With the precious paper in his hand Michael took himself with all
swiftness to the DesBrosses Ferry. Would there be a train? It was
almost two o’clock. He had had no lunch, but what of that? He had that
in his heart which made mere eating seem unnecessary. The experiences
of the past two hours had lifted him above, earth and its necessities
for the time. And a farm, a real farm! Could it be true? Had his wish
come true so soon? He could scarcely wait for the car to carry him or
the boat to puff its way across the water. He felt as if he must fly to
see his new possession. And Mr. Endicott had said he might pay for it
sometime when he got to be a great lawyer. He had no doubt but that he
would get there if such a thing were possible, and anyhow he meant to
pay for that ground. Meantime it was his. He was not a poor nobody
after all. He owned land, and a house.
His face was a mingling of delightful emotions as he stood by the rail
of the ferry-boat and let his imagination leap on ahead of him. The day
was perfect. It had rained the night before and everything, even the
air seemed newly washed for a fresh trial at living. Every little
wavelet sparkled like a jewel, and the sunlight shimmered on the water
in a most alluring way. Michael forgot for the moment the sorrow and
misery of the crowded city he was leaving behind him. For this
afternoon at least he was a boy again wandering off into the open.
His train was being called as he stepped from the ferry-boat. The next
boat would have missed it. He hurried aboard and was soon speeding
through the open country, with now and again a glimpse of the sea, as
the train came closer to the beach. They passed almost continuously
beautiful resorts, private villas, great hotels, miles of cottages set
in green terrace with glowing autumn flowers in boxes or bordering the
paths.
Michael watched everything with deep interest. This was the land of his
new possession. Whatever was growing here would be likely to grow on
his place if it were properly planted and cared for. Ere this flowers
had had little part in his farming scheme, but so soon as he saw the
brilliant display he resolved that he must have some of those also. And
flowers would sell as well if not better than vegetables if properly
marketed.
That vivid hedge of scarlet and gold, great heavy-headed dahlias they
were. He did not know the name, but he would find it out somehow. They
would take up little room and would make his new place a thing of
beauty. Farther on, one great white cottage spread its veranda wings on
either side to a tall fringe of pink and white and crimson cosmos; and
again a rambling gray stone piece of quaint architecture with low
sloping roofs of mossy green, and velvet lawn creeping down even to the
white beach sands, was set about with flaming scarlet sage. It was a
revelation to the boy whose eyes had never looked upon the like before.
Nature in its wildness and original beauty had been in Florida; New
York was all pavements and buildings with a window box here and there.
He as yet knew nothing of country homes in their luxury and perfection,
save from magazine pictures. All the way along he was picking out
features that he meant some day to transfer to his own little farm.
It was after three when he reached the station, and a good fifteen
minutes walk to the farm, but every step of it was a delight.
Pearl Beach, they called the station. The beach was half a mile from
the railroad, and a queer little straggling town mostly cottages and a
few stores hovered between railroad and beach. A river, broad, and
shallow, wound its silver way about the village and lost itself in the
wideness of the ocean. Here and there a white sail flew across its
gleaming centre, and fishermen in little boats sat at their idle task.
What if his land should touch somewhere this bonny stream!
Too eager to wait for investigation he stopped a passing stranger and
questioned him. Yes, the river was salt. It had tides with the sea,
too. There was great fishing and sailing, and some preferred bathing
there to the ocean. Yes, Old Orchard farm was on its bank. It had a
river frontage of several hundred feet but it was over a mile back from
the beach.
The stranger was disposed to delay and gossip about the death of the
former owner of Old Orchard and its probable fate now that the mortgage
had been foreclosed; but Michael with a happy light in his eyes thanked
him courteously and hurried on. Wings were upon his feet, and his heart
was light and happy. He felt like a bird set free. He breathed in the
strong salt air with delight.
And then the burden of the city came to him again, the city with all
its noise and folly and sin; with its smells and heat, and lack of air;
with its crowded, suffering, awful humanity, herded together like
cattle, and living in conditions worse than the beasts of the fields.
If he could but bring them out here, bring some of them at least; and
show them what God’s earth was like! Ah!
His heart beat wildly at the thought! It was not new. He had harbored
it ever since his first visit to the alley. It was his great secret,
his much hoped for experiment. If he might be able to do it sometime.
