He lived in one of the great cities in this country, the man who fell in
love, and was in that city a character at least a little above the
ordinary rut of men. He had talent and energy, and there had come to him
a hard schooling in city ways, though he was born in the forest, and his
youth had been passed upon a farm sloping downward to the shore of the
St. Clair River, that wonderful strait and stretch of water which flows
between broad meadowlands and wheat-fields and connects Lake Huron with
the lower lake system, and itself becomes at last the huge St. Lawrence
tumbling down into the Atlantic Ocean. Upon the St. Clair River now
passes hourly, in long procession, the huge fleet of the lakes, the
grain and ore laden crafts of Lake Superior, queer "whalebacks" and big
propellers, and the vast fleet of merchantmen from Chicago and Milwaukee
and other ports of the inland seas. The procession upon the watery blue
ribbon a mile in width, stretching across the farm lands, is something
not to be seen elsewhere upon the globe. The boats seen from a distance
appear walking upon the land. Broad sails show white and startling
against green groves upon the shore, and the funnels of steamers rear
themselves like smoking stumps of big trees beyond a corn-field. Here
passes a traffic greater in tonnage than that of the Suez Canal, of the
Mersey, or even of the Thames. But it was not so when the man who fell
in love was a boy. There were dense forests upon the river's banks then,
and only sailing crafts and an occasional steamer passed, for that was
half a century ago.
The man who was to fall in love, as will be told, had, in the whirl of
city life, almost forgotten the sturdy days when he was a youngster in
the little district school, when at other times he rode a mare dragging
an old-fashioned "cultivator," held by his father between the corn rows,
and when the little farm hewed out of the woodland had yet stumps on
every acre, when "loggings" and "raisings" drew the pioneers together,
and when he, one of the first-born children of that region, had fled for
comfort in every boyish strait to a gentle, firm-faced woman who was his
mother. He had, with manhood, drifted to the city, and had become one of
the city's cream in all acuteness and earnestness and what makes the
pulse of life, when thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands
congregate to live together in one vast hive. He was a man of affairs, a
man of the world, easily at home among traders and schemers for money,
at a political meeting, at a banquet, or in society. Sometimes, in the
midst of things, would float before his eyes a vision of woods, of dark
soil, of a buckwheat field, of squirrels on brush fences, of a broad,
blue river, and finally of a face, maternal and sweet, with brown eyes,
hovering over him watchfully and lovingly. He would think of the
earnest, thoughtful, bold upbringing of him, and his heart would go out
to the woman; but the tide of city affairs rose up and swept away the
vision. Still, he was a good son, as good sons at a distance go, and
occasionally wrote a letter to the woman growing older and older, or
sent her some trifle for remembrance. He was reasonably content with
himself.
Here comes another phase of description in this brief account of affairs
of the man who fell in love. One afternoon a woman sat in an arm-chair
on the long porch in front of what might have by some been called a
summer cottage, by others a farm-house, overlooking the St. Clair River.
The chair she sat in was of oak, with no arms, and tilted easily
backward, yet with no chance of tipping clear over. It must have cost
originally about four dollars. In its early days it had possessed a cane
back and cane bottom, through the round holes of which the little
children were accustomed to thrust their fingers, getting them caught
sometimes, and howling until released. Now its back was of stout canvas,
and its seat of cords, upon which a cushion rested. It was in general
appearance, though stout enough, a most disreputable chair among the
finer and more modern ones which stood along the porch upon either
side. But it was this chair that the aging woman loved. "It was this
chair he liked," she would say, "and it shall not be discarded. He used
to sit in it and rock and dream, and it shall stay there while I live."
She spoke the truth. It was that old chair the boy, now the city man,
had liked best of all.
She sat there, this gray-haired woman, a picture of one of the mothers
who have made this nation what it is. The hair was drawn back simply
from the broad, clear forehead, and her strong aquiline features were
sweet, with all their force. Her dress was plain. She sat there, looking
across the blue waters thoughtfully, and at moments wistfully.
Not far from the woman on the long, broad porch was a pretty younger
woman, and beside her two children were playing. The younger woman, the
mother of the tumbling youngsters, was the niece of the elder one in the
rude old rocking-chair. She spoke to the two children at times,
repressing them when they became too boisterous, or petting and soothing
when misadventure came to either of them in their gambols. At last she
moved close to the elder, and began to talk. The conversation was about
the children, and there was much to say, the gray-haired woman listening
kindly and interestedly. Finally she spoke.
