I DO NOT RETURN ALONE
Many people, I presume, long to fly from New York during a late June
and early July hot spell. But nobody who does not possess a new place
in the country, still unfurnished, with a garden crying for his
attention and a brook wandering amid the pines, can possibly realize
how the dust and heat of town affected me in the next ten days. It
affected me the more because I saw how pale Stella was, how tired
when the evenings came. With her woman's conscientiousness, she was
struggling to do two weeks' work in one before leaving the dictionary.
She even toiled several evenings, denying herself to me, while I wandered
disconsolate along Broadway, or worked over my manuscripts at the
club, surrounded by siphons of soda. At the luncheon hour and between
five and six we shopped madly, getting a stair carpet, dining-room
chairs (a present from her to herself and me, as she put it--fine
Chippendale reproductions), a few rugs--as many as we could afford--and
other necessary furnishings, including stuff for curtains. For the south
room the curtains were gay Japanese silk from an Oriental store, to
balance the Hiroshiges, and while we were buying them she slipped away
from me and presently returned, the proud possessor of two small ivory
elephants.
"Look, somebody has sent us another present!" she laughed. "Folks are
so good to us! These are to stand on the twin mantels, under the prints."
"From whom are they?" I asked.
"Your best friend and my worst enemy," she answered.
For three days after she left the office of the dictionary I saw little
of her. "There are some things you can't buy for me--or with me," she
smiled. Then we went down together to the City Hall for our license,
sneaking in after hours, thanks to the kindly offices of a classmate of
mine, the city editor of a newspaper. The clerk beamed upon us like a
municipal Cupid.
That last evening she left me, to pack her trunks, and I went back
to the club, and found there a letter from the magazine where I had
submitted my story. It was a letter of acceptance! Misfortunes are
not the only things which never come singly. I danced for joy. If the
stores had been open I should have rushed out then and there and bought
the mahogany secretary we had seen a few days before and wistfully
passed by. Fortunately, they were not open.
In the morning my cab stopped in front of the old house near Washington
Square, and Stella came forth with a friend, a sober little person
who appeared greatly impressed with her responsibilities, and bore the
totally inappropriate name of Marguerite.
"Dear, dear!" she said, "I've never attended a bride before. It's
very trying. And it's very mean of you, Mr. Upton, to take Stella from
us, and leave me with a new and stupid co-worker. How do you expect the
dictionary to come out?"
"I don't," said I, "nor do I care if it doesn't. There are too many
words in the world already."
Bill Chadwick, another classmate of mine, came up from downtown, and met
us at the church door. The rector was a friend and fellow alumnus of
ours. It was like a tiny family party, suddenly and solemnly hushed by
the organ as we stood before the altar, and in the warm dimness of the
great vacant church Stella and I were made man and wife. The four of us
went out to the cab again, and Bill insisted on a wedding breakfast at
Sherry's.
"Good Lord!" he said, "you two gumshoe into an engagement, and get
married without so much as a reporter in the church, and then expect to
make a getaway like a pair of safe breakers! No, sir, you come with me,
and get one real civilized meal before you go back to your farm fodder."
Bill had the solemn little bridesmaid laughing before the luncheon was
over, but the last we saw of them they were waving us good-bye from
behind the grating as we went down the platform to our train, and the
poor girl was mopping her eyes.
"Isn't the best man supposed to fall in love with the bridesmaid?" I
asked. "At least I hope he'll dry her tears."
"Good gracious, yes!" cried Stella. "I never thought of that. You
don't know what we've done! Marguerite is a dear girl and an excellent
cross-indexer, but she's no wife for your gay friend William. You'd
best send him a telegram of warning."
"Never!" said I. "Bill has cruised so long in Petticoat Bay as a
blockade runner that I hope she shoots him full of holes and boards
him in triumph. Besides, _everybody_ ought to get married."
Stella's eyes looked up at mine, deep and happy below their twinkle,
and we boarded the train.
The train started, it left New York behind, it ran into the suburbs,
then into the country, and at last the hills began to mount beside the
track, and a cooler, fresher air to come in through the windows. Still
her eyes smiled into mine, but she said little, save now and then to
lean forward and whisper, "Is it true, John, is it true?"
So we came to Bentford station, in the early dusk of evening, and the
air was good as we alighted, and the silence. Suddenly Buster appeared,
undulating with joyous yelps along the platform, and sprang at Stella's
face. He almost ignored me.
Peter was waiting with the buggy. We sat him between us and drove home.
"Home--your home, our home," I whispered, pressing her hand behind
Peter's back.
"Sold a lot o' peas and things," said Peter. "I got 'em all down in
the book. Gee, I drove over 'most every day, an' I'm goin' to be on
the ball team in the village, an' I wanter join the Boy Scouts, but ma
won't let me 'less you say it's all right, an' ain't it?"
"We'll think it over, Peter," said I.
Stella was bouncing up and down on the seat with excitement as the
buggy rattled over the bridge. Lamplight was streaming from Twin Fires.
On the kitchen porch stood Mrs. Pillig, dressed in her best, and Mrs.
Bert and Bert. As we climbed from the buggy, Bert raised his hand,
and a shower of rice descended upon us. Stella ran up the path, and
Mrs. Bert's ample arms closed about her. Both women were half laughing,
half crying, when I got there with the grips.
"Ain't that jest like the sex?" said Bert, with a jerk of his
thumb--"so durn glad they gotter cry about it!"
"You shet up," said Mrs. Bert. "For all _you_ know, I'm pityin' the
poor child!"
Mrs. Pillig had an ample dinner ready for us, with vegetables and salad
fresh from the garden, and, as a crowning glory, a magnificent lemon pie.
"This is much better than anything at Sherry's," cried Stella, beaming
upon her.
We sat a long while looking at each other across the small table, and
then we wandered out into the dewy evening and our feet took us into the
pines, where in the darkness we stopped by a now sacred spot and held
each other close in silence. Then we went back into the south room.
"Oh, if the curtain stuff would only hurry up and come!" cried my wife.
"You must learn patience--Mrs. Upton," said I, while we both laughed
sillily over the title, as others have done before us, no doubt.
Presently Mrs. Pillig's anxious face appeared at the door. She seemed
desirous of speaking, and doubtful how to begin.
"What is it, Mrs. Pillig?" I asked.
"Well, sir," she said, hesitantly, "I suppose now you are married you
won't need me, after all." She paused. "I rented my house," she added.
"Need you!" I cried. "Why now I shall need you more than ever!"
She smiled faintly, still looking dubious. Stella went over to her.
"What he means is, that I'm a poor goose who doesn't know any more
about keeping house than Buster does about astronomy," she laughed.
"Of course you'll stay, Mrs. Pillig, and teach me."
"Thank you, Miss--I mean Missus," said Mrs. Pillig, backing out.
"Be careful," I warned. "If you let Mrs. Pillig think you're so very
green, she'll begin to boss you."
"That _would_ be a new sensation," laughed Stella. "I like new
sensations as much as Peter Pan did. Oh, it's a new sensation having
a home like this, and living in the country, and smelling good, cool air
and--and having _you_."
She was suddenly beside me on the settle. We heard Mrs. Pillig going up
to bed. The house was still. Outside the choral song of night insects
sounded drowsily. Buster came softly in and plopped down on the rug. We
were alone in Twin Fires, together, and she would not rise to go up the
road to Bert's. She would never go! So we sat a long, long while--and
the rest shall be silence.