wild forget-me-not, and I
smell the wild roses--”
“How you go on, Mr. Dale!”
“Wanza,” I said, “look up at the stars through the pine branches.”
“I like to watch them in the river.”
“Yes, but look up, Wanza.”
She looked as I bade her.
“The moonlight in your eyes is wonderful, child.”
“Please don’t, Mr. Dale.”
“Keep looking at the stars, Wanza--your face is like an angel’s seen
thus. Your hair is like silver starshine, your lips are flowers--you
are very wonderful--my breath fails me, Wanza. You are very
wonderful--a wonder woman--and I love you. Will you marry me?”
“Joey isn’t going to die, Mr. Dale.”
“I know it.”
She spoke with a sobbing breath: “Then why do you say this?”
“Because I love you with my whole soul.”
“Oh!”
“Turn your eyes to me, dear. Don’t look at the stars any more. Do you
love me?”
“Yes.”
“Then at last I shall be blessed--I shall have a wander-bride--a wonder
woman--some one who understands me, and whom I understand, to share
with me the coming in of day, the mystery of the night and stars, the
saneness of the moon--I shall have--Wanza! Do you remember, child:
“‘Down the world with Marna!
That’s the life for me!
Wandering with the wandering wind,
Vagabond and unconfined!’
“Do you remember the song I sang to you in the woods one night? There
is another verse--listen!
“‘Marna of the far quest
After the divine!
Striving ever for some goal
Past the blunder-god’s control!
Dreaming of potential years
When no day shall dawn in fears!
That’s the Marna of my soul,
Wander-bride of mine!’”
The beautiful face was on my breast, the cornflower blue eyes were
raised to mine, the maize-colored hair was like a curtain about us,
shutting out the moonlight, the night, the world. I drew her closer,
closer still, silently, breathlessly, until I heard her give a shaken
cry:
“It’s in your eyes--I can read it! You do love me, you do, you do!
David Dale! David Dale!”
* * * * *
After an interval, I said:
“I am writing another book, Wanza. I am sure it will sell. We will go
away from here, child--we can live where we choose--we will go south to
my old home. There is some property there that is mine. You will love
the old home, and the river with its red clay banks--my childhood’s
home. We will travel, too. Life seems very full, Wanza.”
“But we’ll always come back to Cedar Dale, won’t we, David Dale? We’ll
come back to Dad--dear Dad--he’ll always be waiting. And the birds and
the flowers--and the squirrels and woodsy things will be waiting. And
Joey will want to come.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.