"Take comfort with the children now, Louisa," she said, gently, "because
it will be best for you. It is a strange thing; it is something we
cannot comprehend, though doubtless it is all for the best, but I often
think that my happiest days were when my children were little, climbing
about my skirts, dependent upon me for everything, as birds in the nest
are dependent, and with all my anxiety over them, giving me the greatest
comfort that can come to a woman. But the years passed, and the children
went away. They are good men and women; I am proud of them, but they are
mine no longer. They love the old mother, too, I know that--when they
think of her. But, oh, Louisa! there is lead in my heart sometimes. I
want something closer. But I'll not complain. Why should I? It is the
law of nature." And she sighed and looked again across the blue water.
There were tears in the corners of her eyes.
The niece, hopeful in the pride of young motherhood, replied
consolingly: "Aunt, you should be proud of your children. Even Jack, the
oldest of them all, is as good as he can be. Think of his long letters
once in a while. He loves you dearly."
"Yes," the old lady replied; "I know he loves me--when he thinks of old
times and his boyhood. But, Louisa, I am very lonesome."
And again her eyes sought the water and the yellow wheat-fields of the
farther shore.
The road which follows the American bank of the St. Clair River is a
fine thing in its way. It is what is known as a "dirt" road, well kept
and level, of the sort beloved of horses and horsemen, and it lies
close to the stream, between it and the farm lands. At every turn a new
and wonderful panorama of green and yellow landscape and azure expanse
of water bursts upon the lucky traveler along this blessed highway.
Still, being a "dirt" road, when one drives along it at speed there
arises in midsummer a slight pillar of dust as the conveyance passes,
and one may from a distance note the approach of a possible visitor.
"There's a carriage coming, aunt," said the younger woman.
The carriage came along rapidly, and with a sudden check the horses were
brought to a standstill in front of the house upon the porch of which
the two women were sitting. Out of the carriage bounded a
broad-shouldered gentleman, who stopped only for a moment to give
directions to the driver concerning the bringing of certain luggage to
the house, and who then strode up the pathway confidently. The elder
woman upon the porch looked upon the performance without saying a word,
but when the man had got half-way up the walk she rose from the chair,
moved swiftly for a woman of her age to where the broad steps from the
pathway led up to the porch, and met the ascending visitor with the
simple exclamation:
"Jack, my boy!"
Jack, the "my boy" of the occasion, seemed a trifle affected himself. He
looked the city man, every inch of him, and was one known under most
circumstances to be self-contained, but upon this occasion he varied a
little from his usual form. He stooped to kiss the woman who had met
him, and then, changing his mind, reached out his arms and hugged her a
little as he kissed her. It was a good meeting.
There was much to talk about, and the mother's face was radiant; but the
instinct of caring and providing for the being whom she had brought into
the world soon became paramount in her breast, and she moved, as she had
done decades ago, to provide for the physical needs of her child. This
man of the world from the city was but the barefooted six-year-old whom
she had borne and loved and fed and guarded in the years that were past.
She must care for him now. And so she told him that he must have supper,
and that he must let her go; and there was a sweet tinge of motherly
authority in her words--unconsciously to her, arbitrary and
unconsciously to him, submissive--and she left him to smoke upon the
broad porch, and dawdle in the chair he remembered so well, and talk
with the bright Louisa.
As for the supper--it would in the city have been called a dinner--it
was good. There were fine things to eat. What about biscuits, so light
and fragrant and toothsome that the butter is glad to meet them? What
about honey, brought by the bees fresh from the buckwheat-field? What
about ham and eggs, so fried that the appetite-tempting look of the
dish and the smell of it makes one a ravenous monster? What about
old-fashioned "cookies" and huckleberry pie which melts in the mouth?
What about a cup of tea--not the dyed green abomination, but luscious
black tea, with the rich old flavor of Confucian ages to it, and a
velvety smoothness to it and softness in swallowing? What about
preserves, recalling old memories, and making one think of bees and
butterflies and apples on the trees and pumpkins in the cornrows, and
robins and angle-worms and brown-armed men in the hay-fields? Eh, but it
was a supper!
It was late when the man from the city went to bed, and there was much
talk, for he had told his mother that he intended to stay a little
longer this time than in the past; that he had been bothered and fled
away from everything for rest. "We'll go up the river to-morrow," said
he, "just you and I, and 'visit' with each other."