This bit of a farm would open the way. There would be money needed of
course, and where was it to come from? But he could work. He was
strong. He would give his young life for his people—save them from
their ignorance and despair. At least he could save some; even one
would be worth while.
So he mused as he hurried on, eyes and mind open to all he saw.
There was no fence in front of Old Orchard farm. A white road bordered
with golden rod and wild asters met the scraggly grass that matted and
tangled itself beneath the gnarled apple trees. A grassy rutted wagon
track curved itself in vistas between the trees up to the house which
was set far back from the road. A man passing identified the place for
Michael, and looked him over apprizingly, wondering as did all who saw
him, at the power and strength of his beauty.
The house was weather-beaten unpainted clapboards, its roof of curled
and mossy shingles possessing undoubted leakable qualities, patched
here and there. A crazy veranda ambled across the front. It contained a
long low room with a queer old-fashioned chimney place wide enough to
sit in, a square south room that must have been a dining-room because
of the painted cupboard whose empty shelves gazed ghastly between
half-open doors, and a small kitchen, not much more than a shed. In the
long low room a staircase twisted itself up oddly to the four rooms
under the leaky roof. It was all empty and desolate, save for an old
cot bed and a broken chair. The floors had a sagged, shaky appearance.
The doors quaked when they were opened. The windows were cobwebby and
dreary, yet it looked to the eyes of the new householder like a palace.
He saw it in the light of future possibilities and gloried in it. That
chimney place now. How would it look with a great log burning in it,
and a rug and rocking chair before it. What would—Aunt
Sally—perhaps—say to it when he got it fixed up? Could he ever coax her
to leave her dirty doorstep and her drink and come out here to live?
And how would he manage it all if he could? There would have to be
something to feed her with, and to buy the rug and the rocking chair.
And first of all there would have to be a bath-tub. Aunt Sally would
need to be purified before she could enter the portals of this ideal
cottage, when he had made it as he wanted it to be. Paint and paper
would make wonderful transformations he knew, for he had often helped
at remodelling the rooms at college during summer vacations. He had
watched and been with the workmen and finally taken a hand. This habit
of watching and helping had taught him many things. But where were
paper and paint and time to use it coming from? Ah, well, leave that to
the future. He would find a way. Yesterday he did not have the house
nor the land for it to stand upon. It had come and the rest would
follow in their time.
He went happily about planning for a bath-room. There would have to be
water power. He had seen windmills on other places as he passed. That
was perhaps the solution of this problem, but windmills cost money of
course. Still,—all in good time.
There was a tumbled-down barn and chicken house, and a frowzy attempt
at a garden. A strawberry bed overgrown with weeds, a sickly cabbage
lifting its head bravely; a gaunt row of currant bushes; another
wandering, out-reaching row of raspberries; a broken fence; a stretch
of soppy bog land to the right, and the farm trailed off into desolate
neglect ending in a charming grove of thick trees that stood close down
to the river’s bank.
Michael went over it all carefully, noted the exposure of the land,
kicked the sandy soil to examine its unpromising state, walked all
around the bog and tried to remember what he had read about cranberry
bogs; wondered if the salt water came up here, and if it were good or
bad for cranberries; wondered if cow peas grew in Jersey and if they
would do for a fertilizing crop as they did in Florida. Then he walked
through the lovely woods, scenting the breath of pines and drawing in
long whiffs of life as he looked up to the green roof over his head.
They were not like the giant pines of the South land, but they were
sweeter and more beautiful in their form.
He went down to the brink of the river and stood looking across.
Not a soul was in sight and nothing moved save a distant sail fleeing
across the silver sheen to the sea. He remembered what the man had said
about bathing and yielding to an irresistible impulse was soon swimming
out across the water. It was like a new lease of life to feel the water
brimming to his neck again, and to propel himself with strong, graceful
strokes through the element where he would. A bird shot up into the air
with a wild sweet note, and he felt like answering to its melody. He
whistled softly in imitation of its voice, and the bird answered, and
again and again they called across the water.
