The warm days of May and June found Helen and me again riding over the
low rolling country back of Deep Harbor. At least, that is what we did
on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. On other days we rode at night, not
without protest from Mrs. Claybourne. Fortunately, however, the
trousseau kept her too deeply employed to offer much resistance.
Spring in that country was the same joy and wonder that it is in
England. The fields stayed brown longer, perhaps, for vineyards are slow
in coming into leaf, and Indian corn is not planted until late. The
woods made up for any delay of the open fields. Such brilliant, tender
greens of ferns and mosses, such strange and overpowering scents from
grasses and leafy hollows! To be sure, we watched the panorama of spring
and early summer with lovers' eyes, but I defy any one not to find that
countryside an earthly paradise.
And at night, even in the darkness when there was no moon, we rode miles
through velvety black, rich with the odours of growing things. Dogs
would bark at our horses from farm-yard gates as we passed, and sleeping
cattle near the road would lift drowsy heads in surprise at the sound of
our horses' hoofs. There were no motor-cars to come roaring down at us
from around corners with dazzling glare of monster eyes, or so few that
they were not met on back country roads. We could ride on with loose
rein, certain no danger was ahead. It was on these rides that we could
really talk and get to know one another. Not that we had rushed at love
in the autumn, ignorant of what we did. Yet it seemed as if each day we
found new depths to explore and grew nearer to one another the further
we went.
I can remember little of what we said or of what subjects we talked
about. Much of it was lovers' talk, sometimes too absurd or trivial to
put down in black and white, or else too sacred to come staring at one
from the pages of a narrative. At other times we spoke of that future,
now so near us, and built dream plans--a little cottage with a red-tiled
roof to be somewhere in Hertfordshire, with a vegetable garden and
standard rose trees; or again, we wandered in fancy through the
mysteries of London, buying books off a stall in the Farringdon Road or
sitting in some old church near the crossed feet of a Crusader. It was I
who built up for her the dream pictures of England--the England of my
childhood--the London which, once it is in one's blood, is there
forever. Helen had never been abroad, and to her my stories were like
those Othello told to Desdemona. She learned to know England in
imagination and came to speak familiarly of it, as if she herself had
grown up on its soil.
And yet we both loved America too. From a hilltop in May, looking across
miles of open country to the blue lake, our hearts would swell with joy
that so fair a land was ours. England was to be our country of
adventure, in which, side by side, we were to seek fame and do our
allotted task in life. We thought no less of one country for the joy
with which we looked forward to the other.
* * * * *
On the first of July Knowlton and I turned the factory over to the
representatives of the new owners. They were a New York corporation, and
I was rather amused to observe that the general manager arrived with the
same chip on his shoulder for Deep Harbor that I had first carried. He
was a little, fussy man of about thirty-five, with a brown Van Dyke
beard, and he asked me, with a haughty air, if I knew where there was
anything fit to eat to be found.
"You have had breakfast at Shaefer's," I said. I could see Knowlton's
grin over the corner of my shoulder. We were in his office at the
factory.
"I have," Mr. Ebling replied, with a grimace.
"There is no place in Deep Harbor that calls itself a restaurant where
you can get anything fit to eat, Mr. Ebling." I uttered this solemnly.
"Good God!" he exclaimed.
"But if you will lunch with me today, I can promise you satisfaction. I
can also arrange a card for you at the club. It has a rather remarkable
chef."
His gratitude was overpowering. Then we proceeded to sign endless
papers, with some exchanges of difficulties between the lawyers of each
party. I had a full power of attorney from my father to sign for him,
and whenever a lawyer said "Here, if you please," I wrote my name with a
flourish. At the end a certified check was handed to me, and I passed it
on to Knowlton. Then Knowlton and I stood up. Our tenure was over.
As Mr. Ebling followed me out, I caught Knowlton stealing a last look at
his little office. He lingered a moment by the shop door and watched the
men at the machines, as we arrived downstairs. Since we were still to be
in Deep Harbor for another month, there was no ceremony of saying
good-bye. Some of the men, nevertheless, came up to shake hands with
Knowlton and me. I hated to turn these workmen over to another
management, and I saw Knowlton was thinking the same thing. He had built
up an extraordinarily efficient and loyal set of men,--"hand-picked," he
called them. I had a distinct impression that Mr. Ebling would not be so
good a man to work for. His Van Dyke beard was against him. Also his
eyes lacked a twinkle; in its stead was a look which showed that Mr.
Ebling was the most important object to be considered.
The three of us walked away together, Mr. Ebling picking his way with
some displeasure through the choking dust of our Twelfth Street:
"Where are we going, Ted? To the club?" Knowlton asked, as I kept on
down Twelfth Street.
"Mr. Claybourne was kind enough to suggest that the three of us take
luncheon with him at his residence. I thought we could walk to Myrtle
Boulevard and point out some of our important plants to Mr. Ebling on
the way. Over there," I said, turning to Ebling, "is the Deep Harbor
Packing Company. Beyond is the Lakeside Casting and Manufacturing
Company."
"Good God," exclaimed Mr. Ebling, stumbling over an empty tin can that
lay in the middle of the street. Knowlton's grin widened and deepened.
It grew positively diabolic as Mr. Ebling took a silk handkerchief from
his sleeve and began flicking dust from his spats.
"Don't they ever water this confounded street?" he asked.
"Never," I replied. "Wait until August--this is nothing."
"Is there no way we can ride?" he inquired at the end of an interminable
block of noisy and dirty buildings.
"The cars don't take us where we want to go," I replied. "We can soon
turn down Wintergreen Street, and then we are almost there."
Knowlton, by now, was signalling me to be careful, but I was having too
much fun. "That is a model plant," I continued, like a cathedral guide.
"It's the Deep Harbor Wrought Iron Works. I understand that their power
plant holds the world's record for the number of pounds of water
evaporated per pound of coal."
Knowlton made a noise which sounded very much like a suppressed snort.
Mr. Ebling politely adjusted his pince-nez and gazed at the brick walls.
A freight train, the engine spitting live cinders and greasy smoke,
clanged up the street between us and the model plant. Mr. Ebling shook
cinders from his light grey Fedora hat, and wiped smut from his eyes.
I took mercy upon him at this point and turned down a side street
leading toward the residence section.
"Really," Mr. Ebling protested, as we came to Myrtle Boulevard, "I'm not
presentable enough to lunch with your friends. Please tell me the way
back to the hotel." I would not hear of this, so he again made such a
toilet as he could with his handkerchief. I rang the bell at the
Claybournes', and in we went. Mr. Ebling's affability returned at once.
Mrs. Claybourne was gracious and Helen deliciously demure. She sensed a
joke somewhere from my manner, but could not guess what it was. A
cocktail made Mr. Ebling expand. I could see another opinion of Deep
Harbor visibly forming itself in his mind.
"We've just come from the plant," I said, as we sat down.
"Then you transferred across town from the square," remarked Mrs.
Claybourne.
"No, we walked," I interrupted hastily. "I wanted to point out some of
our plants to Mr. Ebling."
"Walked!" cried Mrs. Claybourne.
"I understood we could not get here except by walking," Mr. Ebling said,
raising his eyebrows.
"Ted, you must be crazy," Mr. Claybourne chuckled. "You ride from your
plant within a block of here every day."
"Ted thought Mr. Ebling would like to see the sights," Knowlton spoke in
my defence.
"Yes, very interesting place from a commercial point of view. I enjoyed
getting a general idea of the town."