He went to his room and got into bed, and then came a little tap at his
door. His mother entered. She asked the big strong man how he felt, and
patted his cheek and tucked the bedclothes in about his feet and kissed
him, and went away. He went back forty years. And he repeated
reverently--he could not help it--"Now I lay me," and slept well.
There was a breakfast as fine as had been the supper, and as for the
coffee, the hardened man of the city and jests and cynicism found
himself wondering that there should have developed jokes about what
"mother used to make." The more he thought of it, the madder he became.
"We are a nation of cheap laughers," he said to himself savagely.
At nine o'clock the mother came out to where the man was smoking on the
piazza, with her bonnet on and ready for the little boat-trip. They were
to go to the outlet of Lake Huron and back. They would have luncheon
either at Sarnia or Port Huron. They would decide when the time came.
They were two vagrants.
Dawdling in steamer chairs and looking upon the Michigan shore sat
little mother of the country and big son of the city. The woman--the
blessed silver-haired creature--forgot herself, and talked to the son as
a crony. She pointed out spots upon the shore where she, an early
teacher in the wilderness, had adventures before he was born. There was
Bruce's Creek, emptying into the river; and Mr. Bruce, most long-lived
of pioneers, had but lately died, aged one hundred and five years. There
was where the little school-house stood in which she once taught school
in 1836. There was where she, riding horseback with a sweetheart who
later became governor of the state, once joined with him in a riotous
and aimless chase after a black bear which had crossed the road. Her
cheeks, upon which there were not many wrinkles, glowed as she told the
story of her youth to the man beside her. He looked upon her with the
full intelligence of a great relationship for the first time in his
life. He fell in love with her.
It dawned upon this man, trained, cynical, an arrogant production of the
city, what this woman had been to him. She alone of all the human beings
in the world had clung to him faithfully. She had borne and bred, and
now she cherished him, and for one who could see beneath the shell and
see the mind and soul, she was wonderfully fair to look upon. He had
neglected her in all that is best and most appreciated of what would
make a mother happiest. But now he was in love. Here came in the man. He
had the courage to go right in to the woman, a little while after they
had reached home, and tell her all about it. And the foolish woman
cried!
A man with a sweetheart has, of course, to look after her and provide
for her amusement. So it happened that Jack the next morning announced
in arbitrary way to his mother that they were going to Detroit.
Men who have been successful in love will remember that after the first
declaration and general admission of facts the woman is for a time most
obedient. So it came that this man's sweetheart obeyed him implicitly,
and went upstairs to get ready for the journey. She came down almost
blushing.
"My bonnet," she said, as she came from her room smelling of lavender
and dressed for the journey, "is a little old-fashioned, but it just
suits me; I am old-fashioned myself."
She was smiling with the happy look of a girl.
Jack looked at her admiringly. She wore the black silk dress which every
American woman considers it only decent that she should have. It was
made plainly, without ruffles or bugles or lace, and it fitted her
erect, stately figure perfectly. A broad real lace collar encircled her
neck, and Jack recognized with delight the solid gold brooch--in shape
like nothing that was ever on sea or land--with which it was fastened.
It was a relic from the dim past. Jack remembered that piece of jewelry
as far back as his memory stretched.
The old lady's hands were neatly gloved, and her feet were shod with
substantial, well-kept laced shoes. Everything about her was immaculate.
Jack knew that she had never laid aside the white petticoats and
stockings it was her pride to keep spotless. She abominated the new
fashions of black and silk. Jack could hear her starched skirts rustle
as she came toward him. Her bonnet was black and in style of two or
three years back, and its silk and lace were a trifle rusty.
"Never mind, mother, we will buy you a bonnet 'as is a bonnet' before we
come back," the man said as he kissed the happy, shining face.
The steamers which ply between Detroit and Port Huron and Sarnia are big
and sumptuous, and upon them one sits under awnings in midsummer, and
if knowing, takes much delight in the wonderful scenery passed. The St.
Clair River pours into St. Clair Lake, and Lake St. Clair is one of the
great idling places of those upon this continent who can afford to idle.
It is a shallow lake, upon the American side stretching out into what
are known as the "Flats," a vast area of wild rice with deep blue
waterways through them, the haunt of the pickerel and black bass and of
duck and wild geese. Upon the Canadian side, the Thames River comes
through the lowlands, a deep and reed-fringed stream to contribute to
the lake's pure waters. It was upon the banks of this stream, a little
way from the lake, that the great Indian, Tecumseh, fought his last
fight and died as a warrior should. There is nothing that is not
beautiful on the waterway from Lake Huron to Lake St. Clair. It is just
the place in which to realize how good the world is. It is just the
place for lovers. So Jack, the man who had fallen in love, and his
gray-haired sweetheart were vastly content as the steamer bore them
toward Detroit.