But a look toward the west where the water was crimsoning already with
the setting sun warned him that his time was short, so he swam back to
the sheltered nook where he had left his clothes, and improvising a
towel from his handkerchief he dressed rapidly. The last train back
left at seven. If he did not wish to spend the night in his new and
uninhabitable abode he must make good time. It was later than he
supposed, and he wished to go back to the station by way of the beach
if possible, though it was out of his way. As he drew on his coat and
ran his fingers through his hair in lieu of a brush, he looked
wistfully at the bright water, dimpling now with hues of violet, pink,
and gold and promising a rare treat in the way of a sunset. He would
like to stay and watch it. But there was the ocean waiting for him. He
must stand on the shore once and look out across it, and know just how
it looked near his own house.
He hurried through the grove and across the farm to the eastern edge,
and looking beyond the broken fence that marked the bounds of the bog
land over the waste of salt grass he could see the white waves dimly
tumbling, hurrying ever, to get past one another. He took the fence at
a bound, made good time over the uncertain footing of the marsh grass
and was soon standing on the broad smooth beach with the open stretch
of ocean before him.
It was the first time he had ever stood on the seashore and the feeling
of awe that filled him was very great. But beyond any other sensation,
came the thought that Starr, his beautiful Starr, was out there on that
wide vast ocean, tossing in a tiny boat. For now the great steamer that
had seemed so large and palatial, had dwindled in his mind to a frail
toy, and he was filled with a nameless fear for her. His little Starr
out there on that fearful deep, with only that cold-eyed mother to take
care of her. A wild desire to fly to her and bring her back possessed
him; a thrilling, awesome something, he had never known before. He
stood speechless before it; then raised his eyes to the roseate already
purpling in streaks for the sunset and looking solemnly up he said,
aloud:
“Oh, God, I love her!”
He stood facing the thought with solemn joy and pain for an instant,
then turned and fled from it down the purpling sands; fleeing, yet
carrying his secret with him.
And when he came opposite the little village he trod its shabby,
straggling, ill-paved streets with glory in his face; and walking thus
with hat in hand, and face illumined toward the setting sun, folks
looked at him strangely and wondered who and what he was, and turned to
look again. In that half-light of sunset, he seemed a being from
another world.
A native watching, dropped his whip, and climbing down from his rough
wagon spoke the thought that all the bystanders felt in common:
“Gosh hang it! I thought he was one o’ them glass angels stepped out of
a church winder over to ’Lizabeth-town. We don’t see them kind much. I
wonder now how he’d be to live with. Think I’d feel kinder creepy
hevin’ him ’round all time, wouldn’t you?”
All the way home the new thought came surging over him, he loved her
and she could never be his. It was deluging; it was beautiful; but it
was agonizing. He recalled how beautiful she had been as she waved
farewell. And some of her smiles had been for him, he was sure. He had
known of course that the kisses were for her father, and yet, they had
been blown freely his way, and she had looked her pleasure at his
presence. There had been a look in her eyes such as she had worn that
day in the college chapel when she had thrown precautions to the winds
and put her arms about his neck and kissed him. His young heart
thrilled with a deep joy over the memory of it. It had been wonderful
that she had done it; wonderful! when he was what he was, a _child of
the slums_! The words seemed burned upon his soul now, a part of his
very life. He was not worthy of her, not worthy to receive her favor.
Yet he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window frame as
the train hurried along through the gathering darkness, and saw again
the bright lovely face, the dainty fingers blowing kisses, the lips
wreathed in smiles, and knew some of the farewell had been surely meant
for him. He forgot the beautiful villas along the way, forgot to watch
for the twinkling lights, or to care how the cottages looked at
evening. Whenever the track veered toward the sea and gave a glimpse of
gray sky and yawning ocean with here and there a point of light to make
the darkness blacker, he seemed to know instinctively, and opening his
eyes strained them to look across it. Out there in the blackness
somewhere was his Starr and he might not go to her, nor she come to
him. There was a wide stretch of unfathomable sea between them. There
would always be that gray, impassable sky and sea of impossibility
between them.
As he neared New York, however, these thoughts dropped from him; and
standing on the ferry-boat with the million twinkling lights of the
city, and the looming blackness of the huddled mass of towering
buildings against the illuminated sky, the call of the people came to
him. Over there in the darkness, swarming in the fetid atmosphere of a
crowded court were thousands like himself, yes, _like himself_, for he
was one of them. He belonged there. They were his kind and he must help
them!
Then his mind went to the farm and his plans, and he entered back into
the grind of life and assumed its burdens with the sweet pain of his
secret locked in his inmost heart.