The man looked upon the woman in a cherishing mood as she sat beside him
in a comfortable chair. He noted again the gray hair, thinner than it
was once, and thought of the time when he, a thoughtless boy, wondered
at its mass and darkness. He compared the pale, aquiline features with
the beauty of the woman who, centuries ago it seemed, was accustomed to
take him in her lap and cuddle him and make him brave when childish
misadventures came. A greater wave of love than ever came over him. He
regretted the lost years when he might have made her happier, might have
given her a greater realization of what she had done in the world with
her firm example, in a new country, and the strong brood she had borne
and suffered for. And he had manhood enough and a sudden impulse to tell
her all about it. She listened, but said nothing, and clasped his hand.
Mothers will cry sometimes.
The city was reached, and there was a proper luncheon, and then the
arbitrary son dragged his sweetheart out upon the street with him. The
first thing, the matter of great importance, was the bonnet, not that he
cared for the bonnet particularly, but he was a-sweethearting. He was
going to spoil his girl if he could, that was what he said. His girl
only looked up with glistening eyes, and submitted obediently to be
haled along in the direction of a "swell" milliner's place, the name of
which Jack had secured after much examination of the directory and much
inquiry in offices where he was acquainted.
As they walked along the busy street they met a lady of unmistakably
distinguished appearance. Instantly she recognized the mother and son,
and stopped to greet them.
She was an old playmate of Jack's and a protégé of his mother's, now
the wife of a man of brains, influence, money, and a leader in the
social life of the City of the Straits.
There came an inspiration to the man. "Mrs. Sheldon," said he, "I want
you to help us. We are this moment about to engage in a business
transaction of great importance; in fact, if you must know the worst, we
are going to buy a bonnet!"
Mrs. Sheldon entered into the shopping expedition with a zest which
reminded Jack of the Scriptural battle-steed which sayeth "Ha-ha" to the
trumpets. When the brief but brisk and determined engagement was over,
Jack's mother appeared in a bonnet of delicate gray, just a shade darker
than her silver hair. There was a pink rose in that bonnet, half hidden
by lace, and in the cheeks of its wearer faintly bloomed two other pink
roses. It was just a dream in bonnets as suited to the woman. The mother
had protested prettily, had said the bonnet was "too young" and all
that, but had been browbeaten and overcome and made submissive. Mrs.
Sheldon was in her element, and happy. Well she knew the man of the
world who had demanded her aid, and much she wanted to please him; but
deeper than all, her woman's instinct told her of his suddenly realized
love for his old mother, and she was no longer a woman of fashion alone,
but a helpful human being. Even her own eyes were suspiciously moist as
she dragged the couple off to dine with her.
They were to go to the theater that evening, the man and his
sweetheart, and by chance stumbled upon a well-staged comic opera, with
good music and brilliant and picturesque although occasionally scanty
costumes. On the way down the son told the mother of how in Detroit, way
back in the sixties, he had seen for the first time a theatrical
performance. He told her what she had forgotten, how she had induced his
father to take him to the city, and how, in what was "Young Men's Hall,"
or something with a similar name, he had seen Laura Keene in "A School
for Scandal." Then she remembered, and was glad. They had seats in a box
at the theater, and from the rising of the curtain till its final drop
the man was in much doubt. The manner in which women were dressed upon
the stage had changed since the last time when his mother had visited
the theater. She was shocked when she saw the forms of women, which, if
at least well covered, were none the less outlined.
There was talking in that box. The son explained. The blessed woman
almost "bolted" once or twice, but finally accepted all that was told
her with the precious though sometimes mistaken confidence a woman has
in the matured judgment of the man-child she has borne. Then, having a
streak of the Viking recklessness in her which she had given to her son,
she enjoyed herself amazingly. It was a glorious outing.
Well, in the way which has been described, the man made love to the
woman for a day or two. Then he took her home, and bade her good-by for
a time, and told her, in an exaggeratedly formal way, which she
understood and smiled at, that he and she must meet each other much
oftener in the future. Then he hugged her and went away. And she, being
a mother whose heart had hungered, watched his figure as it disappeared,
and laughed and cried and was very happy.
"Louisa," said a dignified old lady, "I was mistaken in saying that all
happiness from children comes in their youth. It may come in a greater
way later--if!"